A Dream of Storms, In the Shadow of the Black Sun: Book One

by William Kenney

As they topped the final dusty rise, the Wildmane herd slowed to a stop and gathered together about the mare. Her sides heaved from the exertion and her mouth frothed. She turned and gazed to Vasparian momentarily with a look as close to a smile as the equine face would allow. Vasp nodded, nearly in tears from the experience and climbed down from her back. The others did the same, straightening their clothing and weapons, their faces still holding a look of awe. The ethereal host turned as one and looked upon the group of companions, the sky behind them shimmering through their strong bodies. The mare reared up and kicked at the air, then bolted off to the west as fast as the wind. Her brethren followed closely on her hooves and like a glimmering blue serpent, they disappeared into the distance, gone from the land forever.

  “Friends ... what has just happened?” asked the Red Lion. He shook his head, his long hair tossing about his shoulders. His eyes squinted, studying the horizon, still searching for the magical creatures that had saved them. “These were truly a creation of the Wind himself ... I will never again see such a sight.”

  As one, the group turned their eyes back toward the southeast just as a gale kicked up. Dust and bits of dried grass flew across their path as they gazed up into the rust-colored cliffs where Paren-Rothe stood tall and dark against the sky. Clustered all about the base of the main building were the crumbling shapes of many smaller structures, and not far to the east part of the old city wall still stood. Its orange stones defying both gravity and weather. This had never been a large city but had been one of the most important as the home of the council. High up in the Councilchamber, a yellowish glow could be seen through the many windows that covered its upper surface.

  “Friends, I must admit that the thought of entering Paren-Rothe is rather unsettling to me. We have been told since childhood the stories of the haunted keep, of the spirits that walk the hallways. Must we ... ?” The Red Lion stopped himself short, looking at his men with uncertainty.

  “It is your choice. You and your men may wait here if you like. Davaris would not have summoned me here, were there any danger.” Hagan said.

  The Red Lion nodded slowly. Something in Hagan’s voice had convinced him. “It is as you say, Lord Hagan. I will put my fears aside and place my trust in Davaris and yourself. My men and I will accompany you.”

  “You are welcome.” Hagan said.

  Shindire finished her most recent entry, her quill scratching out the last few letters of Elven script and she latched the leather strap that held the enormous volume closed. D’Pharin had snatched a quick look over her shoulder and seen that in addition to the written entries, she had sketched several beautiful drawings among her paragraphs. She was quite the artist, it seemed. He chose not to mention it, fearing he would anger her at his obtrusion. Instead, he kept his questions more general.

  “May I ask you something, Graelund?” he said, clearing his throat nervously.

  “If you must.” she answered, not turning his way.

  “I noticed that you only wrote in your journal for a moment. How much information could you have jotted down in that little time?” asked D’Pharin, almost cringing in anticipation of her answer.

  She exhaled in aggravation.

  “The Elven language consists of nearly ten thousand symbols. Ours is a far more efficient language. Much more can be said on a single page of vellum with the Elven script than with the markings of Man. That which I have just written would take one such as yourself an entire chapter to scribble.”

  “Oh ... I see.” he stuttered. “That explains it. Thanks.” D’Pharin said, suddenly feeling very small despite the fact that he stood much taller than she.

  “It has been said that those that dwell within Elfwhere and Greymander have an even more efficient language than yours.” Hagan growled. Her condescension had gone unchecked for long enough. “They have taken the script that you are using and further adapted it. Write yourself a note on that page, Shindire, to study the new scripts of the Wood Elves.”

  Vasparian interjected once more, with both word and body.

  “Stop this. There are things that must be accomplished here. Things much bigger than either of you. If our world does end in darkness it will most likely be because of the friction between all of our races. Elf cannot get along with Elf. Man cannot get along with Man. Let us not mention the Dwarves. They learned long ago to trust no one. They secreted themselves underground and forgot about the rest of us. Perhaps they were the smart ones?”

  Shindire and Hagan stood silent, glaring at one another. Of course, Vasp was right. The group shouldered their packs and began the rough trip up the cliff-side, following the remnants of an ancient path seemingly carved by giants. Occasionally, they passed a huge chunk of stone marred by flame ages ago. These stones appeared to have been dropped from the sky above. Most likely, the explosion that tore apart Paren-Rothe randomly tossed these souvenirs all about the surrounding countryside, forming a haphazard perimeter, a reminder of the sheer destruction that had once taken place.

  The path continued on for a short distance and then became a series of crumbling stone steps, the footing growing more precarious. As the group ascended the cliff face, the rock all about them slowly formed roughly-hewn walls, turning the stairways into darkened corridors running haphazardly up toward the towering keep. For nearly an hour, they trudged upward, carefully picking their way until the steps ended in a small rectangular courtyard. The floor of this place was a weathered circular mosaic, an odd yet beautiful pattern not unlike a coiled, dark serpent. In the center of the pattern stood the remnants of a small statue. The wings were missing but it was unmistakably a crane, its neck outstretched toward the newcomers.

  Just behind the statue came a sudden flash of blue, two mages from the Council sent down to welcome them. Hagan recognized the eldest of the pair as Stahluk. His robes were singed about the sleeves and covered with black soot but still his bearing was proud. The other was a woman, evidently new to the Council and stunningly beautiful in Hagan’s eyes. Her hair rested in golden waves on her slender shoulders and her round eyes betrayed an intense intelligence and understanding of their world.

  “Hagan Marindel. I’m sorry, Lord Hagan.” Stahluk said, taking a few steps forward.

  “Hello, Stahluk. It’s been a long time.” Hagan replied, grasping the mage’s outstretched hand as he offered it.

  “Far too long, son. Let me introduce Dhyrin, newest of the Council. She is now in her fifth year with us.” said Stahluk.

  “It is an honor to meet you Dhyrin.” Hagan said as he took her hand.

  “The honor is mine, Lord.” she said with a slight bow.

  “Stahluk, how is Davaris? May I speak to him?” asked Hagan.

  “The Crest has improved somewhat. He is still very weak but refuses to rest more than a few hours a day. Come, I will take you to him immediately.” Stahluk said and then turned to address the others. “If you will all follow me ... rooms and nourishment await you inside.”

  They all began to move forward into the shadow of the ancient keep when the Red Lion pulled gently on Hagan’s shirtsleeve. Hagan turned with a questioning look.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Lord Hagan, my men have told me they will not enter Paren-Rothe. Their old superstitions run deep. Too deep, I am afraid. They do not wish to disrespect you but they wish to remain here in the courtyard.”

  “Certainly. You too may stay if you like. I am sure we will not be inside for long.” Hagan said.

  The Red Lion shook his head. “Nay, my Lord. I will remain with you regardless. I share their superstitions however the honor of serving you outweighs it by far.”

  Hagan hoped he could live up to his reputation. It seemed many people saw him as near godlike and he could not get comfortable with the strangeness of it all. He simply nodded and walked on after Stahluk.

   

   

  The old man lay quietly, unmoving but for the slow rise and fall of his chest, his long white hair and be
ard rested about his head, stains the color of rust standing out here and there. One hand sat upon his stomach, blackened by dark flame, the wrist far too thin for his strong frame. A thin shaft of light stretched across the room, reaching near the foot of the straw mattress on which he rested. The only other light being a small lantern whose flame had been set low.

  Hagan stood in the open doorway for a long moment, looking at his old friend and mentor. He recalled the last battle that they had shared and how wicked Davaris’ staff had proven, its blue fire lashing out and sending Pith to hell. He seemed very peaceful now, very unlike the Davaris of old. He moved silently into the room and knelt on one knee next to the mage’s head. He could make out his high cheek bones and hawk-like nose as the yellow lamplight played upon his features. His skin seemed far too pale.

  “These are dark, dark times my son.” Davaris said, his voice dry and cracking. Finally, he rolled his head in Hagan’s direction, his eyes slowly opening, squinting against the lamplight. His mouth raised in a slight smile as he saw Hagan kneeling there.

  “These times seem to follow us, old man. Can we not share company in good times?” Hagan said, placing a hand on Davaris’ chest. They laughed softly together and the mage tried to sit up. Eventually he managed it, his back resting against the stone wall behind him.

  “Davaris, how did this happen? How have things gone so badly in Harquinn? The council ... the strength of Kirkaldin ... what happened?”

  “I am far too old to govern this council, Hagan. Things have slipped through my grasp for I can no longer see in all directions. Khienen ... well, Khienen knew exactly what to say and when to say it.” He paused for a moment and swallowed with some difficulty. "I suppose my mind is not as strong as it once was.”

  “Nonsense. You know that is not true.” Hagan said. He stood and went to the small table that sat on the other side of the mattress. There sat a large pitcher and several wooden goblets. He smelled the contents and once satisfied that it was water, he poured Davaris a drink. Davaris took it and drained it quickly, but refused a second cup.

  “Where did this Khienen come from?” Hagan asked.

  “Scant days after your departure, he came to Harquinn and after much convincing, I accepted him into Councilcrane. His powers were great, his words were strong. Now I know that his strength was drawn from the darkness across the Edge.”

  He grew silent for a moment.

  “The others have told me of your woman friend. Windenn, is it? This is something I should have told you about long ago.” Davaris said.

  “You knew as well?” asked Hagan.

  “Yes, son. The rise of her power has been foretold for some time. It was unclear as to where the power would surface until recent times.”

  “How strong is she, Davaris?”

  Davaris thought for a moment.

  “Stronger than I. Stronger than Khienen. To be honest, I do not think her power has a limit. Her like has never been seen before.” he said with a faraway look.

  “I am not sure that she is ready for this. It is a power beyond her. She is too young.” Hagan said.

  “Do you not wonder why it is that you and your companions escaped the keep without harm? Did you think the mages to be that incompetent? Each of their flames missed its mark, did it not? Why do you think that is?”

  “Windenn?”

  “Of course, Windenn! Without being aware of it, she surrounded you. She encircled you with protection, my son, and let me tell you, there has never been a circle that strong. Nothing in the past could have ever withstood a score of mages. Never.”

  Hagan stared at the floor in astonishment.

  Wind. More powerful than a score of the council?

  “I have been in this bed for too long. Help me out of this room.”

  “Davaris, are you sure ... ” Hagan began.

  “Son, I have no choice. If I do not rise now, I may never rise again. This world needs me and whether I am strong or weak I will do what I can. If I were to die on my back, I would be disgraced. ‘Leave this land, with staff in hand’ as they say.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember, you stubborn mule.” Hagan said, his arm outstretched to assist the mage to his feet. Davaris had a hard time of it and once he was standing, Hagan knew he should still be in bed. His legs seemed very thin and shaky and his shoulders slumped badly. Evidently his original robe had been destroyed. For now he wore blue, as did the others, instead of the traditional white of the Crest. Davaris exhaled loudly and adjusted himself, leaning on Hagan’s shoulder.

  “Take me to the meeting chamber, son. There is much more for me to do before I join the Wind.”

  Together they shuffled out into the hallway where they were met by Stahluk and Dhyrin, who also lent a hand. Hagan thought he could make out several shifting figures standing in the shadows but could not be certain. Slowly they made their way up into the highest reaches of Paren-Rothe.

  The other members of the council looked up with utmost concern as they entered the meeting chamber high within the keep. The room was immense and though it continuously spun, the motion was undetectable to those inside. A huge circular wooden table sat in the center of the room with many high-backed chairs around it. Hagan noticed many empty seats in between the mages and knew that they would soon be occupied with unearthly guests. Palm to forehead, each of the mages saluted Davaris as he entered and carefully took his seat. Those not of the council stood against the far wall, for only mages were allowed at this table.

  “My brothers and sisters of Councilcrane, I am aware of your concern for me and wish to dispel any thoughts of my demise. As you can see, I am well and fully capable of carrying out my duties as Crest. As you all know, we have been joined by Lord Hagan Marindel and his companions from the west. This is indeed a good omen, for his presence in the past has proven invaluable. We will now wait for the others to join us. They will be here shortly and we will begin.”

  The shadows within the room seemed to darken unnaturally and the air grew cool. The Red Lion’s posture stiffened as he leaned against the stone of the keep. His eyes glanced to the ceiling. The cobwebs began to dance as an unnatural breeze moved about the room. They were coming. As though passing through a gossamer curtain, the transparent figures began to appear, walking in a single-file procession from the outer eastern wall. Each bore a carven staff of wood and each carried themselves with pride. There were near thirty of the spirit mages once they had all entered and together they seated themselves at their respective places. Gradually they gained more of a tangible appearance becoming nearly opaque and less unsettling to the newcomers whose eyes had grown wide.

  Davaris tapped his staff twice upon the stone floor and slowly stood, his spine still in a stoop. All present snapped to attention.

  “Welcome all, living and dead. Once more we come to Paren-Rothe for the aid of our predecessors, so great is their knowledge. Darkness is approaching. It is no secret. Together we must stop Mournenhile once again. As in our last battle, Hagan Marindel has joined us and from my converstaions with those mages from beyond, they believe that he will once again help us tip the scales in our favor.”

  “Harquinn has been taken by servants of the east and so too, Councilkeep. Many of our brothers and sisters are gone now, killed by those that were once considered trusted friends. Can we take our home back from Khienen?”

  “We have received news that Mournenhile’s armies are massing to the northeast. If we are successful in reclaiming the city, can we defend her against the Pith? Spies tell us that Malhain is once again leading their forces. That’s right. He is alive, my friends. This does not bode well for our cause.”

  “Elfwhere it seems is under siege as well, autumn coming to the forest that never sleeps. We cannot expect aid from their armies. They have their hands full. I have sent word far and wide of our dilemma and I hope that some ally can be found, but it may prove too late. This plague also troubles me. Too many people are succumbing to it. There seems to be no explanation. Me
n, women and children have all contracted it, dying from the feet up. Where did this wretched sickness come from? Is it a creation of Mournenhile himself or some new evil born to Kirkaldin? It is one thing to fight the Pith and the soldiers of the dark and yet another to fight an unseen foe. One that strikes without warning. One that does not only strike at warriors but at innocents as well.”

  He paused for a moment and cleared his throat.

  An otherworldly voice interrupted.

  “Davaris, an ally has been found and is on its way here. They will surely be here before this meeting has been completed.” the spectral figure said.

  “Thank the Wind.” Davaris said more to himself than his audience. “This helps matters tremendously.”

  “Now, then. An army of our own, that sweetens the aroma, does it not? So are we in agreement? Do we reclaim our city and then defend it against Mournenhile?” Davaris asked.

  “What of the Inquitis?” a mage asked. “One of its ilk within the very walls of our city? Why were we not aware of this? How did Khienen conceal its presence from us? Can we defeat Mournenhile’s spawn?”

  Davaris frowned momentarily. “This is something that I have pondered as well and still have found no answer. Never before has such dark power remained so close yet hidden to our sight.”

  “Of course we can defeat it. We have done so in the past and must do so again now. Its power is strong without doubt, however, Hagan tells me that it is weakened from battle and should be easily vanquished. We cannot rest, brothers and sisters. There is no time for consideration. No time for hesitation. We fight now or our world dies.”

  One of the ghostly mages, a female, spoke.

  “Our greatest wish would be that we could share our knowledge from across the veil. Secrets that only the dead may know. It is forbidden. Our hope is with you and our blessings. You must remember, fellow Councilmembers, when to fight and when to flee. There is a time for both. Let pride not defeat you.” she said, her voice fading in and out as she spoke.

  “Your words I have heard and their wisdom rings true. Your counsel is unequaled. Are we agreed? Do we return our city to her rightful owners? Many will perish, it is true, but Kirkaldin’s needs far outweigh the casualties. Come, friends, lend your staves to me once more. Together we can drive this darkness from the land and ensure that our children grow in the light of the sun. In freedom.”

  Each mage present, from this world or the next, looked to each other. Doubt crossed many faces but also pride and defiance. In moments, without a word being spoken, they had agreed.

  “Very well then. Harquinn will once again be ours. Khienen must be destroyed and his henchmen along with him. Hagan Marindel, will you offer your blade once more to the cause? Will you face Malhain when he shows his face?”

  Hagan started and then fought the lump in his throat. He could never admit the urge to flee that had crept upon him. Fear and doubt. These were the things that occupied his mind. He forced them down and stood straight.

  “My blade has always been yours to command, Crest. To serve Councilcrane and the side of good once more would be an honor.” Hagan said as powerfully as he could muster.

  Davaris and the others smiled but not as widely as D’Pharin. Could one ask for a finer brother than the hero of the Black Sun? He was simply beaming.

  Davaris spoke once more, his voice louder and more confident than before.

  “This news from Lauden disturbs me. You have all heard of the woman and her terrible death. What does this mean? What evil has been born unto our world? We can be certain that Mournenhile is behind it in some way for it seems the creature made its way toward the Edge. We must be cautious. No one is to be trusted.”

  “Some of you may not know of the Runeglobe. This strange artifact has rested within the city of Aka Brindor for some time now, being studied by the Tinkerers that reside there. Recently the globe has changed. The runes etched all about it have begun to- I suppose dance is the only word for it. The symbols swim about upon the surface of their own free will. No one is certain what this means, if anything. We are certain that the Runeglobe is important to the future of Kirkaldin, yet the puzzle seems nearly impossible to solve. What is the meaning behind all of this? How do these things all interconnect? I wish I could tell you. These times are most difficult for one such as I. The sight has left me and those that still retain it are clouded it seems. Only fragments of knowledge can be gained.”

  “First things first, I suppose. Harquinn must be fought for and taken. Once that goal is accomplished we can discuss the future. Now, mages, take the hand of the councilmembers that sit next to you. We will share our minds one last time. The strength of Councilcrane shall aid us in this time. Come, join together.”

  Each of the mages reached out to the others and clasped hands. It seemed at this time that the ghosts became more solid and the living mages became almost ghostly, both sides meeting somewhere in the middle of life and death. Each of their heads fell back on their necks and the council fell into a trance-like state, talking in odd whispers. A swirling whirlpool of bluish energy took form above the table, casting a pale glow on everything in the room. The energy seemed to pulse with an inner heartbeat of sorts that could be felt deep within the chest but not heard. Hagan and his group looked to each other for comfort, smiling with reassurance, waiting for the meeting’s end.

  After a prolonged silence, the mages opened their eyes and sighed as one. All had returned to normal.

  “Go then, mages and shades. Go in peace and I thank you. Time-“

  Davaris was cut short by one of the spirit men.

  “Crest, I believe your allies have arrived.”

  The sky outside became dark as if an immense cloud blotted out the sun. A low roaring sound could be heard as the shadows deepened. As a group, they ran to the many windows and searched the ground below as far as the horizon, then a flurry of movement pulled their gaze skyward.

  As one, a dark group of flying creatures moved toward Paren-Rothe. They were vaguely humanoid in form yet very alien to their eyes.

  “Wind, the Talon have come.”

  Many quick gasps were heard.

  Hagan could not believe it.

  The Talon? They are real?

  He had heard of them in his childhood. The mythic race that dwelled in the southern cliffs of Kirkaldin near the Sea, rarely seen and never encountered. To be honest, he had never actually lent any truth to their stories. To suddenly witness an entire army of the creatures as they descended into the outlying area was a wonder indeed.

  A small group detached itself and glided gently toward the windows. As they drew closer, large feathery wings of gold flecked with sable could be seen sitting high up on their backs. Their faces long and drawn like a bird of prey ending in razor sharp beaks. Eyes twice the size of a man’s sat deep in their faces, unblinking, taking in every detail of their surroundings.

  A small group of them gracefully stepped across the window sills and landed within the room, their wings folding quickly to their backs. Each raised a clawed hand in salute to the council.

  “Councilcrane is forever indebted to your people. Were the situation not so grave, we would never have asked. When the sun rises tomorrow, we will return to Harquinn and take her by force. Many will die, I fear, but the darkness comes and we must hold fast. Thank you, honorable ones.” Davaris said, his eyes moist with emotion.

  One of the Talons nodded and gave a shriek. His eyes met several of those gathered there as if to acknowledge their unity in the coming battle. Together, they exited through the windows and soon rejoined their kin upon the ground below. No one could speak for a moment. This news was too amazing. Then several mages gave a triumphant shout and clapped their hands.

  “Harquinn is ours, my friends. With the Talon at our side, Khienen can have little hope. Not many creatures of our world are as fierce as they.” Davaris announced with a grin.

  Dhyrin added, “Let us rest long and well tonight. Tomorrow brings war.”<
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  Hagan and his companions filed out of the meeting chamber and took two flights of steps down to a small terrace at the north side of the keep. A group of tables and chairs had been placed there for a late meal and they sat themselves, their eyes always on the mass of figures below.

  “Can you believe this? The Talon have come to help. Father always said that they weren’t real.” said D’Pharin, craning his neck to take in the entire army.

  “Father has said a lot of things, D’Pharin. How would he know? He never leaves the ranch.” Hagan responded.

  “These are ill times indeed to call the bird men down from their homes.” Vasparian said. “We are in for a dark, dark age.”

  Shindire retrieved one of her books and opened it upon the table.

  “My notes show no mention of this race. Why have I not heard tales of these creatures? Somewhere, someone should have spoken of them. How odd ... ” she said in agitation.

  “So, you don’t know everything, eh? Imagine that.” Hagan scowled.

  Suprisingly, she did not respond, only scoured her pages with a frown.

  Vasparian drew Hagan’s attention away from the Graelund. “With this army, we will easily return Harquinn to the council, but after this battle, what then? Mournenhile would not march into the Middle Lands without a sizable force. His army has probably grown ten-fold since the Black Sun.”

  “Ten-fold? I doubt that, Vasp.” Hagan replied. “Could he create that many more of the Pith in so short of time?”

  “My gut is aching, Hagan. Terrible times are upon us. Dread has crept up my back and is clutching at my throat.” Vasp said.

  Hagan frowned.

  “We’ve come through terrible times in the past, Vasp. What choice do we now have? What choice does anyone ever have when put to the test? Run? Hide? You know those are not truly choices.”

  Vasparian nodded, his eyes closed.

  “I know, I know ... ”

  “You are both legends.” D’Pharin argued. “Heroes of the Black Sun. Have you forgotten that? Both of you have come through battles that killed nearly all present. If you cannot defend us, then who? Can I?”

  It was then that Hagan realized how important his attitude had become. Whether he liked it or not, people looked to him for hope and inspiration. If he showed doubt or fear, others would doubt themselves. Others would be afraid. He felt like running home to Lauden suddenly, but he would not let his brother see that.

  “Don’t worry, Vasp.” he said. “Perhaps you can fight Malhain this time. Your statue could grace the market square. Grael Square has a nice sound, does it not?”

  Vasp looked in Hagan’s eyes with all seriousness and could see his intent. He nodded and laughed his best laugh. Inside he was shaken. Outside he would not let it be seen.

  Hagan laughed with him and soon D’Pharin.

  Moments later a meal was served to them and they finished it quickly. Hagan and Vasp joked with each other, keeping the mood light of heart. They had all pushed themselves back from the table when the horns sounded far in the distance. An alarm of some sort. Across the hills to the northwest, came a group of riders draped in scarlet cloaks. Servants of the Red Lion. They surrounded but did not interfere with a large lumbering figure, plodding on giant feet toward Paren-Rothe.

  “Wind! It’s Gorin!” Hagan shouted, jumping to his feet. He ran for the staircase at a sprint.

  “And he’s alone ... ” D’Pharin murmured slowly, his chest tightening. He was the last to leave the table, a lump climbing in his throat. Gorin had returned without Windenn. What did this mean? Was she - ? He would not think it. He must hear Gorin’s story. He took a deep breath and followed the others.