Darkness Beneath the Dying Light

by R. T. Donlon

  Jennison’s vision suddenly went black.

  “Why are you here?” the man asked. “You may speak.”

  “I am a diplomat of King Traysin Altruit, King of the Light Empire. Surely you have heard of him?”

  A tense silence filled the space as the man at his hip did not answer.

  “I have spent nearly three weeks traversing these lands to find your people. I mean no harm. I come unarmed and free in spirit. I only wish to speak with your King.”

  “King?” the man questioned. “What is a king?”

  “I wish to speak with your…leader,” Jennison spoke, finding the word.

  The man behind him faked a haughty chuckle.

  “We do not know you. I do not know you,” the man barked. “What makes you think you are worthy of a conversation among any of us?”

  A thought crossed Jennison’s mind—a bit of diplomacy training back in the Light City.

  In order to gain their respect, he thought. I must earn it.

  “You are of Mountain Warrior blood, are you not?” Jennison asked.

  Another bout of laughter. The knife’s point at his neck broke skin.

  “Mountain Warrior,” the man chuckled, repeating the phrase. “Is that what you call us?”

  This was the moment. He had made up his mind and, despite his better judgement, he would make good on his dedication. He turned to face the man with wide eyes and hands over his shoulders. He half-believed the pointed knife would slice a hole in his throat, but he felt nothing in his movement and understood immediately that the knife was just a test of heart.

  “Do not kill me!” Jennison screamed.

  The lead Warrior took a step backward, still holding the dagger in his left hand, but unlike what Jennison had expected, the man relaxed, completely calm.

  “Interesting. It seems you have courage,” the Warrior continued. “Not many of you seem to display such qualities. The ones I have met usually wet themselves by now. Your Chieftain has chosen well in sending you.”

  Jennison lowered his arms to a dangling place at his sides, still remaining cautiously still. Twelve other bodies surrounded him, emerging from the maze of trees at all angles. He suddenly had the feeling that if these Mountain Warriors wanted him dead, he already would be.

  “What is your name, ferrila?” the man asked.

  Ferrila, Jennison thought. What does that mean?

  He cleared his throat and began to speak.

  “I am Jennison Fairtherre, official diplomat to King Traysin Altruit of the Light Empire. I wish only to know who lives here, how you have remained so seclusive all these years.”

  Jennison pointed in the direction in which he thought the Glowing Mountain resided, but the jungle had shaken his sense of direction and, what was meant to be a definitive locale check ended in a clumsy display of vulnerability and shame.

  The Warrior sheathed his dagger at his hip, adjusted the cloth that wrapped neatly around his body, and folded his arms in front of his chest. Jet black hair covered his head, wrapped into a particularly convenient bun as to not distract his eyes from the mission at hand. It appeared as though the man’s hair would have reached past his shoulders in straight, thin strands if undone, but Jennison could not be certain of its true length.

  From eyes to feet, the Warrior possessed incredibly rigid features, but handsome ones nonetheless. His skin glistened—flawless, unblemished and dark—while his hard eyes filled to the whites with black and deep browns. There was no sparkle to them. In fact, if he had not heard the man chuckle a few moments earlier, he would have thought him to be completely void of emotion, let alone understand what emotion was. His thin lips curved into a bit of a smirk, although Jennison did not believe it was actually that—only a biological reaction to discovering a stranger in the jungle so close to home.

  “My name,” the Warrior spoke, “is Relu Berauda. A Warrior of the great Portizu Tribes. You stand in the southernmost Portizu Territory—a trespassing violation punishable by death as decreed by our people.”

  Jennison’s eyes widened in terror, draining him of any courage he may have felt before this moment.

  “However, you are ferrila, so you are unaware of our customs.”

  “Ferrila,” Jennison repeated. “You keep calling me that. What does it mean?”

  Relu deepened the look in his eyes.

  “It means you are not from here. It means you do not belong.”

  The twelve other Warriors crept closer to Relu, forming a sort of circle around Jennison. Each held a spear overhead, cocked to throw.

  “I hope you understand that I am alone. There is no army with me, no pack of travelers. You should not worry about ambush,” spoke Jennison.

  “Thank you for your assurance, ferrila, but we must take precautions. It is not every day that we see a Light civilian wandering among the Portizu jungles.”

  A brief silence ensued, which quickly gave way to another Relu question.

  “Now,” he began, “tell me why you must speak with our Chieftain. There seems to be urgency behind your words and I tend to believe you in your intent.”

  Jennison gathered himself, reached slowly into his pack, and revealed a gently dented note signed by the Light King himself. He handed it to Relu, who promptly ripped it into a dozen pieces.

  “Why do you disrespect my King with such actions?” Jennison asked, furrowing his brow.

  “It is written word. It means nothing to the Portizu. We speak. We converse. We function on the courtesy of interaction.”

  Jennison scoffed.

  “You mean you cannot read,” he spat.

  Relu shifted quietly in his stance.

  “You are smart, ferrila,” said Relu, “And fiesty. I like you.”

  Even through the dense canopy of forest, Jennison could sense the heat of the day creeping in like a fog. The scratchy itch of thirst at the back of his throat forced an awkward cough to spring from his mouth. He had no water left in his canteen and the pangs of thirst had become much worse now.

  “Could I ask of you a sip of water?” asked Jennison.

  Relu narrowed his field of vision, squinting against the narrow-minded question.

  “You may have your water when we have settled your purpose in trespassing on our lands. Until then, you will wait.”

  Jennison’s nerves calmed amidst Relu’s crude response. He attempted to clear his throat, but only air pushed up from his throat.

  “I have information that your Chieftain will want to know about the status of our world. It will greatly affect all of our lands—not just ours—but yours, as well. If your leader does not hear what I have to say, you are risking your people’s well-being. You will be living in ignorance while the rest of the Great Range prepares for war.”

  At the sound of that final word, Relu perked.

  War, Jennison thought. A common word amongst peoples.

  Jennison could feel a shift in momentum. He knew he had somehow broke the seal of tension between them. Gears of thought turned somewhere in Relu’s mind.

  “Very well,” Relu spoke. There was an unwavering intensity still stagnating somewhere deep in his eyes. “I will bring you to him under one condition—I am by your side when you meet him. There will be no secrets between my Chieftain and a stranger I have met in the jungle.” Relu closed his mouth for a brief moment, allowing his words to soak through to Jennison’s ears. “Do you accept?”

  Jennison scanned the circle of surrounding Portizu Warriors. He held out his hand, offering a friendly shake, but Relu only stared at it with disconcerting eyes.

  “Your gestures are not important now. If your news is of such urgency, we must hurry. It will be a miracle if we catch the Chieftain before nightfall.”

  A Warrior from behind Jennison tossed a bottle to the ground in front of him. Jennison picked it up.

  “Drink,” the man said.

  His accent seemed heavier than Relu’s, so much so that Jennison suddenly questioned Relu’s ferrila tactics.
Regardless, Jennison now had exactly what he so desperately desired—a way into the Portizu Lands—and, even further, a conversation with whoever they called their leader.

  King Altruit would be proud.

  Relu’s Pack reached the Highlands’ Gates just before the final shimmers of daylight faded into emptiness. They had sprinted most of the way, but Jennison could not maintain such a quickened pace, so for most of the journey, Relu had carried the diplomat over his shoulder. Despite Relu’s efforts to preserve his guest’s strength, Jennison still felt as fatigued as he ever had.

  Upon entering the Gates, Relu dropped Jennison and turned to the men and women surrounding him.

  “Stay here,” he said, pointing to the diplomat. “I will speak with our Chieftain and return. Our people will want to look at you, but do not talk to them. They are not ready for ferrila chatter.”

  Jennison nodded and swallowed hard against his dry throat. There had only been a few droplets of water left in the bottom of his frond-made bottle and even those last drops had tasted sour.

  The others in Relu’s Pack had already dispersed into the not-so-crowded streets of the Highlands.

  “These lands serve as our capital city,” Relu had said, explaining as he sprinted in and out of roots, trees, and underbrush. “It is like…what do you call it? The Light City?”

  “Yes, the Glowing Mountain,” Jennison had called back.

  But this was nothing like the Light City.

  The Light City had magnificent buildings, urban markets, and long winding streets for peddlers and horse riders. The Light City held civilians of all races, ethnicities, and language. The Portizu Highlands were only a sequence of thatched huts, one openly even-keeled dirt pathway, and in the distance, a strangely constructed wood-paneled building where, Jennison assumed, the Chieftain resided.

  Men, women, and children emerged from the huts on either side of the road. Eyes widened in curiosity and surprise. Some—particularly the women—appeared more feral than others, but all wore a familiar kind of fabric, which blended into the Portizu skin to make a sea of beige. All men wore their fabric like a tunic, covering all but the sleeves of their arms and legs below the knee. A select few women in the clutter wore only segmented strips across their hips and breasts. Some wore nothing at all.

  “The men and women dress differently here,” whispered Jennison.

  He directed his speech to the lone Warrior standing beside him, but he was met with a sternly disapproving glare and a whack to the kidney.

  “No talk, ferrila,” the man spoke.

  Some of the Highlands people held wilting fruit in a tightly-worked palm, ripping into its flesh every few seconds with yellowing teeth. Others stood silently in the gentle breeze simply watching Jennison’s nervous shifting. Little children danced at their parents’ feet, pointing obnoxiously at the foreigner with playful, curious eyes.

  “Ferrila!” someone called from the jungle ridge.

  Jennison lifted his eyes to the sound of the man’s voice. It aggressively continued.

  “Ferrila! Ferrila! Ferrila!”

  The entire crowd chanted the word, pointing jointed fingers at him as though he were a punished child.

  “What is your name, ferrila?”

  A man had approached—a strongly built one with narrow eyes, broad shoulders, and a tunic so dirtied it appeared to be a soil-rich mahogany color.

  Jennison dropped his eyes quickly, ignoring the man’s question.

  The scattered Highlands people had now formed a collective mob in the center of the street, merging like two giant rivers finally forming one.

  The man who had asked the question led them at its point.

  “Ferrila!” he barked, showing a set of pointed teeth. “I asked you a question. Answer me.”

  The words pushed from the Portizu man’s mouth with power.

  Jennison could only turn his head to the side.

  “He shows fear!” the man continued, half-laughing. Sour fruit radiated from the man’s hot breath. “Who brought you here? Why are you here? This is not your land! You should be—”

  “Serza!” Relu barked from behind the mob. “Stop this nonsense! If you must know, I have brought him here. He brings important news from the Light City.”

  Serza stared hard into Jennison’s eyes, even after Relu’s testimony, attempting to intimidate him more.

  “He knows not of our customs,” Relu continued. “Leave him be.”

  Serza turned to Relu with hard eyes.

  “We have killed dozens of others just like him,” he barked, pointing at Jennison. “Why keep this one?”

  “Ferrila,” said Relu calmly, ignoring the verbal assault. “The Chieftain awaits your presence.”

  Another thrust of his chest and narrowing of his vision towered Serza over the diplomat.

  More intimidation, Jennison thought, but it is all talk.

  “Be careful, ferrila,” Serza whispered. “The Portizu are wild people. You never know what may happen in the jungles.”

  Serza bared a set of unwieldy teeth, just enough to resemble a threat, but also a coarse, artificial smile. The crowd in the middle of the street parted at Relu’s raised hand. It seemed their legs followed the Warrior’s orders as naturally as it was to breathe, but their eyes never left the foreigner—always curious, always cautious.

  “You don’t belong here,” someone snapped from his left.

  “Why would Relu bring ferrila to our lands?” someone else asked in a loud whisper, clearly disgusted.

  Relu followed the voice and found its speaker quickly, pointing a single finger only to acknowledge he had heard what was said.

  “It’s a disgrace!” the culprit replied. It was meant to be an emotionless calling, but invoked a bit of anger instead. “Disgrace!”

  Relu clutched at the meat of Jennison’s arm, pulling him forward. He grit his teeth as he did so.

  “What did I tell you? No talk,” Relu scolded.

  “I—I tried…”

  But trying is not enough, Jennison thought.

  The Highlands Palace pushed into the sky as they reached its giant-framed wooden entrance. Twelve guards, dressed in usual Warrior tunics and armor, held spears diagonally across their bodies, angled outward with the points of their spears directed only at the ferrila.

  “All of the Highlands will be talking,” Relu continued, mumbling more to himself than to Jennison. “Rumors create tension and tension creates unrest.”

  “Then you should not have left me there by myself.”

  The outburst caught Relu off-guard. For a moment, Jennison believed he would meet the hand of the only Warrior protecting him, but instead, they kept a brisk pace until they entered the palace, slamming the doors behind them. Another set of twenty guards formed two lines in front of them. They passed between them, through a forest of spears.

  “You must compose yourself before meeting the Chieftain. He will not allow for emotion to dictate the tone of his conversation. Be forewarned. You asked for this.”

  Despite the accusatory tone, he knew Relu was right. If he had any chance of reaching a true diplomatic relationship with the Portizu, he must remain as calm as possible, completely emotionless, completely sane.

  “Those people,” Relu continued, pointing toward the door from where they had come. “My people…are just nervous. They will be pleased when we are prepared for what is coming. War, correct?”

  The Throne Room doors at the opposite side of the corridor had already been opened. A series of darker dressed, iron-clad guards flaunted jutting jawlines and hard expressions. They lined themselves in front of the doorway, obstructing the view of the Chief. Palm fronds dangled from the ceiling and the smell of wood drowned out the smell of sweat and humid must.

  “I would offer you my welcome,” a voice projected from afar, “but, as you can see by the outsiders, you are not.”

  At the very back of the room—shrouded in shadow—Chieftain Zazana sat tall against a bulky, wooden-fra
med chair. Vertical lines of red silk draped from his shoulders and down onto his chest, contrasting the deep blacks, grays, and beiges of the guards surrounding him. Unlike Relu, Zazana wore a trimmed beard—not even an inch long—but enough to be visible. Oddly enough, it complimented his compacted beady eyes.

  Perhaps the shade of the ceilinged palm fronds blanketed the Chieftain in such a way that was meant to breed a form of psychological fear in his guests, but from where Jennison stood, the man stood simply as a man.

  “You have news to share with me?” the Chieftain began.

  The question felt regal, repudiated.

  “Yes,” replied Jennison. “Important news from King Traysin Altruit, King of the Light Empire.”

  The black eyes of Chief Zazana seemed to force the truth out of him as if he had no choice to speak otherwise.

  “I don’t know how else to say this,” Jennison continued, “but I will try to be as blunt as possible.” He coughed, then lifted his stare into that of the Chieftain’s. “Just to the East of you is a stretch of land called the Tension Fields…”

  “We are aware,” interrupted Zazana. “Proceed.”

  “There is an accumulation of Shadows in those lands. We don’t know why they are gathering there, but over the past several months, their numbers have increased nearly tenfold. Our Ix’a Scouts have done a thorough job monitoring the situation, but we—as allies of the Portizu Tribes—felt it was now necessary to inform you that the Shadow infiltration of your neighboring lands puts you in grave danger.”

  For a brief moment, the look that spread across Chieftain Zazana’s face was that of sheer confusion, which surrendered to another wave of expressionless fortitude.

  “Shadows?” the Chieftain spoke. “As in the Darkness?”

  Jennison nodded, then respectfully lowered his eyes.

  “I know it’s difficult to believe a stranger from a distant land,” continued Jennison, “but we’ve had our most credible witnesses provide first-hand accounts and…the outlook is not one of optimism.”

  Relu stood quietly adjacent to the foreigner, suddenly aware of the Chieftain’s heightened sensitivity. The diplomat spoke of entities from bedtime stories and myth.