The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy)

by R. G. Triplett

  “Captain?” the marshal asked with fear and uncertainty in his eyes.

  Armas stared straight ahead, lost in thought, as his rough hands wrung and pulled at his stubbled face. The words of the Arborist replayed in the manic theater of his mind. For hope, Captain. Hope for hearts that will choose to endure.

  GAROOM! A shockwave of fear shook the very dust from the stones of the great wall, stirring up outcries of panic and worried prayers.

  “Hope,” Armas said in a barely audible voice. “How does one hope to endure such devilry as this, Arborist?”

  “Captain?” the marshal said again. “What are you saying? Who are you talking to?”

  God help us, Armas thought as he blinked, drawn back to the present by the questions of the old man. He blinked once more in an effort to reset his resolve, and placing his hand upon the shoulder of the marshal, he steadied himself to address those who would listen.

  “People of Haven!” Armas said, trying to even his breathing. “I fear that your nightmares have indeed come to life this day, and I fear all the more that the only thing keeping them out in the darkness is the fading light of the dying tree.” Armas turned his gaze from the hypnotic stare of the large green eyes and focused his attention again on the line of men and women gathered atop the battlements of the wall. “It seems that the duty has fallen to us to be the first line of defense for our people. I do not know what green death waits out there in the dark wilderness. I do not know the source of its power, and I do not know what it plots in the shadows of its own greed.”

  He looked back over his shoulder, his dark eyes illuminated by the torches of his fellow guardsmen. “But I do know you, people of Haven, and I believe that the THREE who is SEVEN will raise hope enough in our hearts that we might defend our people fiercely. So stand with me now, you men and women of the North. Muster your courage and your strength … and hold tight your hope!”

  GAROOM! GAROOM! GAROOM! Came the soul-chilling sound of whatever large and ominous evil lurked there just out of the reach of their sight.

  Chapter Fifty

  Two dark amber days and one silver night had passed since the men of the first colony had narrowly escaped the entrapments of the Isle Dušana and the bewitching beauty of the lady Morana. The mood about the ship was grim, for in the nearly seven days since they had set sail from Bright Harbor in the Bay of Eurwen, a score and six men had fallen, lost amongst the wreckage of the Resolve or the evils of the Isle.

  Cal spent most of his time tending to the nervous and tired horses that were now hitched to the railings of the main deck of the Determination. Since the sinking of the Resolve, the grey ship had been filled to beyond capacity with whatever crew or supplies could be salvaged from her wreckage. Cal, in an effort to keep order and peace, would deliberately make his rounds in between the draft horses and the coursers. He would brush their coats and sing a soothing tune to calm away their anxieties.

  “You brave and mighty steeds of light,

  Who sail and swim and refuse to die.

  You victorious offspring of Sigrid’s fair pride,

  Take refuge here beneath silver clouds,

  And let salty dreams, wake and rouse,

  Bright lands of green, and great fields of wheat,

  Of timber strong and of hope we seek.”

  Cal’s gift with the horses might very well have been the most overlooked piece of fortune for the men aboard the Determination. Cramped quarters and limited patience, compounded with large hooves and anxious, powerful animals, rarely ever makes for a comfortable environment; but Cal’s songs and whispers won their loyalty and eased them into docile compliance.

  One dappled grey courser in particular seemed to have given Cal his affection more than the rest of the tethered herd.

  Those men who were well enough to work spent their days mending sails and binding up the splintered sections of yard and masts that had been damaged during the storm. Though they had not been at sea longer than a week of days, the mood of the men had been severely corroded by the taste of salt and the sting of the dark, cold waters.

  Each hour of sailing through the faintly lit mist took them farther and farther from the barely visible light of the great dying tree, and the men grew more and more aware of the imperative nature of their voyage. Seig called a meeting of his officers atop the bridge deck, conferencing over strategies as to how they were to sustain the colony in the now darker unknown of the Western Wreath.

  Not many of the men had much energy or resolve left to argue their own points of view, and so it was decided that the colony would stick to the shoreline first. They would establish whatever beachhead they could so as to quickly send aid back to the city, or until enough timber could be felled to fuel further exploration inward.

  Yasen and Goran did their best to lift the spirits of the woodcutters so that their axes would be sharp and ready to get to work as soon as they landed upon dry ground. Though they had lost a handful of comrades, the woodcutter contingent seemed to have fared the storms and struggles far better than the governor’s guard. For many of Seig’s men had been lost, alarmingly leaving the colony without many men for their defense.

  Pyrrhus and Tahd tried to reorganize the dozen or so cavalry men and the few remaining men-at-arms, but it became quite obvious to them that their greatest hope of protection would come from a new-formed alliance with the woodcutters, for theirs was the greater of the two strengths.

  Cal was resting, leaning up against the grey base of the main mast on the fore deck, when an unfamiliar voice interrupted his slumber.

  “Groomsman?” said the voice apologetically.

  Cal yawned and rubbed the sleep from his tired eyes before he turned to see just who it was that needed him now. “Yes,” he said groggily.

  “I wanted to thank you for what you did earlier,” said the young man.

  “Thank me?” Cal squinted at the young man quizzically.

  “Aye, you,” he said. “You see, I am not a good swimmer—well, I’m not a swimmer at all really, unless of course you call thrashing around like a maddened tomcat in a freezing cold rain barrel swimming,” he said with a laugh.

  Cal laughed with him. “I guess not.”

  “I was one of the men you pulled from the water when you were hanging from the side of the hull. I’m pretty sure, if it wasn’t for you and the help of the THREE who is SEVEN, I would have sunk straight to the floor of that cold, damned sea,” he said gratefully.

  “Well, I’m glad you floated enough for us to fish you out,” Cal said with a brotherly tease. “Are you a woodcutter? I spent some time in the North, but I do not recognize you, brother.”

  “No, not a woodcutter. I’m just a smithy—or at least I was until the Dark Sea claimed half of my tools.” Disappointment colored the young man’s voice. “My name is Wielund. If I can manage to get a decent enough forge put together, I will make sure your horses will always be shod properly.”

  “It’s a good thing I saved you then, huh?” Cal said as he stood to his feet to take the arm of this new friend. “I never did learn how to swing a hammer with any real skill. I’m glad you’re along.”

  The glint of violet and silver leaves from the hilt of Cal’s sword caught the eye of the smithy. “Is that your sword?” he asked curiously.

  “It is indeed. It was a gift, though it’s rather dull and tarnished,” Cal replied.

  “I don’t understand,” Wielund’s eyes were lit up, not hiding his curiosity at the shape and craftsmanship of the blade. “May I see it?”

  Cal considered Wielund carefully, finally determining him safe enough to admire the ancient sword. “Alright then, but I must warn you, it is a bit heavier than it looks.” Cal reached down, and with concentrated effort he unsheathed Gwarwyn from its white scabbard and rested its tarnished, leaf-shaped blade across his simple leather bracers, presenting it to the smithy.

  Wielund reached his hand out to take hold of the blade, but stopped before he touched it. His brow furro
wed in confusion and wonder.

  “I know … it’s pretty rusted,” Cal told him. “And it might not be very sharp, but somehow it has still served me well enough.”

  “I have never seen any blade like this before, groomsman. It is as if the very steel itself is humming some ancient melody, only …” he stopped to listen, his face contorted in concentration. “Only it’s hidden there below the tarnish and the patina. If this is truly a gift to you, Cal, a gift fit for King Illium himself … well then, you must help it recover its deadly voice.”

  “Would you like to hold it?” Cal offered the smithy.

  “No, groomsman, I would not,” Wielund told him hastily, making a show of his refusal by raising his hands. “There is magic coursing through the fuller of that blade, and even if I wanted to … well, I doubt it would let me.”

  Cal looked at Wielund with respect. “You are right about the magic. When it was given to me, these branches here were as bare and bereft of leaves as a tree in the dead of winter.” Cal held up the sword to point to the branches of the hilt.

  “But now look at it, groomsman!” Wielund told him with a wonder-filled expression. “It would seem that springtime has started to bloom once again for this blade of yours.”

  “Land! Straight ahead!” shouted the lookout from his perch atop the main mast. The sound of his iron bell rang loud and long, waking the weary and storm-battered men from their half-rested monotonies.

  “Governor!” the lookout shouted. “I’ve spotted the Wreath!”

  Men everywhere sprinted to the railing at the bow of the grey ship, squinting hard and doing their best to make out the approaching land mass.

  “Do you see any shirtless devils?” shouted Pyrrhus to the lookout. “I don’t suppose any of my lads will be in the mood to dance again!”

  The men of the first colony chuckled a nervous laugher at the half-serious paranoia of the fiery knight. Though no one expected to encounter the same kind of witchcraft that they had witnessed upon Isle Dušana, every last one of them had learned a hard-fought and most valuable lesson. They had learned that this colony, this journey, and this assignment would not be easy, nor could it be predictable. For though perhaps a second Morana would not be found here on the shores of this abandoned land, it was certain that other evils would be; and no one could say that they might not be twice as terrible as the witch of Dušana.

  When it seemed that the Determination had sailed as close as it safely could to the shores of this new land, the crewmen heeded the call to drop anchor and raise the sails. The men gathered around to hear the orders of their governor and so begin this assignment they had paid so dearly to embark upon.

  Atop the bridge deck, Seig, his captain of the guard, and his chief woodcutter all stood resolutely, eager to address the men so that this first colony might finally be about its intended duty.

  “Men of the first colony!” Seig shouted proudly as the great ship Determination lay anchored just off the coast of the Western Wreath. “In the words of his Brightness, our great and wise Priest King, I echo his prayer for us on this day, here at the threshold of our destiny!

  May your blades be ever sharp, and may your hearts be ever strong.

  May you pound the night, may your fires burn long.

  May the darkness flee, and hope return.

  As you light the way, as you illuminate the earth.”

  All the men brought the flints that hung from around their necks up to their lips and kissed them. In whispered reverence they spoke in unison. “May it be!”

  The sounds of hurried movement and excited energy filled the deck of the great ship as the cockboats were lowered to the dark waters below. Men outfitted with torches and crates of supplies rowed in unison towards the not-so-distant shoreline. One after the other, the smaller vessels ferried men and goods alike to the new homeland of the first colony. The horses were soon lowered into the cold surf, and as fate would have it, they took their first steps onto this new continent on the strength of their own hooves and by their own will.

  Soon the beach was alive with the blaze of torches and watch fires, as axes drank their first thirsty draught of the new timber of this strange and distant land. Men everywhere went about the hard work of establishing an encampment from which the whole of this first colony would be birthed.

  Cal leapt from the side of the cockboat, his sword Gwarwyn in his hands, the feathered breastplate that his Poet friends had given him fastened around his chest, and Deryn tucked safely and secretly away inside his cloak pocket. He knelt there in the cold waters of the Dark Sea, on the foreign shores of the Western Wreath, holding both his sword and his heart in surrender and pledge to the will of the THREE who is SEVEN. “May the fire of hope that I carry inside my heart guide my feet and order my steps, so that I might swiftly find your new light.” Cal whispered the words, though none except Yasen took any notice of the half-soaked groomsman kneeling in the water.

  And so it was that the men of the first colony set foot upon the shores of the Western Wreath. The light of Haven dwindled in the distant darkness; its shadowed doom was an inevitable coming. But there in the break of cold surf, kneeling in the black water with bowed head and bright eyes, one young man had kindled within him a fierce clarity and a fiery hope.

  Epilogue

  In the days since Calarmindon Bright Fame had said farewell to Iolanthe in the secret grove deep beneath the Hilgari Mountains, the residents of Islwyn had grown quite restless with the knowledge of the coming darkness. The Sprite Queen had spent many hours since their parting deep in thought and prayer for the fates of both this young light seeker and the whole of Aiénor.

  Her reverie turned sorrowful as she recounted the woes and heartbreaks she had witnessed in her many days. None were so anguishing as the betrayal of her people by her own kin, Niniané, and the resulting rape of the violet trees of beauty. Even so, her heart seemed nearly as heavy now as it had been during the great days of lament. The Sprite Queen, here in these darkening hours, watched her world sit on the brink of devastation. The failure of the tree of power brought a new sorrow to her already heavy heart, for this tree was, in truth, the very last living beacon of her great Father’s strength and might.

  The Sprite people served their Queen faithfully, carrying out her orders with passionate and swift action. While Llinos was still about his business of petitioning the Oweles, calling upon their strength in these most desperate times, Linnaea tirelessly and fervently sang her requests to the last remaining trees of beauty. The high-chambered mountain walls of the secret grove echoed Linnaea’s rhapsody as she poured out her heart in movements of melody, imploring both the mercy of the great Father and the generous fertility of the Jacarandas.

  Since Calarmindon Bright Fame had freed the long-imprisoned race of Sprites, they often traveled to the ruined halls of Petros and conversed with the exiled Poets who made their home in the ancient halls of forgotten kings. Long had the Poets believed that beauty, fierce and dangerous, still lived and thrived in the greying world of the dying tree. Long had they hoped that their old and aging eyes would one day glimpse some sort of magic akin to the violet trees of legend and their winged guardians. But never would they have dared to suppose that such beauty and such magic waited in such proximity to their home.

  The Poets had feasted for days in honor of Iolanthe, Queen of the Sprites, at the overwhelming joy that came from their first encounter with the lost and forgotten race. Songs were composed, and toasts were made. Marigeld even put down her shears and her spade and took up her horsehair brushes, painting a beautifully intricate fresco of the Queen and her hidden kingdom upon the walls of Petros’ great hall.

  This day, however, Iolanthe had arisen from her restless sleep, somehow knowing that Llinos would soon return to her from his long and perilous journey across the wide Hilgari to the eyrie of the Oweles. She had sent Ardghal, herald of her house, to summon the wise and friendly Poets to her white-barked palace underneath the greatest of all the re
maining violet trees.

  “My Queen, may I present for your pleasure and your council, these Sprite friends, lovers of beauty, and stewards of the mountain palace,” Ardghal announced with a flourish. He motioned to the incredulous Poets who stood nearby, overwhelmed and awestruck by their first summons to the inner sanctum of Islwyn.

  “Welcome, my friends. Welcome, Tolk and Elder John, Clivesis and the Miller. Welcome, Marigeld and Klieo, and of course Meledae. I am in great need of your council, and I do so wish that our three kinds might once again seek true wisdom together,” the Queen said.

  “Pardon, great Queen, but did you say three kinds?” Tolk humbly asked her. “I am indeed well along in my years, but it would seem to me that my aged and tired eyes have seen but only our two kinds gathered here in your most magnificent palace.”

  “I did, dear Tolk, say three kinds,” the Queen said with a gentle, respectful smile. “For our missing third is now arriving, even as we speak.”

  The mountain walls exploded with the trumpets of Ardghal and his host, their bright and joyous tones reverberated in unison with the hearts of all who were gathered. “It can’t be …” the Miller whispered to his friends, looking up into the vast expanse of the great cavern underneath the Hilgari.

  “Oh, but it is, my brother,” Tolk said in stunned amazement. “It is indeed!”

  The sounds of music faded as the high, shrill screeches of the great Oweles filled the grove in echoed harmony, announcing to all who would hear of their unexpected arrival.

  “The Oweles have gathered too?” Elder John said, mystified at the very thought of being in the combined presence of Oweles and Sprites and the forgotten trees of beauty.

  “Aye, brother, what a day of wonders indeed!” Clivesis mused aloud.

  The storm of white and brown feathers descended upon the secret grove of violet trees. Though the ancient watchers were mighty and holy messengers, they did not presume to perch upon the hallowed trees of beauty without first being given the blessing of the Queen to do so.