The Legend of the Seven Sages: The Kin of Caladen

by B. A. Scott

  “What the hell was that all about?” Dareic asked in bewilderment.

  “It’s taking her mind,” said Doniel. “And it will only get worse. It will drive her mad.”

  “Then I’ll waste no more time, Father,” Gabrel said. “I’m leaving right now.”

  “And I’m going with him,” said Kaven.

  “Me too,” said Dareic.

  “No Dareic, not you,” Doniel spoke. “Do you have any idea what it cost to get you your apprenticeship?”

  “But they’re my brothers,” Dareic argued.

  “And I’m your father. Gabrel and Kaven, I can possibly bring myself to understand their reasons. But I’ll not let you throw everything away just so you can tag along.” Dareic opened his mouth to respond, but Doniel cut him short. “And I’ll not hear any more of it out of you,” he said.

  “Hold on, Ady,” Gabrel softly told his wife. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Adelyne. “You’re risking your life.”

  “I’m going,” Gabrel spoke resolutely.

  “Then whatever happens, know that I love you, Gabrel Caladen,” Adelyne said.

  “And I you,” said Gabrel. He kissed Adelyne, then turned to see his father unfastening a pouch from his belt.

  “What are you doing?” Gabrel asked.

  “It’s all I have,” Doniel said, handing Gabrel the pouch. “It isn’t much, but it should help with the cost of the medicine. Now, from the city, take the east road to the trading town of Trendell, then head south to Allestron. It’s the fastest way.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Gabrel said.

  “You are Caladens,” Doniel told his eldest sons, placing his hands on their shoulders. “The last descendants of this city’s very founder. And long has our line served the house of Mercer—soldiers, ambassadors, advisors. It is in your favor that the world knows our name. May it bring you good fortune, and keep you safe.”

  “Goodbye, Dareic,” Gabrel said, embracing his youngest brother.

  “I’ll see you soon,” Dareic responded, unsettling Gabrel with an impish smile, and a subtle wink.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 3: The Last of the Tyken

  Gabrel and Kaven rode their horses toward the city gates. They stopped before a guard, whose face was struck with bewilderment.

  “We need to leave,” Gabrel told him, amidst the rumbling storm.

  “If I were you, I’d think twice about that,” said the guard. “There’ve been reports of Daro’s ilk out there. Unless you’re a part of the escort that just left? Did the ambassadors leave without you?”

  “No, but we’re aware of the risks,” Gabrel told him. “Please, sir. The gates.”

  The guard shrugged and spoke, “Suit yourselves,” then ordered the gates opened.

  At the sound of a distant horse’s neighing, Gabrel and Kaven turned, and peered back down the road, where they saw a single cloaked rider trotting straight for them.

  “Oh no,” Kaven said, coming to a realization. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Just in time!” Dareic said, upon sighting his brothers. He rode up beside them, just as the gates fully opened.

  “What’s this about?” Gabrel asked. “Did Father change his mind?”

  “Not exactly,” said Dareic. “He thinks I’m back at Master Tennison’s shop.”

  “Then you better be!” Gabrel scolded him.

  “Not a chance, Gabe. I’m coming with you,” Dareic said. Gabrel looked at his youngest brother’s horse, where he saw Dareic’s bow and quiver, along with hastily packed loads of other travel provisions.

  “You’re barking, Dareic! What about your apprenticeship?”

  “What, you think I’d rather stay here making candles all day long than go with you and Kaven? Would you like me to describe for you in detail just how boring my life is here?”

  “Father shelled out a fortune to get you that,” said Gabrel. “And at least you’d be safe.”

  “I’d rather take my chances out there,’” Dareic told him. “You’re stuck with me.”

  “This isn’t a game, Dareic,” said Kaven. “Adelyne’s counting on us.”

  “Even more reason you need me. I’m a better shot than either of you.” Dareic patted his bow.

  Gabrel and Kaven looked to one another as though they were parents deciding the permission of a child. The moment was brief, but in the end, both consented to allow Dareic’s company.

  “Father’s gonna kill us,” said Gabrel, already regretting his decision.

  Lightning flashed as they sped through the gates, leaving Caleton behind. Gabrel led his brothers at a brisk pace across the plains. Through the pouring rain, he saw a group of soldiers on the road ahead. When he passed them, several of them took note of him, but remained in formation.

  “I think that was the ambassadors’ escort!” Gabrel yelled to his brothers, once they’d ridden further.

  “Shouldn’t we go back and travel with them?” Dareic asked. “For the extra protection?”

  “No!” Gabrel answered. “They’ll only slow us down!”

  * * * * *

  As night reached its darkest hour, the lush grounds surrounding the Adorcenn Tower teemed with demons. The flow of new arrivals from the Wastelands caused a continual swelling of Daro’s army, though the legions already amassed did not even amount to one-third of his full force.

  High in the tower’s council chamber, Lord Daro looked out across the moonlit plains. Camps littered the landscape, and beyond them, his demons began constructing the foundations of a vast defensive wall.

  Behind him, Finwynn floated above the ground in holdings of magic.

  “Wh-what have you done to me?” asked the Human Sage, coming to, after days of unconsciousness.

  “You are bound, Finwynn Fayle,” Daro told him.

  Finwynn struggled against his magical restraints. He could not move a finger, nor any limb for that matter. Thankfully, he was able to stiffly move his head about, though he wondered why Daro had allowed him such mobility. So that we may speak, he reasoned. As Finwynn tested the extent of his bonds, he felt something clasped around his neck.

  “What is this shackle at my throat? A device of imprisonment?”

  “A Satian Collar,” Daro told him, eyeing the wide, silver strap. “For your benefit.”

  “A Satian…” Finwynn had never heard of such a thing. “What does it—”

  “A powerfully enchanted band of my own design,” Daro said. “It will dissolve your hunger and eradicate your thirst.”

  “That is most unnatural,” Finwynn said.

  “Forever preserving your appetite saves me the trouble of feeding you. And tending to your waste.”

  “Then it is for your benefit, not mine.”

  Daro regarded the Sage, annoyed, yet found himself respecting the man’s wit.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Where is Duvian?” Finwynn asked. “Where are the Goddesses?”

  “Your Goddesses fled,” Daro replied. “And the Borean Sage, regrettably, has departed this world. I would have preferred it otherwise.”

  Finwynn’s heart sank. “At least he’s spared the prison I now endure. In this sacred tower—have you taken it as your stronghold? To wage whatever war you’ve no doubt convinced yourself is necessary and righteous? You taint this monument of divinity with every breath you take.”

  “Its location was ideal—and fitting,” Daro said, looking out a window to the land below. “This tower—the Adorcenn—was built to honor your goddesses. To worship them. To witness their will and implore their guidance. A long time ago,” he paused, “I was deplored for trying to make this world a better place. It was they—Arey’n, Teréyu and Ceraya—your precious goddesses—who spurred my condemnation. Because of them, all the nations of Adoran decided me evil. Because of them, I was cast out. Because of them, everything was taken from me.” He turned to face Finwynn. “Now, I will take everything from
them. Long ago, they came into this world, purged the unworthy and forged it anew. Fitting, as I will do the same.”

  “You could have remained in the Wastelands, Daro. A master of your own realm. Without consequence. Without intrusion.”

  “Ah yes,” Daro said cynically. “Relegated to the festering bowels of Adoran, while you and your like enjoy the bounty of its bosom. You think I prefer the desolation—that I would forsake this landscape of resource, squandered on the meek and ripe for the taking?”

  “How many of your demons have you brought?” Finwynn asked.

  “They are not demons,” Daro spoke. “They are outcasts—not unlike myself. And I have brought many. But more will come,” he assured the Sage.

  “More?” Finwynn asked. “You invaded Adoran without the full weight of your army? That seems too cautious for your nature. For what reason did a portion remain behind?”

  “There are many things you do not know, Finwynn Fayle,” said Daro.

  Finwynn thought for a moment. A revelation came to him, and he prodded Daro further. “Are you protecting something—in the Wastelands?” asked the Sage.

  “Quiet your ramblings,” Daro ordered, “or I will silence them.”

  “Just as you silenced the Borean Sage?” asked Finwynn.

  “His death was unfortunate,” said the Dark Lord.

  “I don’t understand,” said Finwynn. “You would have seen him live? And myself—you keep me alive and imprison me here, where I am privy to all your dealings and commands. Foolish, it seems, should you wish to keep anything secret from my ears.”

  “I do not trust what I cannot see,” said Daro. “Especially a Sage. I will not have one more of your kind roaming the land while I can hold you here. Though the power of the Sages is no challenge to the vastness of my own, I will not cast them aside as a mere thorn, for such ignorance would leave me blind to their deeds. So, I will let you live a while longer to rid the land of one less nuisance to my design.”

  “You keep me alive to prevent the Transference?” asked Finwynn. “You’re a madman, you know? You are an aberration of your own grotesque indulgences.”

  Daro eyed Finwynn. “You could not even begin to fathom what I am,” he said. “I’ve defied the laws of life and death. I’ve explored magic far beyond its known boundaries. I’ve thrived in exile and fostered a nation of my own.”

  “You think yourself a god—”

  “I think no such thing,” Daro snapped. “Gods and goddesses are nothing more than selfish children, bent on preserving their station by means of oppression and control. I am no god. I am but a man who’s dared to transcend the tyranny of his makers.”

  Just then, the chamber doors opened, revealing a tall, dark figure.

  “Hadaan,” Daro spoke. The man entered, bearing a large, bulky bag of brown leather, whose contents shifted within. He proceeded toward Daro, and knelt.

  “Father,” Hadaan addressed the Dark Lord. He had the look of a man whose every thought was filled with deep contemplation. His features were muscular—far less skeletal than most of Daro’s other demons—yet his flesh was equally as dark. He wore black armor that gleamed in the moonlight, and a lustrous silver amulet around his neck that bore in its center a red crystal jewel, very similar in appearance to the one embedded in the forehead of Daro’s dark mask. His hair was long and black, slicked backwards, revealing a finely featured face. “The Tyken village has been obliterated,” he said. “All but the Tyken Sage have been slain—as you wished.”

  “You are certain?” Daro asked, his brow lowering.

  “None escaped our blades,” Hadaan confirmed. “He is the last.”

  “And our losses?”

  “Minimal. The Skaelar proved too few to resist our forces. Warruntyne is ours.”

  “Excellent,” Daro spoke. “You have proved yourself yet again, Hadaan. And where is the Tyken Sage now?”

  Hadaan opened the bulky bundle, revealing the frightened Sage inside. He stood short—not even waist high, and his figure was thin and frail.

  “Ilto,” Finwynn gasped, then looked to Daro. “What do you want with him?”

  “He is the last of his kind, Finwynn,” Daro told the Sage. “And a truly decrepit kind it is. Shallow and dim. Useless, weak and without contribution. Your goddesses’ greatest blunder of creation. Soon—very soon, there will be no more.”

  “You’re going to kill him? But he is defenseless! He poses you no threat!”

  “Precisely,” Daro said. “You, Finwynn, I will keep to prevent the Transference of your power to another Human Sage. You will be healed and healed again until you beg for death. But him— none other of his kind live to receive the power upon his demise. As such, I will not delay his departure from this world. And I would have his power for my own this night."

  Finwynn shook his head. “You cannot steal a Sage’s power,” he said, as if Daro was speaking madness. “It is not a thing to be taken. It’s not possible.”

  “Yet you will see it done,” said the Dark Lord. “I will carve him hollow of all he holds inside. Had he drank from a fountain I have not, its gift would be my own. Did he possess any morsel of magic, buried in the deepest quarry of his soul, I would have it. But most importantly, what life that resides in his still beating heart will fuel my longevity. I would have his death prolong my life. And I will have it now.”

  Finwynn’s face drained of color. “Dark and damned is this magic,” he said gravely, then thought for a moment. “But are you so blind? For centuries, you have been denied the right of drinking from the Fountain of Evindar, yet the gift of Fury hangs before you this very moment! You know it runs through my veins! And I know you crave it! You say you can steal a fountain’s gift from within a Sage? So take it, Alakai! Take it now! Use your magic upon me, and take the power of Fury for your own!”

  “Clever, Sage,” said Daro. “Do you think I could have waited centuries without patience? How long have I spent in exile? How long have I nurtured my children for this very hour? You could not possibly comprehend the torment of such patience.

  Could I take your power and claim the gift of Fury? I know you hold its waters within you. What Human Sage would not? Yes, I could. But with it, I would take your life as well—something I am most reluctant to allow at this time. Yet even a greater desire tames my hand,” Daro paused. “I will not cheat the acquisition of this particular power. For when I attack Caleton, I will show the world that no spell can bind me. That no man can stop me. That not even death itself can find me! I have waited centuries to drink from the Fountain of Evindar. The time until I do so is now measured in days.”

  Daro levitated the Tyken Sage to his feet with a mere gesture of his hand.

  “Wait!” Finwynn protested. “How do you know Fury doesn’t run through his veins? If he’s sipped from Evindar—”

  “I know, just as I know every fountain you’ve ever tasted,” Daro said. “My eyes and ears in this world are vast, and knowledge of which fountains the Sages of the land have drunk from is as common as the names they bear. Now stifle, and witness what you claim impossible.”

  Without saying another word, Daro removed his mask and one of his gauntlets, and handed them to Hadaan. Finwynn strained his eyes to look upon Daro’s face, but the chamber proved too dim for him to discern the Dark Lord’s visage.

  Daro closed his eyes. With every passing moment, his hand glowed more intensely with flames of violet, green and blue, and all the while, the look of hatred grew upon his brow. When at last Daro opened his eyes, all was still in the chamber.

  “A final Transference... into oblivion,” said the Dark Lord. He spread his fingers wide, causing the flames around his hand to erupt with an even greater ferocity. And with a forceful thrust, he plunged his arm into Ilto’s abdomen. The Tyken Sage’s eyes bulged as he screamed in horror. Daro lifted Ilto off the ground, squeezing his tiny heart. The torches in the room burst into enormous flames as waves of power flowed from the Tyken, through Daro’s arm, into Daro him
self.

  Finwynn watched in terror, feeling Ilto’s pain echo against every stone in the chamber. Wave after wave passed from the Sage to Daro, each greater than the one before, until a last blinding wave of power came, and in a final explosion of magic, the chamber’s torches extinguished. Then, the only light in the darkness came from Daro’s glowing eyes.

  “What have you done?” Finwynn asked. When the torches flickered back to life, the Human Sage was horrified by what he saw.

  The Tyken’s body fell limp to the ground as Daro’s arm lowered, sliding out of the frail figure. Ilto’s mouth hung open far wider than was natural, and his eyes, still open, were sunken in their sockets. With a final gasp for air, his tiny chest heaved, then crumbled in on itself.

  Suddenly, a bright beam of white light shot up from Ilto’s body, and raced into the sky. The power of the Tyken Sage retreated into the heavens and vanished.

  Daro scoured the horizon in every direction, searching desperately for something yet unseen. After a few moments, when the dark proved quiet and unchanged, Daro raised his gaze to the Human Sage, who bore an expression of anger, mingled with loss.

  “The last of the Tyken is dead,” said the Dark Lord. He held out his right hand, and Hadaan brought him his gauntlet and mask, which he donned at once.

  “What now, Father?” Hadaan asked.

  “Send word to the Wastelands,” said Daro, cocking his neck as his newly heightened power surged through him, “It is time for them to join us.”

  “For who to join you?” Finwynn asked.

  Daro turned to look out upon the moonlit plains once more, and spoke, “My kin.”

  “Your kin?” Finwynn repeated, then shook his head. “Daro Alakai, your demons are not truly your children. You might think them—”

  “It is not of Primen, Blessed or Fated that I speak,” Daro spoke firmly, “but bloodchildren born of seed.” He proudly looked to Hadaan, who bowed his head.

  “Bloodchildren?” Finwynn gasped, looking to Hadaan, making the connection. “This is your son? You took a woman?”