The Crystal Crux - Betrayal (YA EDITION Book 1)

by A Werner

  “There is a great deal at stake here,” Gherardus reminded the giant. “Are you sure it will work? We must be sure. Pero must not escape Eagles Pass. I must know he is dead.”

  “I will kill him and experience his pain.” Sinibaldus jerked open the V-necked collar on his robe. The dramatic move revealed a large crystal, a diamond the size of a large man’s fist dangling from a cord over his heart. “The power of Bellerophon is still with me.”

  Tired, Gherardus rose up slowly from the high back throne. Reluctant to walk, he kissed the gold ring on his finger before placing that same hand on Sinibaldus’ tall shoulder. “Behold that awful fig which has withered on the vine, the swine swimming back and forth in sludge. I have no strength or faith to offer anyone.” He stared Sinibaldus straight in the eye and did not blink. “You are correct, my friend, I would betray you.”

  Gherardus staggered down the aisle towards the same doors he had brushed aside a sin ago, once nearly tripping over a hurried little lizard that scurried across his path. Before the doors closed, he muttered to his own amusement, “And to think, I respect Pero de Alava more than any other man in my court. Awful surely does not do me justice.”

  Chapter 5 – Bellerophon’s Crystals

  Legend held that Bellerophon was a Greek warrior who defied the gods and tried to steal a kingdom from heaven itself. Zeus refused him, sending an enormous horsefly to bite the warrior’s winged stallion on the butt. The horse bucked causing Bellerophon to fall out of heaven and back down to earth.

  As he fell, Bellerophon managed to snatch mysterious glistening particles from the clouds surrounding paradise. Crippled and maimed by the fall, his pride injured, Bellerophon went down to the netherworld where he formed an alliance with a fellow exile, Hephaestus, the volcanic metalworking god of fire and brimstone.

  Hephaestus spent eternity fashioning crystals, diamonds and gemstones from the minerals of the earth. He knew how much humans coveted these sparkly objects and would kill each other for them. This mindless slaying of innocent souls was gratifying to Hephaestus’ hate, the blood seeping down through the dust and mud, coating stalactites and the stalagmites with liquid ooze, trophies for the King of warrens.

  Hephaestus designed a way to use the heavenly particles Bellerophon had stolen from heaven to create a crystal ball.

  Scryers were prophets who tried to divine the future by staring into polished surfaces, diamonds, quicksilver, even water. Their prolonged gaze would allow their mind to drift into other realms, forming a cloudy portal between man and gods. Misty shades would enter their emptied thoughts and speak to them. These ghosts were believed to be messengers from beyond.

  Hephaestus blueprint was a scryers dream, a small pyramidal device consisting of five crystals, none much larger than a man’s fist. Four gems would serve as the base. The fifth gem, the capstone, the crux, would sit upon the other four brother stones and unite them all. Each stone was powerful by itself. Together, when all five crystals were properly aligned to form the ritual pyramid, the possessor would have the ultimate crystal ball, a fiery bridge uniting the world of angels and demons with the world of men and monsters. Bellerophon would be able to gaze through this unique wonder into the hearts and minds of all living things, exposing their darkest secrets, snaking their guilt into painful knots, forcing them into shameful obedience. The earth would be his kingdom for we are all sinners.

  To accomplish this great work, Hephaestus knew he needed to use minerals from all parts of the world. He hired gifted smiths from five different regions to make the stones. In one year’s time the smiths would gather in Hephaestus’ throne room inside Mount Vesuvius to present their work. Bellerophon would take the crystals and ritually stack them, becoming a god on earth; a soul reaper.

  The only thing this conspiracy was unprepared for was an old black dragon called Ophis. Ophis had been sleeping for centuries, waiting for the return of the last age, the age when dragons ruled the earth.

  Ophis was rudely awakened by Taf, a Norseman swinging a careless axe. Taf was one of the five talented smiths hired by Hephaestus to fashion a crystal. In fact, Taf had the honor and privilege of being the smithy chosen to create the prized center stone, the Crux.

  Ophis was outraged. He would have burned Taf alive but needed time to yawn. In that moment the Fates granted him, the clever Norseman haggled for his Viking life. He told Ophis everything he knew about the five crystals and Bellerophon’s plan.

  Ophis was just as greedy as any other dragon and suddenly saw himself taking possession of the five crystals and ruling the world. Why not? The temptation to be a tyrant runs deep in the heart of all living things, even black dragons.

  Ophis spared Taf’s life for a solemn pledge. The dragon agreed to spare the Norseman’s village if he brought the gemstone to him when it was made. They would travel to Mount Vesuvius together. Taf knew the dragon would be an unwelcome guest at the ceremony but there were no other alternatives.

  On the 23rd day of August in the year 79, the great day of unity arrived and Bellerophon joined Hephaestus in the towering dark mountain of Vesuvius.

  An onyx altar crafted in the likeness of an anvil was placed on a mantel high above the sea of scalding lava inside the steaming cone of Vesuvius.

  One by one, each smithy made his appearance and one by one they delivered their valued stone to Bellerophon. Bellerophon limped his way up to the altar and placed the stones side by side on the onyx anvil forming a united square; the perfect base. The crystals bonded to one another with a brief discharge of light, an unexpected electrical shock which seemed to upset the lava stream. It was as if they knew one another, flecks of heaven touching and agreeing.

  By the noon hour the base had been formed. All that was missing was the great center stone; the Crystal Crux.

  Where was the Norseman, Taf?

  As the sun slipped down in the west, a celebration started. The ceremony was not complete and the crux had not come. And soon they were sleeping.

  Meanwhile, Taf sat on the neck of the black dragon, wind screaming through his long hair and beard as the beast soared through the clouds and sky. The Viking saw the European continent like no man before him, like a god from heaven. And just as he was growing comfortable with the dragon, Ophis surprised him. The dragon was hungry. Committing his first act of cruelty, believing he would soon be a god, Ophis casually tossed the Norseman high in the air. As the blacksmith tumbled down towards earth, hollering and twisting, begging for mercy, the dragon swallowed him whole. What is sin to a god anyway?

  Chapter 6 – Dragon Attack

  No one in Vesuvius knew when Ophis arrived. The black dragon had splashed down miles away in the Mediterranean Sea and swam under the waves through large underwater caverns that led to even smaller veins of mud and silt. When these narrowed, he clawed his way through the black loam until the bedrock collapsed and he drifted into a lava stream. His scales and his eyes wholly unaffected by the intense heat encasing him, Ophis relaxed and glided downstream through miles of liquid stone until he was inside Mount Vesuvius. Slowly, he lifted himself up unannounced, his colossal black head rising through the oily surface water, his emerald green eyes scanning the scene high above.

  Ophis spotted the mantel where the onyx altar and the four assembled crystals sat. With a smirk as wide as the Coliseum in Rome, Ophis stayed low, slowly lifting his eighty-foot tail upwards out of the oily surface just behind his massive black head. At the end of his tail were four agile talons which functioned like fingers, gripping the Crux in its fist. If he could only place the crystal on the altar, upon the four brother stones before anyone saw him, the world would be his.

  The dragon’s tail, however, was not long enough. The ledge was hundreds of feet up. He knew he had to risk exposure. He had to rise up out of the molten sea. Ophis pinned his incredible black wings tight to his enormous dark body and leaned his backside against one of the hot charcoaled walls. He then pressed each of his four stumpy legs against the wall on the other s
ide and began inching his way upwards, step by modest step. ‘I am so close,’ was all he could think, his yearning tail still stretched up high above his head, getting ever nearer.

  And then tragedy. Ophis’ left front leg broke through the wall into a giant empty hollow. The black dragon slipped and caused a great disturbance that rocked the mountain. An avalanche of stones the size of small hills sheared off the interior, causing a great disturbance. Ophis could no longer maintain his hold and sank back down a few feet. The drunken party was startled, frightened awake by the commotion.

  Bellerophon shook himself awake. He detected the black lizard slithering below. Grabbing a two-edged sword, the Greek warrior scurried down to do battle with the beast. Wildly he hacked at the serpent’s craning head.

  Surprised by this assault, Ophis snarled at the nimble warrior, trying to bite him. He flexed the hard scales covering his neck and revealed from beneath his chin a blue dewlap. Mere seconds passed before the dewlap was wholly inflated and the dragon’s belly roared. Ophis sent forth fire from his mouth and nostrils. The three-pronged assault tore through the air, barely grazing Bellerophon before cremating two sluggish smiths.

  Hephaestus, a god and a soldier in his own right, raised a hefty war hammer and entered the fray. As if working his precious metals, Hepheastus began thumping the clubbing weight of the hammer against the dread beast’s right shoulder.

  These blows caused Ophis to slip even further down into the molten sea. The black dragon could sense his dreams slipping away. He would never reach the altar by crawling up to it. These mortal gnats were a pesky and determined bunch. The dragon roared and raged at them as his patience evaporated. Like the devil he was, he swore to turn this magnificent battle into a tornado of fire and stone.

  Bellerophon was not distracted by the noise and fury. He spotted the Crux glowing white and bright in the clutches of the serpent’s talon hold. He had to save it.

  Like great Ulysses, Bellerophon used minor footholds in the crumbling craggy wall to out-jump the swinging tail of the beast and slice away two of the four talon-fingers. Injured, Ophis lost his grip on the stone. The Crux was free.

  Spellbound and horrified, Bellerophon and Ophis watched as the crystal flew through the air, a rainbow of colorful light spraying out of its throbbing heart. It spun about in a motion so slow it defied gravity. It was beautiful and wonderful before physics took over. The crystal started to fall, eventually plopping down in the lake of molten rock. It sank and disappeared.

  The dragon’s emerald green eyes changed instantly red. Ophis was crazy mad. He decided to destroy everything inside Vesuvius. Withdrawing his stumpy legs, he forced his leathery black wings to open. With a great downward flap and a terrifying screech, Ophis thrust his massive, scaled body upwards, the thick hard plating of his strong black skull striking the underside of the rocky mantle where the onyx altar sat. The whole volcano quaked at this collision. The brother stones were divided. The four were no longer one. The rift caused by separating them was disastrous.

  Each of the stones fired out bolts of lightning. They were crying out for one another, trying desperately to hold on. Their tentacles whipped and blasted everything around them, filling the air with supercharged energy, the mutated pulses of electricity throwing glittery particles everywhere. The inert gases in the lava stream were ignited causing a horrific explosion. Mount Vesuvius erupted. Screaming cinders of hot pumice shot up out of the cone, the magma painting the sky with streaks of vibrant red sleet. Burning rocks arched their way upwards towards the heavens before bowing off and falling back down to earth as blazing hail. The nearby cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii were burned in minutes, covered forever by white dust.

  The blast from Mount Vesuvius successfully separated the five crystals. And as time moved forward, they were nearly forgotten, becoming a story of legend and myth. Only occasionally would one of the brother stones be discovered and impart to its owner, heavenly powers. Civilization would prosper for a time, but eventually destruction would follow and the crystal would disappear again. Someone always wanted to war and claim the crystal as their own. It is the way of mankind. Hephaestus knew of what he spoke. Coveting and killing for beautiful stones never ends. The wasting of innocent life continues. The blood of the innocent still drips down into the caves coating his stalactites and stalagmites with crimson slime. Hephaestus is quite pleased with his work and his trophies.

  Ophis is still crazy mad.

  Chapter 7 – Rugerius Fabbro

  His face like a bear, his eyes like an eagle, Rugerius Fabbro, the Castellan of Parthenope was a beast. He was stronger than most men, vile to a fault and as unruly as his passions permitted. He was a whirlpool of contradicting desires, ready to explode and injure at any moment. And truth be told, his best friend and Second, Sir Bergus of Brindisi, was not much better.

  The fate of the scoundrels became entwined when they were headstrong pages serving Baron Hensting in Germany. The young Italians learned to war and do quite a few other things boys that age should not be doing. Before becoming squires, the reckless pages set out on a sacred hunt, a single explosive night of murder that unified their friendship forever.

  Rugerius was a dangerous youth, often brooding in silence for days on end. When the other pages tried to be civil towards him, it usually resulted in fisticuffs. The other boys grew tired of trying to reach him. No one wanted to be his friend. That was alright with him. Rugerius didn’t want any friends. But the other boys were not his only problem. Rugerius refused to respect his German elders, refused to speak the German tongue. He was often flogged for disobedience and hardheadedness. And one of the worst perpetrators of abuse was a filthy, fat brewery servant named Dugaro. Dugaro had a habit of beating and torturing the strapping lad in private. Rugerius loathed him. He remained defiant but the beatings were taking their toll. He was ashamed and growing crosser by the day.

  Bergus had been watching and came to understand Rugerius’ plight, his undying hate for Dugaro. He decided to use this pent up rage in his favor.

  One hot summer evening in the year of the Lord 1175, the pages of Cole Hensting were working in the kitchen of their Bavarian lord’s castle when Bergus initiated first contact, and proposed a journey.

  “Come with me,” Bergus whispered into Rugerius’ ear.

  Rugerius spit back immediately at Bergus, “What the heck is wrong with you? Get back from me fool!”

  The muscular thirteen-year-old was not intimidated; he could not afford to be. “I know where Dugaro will be tonight. He will be drunk and alone, vulnerable.”

  Rugerius wanted to punch Bergus in the teeth. He balled up his fist and was ready to pounce. But somewhere deep inside him, a second fury spoke. He also wanted revenge on Dugaro. He unclenched his fists and conceded to follow Bergus. The boys, in nodded agreement, dashed out of the kitchen. They knew they would be severely punished for stealing away but they didn’t care. They were always being punished for something anyways. Pages were peons.

  With modest stealth, the youngsters crossed the bailey and tumbled headlong into a poorly lit stable. There was no one in the barn. Bergus led Rugerius down the rows of stalls; horse’s neighing and yawning on either side of them.

  Bergus counted aloud, but softly, “Six - seven - eight . . .”

  Harsh but not elevated above a mumble, Rugerius demanded to know what Bergus was doing, why he was counting.

  Bergus ignored Rugerius and continued counting. “Nine - ten - eleven, here we are.” Bergus grabbed hold of the top of a stall door and swung it open. He ushered Rugerius inside the empty pen.

  Bergus suddenly dropped down on the floor and began poking his hands through a short pile of loose straw. “What are you doing down there?” Rugerius barked carefully. “Where is Dugaro?”

  Bergus jumped back up to his feet as quickly as he had gone down. In each of his hands Bergus held a small thrusting dagger. “Take one,” He beamed. “Take one for Dugaro.”

  Rugerius stared hard
at the shiny seax in Bergus’ left hand. The grip was bone white and the blade no more than eight-inches long. Rugerius felt a smile come on. He wanted to take hold of the elegant little weapon and stab Dugaro with it.

  Bergus twirled one of the blades in his hands and offered the hilt to Rugerius. “Come on. Take it. What are you waiting for?” Rugerius grabbed it.

  “Come on,” Bergus commanded.

  Rugerius obeyed Bergus again. He quietly followed him out of the stables, through the open courtyard and under the castle’s fortifications. Soon they were out in the fields, walking beneath a starry sky.

  “Where are we going?” Rugerius asked.

  “We are going to an old farmhouse. Dugaro will be there.”

  Rugerius suddenly remembered why they were out here. A wraith of embarrassment clung to his heart, suffocating him.

  “It is alright; I know about the abuse.”

  Rugerius walked on silently with his eyes glazed over, dishonor and humiliation beating down his hope. The little terror, as he was often referred to in those days, never intended anyone to learn about the terrible beatings. As tenacious and as strapping as he was, Rugerius was still a child and could not fight a beast of a man with rule over him, especially this Dugaro. It was the only time he ever felt weak.

  “Dugaro comes to this farmhouse every Friday night and beds the same wench. He will drink too much, beat the woman and fall asleep in the pasture with the sheep - unless it rains.”

  Rugerius quickly inspected the heavens for fear it might rain. There were no clouds. The heroic constellation known as Club-bearer, a mythical warrior strangling a snake stood high above him and fortified his superstitious mind.