by Troy Hooker
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Arazel’s black robes billowed in the warm breeze as he made his way up the stone steps and into the gleaming white castle. Spectacular ivory chandeliers hung from the ceiling and sprayed brilliant white light around the interior in an obvious display of opulence. As he crossed the threshold of the massive structure, instantly his robes transformed from black into spotless white silk-laden fabric.
Two lavishly dressed guards in pure white robes greeted Arazel with their brilliant green eyes, bowing as he passed. Although beautiful, they were not harmless, as both carried gleaming staffs that pulsed with the same green of their eyes. Arazel made no acknowledgment of them, but only hurried into the great corridors of the castle toward the interior.
As he entered, a medium-sized man with soft glassy eyes rose from his ornately decorated throne in the center of the lavish hall, his thin white robe exposing the pearl-colored skin of his chest. His perfectly sculpted body and silky long brown hair moved gracefully as he walked with his silver scepter to the edge of the platform, gazing at Arazel as he took his place among the others in the hall.
To the left of Arazel stood a large man, nearly as beautiful as the one standing in front of the throne, but he had a look of horror upon his face as he stood between two robed guards who held his wrists fast with an iron grip. His eyes blazing silent anguish, the prisoner looked to the robed man on the platform between the two ornate white columns, but he did not speak. Kachash strode silently from one end of the platform to the other, never once taking his eyes off of Arazel, and never looking at the restrained man in front of him. After a few moments of silence, the man stepped down from the platform and glided toward the man in restraints, stopping short of his captor and turning his gaze from Arazel to the prisoner who was breathing heavily.
“You have failed for the last time, Samak,” Kachash said calmly. “You have had fourteen years to find the stone and bring it to me, and you were not able to perform this simple task.”
“Lord Kachash, allow me to redeem myself. There were three of the most formidable Sons of Light that night and we were caught off guard—”
“YOU DARE MAKE EXCUSES TO ME?” Kachash hissed, his eyes suddenly blazing a brilliant green.
Samak looked to the floor.
“I am at your mercy, Sar—”
Kachash’s eyes faded suddenly into a glassy stare once again.
“Yes, yes, you are, aren’t you…,” he said dreamily. “What shall we do with an incapable leader of Metim that begs for mercy? Who chooses not himself to pass into Creation, but sends ten pathetic souls into battle for him? What shall we do with a mixed-blood drek who has been rendered useless?”
No one spoke, and the hall was silent again.
“We have mercy here, do we not?” Kachash held his arms out to the servants and guards watching the scene. “Are we not a race of mercy? Who shows forgiveness when forgiveness is not due? Yes … we are merciful, loving beings of the Darkness.”
He then turned and walked back toward the platform.
“You may go, Samak, most powerful leader of Metim.”
Samak’s eyes lit up at the words of his master. The guards to the right and left removed the restraints and stepped away from the freed prisoner, who rubbed his wrists and looked around cautiously. Then he turned toward the platform, taking a step forward, and falling to his knees.
“Sar, lord, allow me another chance to complete my task. I know I can—,” but his words were cut off as the robed man turned silently, stretching out his hand with incredible speed, a stream of electric smoke shooting from his fingertips toward the man on his knees. In an instant, Samak was enveloped in the cloud, his screams muffled by the dense crushing weight of the Darkness around him.
Nothing but a pile of ashes remained on the floor of the hall when the Darkness dissipated. Kachash turned calmly to the side of the room where two very human-looking people dressed in rags stood cowering behind one of the pure white columns.
“Please clean my hall,” he hissed at his servants as he wiped his hands calmly on a towel that was brought to him, as though he had just finished up eating a messy dinner.
“Now, Ebed, Arazel, my servant, come forth for your calling.” Kachash swung around on his heels, his sheer white robe swirling as he turned.
Arazel stepped bravely forward, paying no mind to the piles of ashes being scooped into buckets. He lowered his hood and bent low to bow to Kachash, who quickly stepped forward and pulled him to his feet.
“Arazel, you must not bow to me. You know I am only a servant as well. Now rise.”
Arazel stood to his feet and looked Kachash directly in his glassy eyes. They were shallow, hollow eyes, callous with indifference, but blazing with deep hatred.
“Do you still have the Light within you?” Kachash hissed.
“Yes, Sar Lord, the miserable Light has not yet left me … but it will not be soon enough when it does,” Arazel stood his ground.
Kachash cursed and spat behind him.
Arazel leveled his gaze.
“I will serve you well,” he said resolutely.
“Then, Arazel, your calling is to complete the task that Samak could not,” he whispered eerily, his perfect lips glistening as he spoke. “The Prophecy of the Darkness speaks of a child—born to a Watcher of the Creator. This child will have in his possession the great Stone of the Watchers. It is said he will become the future of the Darkness, and servant of the Dark One when he arises. Since Samak was unable to retrieve the Stone from the boy, it has now become your primary task.”
“Shall I bring the child to you as well, Lord Kachash, second to the Dark One?”
Kachash’s rehearsed smile turned into a blank, emotionless stare as he gazed at the beautiful gleaming white hall surrounding them.
“No. He will be entering his fifteenth year of the sun, and he will be resistant to the Darkness.”
“Sar Lord, who is this child to the Darkness?” Arazel spoke carefully.
Kachash smiled darkly. “He is the child spoken of in the Dark prophecies who will lead us to victory over the Light. He will draw all Darkness into Creation, and we will destroy all who resist …” he paused, looking suddenly to the large glowing sun symbol on the gleaming white wall. “HE WILL UNITE US TO DESTROY THE LIGHT!” he screamed suddenly, his voice like screeching nails on a chalkboard throughout the hall.
Kachash looked down at his clenched fist, then an eerie smile crept over his face.
“You are the only one who can travel the gates, with your cursed Light that corrodes your body, so therefore you must prove yourself to the Dark One.” He paused, taking a moment to gaze into the sky, his eyes ablaze. “This boy … he will become our redeemer. You must show him the power of the Darkness, for he is the key to end our suffering.”
“I have submitted to the Darkness, lord, but I retain the feeble Light for just such a purpose to serve the Dark One.”
Kachash smiled, his beautiful lips suddenly gentle and calm in a strange turn of demeanor.
“The curse the Dark One placed over the land before his exile has begun to erode, my fellow servant Arazel. I have employed another like you who has embraced the Darkness within Lior. He will keep us hidden a little while longer, but time is short before we will be exposed. The Watcher Stone in the boy’s possession will allow us to become strong once more.”
“I will ensure my pace is quick, my lord.”
Kachash scowled as one of the servants coughed as he picked up the dust from the remains of Samak.
“The boy will come to us, of that I know.”
“Sar, lord, what is the boy’s name?”
“The one they call Samuel,” the robed man hissed, then laid his hand upon Arazel’s bald head. “Now rise, son of Darkness, former Watcher, and slay all those who come against you. May your calling bring victory among
the forces of Darkness. The Dark One calls you to his service!”
Suddenly the room grew dark and the columns, the guards, and the servants disappeared from sight. A swirling black cloud encompassed Arazel, and soon a great deep desire began to well up from within, and he could feel the renewed power of the Darkness taking over his body.
Chapter Two
A Secret Club
It was the middle of September but it was already beginning to get cooler in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The summer-burnt leaves were showing signs of early color on the trees, and already those living near the tiny town’s center were purchasing rakes and lawn bags from the small hardware store in anticipation of an especially leafy fall.
The quaint streets of White Pine had been quiet for nearly a month as those of school age were forced back into the grips of math worksheets and history tests. The anxiety of a new school year was quickly fading into the humdrum of changing classes, and from the corridors of White Pine High School came the sound of slamming lockers, jocks trying to impress gaggles of teenage girls with their new abs acquired over the summer, and excited talk of the weekend’s homecoming football game and dance that followed.
Outside of the school building, however, three young figures who were unconcerned with the football season or homecoming dances huddled in the corner of a large dark cavern just outside of town, the light from an old hurricane lamp casting an eerie glow on their faces.
The larger of the three youths, a boy, was listening as the two girls talked in a hushed, excited tone. Laying open next to him was a book—a small, leather-wrapped journal that seemed to consume his attention more than the conversation.
“Are you sure that’s what you saw?” the girl with the shoulder-length dark hair, named Lillia, questioned fiercely.
“I’m pretty sure it was the same symbol …” Emma, the girl with strawberry-red hair answered. “He drew it on his notebook in geography. Speaking of which, are you sure we are covered from class?”
“Yeah, I told Mr. Banner we needed to get some photos for the yearbook of the parade preparations early,” said Lillia.
“I know it’s kinda mean, but I love how clueless that man is,” Emma responded, her hair gleaming in the reflective light of the arch behind her.
Lillia ignored her.
“This is not like ones we have had in the past. We aren’t talking about some mindless bonehead who wandered too close …” Then she paused with a critical huff before gesturing toward the darkest part of the cave. “… I mean, this kid hasn’t a clue about us and yet he draws the Watcher wing? Could he be a Descendant of the Light?”
“Maybe,” the pudgy boy called Gus said quietly. “But it is not for us to decide that.”
“There hasn’t been a Descendant found in Creation for nearly a century,” Lillia echoed, “It’s going to take convincing in Lior.”
“There’s no denying what he drew … it couldn’t be a coincidence could it?” Emma challenged, causing both girls to look over at the boy, who was scribbling quick notes and then scanning the pages lazily in the dim light provided by the lanterns.
“Well,” he sighed heavily, “I think you are right about it not being a coincidence, but I believe the real question is, What should we do about it?”
Emma shrugged. “I don’t think we can do anything, not having gone through mentoring yet. But I do think we need to tell the other members.”
“You mean your mom and dad,” Lillia snorted.
“I am not a baby. I just mean since my dad is in charge of this circle, we need to tell him.”
Lillia snorted again.
Gus shifted his weight on the rock uncomfortably.
“I will talk with Miss Karpatch. And we should all keep an eye on him …”
For a moment, the three figures sat in silence. They agreed the other members must know, but if they were correct about the boy, something must be done.
Emma spoke slowly, softly.
“I think … we go to Samuel Forrester and ask why he drew it.”
Lillia lifted an eyebrow quizzically.
“Why would we want to talk to him about it? It’s not like we can kidnap him, force him to talk, and then walk away like nothing ever happened.”
“True,” Gus admitted, “but maybe we can get him to talk … willingly.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Lillia looked disgusted.
Emma glanced at the large white arch structure in the cavern that gave off a dim but obvious glow.
“We invite him to Lior,” she said.
For a moment the room grew silent as they absorbed her words. The only sound was the soft whine of the breeze humming past the cavern entrance.
“You know they won’t go for that.”
“Who says? They have brought people in before.”
Lillia snickered.
“Yes, but they weren’t pathetic weasels like him. They had developed skills already.”
“I just—have a feeling about him, that’s all. The others will understand that,” Emma said resolutely.
“And what if he says no?” Gus leaned his large shoulders against the rock behind him, the scraping of his shoe reverberating loudly off the walls of the still cavern.
Emma sighed and picked up her backpack.
“Don’t worry. He won’t.”
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At five feet nine inches, wearing particularly ordinary blue jeans and a black t-shirt that his grandfather had bought him, Sam Forrester was rather normal-sized for a boy his age, which made him neither horrible nor spectacular at sports, but he never cared to play anyway. He was more of the type to enjoy a historical novel on a cold evening while sipping a caramel latte, in fact. An interesting book and some good music were what inspired him, but he wasn’t inspired much anymore these days.
To be quite honest, he was stubborn and independent, keeping only a few select friends—mostly quiet friends like himself, fantastical outcasts that were often forgotten as lonely introverts, rarely noticed in the shadows of the places they frequented.
It was a day he did not remember, but was plagued by nonetheless. One late evening, while coming home from a conference at the university, his father Daniel drifted left in the pouring rain and hit a tree head on. Both he and his mother Samantha were dead upon impact.
Sam was only five when it happened, and since then, he was placed in various foster homes until he came to live with the Pattons.
So he found refuge in various books, fantastical worlds that would help him find solace from his memories. Bookstores were like hiding places from the harsh world outside as well as an escape from the past—a place to get lost in a world of bravery and chivalry, where, unlike the real world, good always outshines evil. Until he was forced downstairs to finish his Latin tutoring.
But here, in this new place, Sam was even more an outcast, alone—a stranger in a foreign land. No longer did he have piano lessons at noon every day in the formal living room, nor did he come home to the smell of dinner being prepared by Estella, or to his mother’s friends coaxing her through a second bottle of wine. He used to steal a bite of dinner before Estella could see him and barricade himself upstairs in his room away from the cackles of the drunken women downstairs.
Now he was stuck in a little nothing town somewhere in northern Michigan, a slave in a backward school where the biggest event of the week was a tractor pull on Thursdays. There was no greater feeling of being alone than to be sent away once again to live with an aging grandfather whom he had never met.
They had packed his things one day while Sam was at school and were waiting in the car with drawn faces when he walked up the long driveway of the large brick home. They drove him downtown to the train station in silence, and handing him four hundred dollars, told him he was going to stay in White Pine with his only living grandfathe
r, Amos Forrester.
Instead of asking why, Sam clammed up, as if already expecting it. He had a feeling this day would come, given his outwardly obvious distaste for them. They became his third set of ex-foster parents because of one reason or another, but with the Pattons he had spent the longest time. While he could never seem to live up to their standards, he had grown accustomed to them, as he thought they had with him. They were not the best of parents, but they had cared for his physical needs.
His foster father Phillip Patton was a state senator, and never really talked much with him, especially about politics, since they often disagreed. This day was no exception. Instead of wishing Sam well, he handed him his suitcase on the train platform, refusing to look him in the eye or say anything at all for that matter, other than to clear his throat loudly.
Silvia, his foster mother, showed no emotion that day. She just pursed her lips and dug through her handbag for lipstick, gobbing it on like icing on cake. Usually she was quite expressive and always had something to say, but on that day she acted like he had never existed.
Silvia had thick hips and big hair, and hadn’t worked a day in her life. She spent most mornings in front of the mirror putting on makeup and tousling her hair to make sure no new grey roots showed, then went shopping for a new purse and out to lunch at the country club with her other big-haired friends. She often smelled of liquor when she returned, and Sam had often wondered if she was ever truly sober.
Silvia was overly critical and had a violent side that came out every so often, where something said or done not quite right would cause her to go into a fit, throwing anything she could get her hands on. When he was younger, Sam tried his best to calm her down in the middle of a rant, but he and the Senator eventually learned to just duck out of the room until her fit reduced into uncontrollable sobs.
