Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle

by J. R. Lawrence

  Duoreod followed his finger to the two pinnacles that rising out of the mounds of snow, resembling the ancient fortress that trolls had built a century ago, during the high point of the reign of his father, Drelus.

  “Let’s hope the bridge is still intact,” he said under a sigh, and then looked back at the soldiers. “I’ll feel much more comfortable with these men inside those walls, even the old corridors and barracks. Perhaps there is fuel there to stoke a fire, some wood perhaps...”

  “I’ll get them back on their feet, lord,” Milstrom said, and stuck his fingers into his mouth and blew a loud whistle. “Back on your feet! The king wants you in the warmth of the castle walls!”

  They groaned as they had to pull themselves back onto their frozen legs and walk again, some dragging horses behind them. Duoreod, sitting astride Whiteshadow off to the side, watched and made certain each and every one of them passed. He heard some mumble about how they’d freeze just as well inside the frozen fortress as they would outside, and he frowned to consider the possibility.

  Milstrom led the way, and Duoreod followed at the rear after he counted the last of them as he passed. The great Swaldar River, once gushing out of the mountain passes like a storm of thunder, was nothing more than a frozen, glassy surface. The bridge was well enough intact for them to cross, and once they were within the icy walls of Grindle Milstrom gathered them all together into one large cluster, and began counting them off into groups of fifty to scour the place in search of anything that could be used to supply them with warmth and food or drink.

  In its prime, Grindle had been a formidable base for Diamoad during his and Duoreod’s long battle with one another in the time of the Brother War, and for the trolls prior. It was built into the mountains themselves, cut from their stone to be unbreakable by any craft that the Adya could create to destroy them. Only by his cunning had Diamoad defeated the trolls, driving them into the mountains for the years to come.

  Duoreod’s thoughts were already becoming dark just standing in the courtyard of the ancient fort, and he looked above the towers and the wisps of snow flitting down from the white sky where the tops of the Bolgin Mountains should have been, and remembered his battle with his brother. Dark were the days, and darker still had his days become even afterward. He hoped that with this city secured and under his control, his fears would leave him in peace.

  He couldn’t stay here forever. He knew he had to leave someone behind, though. Someone he could trust to not betray the fortress to whatever shadows might come to tempt him.

  He looked to where Milstrom was standing, commanding the separate platoons he had split the company into, directing them to sections of the city that hadn’t yet been explored. As chief of the guards of the Silver City, Duoreod had learned to entrust every responsibility concerning the defense of the Adya people to this man, and knew that he was his best choice among all of his comrades at the time.

  Walking to stand at his side, Duoreod put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention for a moment. “Milstrom, there is something I need you to do for me,” he said, and the guardsman slapped his fist against his chest in a salute to his king.

  “However I may be of service to my lord, I will do my best!” he said with his chest puffed out in the cold wind.

  “Fantastic,” Duoreod said, though his tone was remorse. “I need you to stay here with the men and guard the fortress. I cannot afford to risk losing it to the shadows as I’ve already lost so much of our own land, and you’re the only one I can trust since... Well, without Andril I’ve had to learn to entrust these kinds of duties upon others. It’s been... very difficult for me, you see.”

  Milstrom nodded slowly, remembering all too well the death of that noble Adya, the kings private smith and Duoreod’s truest friend. “I understand, my lord,” he said with a short bow. “But, say the shadows do come this far, how am I and these few men expected to hold it against their assault?”

  “I’ll ride for the Silver City before dawn tomorrow,” Duoreod replied, “and I’ll have a fresh battalion sent to you as soon as I return.”

  “You are a wise king, my lord,” Milstrom said, “and I trust you with my service, even my life.”

  “Perhaps you trust too much, old friend,” Duoreod said, feigning a smile at the guardsman. He turned around, though, and walked to an opening in one of the corridors of the vast complex.

  Behind him, he heard Milstrom take up his command as before. Duoreod preoccupied himself with what was to be discovered in this undisclosed chamber, opening old chests covered in snow to see ancient parchments folded up and frozen, half buried by the snow that had managed to get in through cracks in the old stone and iron.

  When none of this seemed relevant or appeared to interest the king, Duoreod’s further examination of the room brought him to an old door that was made from wood in the back wall. The wood was rotten enough that he easily tore it down and stepped through, a staircase leading up to one of the towers or perhaps the battlements of the fortress walls.

  He followed the stairs up some one hundred feet or so to an opening outside, the frost covered battlements, but continued onto a spiral stairwell that expectedly lead to the top of one of the outer towers. The exercise pumped the blood in his veins, warming his body against the biting chill of the freezing wind and snowflakes that flitted down through windows and cracks in the stone walls.

  At the top, he pushed the remains of a broken trapdoor over and climbed out. From the towers point, Duoreod could see Grindle in all of its ice age glory. There was the causeway and the gate, the courtyard, barracks and storehouses beyond that. From there the ground was raised some twenty or so feet, stairways leading up to it from three points on the ground, the middle and either side of the storehouse and barrack district, and there the city broke into three sections. On the far side was a maze of stairs that led to towers and darkened doorways cut from or into the side of the mountain. In the center there was what appeared to be a palace, a once grand cathedral during its prime when the city was still occupied. And then there was his side, a wall and three towers facing the open countryside.

  As Duoreod looked out across the country, he saw a desolate ocean of snow. Somewhere out there, though, he felt the presence of the evil that haunted every day of his living life. And yet, even as he looked and felt the presence of the evil there, he also felt a glimmer of hope.

  “The light of the Emerald Tree shines still,” he said under his breath, puffs of steam escaping his mouth. “May it shine forever more!”

  *****

  That night the company of the King stayed in the groups Milstrom had separated them into, gathering in the many chambers and corridors that was the complex of Grindle, and built small bonfires from what they were able to salvage from the remainder of the fortress’ supplies. Each group gathered round one to keep warm during the biting cold of the nighttime air, alongside the winters horrible frost.

  Duoreod himself was shivering, curled up in one corner with his own fire crackling at his feet. His eyes were closed, sleep closing in about him with its thin blanket, but his imagination was well awake; conjuring up images and memories, even strange visions. He dreamed he was back on the peaks of the Bolgin Mountains, his army all around him as they prepared to go to war with Diamoad. They screamed their war cries, banging swords against shields, shaking spears over their heads. Lifting a horn to his lips, Duoreod blew into it and they all charged as one.

  Except for Duoreod. He remained standing on top of an enormous boulder, although blood already stained his tunic and their were chinks missing from his chainmail. He watched as his troops disappeared into a fog that lay between them and the camp of Diamoad, their cries swiftly fading with them. And then a burst of orange light erupted from the midst of the fog, the silhouette of an enormous beast with outstretched wings revealed in the clouds above them.

  But Duoreod only lifted an arm to shield his eyes from the burst of light, and turning his head to the side he glimpsed the g
reen steppes of the land laid out below him, off the point of the mountaintop. There was the forest of Heinsfar, the prairies of the Hilled Valley, and the glistening silver pinnacles rising from the Silver City itself. All was beautiful, as it had been during its prime, before the coming of the Urden’Dagg and the war of shadow and light.

  The earth began to tremble beneath him, first a gentle shudder that slowly escalated to a loud boom that shook the whole world. He watched as the land, the hills and the forested valleys were ripped in twain, huge chasms opening up into a world below that glowed with a deep red light. Darkness rolled across the land as a blanket of pure black was pulled over the heavens, blocking the sunbeams that lit the land below, and shadows of strange creatures began swooping through the sky behind it.

  As the earth rippled and broke, chunks of it were lifted into the air, some even vanishing into the black sky. The specks that he had at first imagined to be stars began to move, darting this way and that. At first they were beautiful and alluring to him, and then one darted one way and then the next, and then shot straight downward and crashed into the earth some ten thousand miles from where he stood on the mountaintop.

  The earth shattered where it struck, throwing chunks of rock into the air that came down and did likewise, until the whole world was slowly breaking apart like a spiders web slowly expanding. Several of the pinnacles of the Silver City cracked and fell to the earth, and even from on high Duoreod could hear the screams of the people down below.

  Pure terror.

  He watched then as the land about the Silver City broke apart, leaving an island that was the city itself untouched. And then that island rose into the sky like the other fragments of the world before, going up and up and up until it became one of the motionless stars.

  Curious, Duoreod kept watching it until it seemed to come to a standstill in the black heavens. A voice came from the sky itself, a terrible sound that shook the world tenfold.

  “You have sought to uncover my secrets, and now I am known! You have found your doom, your oblivion!”

  As soon as the voice ceased, the star that was the Silver City shot downwards toward the shattered world and exploded with such force that the Bolgin Mountains trembled and began to break apart beneath him. Duoreod stood fast, although horror gripped his heart as he watched his own city destroyed in a heartbeat.

  Even as he stared at the place where his city once lay, a dark shadow loomed above him from behind. Slowly turning, Duoreod saw a massive hand raised against the black sky, fingers the length of the mountains themselves stretched forth ready to take the world in a single handful.

  “You, Duoreod son of Drelus, belong to oblivion!” the voice said, and the hand dropped over him.

  Darkness took him, and then he jolted where he slept and was wide awake to the happenings around him. Duoreod threw off his cloak and dashed outside of the corridor he had chosen to rest, looking into the sky. The night was cold, but the clouds had passed and he could see the stars shimmering where they belonged. He took note of the mountains, the walls of the city, and the chill breeze that whipped his hair back from his face.

  All was at it should’ve been. No doom had yet besieged the world.

  “My lord, are you alright?” asked a curious soldier as he passed on his usual rounds.

  Duoreod looked at the soldier with pity. “All is well,” he said, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Now, be on your way.”

  The guard left without further remark, and Duoreod watched him until he was well away. He turned round and gathered his things from where he had been sleeping, stuffing his extra cloaks and blankets into his bag, and what he had brought for food and drink.

  He did so hastily that Milstrom was awakened where he had been sleeping in the far corner, and propping himself up onto his elbow he looked at the king in confusion. “Leaving so soon, my lord?” he asked.

  “I have seen things that even you, Milstrom, in all of your experiences could not imagine,” Duoreod replied. “Enough time has been wasted on my part these last ten years, almost a decade! I cannot waste any more.”

  He gathered the last of his things into his bag and slung it over his shoulder, heading for the door and the way out of Grindle.

  “So you go to the Silver City, then?” Milstrom asked before he could leave.

  Duoreod stopped at the door, breathing but saying nothing for a moment. Milstrom could see his silhouette in the open doorway, the clouds of steam leaving his mouth. “I go wherever I must to find the answers,” Duoreod replied slowly. He looked at Milstrom and added, “Do not think that I am forsaking you here. I will send troops and supplies as soon as I arrive at the city gates, I promise.”

  Milstrom nodded. “I’ve never doubted you, lord,” he said. “Farewell!”

  Duoreod left, then, moving quickly but quietly so as not to disturb any slumbering soldier. Some were still awake, though, even ones not on patrol duty. They sat around fires telling stories and sharing experiences on the battlefield. This warmed Duoreod’s heart just enough to see him away into the night, and he selected four of them to accompany him on the way home.

  13

  Secret Meeting

  Dril’ead sat with his head held between his hands, massaging his temples. It had been hours since he had awoken in the middle of the night, unable to sleep; his attempts to put the nightmares from his mind that had haunted him for decades were in vain as always. It appeared Neth’tek was having similar trouble finding his sleep, as he continued to toss and turn in the bed.

  He couldn’t get the face of Gefiny out of his mind. He missed his sister, the sound of her calm assuring voice. He longed to be back in their old home in the dark corridors of the Shadow Realms, conversing with her as he used to, teaching her and allowing her to teach him. They had learned so much from one another, their victories and failures alike.

  Now, she was gone. He knew that there was no power in this world that could bring her back to him. No power, save the sharp edge of an enemies sword.

  His fists tightened at the sides of his head, the pain of her loss returning to him as if it had happened this night. A tear rolled from his eye and landed on the wooden planks of the floor. He bit his lip, stifling a low sob. He did not wish to awaken Neth’tek to see him this way.

  Sitting up, he looked toward the window. Moonlight poured through and onto the floorboards, spilling silver light. He closed his eyes, composing himself, and stood to walk toward the windowsill. However, he stopped and stared away off into the night.

  There was a single light dancing away beyond the rooftops of the town square.

  Strange, he thought, I’d think that most of these people would be asleep this time of night...

  And then he froze yet again, his eyes narrowing as he tried to focus. The light was moving through the trees. He could see it go in and out from behind the tall leafy growths, giving it a flickering appearance.

  A feeling stronger than curiosity overcame him, then, and he felt as though he had to investigate this sight. Another light emerged from the opposite direction of the other, and the two moved toward one another until they met. The night stilled, and Dril felt that he could hear the his own heart beating.

  Turning to the door, Dril snatched his sword belt from where it was slung over the chair and hooked it round his waist. He took his cloak as well, worn by use and old age as it was, but still blending him into the darkness of the night, and grabbed the knob of the door.

  He hesitated, though, and looked back at Neth’tek sleeping in the bed. No, he told himself, the boy needs his rest, and as much of it as he can get.

  Quietly, the door opened and he slipped out, shutting it behind him. He’d be back before dawn, as soon as he figured out what was going on and his curiosity satisfied.

  That could take a century, he silently admitted to himself.

  *****

  Rollon put out his hand to the young man as he came close to him, his pathway in the forest lit by the lamp that he carried in one
hand. In the other was a knife, and his eyes were wide as he looked out for any danger that might beset him at this hour of the night. But Rollon only laughed, motioning him to put the dagger away.

  “You haven’t anything to fear, young Jerem,” said Rollon with a sly grin, and the nervous man cautiously slipped the dagger under his belt. He hung his own lamp from the branch over his head, and grasped forearms with Jerem. “So, tell me of your meeting with the baron.”

  Jerem hesitated. “I’m not meant to say,” he said. “The baron made Ronald and I swear not to tell anyone else of the matter, not even our own families.”

  Reaching into a pocket of his trousers, Rollon presented a small pouch. He tossed it in one hand, allowing the coins inside to make noise. “Perhaps I may dissuade you of your word to the baron?” he asked with a sly grin.

  Jerem hesitated again, but for a different reason. He eyed the pouch longingly. “What do you need to know about it anyway?” he asked.

  “I’m only concerned with the safety of our people, Jerem. You must understand that. Ever since these Fallen have come to this valley, we have had nothing but hard times. Death has become a very disease among us, and worse...” he narrowed his eyes, looking carefully at the younger man.

  “We’ve always had trouble,” Jerem said.

  “Not the kind of trouble that we are now facing!” Rollon reiterated. “You know it, I can see it in your eye. You’ve seen something terrible, something that would put fear into the hearts of these people, something that might even backup the claims of The Fallen being the vicious wolves that they really are. So tell me, what have you seen?”

  Jerem closed his eyes, as if it meant he really hadn’t spoken the words to anyone. “We believe something hunts The Fallen,” he said. “I cannot say what exactly, no one can, but we’re certain it comes from the Lesser Realms.”