Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle

by J. R. Lawrence

  Helen sat upright in her seat. “My name is Helen,” she said, “my fathers’ name is Skifel. He was a member of the patrol before... before...”

  “Before the horgs caught him?” Neltha asked softly, her eyes sincere.

  “I don’t know,” Helen said slowly, looking down at her own hands. “I was taken from him by the horgs when I was little, and then rescued by his friends. He was too weak, you see; too old and heartbroken to save me himself. I cannot forgive myself for that.”

  Neltha bit her lip. She didn’t say anything, perhaps because she didn’t know what to say or think. She shut her eyes, but from across the table one of the woodland males looked up from a conversation and at them. “I hear the dark rangers have gained access to the settlement of Evenstar. Is it true?” he asked.

  The woodlanders singing in the corner of the room suddenly changed, their voices falling low as the tune shifted into one of dread. The song of those evil people.

  Helen glanced at the singers, frowning. “Why does their song change?” she asked Neltha.

  “It changes because of the shadow ever thickening over this world,” Neltha answered, her tone forbidding. “The dark rangers... they were once among the order of peace like these here, but their hearts were stolen from them, and their minds bent toward the fulfilling of the desires of the one who watches from afar.”

  Helen nodded.

  “But it is the intentions of the Shadow Queen that should be feared above anything else,” said the male woodlander, clasping his hands together as he leaned forward. He looked Helen in the eyes. “Her wickedness supersedes all else of this world. She is vilest of all.”

  Helen felt a chill as he spoke.

  “Or perhaps she needn’t be feared at all,” Neltha put in boldly, “Perhaps we needn’t brood on the evil, but rather take courage and strength in the good and the light that shall ever shine forth from this world. Muari is The Beloved, and He is beloved by us all. He is the true victor.”

  The woodlander sat back in his chair, folding his arms as he glanced away. Neltha looked at Helen and nodded, standing up from her seat. “Well, Helen, daughter of Skifel, I wish you good fortune on your journey. It is time that I retired for the evening.” She smiled one last time, turned and strode down the length of the long table, departing through the open doors of the great hall.

  Helen watched her go with reluctance. Neltha had been kind, probably one of the kindest persons she had ever come across. Kind, like Neth’tek and baron Guldar, and especially her father. All of whom were gone.

  She shut her eyes as she felt them begin to sting. No, she couldn’t cry in public. It wasn’t polite. It was too... embarrassing. But they were all gone, and she was alone, surrounded by a people she didn’t know or feel very much apart of. There was Eladrid, but he was so reserved, and was across the room speaking to a stranger.

  They were all strangers to her.

  30

  Enemy Territory

  The night was dark, moonless and starless, leaving the six companions clustering around the warmth of their fire and the only source of light in the valley. It wasn’t called the Shadow Valley for the lack of light that was able to slip through the trees, but because of the constant cluster of clouds that clung to the heavens, blocking the sunlight from giving life to Swaldar. It was as if long ago a curse had been put on the place, a gloom to draw those who sought the dark places of the world and settle here. The horses of the king and Vexor were unsteady, constantly digging their hooves in the earth as if eager to leave that place.

  Jakal laid his head back against a rock, looking up into the black sky as the others sat around the campfire, speaking softly and eating strips of cooked meat that they had harvested from the deer. Neth’tek told Vexor and Duoreod all that had happened since coming to Narthanger, from the time that he and Eladrid had saved Evenstar from the shadows and the horgs, until a day ago when they were driven from the walls of that town for a crime they had not committed.

  Duoreod shook his head, saddened by it. “At least your friends are now made clear,” he said to The Fallen. “No treachery will come from these here, I think.”

  “I believe so,” said Neth’tek. “After all, most things happen for a reason, I suppose.”

  They were quiet after that, each staring into the flickering fire with their own thoughts running through their minds. Jakal shifted where he lay, his eyes focused on the black heavens.

  “I miss the stars,” he said quietly, though loud enough for them to hear over the crackling wood.

  They each looked up in turn, noticing, and for some the first time, that the sky was veiled in darkness. They felt a cold shiver, realizing this was the work of the Shadow Queen, to give her servants comfortable passage through this land, and strike fear in the hearts of the good who traveled there.

  “Yes,” said Neth’tek, “we are guideless without them in the night. I suppose it is a sign that the First Born, the higher power of this world, does not have control here. Only chaos, the darkness of the enemies’ wrath, stirs the hearts of the monsters here. Once before was the sky as dark as this, and the world without light and hope, men and women chased by fire as they sought refuge from the storm and wrath of the Urden’Dagg. But even then the First Born, even Muari, watched us. Even then they had a plan, and a means with which the world would be spared.”

  “They will never forsake us,” said Duoreod, and he looked across the fire and at Neth’tek and Vexor sitting side by side. “We are their children, after all. Each one of us, whether fallen or in their presence. Man, beast and woodlander.”

  Hakal and Mope kept their eyes on the flames, Hakal nodding as he listened. It was hard to tell where Mope’s mind was.

  Vexor leaned over and stirred the ashes under the logs with a stick, sending sparks like fireflies into the night. “From ashes we were born,” he said in a low voice, “and unto ashes we will return. But for the darkness, it will be vanquished by the flame that we will create in that time. Such were the words my father spoke unto me in my home, while we dwelled in the Shadow Realms.”

  “Be you fallen or Adya, followers of the First Born,” said Duoreod, “we are brothers.”

  “I follow Muari,” said Hakal, “does that make me Adya?”

  Duoreod nodded. “Indeed,” he said, “and you two, you call yourselves The Fallen. However, I see where your paths point you, and Fallen you are no more. We here, sitting around this fire in enemy territory, clinging to the last hope against oblivion, are Adya.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Neth’tek, and he paused, allowing everyone time to slip from their thoughts and look at him. Even Jakal peeled his eyes from the dark sky and looked his way, a face glowing in the orange light of the fire. “Tomorrow we march on Grindle, the enemies stronghold, and we will take it. If our lives are lost, they are lost to the First Born, and the First Born will do with our souls as they please. If we are granted victory, than our victory is to the First Born, and the First born do with us as they please. For honor, for glory, and for justice. But not for selfish gain.”

  Hakal nodded. “I am with you,” he said, “to the end of this.”

  “As am I,” said Vexor.

  Jakal sat up and looked into the fire. “If we are to return to ashes,” he said, “I will be ashes in the courts of the First Born.”

  “Muari has led me this far,” said Duoreod, “so I shall go to oblivion and back again.”

  “If it’s unto oblivion that we shall go,” said Neth’tek, “it is unto oblivion that the Shadow Queen will be thrust. I am committed to this task. Dril’ead died for it, and so shall I if it be the will of the First Born.”

  “Mope,” said the man, although there was no hesitancy in his voice as he spoke this time, “Oblivion.”

  Epilogue

  Whatever has become of this world, once belonging to the keeper of peace and prosperity, to the Beloved of the First Born, none of us can say for certain. The heroes have all gone the way of the dead. The warriors fig
ht battles all across the regions of this world, but gain gold instead of honor. Now, not defeat but victory prove the greatest test.

  The oaths of our grandfathers have been broken. The desire for peace has been replaced for the desire of our enemies’ blood. Oh Watcher on the High Tower, behold the result of your anger! Behold the conclusion of this world; our dying souls hope you are satisfied.

  Doomstriker forges the blade of Retribution.

  Book Three

  Passage to Oblivion

  Nothing breaks my heart more than standing here, watching it all turn to ash. All I can do is reach out with quivering fingers, grasping for the nothingness that consumes the great expanse before me, pleading in a voice hardly audible above the silence, whispering for it to stay. Memories are all that is left, and they consume every thought, both conscious and unconscious. How can any living, breathing, feeling creature so simply put aside the thought of something so lovely, so beautiful as that which I have lost.

  I have failed to keep it.

  My last dying effort to keep it, the last haunting memory passing through my mind, is that of a pitiful figure falling down the edge of emptiness. Tears, powerful and cold. Screams, loud and clear. Blood, wet and warm. How many more must I burry away in the dust, how many more souls must depart from my company? A mortal being can only endure so much, but what of he who seems immortal to that which steels away his friends? Must he perish? Must he endure the long, terrible, lonely years of his life? Can he possibly give up, follow them, and be at peace?

  I have failed to fight for it.

  Doomstriker comes at last.

  31

  When Night Falls in Stonewood

  King Deindor passed into the lower dungeons of the woodland prison, following the warden as he led him down a long flight of stairs, a torch in one hand, and they passed the cells of unfortunate creatures of different varieties. Such beings as spirits and devils were destroyed completely, banished into the eternal void by the mages of the house of the woodland king, never to return to Aldabaar or any other world.

  The warden stopped before the iron door of another section of the dungeon, and taking up his ring of keys he unlocked it and led his king into a chamber made completely out of stone. Three men were chained to the left wall of the cell, the companions of Rollon. Closing the door behind them, the warden stuck his torch into a bier on the wall, and he and Deindor faced the three occupants of the prison cell, the orange glow of the torch lighting their faces.

  “The king has questions for the three of you,” the warden said, speaking in a deep tone, “and he expects answers.”

  The prisoners shifted uneasily as Deindor stepped forward, inspecting them individually. “You have no excuse for what you have done in my country. You broke the peace of the forest, disturbed the silence of the shadows, and now must pay the penalty. But to whom is the penalty given?”

  One of the men spit at the shoes of the king, but Deindor appeared undaunted by it.

  “Disrespect me all you like,” said Deindor, “in the end you will still be hanging from the tree of retribution.”

  “I do not care if I should die!” the man growled, glowering at the king standing above him. “It would be better to die than live the rest of my life in this wretched world, no matter where I shall descend after the end.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Deindor remarked.

  “But you shall see the darkness,” the man continued without stopping for breath, “You shall feel the point of its teeth, and witness its awful dominion before you beg for death. And when he grants you your end, lifting the sword of retribution, you’ll scream as he splits your skull!” The man broke off into mad laughter, sending a chill down the corridor, causing the warden to shift uneasily and take the cudgel from his belt.

  Deindor brushed the creases out of his brown and green robe, glancing at the warden as he shook his head in bewilderment. “Well,” he said calmly, turning to one of the other two men, “have you got anything to say? Or does your companion do all of the talking for you?”

  The man looked up at him with cold, searing eyes. He curled his lip into a snarl as he replied, speaking in a deadly tone. “I have come to deliver a message to your majesty, from my queen,” he said slowly.

  Deindor tilted his head curiously, the laughter of the other prisoner fading in the background of his thoughts.

  “My queen bids you prepare,” the man continued, his eyes beginning to glow yellow in the torchlight, “for the time of the coming of The Watcher in the High Tower has come, and when the Shadow Queen arrives she will be displeased with those who did not prepare for her coming. You should not desire to displease my queen.”

  Deindor stepped back, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You do not know of what you speak,” he said in a low voice.

  All of those in the dark cell witnessed the reformation of Gorroth in the dungeons of king Deindor; for the prisoner changed completely, his tattered clothes tearing away as his body grew into the form of a giant monster of a wolf, with taut muscles and humanlike limbs covered in the fur.

  The demon broke the chains that bound him, and he swept his arm up and smacked Deindor across the chamber. However, the robes of the king were infused with magical properties and did not tear under the vicious claws of the beast, though he crashed into the wall with the force with which Gorroth had thrown him. But even as Gorroth made his advance upon the startled king of Stonewood, the warden leaped forward with his cudgel raised above his head, and managed a blow upon the demon’s left bicep.

  “Run, my king!” the warden cried, bringing his arm back for another blow.

  Gorroth turned, however, and ramming his claws into the leather jerkin of the prison keeper he threw him out the open door after Deindor. The warden did not move thereafter.

  *****

  Eladrid Woodhaven spun round from where he stood on the balcony of his accommodation, having been watching the forest at nighttime, when he heard the cries of the citadel guardsmen. He heard the captains shouting for their soldiers, for formations to make ready and troops sent to reinforce the kings’ guard at the doorways and windows of the citadel itself. But above all of this, he heard the continued shout reporting the presence of a fierce demon.

  He looked upon the streets from his perch above the rooftops of the city by the silver light of the moon, and saw the glint of armor and spear tip as guardsmen ran from shadow to shadow to be at their assigned positions, a captain leading a troupe of them down the cobblestones of the street to be at the citadel at the very center of the city. It took Eladrid a moment to understand the impending danger that these happenings foretold, and to realize that Helen, the human with which Neth’tek had charged him the protection of, could be in danger of this thing.

  Dashing back into his accommodations, Eladrid slung his bow over his shoulder and belted his daggers round his waist, and then passed down the corridor outside of his door to where Helen had been put to rest.

  He beat her door with his fist, shouting, “Helen! Helen, answer me! It’s Eladrid!” He paused, listening for movement behind the door, but no sound or answer was forthcoming.

  He put his hand to the doorknob and turned it, slowly opening it to peek inside the chamber. At first all was dark and empty, quiet as it would be during this hour of the night. But as he took further examination from where he stood in the doorway, he saw the silhouette of a great figure clutching something in its arms before the silver light streaming in from the open balcony, yellow eyes glowing as they glared directly at him.

  “Helen,” he whispered, fear taking him as his eyes met those of the demon.

  Gorroth laughed at him, a cruel laughter that sent chills down Eladrid’s spine. “So it is the girl that you are after,” he said to him, and gesturing at his burden Eladrid recognized the face and hair of Helen shining in the moonlight. “It seems we are here on common purpose, woodlander.”

  Eladrid stood without moving, his eyes on Helen. “Not so common as yo
u might think,” he said quietly, though loud enough for the demon to understand. “Give up the girl and I promise, we will have no more trouble this night.”

  Gorroth grinned evilly, his yellow eyes flashing. “But trouble is what I’ve come for!” he growled.

  Turning round, Gorroth leaped over the balcony rail. But Eladrid wasted no time, and rushing forward he jumped into the air, setting his foot onto the railing and propelling himself into the night. Gorroth landed on the rooftop below him, and was up and on his way before Eladrid had even made his leap. The woodlander could see his ominous shadow moving swiftly in the silver light of the moon. He knocked an arrow to his bowstring and fired while he was still in the air, and the arrow sped with a whistle and plunged into the back of the demons calf.

  Gorroth screamed in pain, stumbling, but by the powers invested in him the arrow was removed and he was again on his way as speedily as before. Eladrid landed with a roll, and by the time he was on his feet again the demon had leaped to the next rooftop and was well away into the deepening shadows of the forest. He cursed. Hope was fleeting from him. There seemed no possible chance he’d catch the monster and save Helen, thus fulfilling his word to Neth’tek.

  He went in pursuit nonetheless, Gorroth’s shadow fading quickly into the night until he was altogether gone.

  “No!” screamed the woodlander, and he knocked another arrow and drew it to his head, leaping over a gap between two roofs. The arrow burst into a flame as it sped into the night, lighting the path before him. However, there was no sign of Helen or the beast.