Dragonsphere (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 1)

by Richard Fierce

  His earthen-colored traveling cloak was covered with dust of a slightly lighter hue. His feet and ankles were so caked with dust, sticking to his skin from the sweat caused by wearing sandals for an extended period of time. The aroma of pipe-smoke mixed with the odors of sweat and old age emanated from his body.

  They halted for a moment. The prophet inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth and richness of the air surge throughout his entire body, restoring some of his long-lost youth.

  “A fine evening, Lord Imen,” he said.

  “It is, Lord Aio,” said Imen, attempting to catch his breath before the tireless prophet continued the seemingly endless march.

  The Lord Aio nodded. “The Ai has shown us favor in giving us such an evening. One hundred and forty-three years ago this hour, the personified Ai, the Great Aio, appeared on this Island.”

  The young High Priest wiped the sweat off his forehead as he gazed out over the Island, looking over every twist in the river, every small campfire, every stone and tree, the moon and every small star, and every lighted window that was visible in the valley; hearing every miner’s flute and every grazing beast that was raised in the valley; absorbing every breath of wind, the odor of fish and manure. All of this, the good and the evil, the agreeable and disagreeable, the pleasant and the unpleasant, had been made by the Ai. All living and non-living things were of the Ai.

  In the pasthe had been toldthe Ai had spoken to mankind through visions, or through the clouds, and sometimes in a great, blinding white light. However, the Ai, for a short period of forty-eight years, came to the Five Islands in the form of a man. It was at that very hour, and on that Island, one hundred and forty-three years before, the Ai has chosen a place for his unannounced arrival. For a moment, Imen forgot all of his troubles, discomforts, fears, and even his exhaustion in that thought.

  Following that brief pause, they continued their arduous climb up the narrow, steep, winding trail for what seemed to the pupil to be an hour (though it was probably a good deal less than half). It had always amazed Imen how the decrepit old mentor always managed to be a good three paces ahead of the young warrior, never tiring or seeming to need a rest, while the youthful student felt as if his legs would fall out from under him.

  They came to a place where the ground leveled off, surrounded on all but one side by high rock formations. In the center of this area lay five large, flat stones arranged in a circle, all of them large enough for one to sit upon with space left over for a staff, cloak, or a sword. If one were to look over the side not surrounding the mountain, he would have seen a patchwork of fields and orchards spread from beneath him, allowing him to view almost the entire valley.

  The Lord Aio suddenly stopped, staring into a space that had opened up in the side of the mountain during his absence. For what seemed like an eternity to Imen, he stared in amazement and terror at the opening, never once blinking or letting his gaze shift from the tunnel before him. If he had not been paralyzed by the sight, his body would have shuddered violently. The look of death shone in his eyes.

  Imen, at the sight, felt a mountain of fear fall upon him. He had heard of this omen, its meaning, and its history, yet he had never seen it until now. He wished he could have run and hidden, or better yet, jumped off the cliff wall that fell below him into the valley. The Tunnel had again been opened.

  “This cannot be happening,” stated Imen, the shock evident in the shaking of his voice.

  The words of Imen breaking him from his stupor, the Lord Aio shook the dust of the ground off his traveling cloak, muttering to himself in the ancient tongue of the Ai.

  “The Tunnel has again been opened to us,” he said to Imen, “and troublednay, far worse than troubledtimes are to come. The East Wind grows bolder than ever; life eludes the West Wind; the fire grows cold. Sit upon this sacred stone, Lord Imen, and guard the Tunnel with your life. Let no one pass in or out unchallenged. I feel that an evil has come upon the Island. An evil I have not known for almost …”

  Wincing as if feeling pain from some terrible memory, the Lord Aio turned quickly and walked up the path to his hut. After his master was out of sight, Imen sat down with his sword drawn, his eyes searching, and his ears ever attentive.

  He could feel the cold winds of danger and fear cut through him like a sword. The ancient melodies played by the miners, and the warm, peaceful atmosphere that had just a few minutes earlier dominated the entire Island was suddenly gone. He shivered a bit, even though the night was warm and the weather fair and despite wearing a traveling cloak.

  Just a few minutes before, he thought only of a long, peaceful sleep. Now, he felt as if he had awakened to find himself living in one of his worst nightmares. Every rock looked as if to conceal a ghoul, a Cannibal, or an Orc behind it. Likewise, every tree was the dwelling place of evil spirits. Imen felt as though the Tunnel itself would swallow him. The smallest sound was an army of demons. Every few minutes, Imen would check behind the rock he sat on to assure himself that no danger lay hidden in its shadow.

  What reason had he to fear? He had been hungry. He had been without necessities. He had suffered pain. He had been betrayed. He had seen war. He had seen defeat. He had seen death, and had even faced it a couple of times. He, more than the population of the Five Islands, would know what it meant to have troubles. But the Tunnel? Nay. Although the High Priest knew of troubles, the opening of the Tunnel meant troubles of the worst kind. Atrocities that had caused even the greatest warriors to cower and flee as children escaping some punishment for some seemingly great offense, tortures that had caused even the most devout Priests to publicly denounce the Ai and claim allegiance to the forces of evil. A living death within a living death, as the Lord Aio had described some of the wars he had fought in during the time of the opened Tunnel.

  High Priest over the Red Island was he, and a proven warrior. High Priest and warrior. On this night, however, he felt more like the small child that has strayed from his mother in a place he does not know. Although the Lord Aio and the other four pupils were just a few minutes’ walk up the mountain trail, well within earshot, he felt as though even his closest of friends had betrayed and deserted him in the thick of a battle.

  The Tunnel had again been opened, and although he knew not what would happen, impending doom lurked behind the mask of that once peaceful evening.

  “The time draws near. I feel it deep in my bones. Long has this war raged, and how shortly it shall conclude. The end is near.”

  - Father Ean

  CHAPTER NINE

  At first glance, to say that he was an elderly person would have been the grossest of understatements. So numerous and deep were the wrinkles that creased his aged face, he was almost beyond recognition as a man. The darkened, earthen color of his face, the large forehead, the small, black deep-set probing eyes, the slightly pointed ears, a long, crooked hawk-like nose that looked as if someone had pulled on it too long, and a thin, slightly darkened pair of dehydrated lines he called lips did not help. The unmistakably human salt-white beard that hung from his protruding chin was the only thing that identified his human ancestry at this point in his life.

  Beginning at the top of his head, coming down to the side in both directions forming an arc, his head was adorned with thin, dirty white hair of moderate length resting upon his shoulders. For the most part, this was unkempt and in it, one could find the remains of dead insects, traces of spider’s webs, leaves, twigs, and almost any other type of small objects that can rest in one’s hair. On very special occasions, he would wash it, comb through it with his eleven gnarled fingers (their appearance more like claws), and thread an intricate pattern of vines, leaves, and wildflowers into it. He had not had such as occasion of celebration in over ninety years. The greasy quality of his hair, as well as the dirt and filth that had claimed his head as a permanent habitat were quite conspicuous.

  His tall, bony frame was clothed (if at all) in the leaves of the oak tree, woven together in a complex pattern
by a myriad of pine needles. He would have two sheets of this covering, one in front, the other in back, connected on the sides and top by long, thick blades of grass or even the vines from his extensive vineyard.

  Regardless of what ages he had seen come and go, he had towered above even the tallest of men from each race. Although not carrying a single drop of giant’s blood in his veins, he appeared as one with a tall wisp of a body, strong arms of immense length that one would think they could stretch to the ends of the world, claw-like fingers, and the thin, stick-like legs and feet that could have been mistaken for roots taking into account the leaves and twigs in his hair and the leaves that covered his body.

  On this particular morning, he sat at the edge of the lush, green forest on the Island of Cerel, his eyes peering down into the bustling commerce and life that was characteristic of any bay in the dominion of the Five Islands. Well hidden from view, a sighting of him by one of the people in the town below would have upset the whole of the Five Islands. It had been centuries since any man had ever seen him, much less spoken to him. Even to the Council of High Priests, he was merely a legend, a story told among the more youthful circles sitting around the campfires. There had not been need for an appearance for a very long time, and he felt no desire to appear.

  He had begun to feel the pangs of old age settle in about one hundred years before. From shortly after the founding of Oakvalor as a nation, he had forsaken the path of the rest of men and chose to serve the Ai, to look after and tend Oakvalor. On choosing this, his body and functions had changed dramatically. He had become one with the earth, his body aging ever so slowly. However, as all men did at some point in their lives, he would have to die. He did not expect to admire the bay from his camouflaged position again.

  Looking down upon the bay at the brightly colored ships, the acreage of canvas used for sails, the fathoms of rope and netting, the crates, the sailors and vendors, the merchants, and the many people there to see what goods were to be had after market day, he could not help thinking about how much things had changed, yet how little the Aihi themselves had changed. The race had been much the same when he had been a part of it, caring only for its immediate pleasures, at most, thinking of how to build a strong financial foundation for the next generation. The Aihi had not changed.

  He had changed, however. He had at one time been as those he viewed from afar, seeking pleasures that he knew would satisfy him only a short while. Perhaps it was the long centuries of his work that had caused the change, or the knowledge he had accumulated during that time. Perhaps it was from having seen the history of Oakvalor. Maybe his longevity. It could have been all four reasons, or even others unsurmised. “The answer will be known but to the Ai,” he thought. “Perhaps I shall be informed after my death.”

  Having seen millions of people, empires, races, and even ages come to life, bloom, and then whither one would expect him to be an authority on death. This was the farthest thing from the truth. Although he had seen death in all different manners (even having caused it on occasion), his extensive knowledge ceased its long reach when it came to this concept. He had spent his entire life helping things to live and grow, giving life to the plants and animals of Oakvalor and the Five Islands. What lay beyond the moment of the body’s death, not even he could foresee.

  For the first few centuries of his work, he had feared death more than pain, hunger, or fire. Having seen the ages rise and fall, having witnessed most of Oakvalor’s historythe extremes of evil and goodhe no longer feared death. And despite his lack of knowledge on the subject he would have welcomed it at any time.

  He sighed. To be even as blissful in the ignorance of these people once again! He had seen too much, had lived too long. He longed to purge himself of his body, to finally join with the Ai.

  A hand came to rest upon his shoulder. “A fine bit of handiwork, brother.”

  Without turning, the old man nodded. “The work of my master, the Ai.”

  “It would have been destroyed by these creatures we let populate it without your help.”

  “Perhaps,” he pondered. “Perhaps. It will not be long now, however, before I must select for myself one who will carry on my work. I have not much longer as the gardener of Oakvalor. I wish to live no longer. I beckon death. It draws nearer, as we speak.”

  “Nearer, brother. It has been many a century since I said those exact words. How correct was the wise man that said, ‘The parting of oneself from one’s body brings momentary pain, but ever after, blissful rest.’”

  The old man closed his eyes and nodded. “Blissful rest. When I undertook the task of tending Oakvalor, I was young and restless. Perhaps a touch of foolhardy.”

  “Foolhardy!” interrupted the other speaker. “It becomes you less to speak of it as such. Curious, maybe, as is the nature of all men, but foolhardy? Nay.”

  “Curiosity then!” continued the old man. “And overflowing of it was my cup. I had seen nothing of the world’s horizons surrounding the Five Islands. I was young, even to the standard of the time. Did I care for the life of the farmer, the herdsman, or the miner? Nay, I was the explorer. Before I had reached the age of thirty-three, I knew everything there was to know about the Five Islands. The mountains, the valleys, the mines. It was I who first discovered the Tunnel.”

  “No small feat,” commented the speaker.

  “At the time, no,” said the old man. “But of what purpose did it serve my lust for wandering? Did it satisfy? Nay. It only increased my appetite for more.”

  “That I remember,” said the speaker. “Our father would not allow us to take one of the boats any farther than a mile past the outer coasts.”

  “They would not have lasted half that distance,” said the old man, laughing. “That much knowledge I have gained from my work.”

  “That you have. You have tended not only father’s nets, our uncle’s fields, but you have gardened a nation. You have seen everything that was worth seeing, as well as everything that was not worth seeing. If a new field was ploughed, you knew of it before the man’s neighbor heard a sound of the plough animal. If a new pocket of rubies was struck, you knew of its worth in countless ways before the miner recognized the stone. If furnaces beneath Oakvalor have displayed their glories through the tops of the mountains, you welcomed the spectacle while most creatures in fear would run for cover. Many great empires have risen, their numbers far beyond even my reckoning, only to become no more than the soil in which a child’s garden in planted. You have even seen the Great Lord Aio face to face, a thing that even I cannot boast. It was destiny that called you from our mother’s womb.”

  “Yes, it would seem that I would be the most fitted to the task. However, it is because I have seen the good, the evil, the land, the mines, the mountains, the empires, and a great deal of the history of Oakvalor that I wish to die. There are no more mountains to climb, forests to probe, valleys in which to run. My lust has been sated and has become distasteful to me. I am tired, brother. I wish no more to explore the new. I can but revel in the memory of the old.”

  “Perhaps it is not that you are tired of the new, but that you tire of that which you know. An eternity would scarce suffice the time necessary to explore completely even one room in the House of the Ai. Think on it. You have lived long in Oakvalor, long so that even the marvels of this place are common and wearisome. Your desire to explore and discover has not yet been sated, but has merely soured in the absence of novelty. The House of the Ai? You need not worry about running out of worlds to explore. It is more than even your mind can comprehend. Even I, the long-dead mortal fisherman who wished for nothing more than his boat and nets, have developed a taste for exploring.”

  “You make me feel as the youth I once was, many ages past. The energy, vigor, strength, and unfettered curiosity that our father would whip me for! To have that again! To explore and to discover again! You tempt me, brother, to follow you back this very moment!”

  “And as much as you deserve,” sa
id his brother, “I would relish in the company of my now much older brother again. You have served well. You have, however, but one more task before your time.”

  The old man turned and smiled. “A word from the Ai. Such as I have not heard since the beginning of my changed life, and from you, who have not walked Oakvalor for many a thousand years. I live only to serve. Speak on, brother.”

  “This task will require all of your abilities, and perhaps cause you to discover a few others. You have heard of the advance of Orlek.”

  The old man spit on the ground in response. “He was a good pupil. He could have served alongside me, maybe even succeeded me. A much earlier death for myself. His is the dominion where even I will not dare to tend. The reek of such evil I cannot bear.”

  “That he could have succeeded you,” said the messenger. “I have only this for you: You are to do whatever you can to assist the new Lord Aio and his followers. However, you are not to make an appearance unless it is completely necessary.”

  The old man sighed. “I do not have any love for man. Only the Ai. Neither do I love death or peddling it. The only appearance I wish to make is before the Ai himself in His own House. However, I will do what my master has asked. Now, for the sign of your master.”

  “You were never able to give up the traditions considered old even in our time,” said the messenger, laughing from the memory that had been unearthed after millennia of burial.

  “I trust you,” said the old man. “You are my brother, you are my blood. However, the law is the law, and the law is still in effect. I will not be caught neglecting it. If it was practiced for the message of a mere tribal leader in our day, should we not use the same if not greater precaution for the Ai?”