Prophecy Of The Guardian (Guardian Series Book 1)

by J. W. Baccaro

  “What is it, Mirabel?” Seth asked while taking his seat.

  “He’s been having horrible nightmares, though when he wakes he speaks not of them. It’s as if he forgets or simply chooses to keep them quiet.”

  “What does he say in his dreams?”

  “He cries out for Abidan, saying, ‘I can’t carry this. I am too afraid. Give the task to another. Please!’ Then when his dream shifts, he cries out, ‘the dragons...the serpents...the demons! They’re coming. The War has begun. The Dark has risen. It’s too powerful...he’s too powerful. Abaddon!’ Then, he wakes up.”

  “...Abaddon, his name again?” Seth recalled how the Cullach Commander Deloth spoke about the ancient adversary the night of Darshun’s rescue.

  “Yes. There is something else too. During every dream, that golden ball I brought, being stashed away in my backpack, would glow its rays piercing through the material. An aura of white light would materialize from it and surround Darshun for a few moments before fading away. But the most disturbing was the vision of a beautiful Holy Archangel, mighty in form, standing above Darshun. I could feel he was from Abidan, but his gaze pierced my soul.” He shuddered.

  Seth eyes widened as he felt awe and terror. “Mirabel, what does this mean?”

  “It is said that when an Archangel shows his presence, a great change, good or evil is soon to take place. What the change is remains a mystery at least for now. We best be on our toes. ”

  ~~***~~

  Nightfall came and Darshun found Elwin Theodore…his blonde-haired blue-eyed friend, whom he played with almost every day until his journey with Mirabel began in the courtyard of the castle. Elwin hung around a fire with his older brother Mythaen.

  Mythaen had been one of the four who’d returned from the last battle fought in the original Loreladia long ago…the battle Loreladia lost. At the time, Mythaen had been a young teen, now grown into a man.

  His uncle Alaric; a short, stocky fellow with brown eyes, a thick black mustache and a clean-shaved shiny-bald head sat there as well. He’d been the captain of the king’s army, and a soldier of the original Loreladia war. He and a few other men and women whom he didn’t recognize sat talking.

  “Elwin!” Darshun called, storming his way into the circle of fellowship.

  “Darshun? Darshun! You’re back?” Elwin jumped up and wrapped his arms around him, hugging tightly.

  “Well, look it here,” Mythaen greeted. “We didn’t know you’d returned.”

  “Yes, about four hours ago. Father and I ventured to Uncle Seth’s and had dinner. I’m sure Mirabel will greet everyone tomorrow. Tonight, he seems to have a lot on his mind. Anyway, it’s good to see you all again.”

  “My, have you grown, Dar. Sit down. Stay awhile. Here, have a drink.” Mythaen passed him a large, foamy mug of ale.

  “He cannot have any of that yet.” Alaric took it away, Darshun’s big smile becoming a frown. “He’ll be wetting the bed all night, not to mention the strength of the alcohol in this batch.”

  “I will not. I can handle it. Come on, give me some.”

  “I want some too,” Elwin piped in.

  Mythaen grinned. “See Uncle? The boys want to drink with us.”

  “No!” Alaric poured them freshly brewed herbal iced teas a few other youngsters had left behind in a pitcher. “Have one of these instead, boys.”

  “That will do for me!” Darshun snatched the cup from Alaric’s hands, clenching it tightly, so no one could steal it away this time…like his ale. He gulped down the cool tea in seconds. "Mmm, minty."

  “I still want some ale.” Elwin pouted. “My brother says there’s even a hint of strawberry in this batch.”

  “Strawberry Wheat our uncle calls it,” Mythaen added, tossing back a few locks of his long red hair. He put his mug to his mouth and swallowed the rest of his ale in a matter of seconds, the foam covering his lips. “And oh is it good!”

  With teary eyes, Elwin stared at his uncle.

  “When you’re a man you can indulge in all the ale you like,” Alaric responded. “Until that day, you’re going to have to settle for tea.”

  “What about a Nasharin?” Darshun asked. “When can they drink the hard stuff?”

  Alaric looked at him curiously. “Ah, that’s right. You now understand what kind of creature you are.”

  “Yes. I’m part Wizard. I can’t believe it! I love Wizards and tales told about them. Especially the Earth Wizards—they say you could walk right through a forest and never know one was there. That they blend into the trees, almost becoming 'one' with them. You know?”

  “Many ancient stories revolve around the Elemental Wizards. They were fascinating creatures.”

  “Were? That’s what Father says, but how do you know they’ve ceased to exist?”

  “There may be a few still out there, but hardly enough to count.”

  “You don’t think there could be kingdoms of them all over?”

  Alaric chuckled. “No, no. In the ancient days, Wizards would visit all creatures of the earth for fellowship. People longed for their visits, welcoming them with open arms, lavishing gifts. They were protectors and guardians of earth. In our day, however, their sightings are seldom, and their visits next to none. Why, the last Wizard I can remember was Olchemy the Fire Wizard, the one your father battled against in the Loreladian/Barbarian war.”

  Glancing aside and licking his lips, Darshun looked curious. “My father never mentioned him.”

  “Yes, that was a hard time, difficult for everyone. The last I remember, someone speaking of those days was when I was a boy. My great-grandmother told me how Olchemy proved to be a powerful adversary and your father barely won that battle—”

  “But he did win,” Darshun commented, pride in his tone.

  Alaric smiled. “Yes, Darshun, he did.”

  “What happened to the Wizard?”

  “In the end, he respected Mirabel for his unique Nasharin power and saved his life from a volcanic eruption, on the mountain where the battle took place. Afterward, he ventured off, and no one has seen him since. Supposedly, at least.”

  “Typical of Wizards, Uncle,” Mythaen grunted. “The famous disappearing act.”

  “Aye. But even in those days, Wizards were a rarity,” Alaric replied. “Few were ever seen by even the noblest. And most who did walk the earth chose the Dark side.”

  “Why?” Darshun asked.

  “There are many beliefs, but no one really knows for sure. It’s true the Wizards’ sacred line began to fall at the birth of your people. The Elves saw this as evidence that the Nasharin race carried a curse, affecting multiple races across the earth. Thankfully, it happened at no better a time, because if not for your ancestor Marsainn, the infamous Nasharin who stopped them, this region—and who knows how many others—might have been ruled by the darkness of corrupt Wizards. Those noble races among the Light claim Nasharins to be accursed. I disagree. They turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Makes you ponder.”

  They continued to connect over other stories, legends and myths, mostly Loreladian and the fire eventually died down.

  “Darshun, put yourself to use and throw on another load of wood,” Captain Alaric suggested while scratching his bald scalp.

  “All right, sir.” He grabbed a couple of logs, but one had a small twig of thorns coiled around it that he didn’t see, and he cut his palm open. The blood trickled over the log; no one seemed to notice, so he ignored the throbbing pain. He broke off the twig, tossing it to the ground, and threw the logs into the fire. Before he could turn away, a man sitting in the shadows tossed some whiskey into the flames and they shot up at Darshun’s face. “Hey!” he shouted, jumping back.

  “There was no need for that, Damacoles,” Alaric sneered, his eyes piercing across the risen flames.

  “Now, now, settle down,” Damacoles urged. “Be thankful Gabija didn’t pull him in for her sacrifice.”

  “Pull me in?” Darshun asked. “Pull me in where?”
>
  ‘The fire,” Damacoles spoke in a creepy whisper as if he were trying to excite Darshun's fears.

  Who was this Damacoles? Darshun hadn’t heard the name before. Neither did he like the tone of his voice. It was eerie and cold. “Who is Gabija?”

  “Who is She. The name means ‘goddess of fire.’ The Nork worshipped her, a people long extinct. They claimed she’s so beautiful that all worry and torment vanish upon a moment's gaze in her presence. She was summoned at the feast of Mithranos, a glutton festival in celebration of the goddess, held once a year in autumn. But she would appear only if—”

  “Don’t fill the boy’s head with this nonsense,” Alaric admonished. “We've already debated long enough over this before Darshun arrived. Let it be.”

  “No,” Darshun interjected. “I want to hear more…If what?”

  “If human beings were sacrificed.”

  “As offerings?”

  “My, my, a quick learner we have here,” he mocked.

  Darshun clenched his teeth.

  “The Nork would tie up the weak and the ill, those mortally wounded from battle and even children. They’d bring the victims to the feast of Mithranos and place them beside a great bon fire. Prayers would be spoken, praises sung. If she was pleased with the offerings she would rise out from the flames and reveal her beauty to her worshipers, then she’d pull the victims into the fire and burn them to ashes.”

  “And if she wasn’t pleased?”

  “Well then, surely an ill-favored offering was not worth keeping alive—”

  “They would toss them into the fire anyway,” Alaric piped in. “You’ve told this story before.”

  “What nonsense,” Darshun balked. “I don’t believe a word of it. Sounds like a good excuse just to get rid of someone you hate.”

  “I’d have more respect for her if I were you little man,” Damacoles warned. “Your disrespect is unwise.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because wherever there is fire, she listens.”

  Darshun gazed at the flames. The wood crackled, and sparks flew. He wondered if the Goddess Gabija really listened. It was, after all, the season of autumn. Then a cold chill shot through his body, giving him the shakes. He rose and moved his seat farther away.

  “Smart boy.” Damacoles laughed.

  “I moved because of the sparks hitting my face!”

  “Lie all you want; Gabija knows your thoughts.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Darshun,” Elwin whispered to his ear. “That man is obsessed with myths and legends. Before you arrived that’s all he was talking about—”

  “Elwin Theodore,” Damacoles broke in. “Your friend disrespects they which he does not know."

  “I respect Abidan,” Darshun defended. “The God of the Light, even the deities of Loreladia. Not gods or spirits of death."

  “Oh, but the Dark spirits are much more intriguing, especially the mischievous Repsi.”

  “Now who is that?”

  “Another one of Damacoles’ favorite spirits of death it’s just lore,” Elwin scoffed.

  “It is not lore. Repsi was banned from the Heavens for all eternity.”

  “For what?” Darshun asked.

  “Theft and murder. His life consisted of it, and in death, he lingers, forever roaming about, lurking in the shadows. At dusk, he creeps into villages, silent and stealth like a serpent, canvassing whatever may be precious to him, and takes it for his own. If any lay eyes on his shadowy form, whether they be men, women or children, they are slain in the most grotesque of ways. So remember, if people’s belongings are missing and a pile of unidentifiable corpses lie about, you can bet your life Repsi was there, having his fun.”

  “That’s silly, nothing more than an excuse to commit a crime and blame it on a god.”

  “Well, it seems your petty father has badly influenced you. Ha, that old fool is leading another young one astray. Typical.”

  In a flash Darshun rose to his feet, pulled out his sword and pointed it at Damacoles, causing the others to back away, startled by Darshun’s anger. “I’ll have you standing before your ridiculous gods now, if you speak ill of my father again.”

  Slowly, Damacoles came out of the shadows and showed himself for the first time. His long black hair shone with silver streaks running through it. His face looked oddly sleek and sickly looking with high cheekbones. His blackish-silver eyes were piercing. “Oh, the mighty Nasharin has drawn his sword,” he sneered. “So, you want a challenge, aye?”

  “Darshun, put it down,” Captain Alaric urged.

  He ignored him, taking a few steps toward Damacoles.

  Alaric stood up, and the flames of the fire flickered. “If you don’t put your sword away, I’ll stop you myself!”

  “I cannot let this man insult my father and get away with it.”

  Unexpectedly, a voice from behind him spoke, “Darshun, withdraw your sword.”

  Startled, he obeyed immediately sheathing the silver blade. “Yes, Father.”

  “It is time to go home.”

  Darshun put his head down and walked to Mirabel’s side.

  When Mirabel came in or how long he’d been standing there...lurking in the shadows could not be known. “Captain Alaric,” Mirabel greeted, placing a hand atop his shoulder. “Much gratitude.”

  Alaric turned to meet his gaze and nodded. “Next time, I’ll act sooner.”

  Mirabel took a glance at Damacoles.

  He stared back with a grin, then walked away with Darshun.

  As they ventured home, neither of them spoke. Then, once they were behind closed doors, Darshun turned and faced Mirabel. “Father, please forgive me. I only acted aggressively to defend your name.”

  “Have I taught you nothing?”

  “Of course not. Why do you ask this?”

  “Because, you should’ve been wise enough to remain at your place. Instead, you lost your temper.”

  “But I—?”

  “Silence!” His eyes were as fire, his tone fierce.

  Darshun closed his mouth, putting all his attention on him.

  “We train with the sword, it becomes our companion, but we do not live by the sword. Those who live by the sword will die by the sword. The ability to use your mind is much more powerful. A Nasharin does not become blind to anger so easily. He learns to control his emotions. I thought you understood this at your first lesson.”

  Darshun lowered his head in shame, looking as if he would weep. “I am sorry, Father.”

  Mirabel put a hand on his shoulder. “Son, I know you wanted to defend my honor, and you had every right to be upset. Few people are found of Damacoles to begin with. But you are much better than that, and you will become a far greater warrior than he.”

  “Damacoles is a warrior?”

  “Yes, terribly great. Very dangerous he is. But you are a Nasharin, a member of an ancient warrior race, mystic and noble. Remember the way of our people.”

  “I understand. I will not fail you again.”

  ~~***~~

  Later that night, when Darshun lay in his bed, he kept thinking about the stories Damacoles shared with him, wondering if any truth dwelled in them. A sacrificial goddess of fire? A mischievous god of theft and murder? Surely, such tales were legendary, meant to scare children into behaving. For it was never a good thing to play with fire or to prowl the outdoors during the dark hours. No wonder the elders would conjure up such stories.

  These thoughts were cut short when Darshun heard noises outside his window. They sounded like stones hitting the house and a rustling of leaves. He wondered if Repsi might be there, creeping around stealing belongings or anything that was precious to him.

  Then came the worst of it yet; a voice, coming from under his bed, whispering—hissing his name twice: “Darshun...Darshun.” Then, there was an impish laugh.

  Darshun closed his eyes, covered his ears and remained still, shaking, sweating—praying it would go away! His fists were clenched so tight, he
could feel the veins popping out of his forearms. Then, after a while, when the noises stopped he felt ridiculous, thinking himself to be a fool. “They’re just tales.” He laughed. “And I'm scaring myself into hearing things. Heh, yes...” Sleep began to take hold, his eyes feeling heavy. “They are tales—that's all. Just—tales...”

  ~~***~~

  A clutter of loud noises outside Darshun’s window awakened him. It sounded like colossal boulders rolling across the ground and hitting the side of the house. He lay in bed, trembling, not daring to see what it could be and remembering the same business earlier in the night.

  Then the noises stopped, and he heard heavy footsteps trotting away over the fallen leaves. “Someone’s out there.” He climbed out of bed and walked to the window, peeped outside and saw nothing. It looked pitch black. That’s strange—a few hours ago there was a full moon. There came another crash in the distance, but this time it sounded like a crackling, furious, like the stone castle collapsing. Darshun leapt away from the window, sinking to the floor in darkness. “What is going on?” He panted with fear. “I better wake up Father.”

  Stepping across the room in shadow, he grabbed a candle off a stand and set it ablaze, then made his way down the short hall to Mirabel’s room. But when he got there the bed was empty, the blankets lying on the floor. “Ah, Father. Where did you venture off to now?”

  Not wanting to be alone, he decided to go outside and look for him. Darshun hoped he would find his father before whatever else lurking within the city found him. He grabbed his sheathe and sword along with a dagger, slipped into his brown leather ankle boots and cloak, then ventured outside. The darkness seemed so thick he couldn’t see two feet in front of him. “Where in the world could he be? Perhaps at Uncle Seth’s?”

  Unexpectedly, a scream sounded, a horrible sounding scream like that of a frightened young girl. It echoed from every direction of the city. Then there were crackling noises and a rustling of leaves in the woods, like someone or something running through the brush.