The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy)

by R. G. Triplett

  The wooden shelves of the great library had once been adorned with elaborate carvings that depicted the subject matter of the works each shelf was meant to contain. The ornate displays of images ranged from grand ships and sea monsters to wheat fields and livestock, and a myriad of everything in between.

  A once-breathtaking engraving of a life-like herd of majestic horses wrapped one of the largest wooden shelves from top to bottom. Unfortunately, this piece of master craftsmanship seemed to bear the brunt of the weight from the collapsed columns. Cal had to take extra care to salvage what he could of the carvings, for the shelf itself was beyond repair.

  “This one must have held all the secrets and histories of the equine,” he excitedly told Meledae, who had begged to join him in his efforts when she heard he was excavating a whole section of horse documents.

  “Look here!” He held up a large, leather tome, with binding that was in obvious need of repair. “The lineage of Sigrid, Queen of the horses,” he read.

  “Fascinating.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Sigrid, the ‘Fair Victory’. She was the mother of all the royal horses. Some say that her line is yet unbroken and her propensity for victory is still running strong through her offspring’s blood.” Meledae cradled the unraveling book in her hands, eyes wide with wonder at what she beheld.

  “Perhaps …” she paused, not even sure she dared to say what it was that she hoped for. “Perhaps we might yet find a sire or two that we could trace to her bloodline? May I … may I take this with me?” she asked sheepishly.

  “I am just a guest here! I have no authority to deny any of these buried treasures to anyone,” Cal said warmly. “But I say go, explore, and share with us what you find! Huh?”

  She smiled like a child given the privilege to play with something fragile, which seemed odd to Cal, being that she was almost four times his senior. He chuckled to himself and shook his head, continuing about his task of recovering and reordering the library.

  As much of the day passed, Cal managed to clear out a small, traversable path to the farthest wall of the library. The light was dim in the back of the room, for the violet illumination of the Kalein colony was rather faded in the absence of his Poet friends. He lit a small lamp and began to examine the items that lay in a crumpled heap against the back wall to see if they might reveal any hidden treasures buried there. The light of his lamp danced and reflected off the gold and silver lettering of some of the more elaborate volumes, sending ten thousand little, bright flickerings through the dust-thickened air.

  As Cal peered through the haze, a glinting piece of metal caught his eye. Upon further inspection and to his great surprise, he discovered that it belonged to a suit of armor that was still in remarkable shape. This ancient relic of war had astonishingly been preserved, shielded from the carnage of the collapse by a pair of shelves with ships and large fish engraved upon their broken frames.

  “Is this the armor of Terriah?” Cal whispered into the dark. He picked up the form that held the pieces of armor and saw that the breastplate shone brightly in the light of his glowing lamp, still in its bronzed glory, with just the slightest hints of patina around the edges.

  It was obvious that this piece of craftsmanship was once given the utmost care before it came to its resting place in this vault of Terriah’s history. The breastplate was fashioned and scalloped with scores of small bronze feathers at its base. As the piece grew, so did the size and the scale of the protective plumage. The chest guard extended up and over the shoulders of its would-be soldier, offering strong and beautiful protection in the form of two great and terrible bronze wings. On the waist of the display was a belt of metal-clad leather, meant to guard both groin and thigh from the dangers of battle. The helm, hidden under a pile of dusty books and broken shelves, was a single piece of hardened bronze with holes for the eyes that curled to a point at the farthest ends. The nose brace looked like a terrible beak, and at the peaked crown of the feather-engraved helm stood two horned points.

  Cal held the helm in his hands, turning it over and over again, marveling at the incredible craftsmanship. He imagined the kind of terrible warrior that must have donned this beautiful work of art in the bloody carnage of the battlefield. He placed the bird helm atop the now upright form and continued searching in the wreckage for more pieces like this, hoping that maybe he would discover a sword or a shield, perhaps even a long spear to complement this armor.

  As he continued his dangerous work in the dusty darkness, the light of his lamp fell upon yet another curious, bronze glimmer. Whatever it was that shone from amidst the rubble seemed to be far out of reach, but Cal was determined to complete the newly discovered suit of feathered armor.

  As he began to move towards the bronzed artifact, he took a moment to survey the potential risk that hung overhead and sat piled unsteadily all about him. One of the large, stone columns that had once supported the ceiling of the great library was now fallen and in a rather precarious looking position. Though it appeared to have found a somewhat stable state for the last few years following the initial collapse, Cal could see that interfering with it could very well end up undoing all his efforts by causing another collapse.

  Determining to be cautious of the column, he began to move more and more rubble out from around its far side. He made his way closer to the object he sought, and as his excitement grew he was still aware, but rather disrespectful, of the danger that his actions could cause. Some large boulders blocked his way between the broken shelf with the ship carvings and the wall of the room, so he chose to edge his way in between the shelf and the ruined column.

  CRACK!

  The splintering sound reverberated through the chamber as the whole collapsed mess of the ship-carved shelf shifted angrily at Cal’s curious meddling. He froze, his heart pounding nervously as he waited to see if the wreckage would move even more. After a few silent moments had passed and no other sounds or shifting had occurred, he decided to risk it yet again. He resumed neatly stacking more and more of the ruins on the other side of the column.

  He went about this task for what seemed like an eternity. Cal hauled and organized, excavated and retrieved, until he got within a hands-breadth of the bronze reflection. To his dismay, he discovered that it was not the sword or shield he was hoping to find; rather it looked as if it were a picture, or a symbol of sorts, painted onto another one of the engraved bookshelves.

  This shelf was firmly affixed to the back wall of the library, so Cal could only see part of the glittering bronze peeking out from behind the books that still rested upon its shelves. He climbed up over one of the fallen statues and onto the fish-carved bookshelf to see about getting a better glimpse of what exactly could be so important that it warranted this lavish adornment of gleaming bronze.

  Now that he was finally in a position to see the shelf head on, the potential danger of his precarious position became all the more apparent. Cal stretched and leaned his hands against the upright shelf structure, attempting to avoid contact with the enormous, fallen, stone column. The dust was thickest back here, heavy with powdered stone and failing mountain, so breathing became more of a chore. Cal did his best to take breaths through the top of his shirt in order to keep from choking on the inhospitable air. He reached out one of his hands, balancing his full weight on the other, and wiped away the dirt that distorted the bronze image. What he saw made his heart stop cold.

  There, staring straight into his soul, was the very same Owele that had defeated the demon bear in the retreating forest. The likeness was unmistakable. The overlaid carving was not much bigger than the size of a man’s hands, but the image was as terrible and as lifelike as the Owele himself. The implications of what this meant—this symbol, here on the back of a wooden shelf in the rear of a dilapidated old library—were almost too much for Cal to fully make sense of.

  His hand nervously reached out and touched the bronze Owele, and he traced the lines of his fierce face with the filthy tips of his calloused f
ingers. The bookshelf that he had been standing on groaned and creaked underneath his additional weight, and, without warning or notice, its slight shifting sent another heart-stopping reverberation throughout the whole library. The rumbled warning shook the core of Cal’s terrified body. Dust began to pour down out of the uneven cracks above his head as small chunks of stone started to fall and crash all around him.

  Cal heard voices from the corridor outside the library.

  “Cal? Cal, are you alright? You better get out of there, son!”

  Clivesis’ voice shouted from the other side. “Cal, you damnable fool! You best move at once before you become a permanent fixture in this ancient mess!”

  More rumbling, then more shaking, more crashing stones and falling dust.

  “I,” Cal coughed and choked his words out, “I don’t think I can make it out—AHH!”

  Cal was interrupted as the unexpected weight of a falling stone slammed onto the back of one of his legs, sending him sprawling face first into the Owele shelf.

  “Cal! Cal! Talk to us, lad!” the Miller screamed over the noise.

  With that, a violent shake emanated from the ceiling of the chamber as the large, fallen column that had been resting precariously upon the collapsed shelves and statues crashed mercilessly to the ground. In its wake, wood splintered and stone cracked, giant portions of rock shifted overhead, and the groans of the aged mountain echoed ominously. Massive pieces of earth displaced the stone ceiling, forcing it to collapse near the back wall of the great library of Terriah.

  Finally the falling and shifting fell silent. Terrible clouds of dust hung thick in the air.

  The Poet brothers and sisters screamed helplessly for their young friend.

  “Cal!”

  Halfway across the mountain palace, Moa reared up in a sorrowful show of anger and worry over her two-legged companion. Her voice sent a haunting chill throughout all of Kalein, and the violet light of the Poet colony dimmed in the wake of the collapse.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The moment the supports failed and the column collapsed, Cal was flung headlong into the bookshelf embellished with the bronzed Owele relief. He crashed into the carved bird, fully expecting to meet jarring resistance, but what he found instead both saved his life and surprised his senses.

  The shelf was not actually a shelf at all; rather, it was a passageway of sorts, a door to a hidden chamber on the other side of the library. Cal had a feeling that this was not a common door, nor a common place, for the very entrance had been disguised and kept hidden under the watchful, haunting gaze of the bronze Owele.

  When the storm of noise had finally subsided, Cal shouted to his worried friends on the other side of the mess.

  “Hello! Elder John? Klieo? I’m ok, or rather … I think I am ok!” Cal shouted.

  “How can that be? Are you trapped underneath the wreckage?” the Miller shouted back.

  “No, I must have stumbled into a secret passage of sorts!” Cal replied.

  The Miller and the rest of the gathered Poets exchanged knowing and awe-filled glances with each other. The excitement and intrigue on the heels of their utter relief was indeed invigorating, and it had the time-weary Poets alive and buzzing with a youthful energy.

  Just then, Tolk approached the group of old dreamers with a worried expression on his face. “What is going on here?” he questioned. “Is everyone alright?”

  “The boy has discovered a passageway!” enthused Elder John.

  Tolk surveyed what damage he could see as he peered into the doorway of the library. He shook his head in consternation. “My boy, you must be more careful,” he shouted to Cal. “Now tell me how this all came to be.”

  Cal recounted how he found the armor and subsequently stumbled into the Owele. Only when he was finished with the telling of his discoveries did it dawn on him to ask a question of his Poet friends.

  “Do you know what this place is?” Cal asked as he squinted in the darkness of the chamber.

  “I cannot say, my boy,” Tolk said with worry in his voice. “It is obvious that whoever fashioned such a passage meant to keep whatever is behind it hidden.”

  “Why the bronze Owele?” Elder John asked in a hushed voice so as not to concern their trapped friend. “Klieo, have you seen much mention of the Oweles in any of the annals and histories that you have found?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not one single mention. Though most of what I have found are records and plans, with a few scattered stories here and there. Nothing of hidden magic, or Oweles, or secret passages under the mountain.”

  Clivesis shouted his answer out first. “Be careful in there, lad! There are many dark and mysterious places here in the mountain palace, and I am not so trusting to believe that they are all of the safe and pleasant variety.”

  A parental sense of worry hung over the residents of Kalein. These old Poets were not sure that Cal was in imminent danger, but they were not certain that he wasn’t, either. It is this kind of ambiguity that can drain even the strongest man of his confidence to make the right and wise choice.

  “What do we do?” Meledae asked.

  “What can we do?” Clivesis replied matter-of-factly.

  “Aye, I tend to agree with the old fellow here,” said the Miller as he gestured to Clivesis. “Do you see a way out?” he called out to Cal.

  “This doorway I came through is blocked solid by the fallen stone, so there is no way I can come out the same way that I came in,” Cal yelled back to him. “It looks to me as though I am in some sort of long corridor, a hallway, perhaps.”

  The Poets talked quietly amongst themselves, weighing the few options that their trapped friend had.

  “What if he just followed it?” Elder John proposed. “It is sure to lead him somewhere, is it not?”

  “All paths lead somewhere, my friend. The question is whether or not this is the kind of somewhere we would want him to end up!” Tolk countered.

  “Some have said that Petros is inhabited by the ghosts of Terriah,” Klieo said worriedly. “What if we are sending him into a danger more perilous than mere falling rocks?”

  “We cannot know what great evils may be trapped in such an ancient crypt,” Meledae echoed Klieo’s worry.

  “Well, that may be so, my sisters,” Tolk agreed. “But it might do us all a bit of good to remember that it was the THREE who is SEVEN who brought Cal to our humble community of hope, and I tend to believe that He is at work, weaving other plots that we are not yet privileged to know of.” Tolk turned and surveyed the fallen mess of stone. After a moment of long thought and a resigned sigh, he spoke again.

  “We might just have to trust that the sign of the Owele is a good one,” Tolk spoke more for his own worried heart than for those of the gathered Poets. “For who knows the true workings and beautiful designs of the THREE who is SEVEN, save the great artist Himself?”

  The Poets looked at each other in worried agreement.

  “Cal?” Elder John shouted across the chaos. “You are going to have to press on! Perhaps the shortest way home is through! Huh?”

  “Just mind that you don’t get yourself eaten by any ghosts over there!” Clivesis said, half-jokingly.

  Meledae hit him hard in the arm and he let out a boyish, “Ouch!”

  She gingerly rubbed her aged hand and gave him an apologetic smile.

  “Ghosts?” came Cal’s nervous reply.

  “Just keep your wits about you, and mind your step,” Clivesis said kindly. “That’s all I meant, lad.”

  “I guess I don’t have any other choice,” Cal reluctantly told his friends. “I am going to follow where it leads, and hopefully,” Cal sighed, taking in the gravity of the moment, “it will lead me back to you.”

  With that tenuous goodbye, Cal turned and made his way down the barely visible hallway into the unknown bowels of the mountain palace. He heard the voices of his Poet comrades shouting their farewells as he moved further away from their comfortin
g presence and into the dark unknown. The corridor was tight, not so tight that he had to hunch over, but small enough that there was not much room for him to be careless with his steps. He walked cautiously, and was able to move straight ahead for roughly forty paces before the path made an abrupt stop. There, embedded in the immovable, stone wall in front of him, he could just make out another bronzed carving of an Owele.

  His hands wandered over the embossed lines, causing his imagination to muse over possibilities both terrible and wonderful. He pushed hard on the carving, half expecting the wall to move under his touch, much like the bookshelf had done.

  But nothing happened.

  Panic began to crowd Cal’s mind. “What do I do now?” he yelled in frustration to the inanimate, bronze bird. Turning back towards where he had just come from, all he could see was the blocked doorway and faint light from the library that streamed through the dust-heavy air in shimmers of violet.

  “Surely this leads somewhere,” Cal said worriedly to the darkness. “Who in their right mind would build a passage to nowhere?” He did his best to calm his racing anxiety and decided to follow the walls of the corridors with his eyes, tracing the boundaries and desperately looking for a break in the rock.

  A wave of relief washed over him when his eyes landed on what appeared to be a dark opening in the wall just a few paces from where he stood. He ran his hands along the cold stone until his fingers confirmed what he hoped his eyes had found. “Another passage,” he breathed, his flagging confidence now beginning to return. “Thank You.” Cal whispered the desperate but grateful prayer under his breath and took his first step into the dark passageway.