Drops from the Kingdom
Book One
The Silver Arrow
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2014 Larry Itejere
Prologue
The sound of soldiers and their horses could be heard around camp as tents were set up for the night. Nearly eight thousand men moved about, carrying out their varying tasks as lights from the campfires lit the area. In the midst of the sea of people, a man in his thirties which was close to his middle years, stepped out of his tent and into the cold winter’s night. Resting on the man’s chest was an amulet that he tucked underneath his garment the jewel of the one endowed with the power of an Anamerian. Outside, the steady snowflakes that had fallen during their journey had stopped, leaving a white blanket over the area. With a quick glance at his surroundings, the Anamerian made his way to the back of his tent, staying close to the edge. He stopped a quarter of the way to the back, poured out the contents in his cup, and then shook his hand in a whipping motion, clearing out the remaining drops. Satisfied that the cup was clean enough, he made his way back to the front of his tent. On opposite sides of his entrance, two guards were sitting on the ground with their legs crossed, unperturbed by the chilly night, even though one could see that their clothing provided no protection from the cold.
These guards were Ackalans, which means “Guardians,” and no ordinary men. The Anamerian lifted his tent flap and walked inside, aware that the Ackalans were watching, even though no heads were raised. They sat there like statues, unruffled by the wind or cold.
Inside the Anamerian’s tent was a small, ornate table that stood two feet from the ground. On top of the table was an ink jar with a feathered pen. Beside the jar was an open scroll of paper with a small clay oil lamp next to it.
The glow from the oil lamp lit the area around the table that showed signs of use. The Anamerian walked over to the cushion behind the table and sat down, crossing his legs. As he leaned forward, the light from the oil lamp illuminated his face. His eyes were amber, and his cheekbones were well-defined behind his trimmed beard and mustache. Lost in his thoughts, the Anamerian lifted the feathered pen and began to write, as visions of the events that led him and the men he was now leading reopened in his mind.
“How did we get here in such a short time?” he wondered. “Our people have changed because of this war that leaves those who survive in bondage, and in only seventeen years.”
The words seemed to strike a nerve and he paused, trying to stop his hand from shaking as the amulet underneath his shirt lit up and the oil lamp on his table suddenly began to flutter.
He took in several deep breaths to dowse his anger as a sense of determination slowly overcame what was once a personal guilt. As the tension in his body began to abate, the light of the oil lamp stopped wavering. The Anamerian released his grip on his pen, placing it back on the table. He rested his head on his palm and moved his finger back and forth across his forehead, staring at the paper in front of him; his expression was deliberative, as if deciding whether or not to continue writing. Time passed before he reached out and picked up his pen again.
“The land and its people have changed,” he wrote as his hand moved across the page, “because of the one referred to as Gaid’dum, which means Death’s Soul. Some believe he has all of the keys of creation, which would make him immortal, and so cannot be killed or bound by men. Some say, at his command, he could move the Earth itself, while others claim that he is a god.
“While rumors of his power continue to spread across the land, there are those of us who know the truth about him.
“Records from archives reveal that a boy, whose name was Sullivan, touched what no man was allowed.
“Immediately, the power within the scroll claimed his body without him knowing. It began twisting his mind, leaving him with a single desire: the uncontrollable urge to find and acquire the power of creation from the other keys that were spread across the land. While no one knew how he did it. Sullivan was somehow able to obtain most of them; and as his power grew, so did his influence on mankind. Creatures from the abyss once regarded as myth began to appear, serving his purpose as they slowly destroyed the land.
“Thousands have lost their lives in our fight for freedom, which now hangs at the verge of annihilation with the memories of the once-glorious days of the empire fading with the dead like long-forgotten dreams.
“Our enemies appear out of balls of fire and disappear with the wind. They destroy everything in their path, sweeping across this land like an avalanche; taking homes, mothers, fathers, children, and their livestock.
“They kill everything without regard, and all that remains at the aftermath are mutilated bodies. Then there are the markings, charred, concave ring formations that appear on the ground the only sign of their presence.
“In most cities and towns destroyed by these creatures, their great walls and gates provided no security, as they were not touched; but inside were the same charred concave rings with the dead strewn everywhere. While death and suffering loom over the land like the headsman’s ax, we find hope in the three that lead our cause. Though never been seen by most of the people in this company, the rumors of their ability and strength have spread across the land, as far as Gariban, north of Ditra-Vashine to the land south past Eura. They alone stand as a beacon of hope for all. Why these three were chosen to be responsible for the fate of so many, including mine, I do not know, but I believe it is no coincidence they lead our fight today; were it not for them, our cause would be futile.
“Over the years, we’ve found representatives and rulers from what remains of the four Kingdoms which are represented by the prominent cities of Bremah, Ditra-Vashine, Eura, and Bayshia, building our army with the hope of new dawn and the day when we shall take off the head of the serpent.”
Chapter 1
Dreams Seventeen Years Ago
Sunlight crept into Iseac's room, slowly reaching out till it brushed over his face, pulling the twelve-year-old away from the place he would have liked to stay another minute. It was that dream−the one he started having when he turned nine. In his dream, he always found himself at the entrance of a cave in an area that was densely forested.
The entryway into the cave was triangular in shape, with three deep cuts on top that looked like claws. Moss and vines covered most of the area surrounding the entrance, making it appear ominous, but Iseac was not afraid.
He’d also come to notice that there was a stillness to the place. It lacked the natural sounds you would expect in the middle of the woods. The trees around him stood in silence, allowing little beams of light to shine through tiny gaps between their branches; so he knew it was still daylight.
Iseac walked into the dark cave, which slowly narrowed the farther in he went. Drawn by something he could not explain, and with each step he took, his feet made a soft creaking sound, like slipping stones. This sound quickly faded, until he could only hear himself breathing against the sound of his footsteps. After several minutes of walking in pitch blackness, the narrow entrance opened up into a wider area. A section of the cave was lit by bright yellow stalactites that ran into areas he could not see. The roof had touches of shimmering blue streaks that ran along their spiky tips. Several feet from his position, he could see a gold wreath, which rested next to three clay balls sitting atop a boulder. The boulder stood about four feet from the ground, with the top flat, and its body was cylindrical in shape, as if man—made. It had similar blue streaks on the roof running down its side.
Iseac walked over to the balls and could see cracks in them revealing a glowing, silver-like ore.
He placed the wreath on his head; it seemed to fit perfectly. When he broke open each clay shell, he found three shiny statu
es in the form of young men. Two of the statues had something in their hands, one a bow and the other a sword. The third held nothing; its hands were missing.
He found himself entranced by their magnificence as he brushed his hands over them. They were smooth as an eggshell and strong as a crystal, and what he found fascinating about the silver-like objects was that they were not cool to the touch, as one would expect of the metal. Whenever he began to study them, he woke up.
Though sporadic, the dream was exactly the same, except for one thing. The expressions on the statues were different; it was as if they had a life of their own, with their form changing slightly every time.
Unaware, Iseac began developing a strong kinship to the statues, a link or connection of sort, which he could not explain. Whenever he woke from one of this dreams, he stayed in bed, hoping to make it return, but never able to. He tried figuring out if a particular thing or pattern triggered the dream, determining over time, that it had nothing to do with his food, mood, drink, or even the weather. He needed to find a way to trigger it on his own, as the urges to remain in the cave continue to grow with each episode.
The sun was over the horizon when Iseac woke up from the dream. It had been three weeks since his last one and it weighed on his mind as he got ready and left with his father for their farm.
Out in the field, Iseac had no idea his father was watching him throughout the morning as they worked.
“Iseac!” his father beckoned, gesturing for him to come over. It was the middle of the day now. Iseac stopped what he was doing and began making his way over to his father, unaware of how little he’d accomplished in clearing the weeds around the still-germinating crops.
Is it already noon? Iseac thought as he made his way. It was the indicator they were halfway through for the day.
Lenard sat under the tree at the center of the farm, away from the sun, as Iseac approached.
“You seem distracted, son; is everything all right?” he asked as Iseac sat down.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“I have seen you working before, you know; is there something wrong?” Lenard asked more pointedly as Iseac shook his head.
“Then what’s the matter?” Lenard asked.
Was it that obvious, Iseac thought as he moved closer to his father, who was handing him some bread, cheese, and smoked meat that they’d packed.
Iseac was quiet for a minute, looking out into the field with the sun blazing overhead; that was when he noticed for the first time how little he’d done in clearing the weeds.
Normally he would have covered twice the area in the length of time they’d been working. He knew he couldn’t shrug off his father’s question and that he was waiting for an explanation.
“Something I can’t really explain happened again to me last night.”
Lenard gave him a quizzical look, the one that said, ‘Do you really want me to ask?’ so Iseac proceeded to tell him about his dream and why it was troubling him.
Lenard listened intently as he ate and drank from a leather pouch containing water that he had buried in the ground to keep cool while they were working.
When Iseac was done narrating the events of his dream and how he felt after each episode, Lenard brushed the crumbs off his fingers and sighed with his last bite disappearing. After a few seconds of pondering what Iseac had told him, which was more than most fathers would have done for a twelve-year-old, he said thoughtfully, “Have you heard the story of the Ackalan, or Kalans of the Silver Scroll, as they are now known, son?”
“Yes,” Iseac replied, wondering why or how it related to his dream.
Lenard gave Iseac a knowing look. His head tilted slightly with brows raised, urging him to explain.
“I heard they were a chosen group of men given charge to protect some silver scroll of creation,” Iseac said.
“More than that,” Lenard replied, as he told Iseac the story of the man who was chosen to be the first watcher of the scrolls of creation and how his dream led to the discovery of the po’ra fruit that ran through the veins of every true Ackalan today.
Iseac looked at his father, trying to draw some correlation to his issue as his father continued to speak. “Dreams are life’s truth. They tell of one's desires, fears, and fantasies. They sometimes even give glimpses into our future. The key to your dreams is finding out what the three statues represent. The fact that they are made of a silver-like material could mean that your fate might be tied to theirs, but that is only if your reflection appears on the statues, I was once told. Does it?” Lenard asked curiously.
“Yes!” Iseac replied excited.
“That might explain why you don’t want to wake up. Now, since I’m no dream interpreter, I think you should talk to someone that might be able to make more sense of it.
“Hmm,” Lenard said, pausing for a minute, obviously thinking. “I believe Tamican might.”
Who is this Tamican? Iseac wondered as his father continued to mumble to himself.
“There is someone who might be able to help,” Lenard finally said. “In two days, a merchant crew is going to be in town. I want you to tell this person everything you told me.”
Lenard then stood up. “But right now, we need to get back to work. Come on,” he said as he walked back into the field.
As he said, a merchant’s crew came to Tru’tia two days later. The person they were meeting on this day was at the Oak-Ore Valley Inn. After speaking briefly with the innkeeper, Lenard led them up the stairs to the last room on the second floor.
He knocked on the door and an audible voice from inside the room answered, “Come in.”
It was a female voice, which for some reason Iseac was not expecting.
“Wait here,” he told Iseac just before pulling the oak door open. “I will be back soon.” With those words, he stepped in, closing the door behind him.
A few minutes later, Lenard stuck his head out the corner of the door as Iseac stood waiting at the entrance. He invited him in.
Inside, Iseac couldn’t help noticing how odd the setup was. There were two archways, each wide enough to admit one adult at a time.
His father was barefoot, with his shoes neatly set to the side.
Lenard motioned for Iseac to do the same and remove his shoes. Once Iseac was done, he pointed.
“Go through that archway, I'll meet you inside.” He watched Iseac make his way through the right entryway.
Iseac did what he was told and made his way through the right archway. He could smell incense made of scented flowers. The archway curved in, and he could see his father looking in his direction waiting. Both entrances converged like a horseshoe.
There was a brief introduction as Iseac stared at the strange setting.
A petite woman almost in her middle years sat on a cushion inside a dome-shaped room. Brightly colored fabric of yellow, gold, red, green, and white ran along the wall of the dome to the cushion around her. Her dress, like the wall, was of bright colors, with her skirt spread over her legs.
She said, looking at Iseac, “Your father tells me you’ve been having the same dream sporadically for some time now. You want to know why and what it means?”
It was almost three years now, Iseac realized, since he started having this dream.
“Yes,” he said with reverence.
Her voice was clear and carried the wisdom of someone who knew many things.
“Do you know that different sounds and colors mean something in a dream?” she asked.
“Take the red belly Chamar, for example. If this bird is sipping water on a leaf, it means it’s going to rain before the end of the day or before midday of the following day,” she said and went on to give other examples, making sure Iseac understood that every detail in one’s dream is important.
“Now tell me about this dream of yours and in as much detail as you can remember.”
Iseac cleared his throat and began to speak, telling her everything he could remember. It wasn’t hard, since everyt
hing was still so vivid in his mind, and even with that, Tamican still asked more probing questions on little details Iseac had chosen to ignore.
Iseac could not help noticing her sense of surprise. Whether it was good or bad, he wasn’t sure. When Tamican was done, having been focused on Iseac the whole time, she turned to Lenard.
In her eyes, Iseac could see her putting the pieces of information she'd gathered from him together as silence once again filled the room. After a minute of watching her move her head up and down several times as if coming to a conclusion, she said, looking at Lenard, “Your son is truly special.” Then she turned to Iseac.
“While your dream has many facets, it’s all about you and your destiny. I will tell you everything I can, but I need to talk to your father alone for a minute.”
Iseac left the room a little disheartened; what was so important that she needed to speak first with his father alone? Nothing in her demeanor or tone indicated there was a problem, so why they were making him leave made no sense. After all, it was his dream and she did say it was about him.
After Iseac waited for what seemed like hours to a young boy his age, all the while wondering what they could be talking about, his father stepped out the archway.
“Get your shoes on,” he said, and he began putting on his own. “I need to speak with your mother.” Lenard had the uncertain look of someone trying to make sense of what he had just been told.
“So what did she say?” was Iseac’s first thought, but he did not say it or try to press his father on what they talked about and why she couldn’t answer his questions now. He got his shoes on and they left the room.
Iseac knew it wasn’t terrible news since his father wasn’t biting the corner of his lip. His father did this subconsciously when he had distressing news.
“Tamican would like you to meet with someone else when she returns in a week,” Lenard said, and he could see the disappointment on Iseac’s face, his expression giving away his feelings about the news.
The Silver Arrow Page 1
