Darkness Beneath the Dying Light

by R. T. Donlon

  The King chuckled slightly at his own wit, but the joke did not spread to Relu’s serious facade.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” spoke Relu as formally as he could muster.

  “Your Light speak is exceptional!” Leridian remarked. “How do you know how to speak so fluently? Surely you have never met our sort of people before.”

  Relu lowered his eyes, making certain that no emotion filtered from his response.

  “Just because you have never met us does not mean we have not been watching you.”

  Relu lifted his gaze, suddenly aware of the tension building in the room. He had not meant to startle these men, but the response hid a bit of calculation somewhere within it. These leaders were the smartest of their kind, and certainly, they were picking up on his subtle cues.

  “As you pride yourselves on protection, my kind pride ourselves on privacy,” Relu explained. “We wish only to live in peace.”

  “And that is why you are here,” Leridian continued. “As we are.”

  It was a statement introduced with a bit of heat.

  Relu only nodded.

  “My Chieftain thought it best if I represented him here. If a Shadow should escape the Tension Fields and invade our lands, the Chieftain would like to be present to end it.”

  “A leader of Warriors must be a Warrior,” replied Leridian. “We are glad you are here, Relu.”

  Relu bowed into marjhi. The King allowed him to finish before turning an open palm to introduce the next person of the group.

  “Markiss Yendo is a Brack handyman from the Clan and one of the most renowned weaponry forgers the world will ever know,” continued the King. “He represents the easternmost of our allies.”

  At this, Leridian turned toward the King unexpectedly.

  “Easternmost? But what of the Prescients? And, now that I am noticing, where are the Flare-Dwellers? Surely you’ve reached out to them?”

  The Elder’s voice had dropped into tension, yet oddly distracted—distant, as though it was drifting away toward the end of its phrases. It was the kind of question that masked a hidden excitement that no longer existed, dissipated like fog in in a wind.

  “Of course! I sent word by way of one of my best diplomats, but unfortunately have heard nothing from the Flare-Dwellers. No one answered at the gates,” Altruit explained. “Something disturbing is happening there, I was told. King Remundicus has lost his mind. He has exiled his own brother.”

  “So the stories are true?” asked Markiss. “Flare is plagued?”

  “The two incidents are not one in the same,” the King continued. “We cannot be certain that there is sickness within the Flare walls. The only way to truly know is to wait it out.”

  The group of men seemed oddly distraught by this news, shaking heads and rubbing foreheads.

  “As for the Prescients,” the King continued. “I think we can safely assume they will never dabble in the affairs of men.” Sarcasm rolled down his cheeks like tears. “The Bridge Keeper would not allow my diplomat to pass, not even for news as great as this.”

  “They have isolated themselves for so long now,” Leridian barked. “One day they will need us and we may be unwilling to help.”

  The King nodded solemnly, collecting his thoughts.

  “Yes, my friends,” he responded. “The Prescients would have been a nice ally, but we cannot delay any longer. We must forge a new path with or without them.”

  “And the Plague Lands?” Markiss barged in with his raspy, mumbling words. “Have you sent word to them?”

  A look in the King’s eyes resembled a man who suddenly realized he was being interrogated rather than part of a friendly conversation. He turned to Markiss with sincerity, bending slightly to place his hands onto the table before him.

  “The Plague Lands have grown. They have elected a leader by the name of Solomon Harke. I think it is safe to say they will not be joining us.”

  Markiss cleared his throat to politely turn away from King Altruit’s now menacing glare. Leridian turned his head awkwardly to the door as if he, too, expected someone else to join the rearing discussion. All seemed to know something that Relu did not. The Warrior gathered his intention and focused it back to the King.

  “The Plague Lands, by name, do not sound like an ally,” Relu calmly interjected. He heard nothing by way of response, so he continued. “There is too much quiet in the room. Are you not telling me something?”

  Leridian turned to Relu while the King broke eye contact, swerved away from the table, and commenced a sort of pacing toward the shadowed side of the room.

  “The Plague Lands are a relatively new territory in the North. Their population is not—how shall I say this without being crass?—normal.”

  “And not by their own doing,” Markiss continued. He directed his attention back to Altruit. “With all due respect, Traysin, citizens of the Plague Lands have done all they can to become part of the Light Empire. You must start to treat them as such. You owe them that much.”

  At this, the King scoffed like a man caught in a lie, yet unwilling to accept it.

  “It is true. We have a checkered past,” Leridian continued, specifically to Relu. “The King and his empire is not excluded from that.”

  “Are you speaking of the Cornerstone Uprising?” asked Relu. “Your diplomat spoke of this briefly.”

  It was as if the room had suddenly been drained of happiness. The other leaders sunk into their cushioned seats. Relu maintained perfect posture and broad shoulders against the discomfort of Altruit’s heated gaze.

  “I have called upon each of you to join me here as a plea of desperation,” spoke Altruit. “I have made mistakes. I understand that, but we must move forward. What is done is done.”

  After a solemn moment, Leridian nodded hesitantly. Markiss cleared his throat to clear his mind. Relu remained strong.

  “Solomon Harke will prove to be an ally or an enemy in due time, but it is too soon to tell,” spoke Markiss. “Still, the King is right. We must face the most persistent problems as they come.”

  Relief and acceptance flooded the room with Markiss’ words. The King took this as a moment to return to the topic at hand.

  “As Relu now knows, there has been an accumulation of Shadows in a place known as the Tension Fields just east of the Portizu Lands. If we do not—”

  “Shadows?” Markiss spat. “As in the Shadows from our fairytales? Soldiers of Brax the Finisher?”

  “You will see very soon, Markiss, that myth is no longer myth,” Leridian added. “It never has been myth. Your people have just pulled the shades over their own eyes for centuries.”

  The King ceased his pacing and returned to his seat at the head of the table.

  “If we don’t find a way to contain the Shadows now,” he continued, “their numbers will grow insurmountably. If that happens, our combined armies will mean nothing. I propose that we act now before the tide of Darkness becomes too much.”

  The group stilled for a moment, processing.

  “I think we all know the lore of Shadow,” spoke Elder Leridian, “yet I cannot recall a means of killing them. Our normal metals will do nothing to their kind. We are vulnerable against their attack.”

  “The only way I have heard—” began Markiss, but he caught himself before moving forward into explanation.

  “Everything must be shared, Markiss. If you have information we should know, you are obligated to inform.”

  Markiss coughed, then hesitantly returned to his words.

  “The only way I have heard of killing a Shadow is with the Blade of Stone. King Salrin of the Sha wielded it to ward Brax the Finisher from his lands—”

  Markiss took a moment to peer around the room, watching each man’s set of eyes as he made a fool of himself with story.

  “Oh, come on! You have never heard the tale of King Salrin and the Blade of Stone?” Markiss asked.

  The others remained silent, motionless.

  “Well then,
” he continued in mild disgust. “That is a story for another day, so to spare the details, the Blade is said to have glowed red when a Shadow drew near, alerting anyone nearby of its location, and even better, when it drew Shadow blood, it became stronger, like steel.”

  Relu found himself in a state of confusion. Most of what these men were saying meant nothing to him, yet he listened intently in case he was called upon for insight. This bickering and diluted conversation continued until King Altruit called out Relu’s name.

  “Relu,” the King called. “You have been quiet. What do you think? Are these just lies we are taught to believe? Surely you must have your own set of folklore for the entertainment of Portizu children?”

  Relu cleared his throat, then took another healthy gulp of water.

  “Yes, we do, but it is not entertainment” he spoke. “Our stories are shrouded in a set of beliefs you could never understand. Nothing to do with Shadows.”

  King Altruit set his eyes on Relu, but there was a sort of intrigue in them now that caught the rest of the men off-guard.

  “What do you suppose we do about this problem?” the King asked. “The Shadow problem?”

  The Warrior forced his expression to meet the others’ solemn facades.

  “We must first focus on protection—of our people and of our lands. A well-devised offensive will mean nothing if we do not have any means of victory, so here is my proposition—the Portizu will build a wall. It is a temporary fix, but it will buy our lands more time to come up with a solution.”

  Blatant scoffing filled the room with a tempestuous chuckle.

  “A wall?” Leridian mocked. “We will be needing more than a wall to stop the Darkness. I can assure you of that.”

  “—but as Relu said, it buys us time. That is always a good thing,” offered the King.

  They talked for hours, blasting each other back and forth with comments and heated strings of argument. Relu mostly listened, but interjected when he felt necessary. This was new territory for the Portizu—a foreign enterprise that Relu was no longer certain the Tribes needed. He could see the doubt in their eyes, the ignorant shrugs tensing their shoulders. His voice had been drowned by the thousands of others dragging these men down, their people scared and reactive.

  Surely we can handle the Shadows on our own, he thought. Can we not? The Portizu have the means. Fear holds no place here.

  As the King’s eyes occasionally met those of Relu, the Warrior could not help but notice the strange expression glimpsing the King’s face. It was a dark sort of gaze, shrouded in arrogance. The others did not seem to notice these changes or, perhaps chose to ignore them. The hours had waned, surrendering to the weight of the sun dipping at the horizon.

  “I think that is enough discussion for one day,” the King said. “Allow my guards to escort each of you to your guest chambers for the evening. We will continue our talks in the morning over breakfast.”

  Markiss rose from his chair, reaching his hands over his enlarged head in a consummate stretch.

  “Very well,” the tradesman spoke. “Will dinner be sent to our rooms?”

  King Altruit grinned, surely awaiting the question from the portly fellow. He nodded in assurance.

  “I will make sure the cooks have prepared the finest Light City cuisine you have had the ability to experience.”

  Markiss smiled at this and, through his yellowing teeth, Relu was suddenly aware of how overweight the Brack Clansman truly was. His gut protruded from underneath the hem of his shirt, hanging lifelessly against the brim of his pants. Markiss Yendo was hanging from the edge of obesity, teetering toward falling into its abyss. The shimmer of sweat coating his skin was proof enough, forcing a bit of heavy breathing to emerge from his double-chinned stubble of a mouth. When Markiss noticed the others’ stares, he tucked the outer layer of flab back into the hem of his waist and waddled to the door where a Light guard met him with a sword and a guiding hand.

  “Thank you all for a productive first day,” said Markiss. “I am confident we will resolve this issue before long.”

  He angled himself out of the door, adjusted the leather belt and vanished into the darkness of the hallway.

  The door opened and, immediately, Leridian called for Harmon as if the Elder had been waiting for his opportunity this entire time. The apprentice rushed to the Elder’s side at once.

  “Do you have paper?” Leridian asked.

  “Yes, Elder.”

  “Do you have a quill?”

  “Yes, Elder.”

  “Good,” continued Leridian. “We have a very long night ahead of us. I will speak of today’s meetings and you will transcribe my thoughts. King Altruit, do you happen to have any white willow seed?”

  Altruit smiled, then nodded.

  “I do,” the King said. “How much would you like?”

  “Four pinches will do—two for my apprentice and two for myself,” continued Leridian.

  “Dear Albrien, Leridian! Are you wishing to stay awake all night?”

  Leridian laughed.

  “If you will excuse us, we have much work to do. I must transcribe simply to tell the other Elders.”

  “Very well,” the King replied. “I will have it sent to your room.”

  “Thank you,” said Leridian, bowing. He then turned to Harmon with harsh eyes. “Go and prepare. I will want to begin as soon as I return.”

  Harmon rushed from the room with two guards in tow.

  “He is a very bright boy,” Leridian whispered, speaking of Harmon. “Someday he will do great things, but for now, he must be directed toward the grace of Nuhwa. That is my job. He may look more like a man, but make no mistake, he has the heart of a child. Guard?” A Light soldier entered the room. “Take me to my room, please.”

  Only the King, Jennison, and Relu had been left to their own thoughts.

  “Jennison,” the King addressed. “Would you be so kind as to escort our guest to his room for the evening?”

  “Certainly,” the diplomat replied. “It would be an honor.”

  Relu, without hesitation, rose from his seat and followed Jennison to the doorway in silence, but as he turned to bid farewell to the King, the disturbing image of Altruit’s closed fist against the surface of his table caught Relu off-guard.

  “Eralel,” the Portizu said.

  The King turned, but Relu had not made another motion toward him.

  “It means good evening,” the Warrior explained.

  Altruit seemed to breathe a subtle sigh of relief.

  He still does not trust me, Relu thought. He does not trust the strength of the Portizu.

  “Goodnight, Relu. Tomorrow is a new day,” but the King’s words felt insincere. Each word seemed to weigh on him as he spoke.

  Relu met the straw bed in his quiet room with closed eyes, but sleep never came. Only the thoughts of a disparaged King, an overweight Clansmen, and an arrogant Elder filled his mind. He thought about the men for hours, wondering whether he should believe their insights or even their intentions—the King, worst of all. At the first sign of morning sunlight, he shook the natural weariness from his eyes and accepted the fact that sleep would never come. He fell to his knees at the castle’s window like a child, watching the orb of a sun make its slow ascent into the sky.

  “Turisic,” he whispered. “The affairs of men are strange, complicated. Guide me on your path and I shall accept my role.”

  The heaviness of his words hit home and, subconsciously, he inhaled sharply against them. A shimmering pinpoint of pain flooded the back of his mind, blooming like a flower in the heart of a jungle. It pricked at him inwardly, then disappeared.

  You heard my prayer, he thought. Thank you.

  A knock signaled at the door—a sharp, equally rhythmic pattern of thuds.

  “Relu!” a familiar voice projected from the opposite side of the door. “Relu? Are you awake.”

  Jennison knocked several more times before Relu opened it.

  “Good mo
rning,” the diplomat said. “The King would like a word with you before today’s meetings.”

  Another suspicious move by the Light King, Relu thought. Why speak alone before the others arrive?

  Relu allowed no emotion to flood the canvas of his face.

  “I am ready,” said Relu. “Lead the way.”

  Jennison led Relu through a series of new hallways that snaked through the Glowing Mountain in odd, spiraling directions. It was not long before Relu had lost his sense of direction.

  The jungle is easier than navigating this place, he thought.

  A room at the far end of a bended corridor cracked open, illuminated with a blast of candlelight. The King reclined in a cushioned chair at the far end of the room’s oblong shape with his eyes closed, head arched back against an angled neck.

  “Ah, come in,” Altruit spoke, sensing a new presence. “Surely you are overwhelmed with my home. It is an interesting place to say the least.”

  Relu entered confidently. His chin tilted slightly upward when the King did not stand to meet him.

  “It is truly a distinct place,” Relu replied. He slanted his eyes as if searching for something in the back of his mind. “Luxurious…that is the word.”

  The King allowed one, barely audible chuckle to pass his lips.

  “Certainly,” said the King. “I have grown accustomed to it, I suppose. Jennison, you may leave us now. Relu, please sit. Did you sleep well?”

  The King was certainly perceptive. He was not, however, talented at withholding the true intentions behind his questions.

  “My face gives it away,” began Relu, pointing toward the rings of shaded skin under his eyes. “Sleep did not find me last night.”

  “Too much on your mind?” the King asked.

  “Our plight,” Relu continued. “It is a lot to ponder.”

  The King leaned forward against the muscles in his legs.

  “If I may be honest, I can see that not much slips by the eyes of a Portizu Warrior,” he said.

  Between the window’s early morning light and the room’s flickering candles, the King’s visage took on an eerie shaded glow, riddled with cynicism.

  “Your kind are a very distinct sort of people. It is improbable that you have managed to stay hidden for so long of a time! I have read the books. The history of the Great Range is flush with warriors and courageous men, but not one of these archives mentions of the Portizu name.”