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

by William Kenney

  Chapter Ten

   

   

   

   

              “Crest! It is Mournenhile’s army. They are here and they are tens of thousands strong!” a soldier shouted as he ran into the keep, his head bloody from battle.

              “Wind, no…” Davaris whispered to himself.

              How could they have gotten here so quickly and undetected?

              He looked slowly about him to the faces of those that had served him so well. He knew that, if asked, they would answer the call again. He could not ask this of them.

              “We will abandon the city.” Davaris said, making for the ruined doorway. His mind raced. What other option was there?

              There was a momentary silence.

              “Crest, no!” Ayanor pleaded, running to his side. Others in the room cried out in disagreement.

              “My friend, we have no choice. The dark army far outnumbers us. Do we stand and perish? What purpose would that serve?” said Davaris.

              “But, Crest, what of the libraries? All of our lore will be lost. We cannot allow Mournenhile to capture it!” Dhyrin added.

              Vasparian stepped up, his face full of emotion.

              “Crest, there must be another way. Since the birth of Kirkaldin, much of the land’s knowledge has resided here, with the council. There are things here that simply cannot be lost. Secrets of the Wind. Even my brethren from Elfwhere have turned to you for answers in the past.” he said.

              “Indeed. Mournenhile cannot obtain our knowledge. Upon departing, I will bring the keep to the ground. There will be naught left but cinder and memory.”

              All present knew that the decision had been made and many stared at the floor, tears welling in their eyes. Ayanor was affected the most, it seemed. He had spent nearly his entire life within these walls researching. Uncovering things that had lain hidden since the Morning of Kirkaldin.

              “All of you gather what horses you can find. We make for the north gate immediately. Be careful, there are still fragments of the enemy within the city walls … ” Davaris called out.

              Just then, several of the Talon landed outside of the keep and moved to Davaris, speaking in their high-pitched voices. After many moments of conversation, they took to the air once more.

              Hagan turned to the Crest with a questioning look.

              “Malhain is here. He has stopped his men at the horizon. It is one of his old tactics. He will let us sweat, waiting for the charge. His is a twisted mind. Twisted by Mournenhile. The Talon have informed me that the army stretches from north to south as far as the eye can see. There are creatures within it that we have never before encountered. These are more of Mournenhile’s unholy creations, I am certain. Hagan, to flee is truly the only way. Were we to remain and defend our home, we would all perish and who would be left to defend Kirkaldin? Who would come forward?” he said.

              Hagan simply shook his head. He could not believe this. Soon, Malhain would occupy Harquinn, the city that had held back his armies for countless years. The city that Hagan had nearly died defending under the Black Sun. Was this truly the city’s last free day? Were all those lives in vain? His friends and fellow soldiers?

              “Hagan, where will we go? Where can we hide from Mournenhile?” D’Pharin asked coming up from behind. His eyes held an obvious look of fear and anxiety.

              “I am not sure, brother. Davaris will lead us somewhere to the north. Surely we must avoid Elfwhere lest we run into thousands of Pith on our way.” Hagan answered, his mind in shock. Weakness was coming over him, his wound draining his body of strength. “Come on, let’s find some horses.”

              As a group, they exited the Keep, quickly making their way through the outer courtyard. Hagan’s eyes lifted to the burning rooftops within the city and his heart ached. Damage was clearly visible everywhere within Harquinn and to think, Malhain had yet to arrive. Luckily the stables had not been raided and enough horses were rounded up for all. They mounted and turned their steeds toward the north, Davaris in the lead. Just as they were spurring them forward, Ayanor called out.

              “My Crest!” he called. They all spun to face him in confusion.

              “What is it, Ayanor?” Davaris asked, holding his horse steady.

              “I cannot, Crest. I will not allow Mournenhile to take the keep.”

              “Do not be foolish, Ayanor. We will fight another day. There is nothing left for us here.” said Davaris.

              Dhyrin called out, “Ayanor, do not do this.” She had always known of Ayanor’s feelings of inadequacy.

              “Davaris, you must let me do this. My entire service to Councilcrane has been one of mediocrity. I excelled in nothing. You must allow me to defend our home. I will remain behind and protect what is ours.” Ayanor said, his eyes filling with tears.

              “Ayanor, please. There is no hope in defending her. The city belongs to them now. Please, my old friend…” Davaris pleaded. He could see in Ayanor’s face that arguing was futile. He dismounted and walked to Ayanor, nodding slowly.

              He stared into his frightened eyes for a moment, tracing the creases that ran from their corners down his cheeks. He had known him nearly all of the younger mage’s life.

              “Very well, Ayanor. Know this, within you is a boundless strength and perseverance. That is why you were chosen. You excelled in your loyalty to Councilcrane … and to myself.”

              Ayanor was openly weeping and reached out, embracing Davaris.

              “Thank you, my Crest.”

              Davaris pulled back and took Ayanor in once more.

              “I will miss you, Ayanor. As a brother have I loved you.”

              “And I, you, Davaris. Goodbye.”

              Ayanor then slapped his horse’s rump sending it running off into the city. He nodded once to the group of riders and walked back toward the keep.

              “What-?” D’Pharin started.

              “Let it be.” Hagan said. He motioned for his brother to follow him. Together the group rode off toward the northern gate, winding their way around fallen soldiers and rubble. D’Pharin glanced over his shoulder in time to see Ayanor disappear through the crumbling doorway of Councilkeep.

   

   

   

              They spurred their horses on into the city, the sounds of battle still ringing out among the smoking buildings. They took to a small, dark alley to avoid a group of Khienen’s soldiers and ended up in Marindel Square. The dead lie everywhere, the ground now slick and stained. There, near the center of the square, rested the statue of Hagan, the head now broken from the body.

              This took Hagan aback, seeing himself shattered in this way.

              Is this an omen of things to come?

              He stared at his stone replica, the lifeless eyes seeming to warn him.

              “Hagan.” Davaris called out.

              Hagan closed his eyes and heeled the horse forward past the statue.

              “That must be an odd thing.” Vasparian said, allowing his horse to fall back a bit.

              “Yes. It is peculiar enough to witness a stone replica of one’s self but to see it demolished in your path…” Hagan answered.
>
              “Pay it no mind. It is only stone.” the Elf replied. “You are made of sturdier stuff than it was.”

              Hagan silently nodded.

              From an eastern street, a group of the Red Lion’s men joined them.

              “Crest, we must make haste. Malhain is at the southern gate and will surely be inside the walls in moments. My captain will meet us outside and together we will hold your pursuers at bay. “ a scarlet - clad warrior announced, his breath coming in quick gasps.

              “Very well. Give the Red Lion my regards. I hope to see him again. Ride, my friends!” Davaris screamed forcing his horse into a gallop.

              Soon, they gained the gate, which stood wide open. A flood of city folk poured out, running in every direction. Women and children screamed as the crowd pressed forward toward the gate.

              Davaris knew that most of these people would never survive on foot. Malhain would hunt each of them down out of spite. There was no way to save them. Wind, why? How had it come to this? Had he made the right decision?

              Of course he had. To stay would mean certain death. No, the decision had been correct. One thought nagged at him. If they escaped and made it to safety, what then? Could they ever hope to defeat such an army?

              There was no time to dwell on it.

              Davaris moved his horse into the crowd, pulled along by its current. Faces looked up to him in desperation. Save us, Crest, they all seemed to say. You are our hope. Tell us all what to do.

              He had no answer.

              He wanted to shout out, ‘Run, you fools! Run for the hills!’

              Hagan had much the same experience. He was the savior of Kirkaldin, after all. Hadn’t he returned to rescue them? He was invincible, was he not?

              He ground his teeth and waited as the throng neared the gateway. Behind him, the Red Lion had joined his soldiers, now some several hundred strong. His face held a look of worry and of utter sorrow.

              Just as he turned to face forward, they broke through the opening and into open air. They gathered around Davaris, who scanned the horizon.

              “Make for the ridge. We can follow it into the foothills and lose them there.” he shouted to Hagan. He spun to face the crowd.

              “Listen to me, all of you! All hope is gone! Take yourselves northward. Find a place to hide. Our city is lost and for now, darkness has won. I hope to see you all again in better times. Please do not tarry. Get you and yours away!” The people stood, mouths agape in silence and fear.

              With that, his horse bolted across the open field toward higher ground. Hagan and the others followed, heads bowed against the wind.  

              D’Pharin allowed himself one last look over his shoulder and gasped. The Red Lion’s men were in formation outside the gate and a swarm of blackness was quickly making its way around the city’s burning walls. He could see the Pith, their oily wings flitting at the air, their wolf-like faces baring jagged fangs. The Red Lion had no chance against such a foe, yet his men held together, their heads up and chests thrust out with pride.

              Run, he thought. It’s not worth it!

              He turned back, his eyes moist.

   

   

   

              Ayanor dropped the large timber in place, barring the southern entryway to Councilkeep’s ancient library. He scanned the entire room, taking in the vast amount of literature there that lined the wooden shelves from floor to vaulted ceiling far above. Some of these volumes, he knew, were so fragile as to crumble to dust at the lightest touch. As old as the Wind, it was often said.

              Lining the topmost shelves and kept behind locked glass were Klaemen’s own spellbooks. Magic of a different and untested sort. Thus far, nearly impossible to comprehend and only the foolish would try to master the incantations contained therein. His precious staff rested there as well on an ivory pedestal, slightly charred from battle but still intact.

              Standing out in stark contrast upon the western wall, was the deep red leather of the Imgyarr, a dozen volumes of Dwarven lore. Only these copies existed above the earth.

              “How can I allow this to be taken? Destroyed?” Ayanor muttered aloud.

              “There must be a way.”

              He searched his mind for some manner of sorcery that could whisk the entire contents away to safety, but a spell of that magnitude was far beyond his power.

              His life’s work would be gone soon, he knew.

              The southern door shook suddenly with a violent force, dust raining down from the ceiling. On the other side, he could hear shouts and shrieks, the ravenous voices of the Pith.

              I’ll bring it all down on their heads! If it must be destroyed, then I will kill as many of them as possible.

              His anger rose and his mind raced. The original spell he had intended would suffice but it would not be enough for him now. He wanted more.

              “I’ll bring the whole city to the ground…”

              He grabbed a wooden ladder and climbed toward Klaemen’s case, leaving his staff there against the wall. Fifteen steps later and he had reached the legendary mage’s collection. He shattered the glass with the back of one hand and carefully reached in, retrieving the crooked staff displayed within. Grabbing it in his now bloody hand, he quickly climbed down, the pounding on the door incessant and growing increasingly louder.

              As he once again reached the floor, he held the ancient weapon at arms length in awe.

              In the early days of every mage’s training, they learn a simple rule; each wizard’s staff is tuned to its owner and none should ever try to wield another’s weapon. To do so would end with catastrophic results. Knowing this, Ayanor reached for his staff and held the two together at his sides. His heart thudded loudly in his chest and his breathing grew rapid.

              “This was not your way Lord Klaemen but I am sure you would not object.” he said to the ceiling.

              I just hope the others have escaped the city by now.

              The door cracked down its center and hung crookedly on its hinges for a moment, then exploded inward. Like a raging black river, the Pith poured into the room, their fangs biting at the air. Upon seeing Ayanor with the staves, they hesitated, knowing a mage’s abilities.

              Through the mob of black faces, came a taller, less animalistic creature. The Rone’Pith. It moved to the front and met Ayanor’s eye, its long ears twitching. In stark contrast to its naked brethren, it wore an ornate black robe. Many arcane symbols had been woven into the thick fabric. It wrinkled its nose and stepped forward.

              Ayanor smiled.

              They have no idea of what is coming.

              Suddenly he was doubled over in pain, both staves falling to the floor, the dark shaft of an arrow jutting from his stomach. Another ripped into his left shoulder, hurling him backwards.

              “No!”

              Flame shot from his hands but without the aid of staff, its power was diminished. Several died but still more came.

              In the blink of an eye, the Pith were all over him, teeming like ants on a carcass. Their claws and fangs bit deep, throwing him to his back. His screams reverberated from the ceiling, joined by the shrieks of glee from his enemies.

       
       Against their weight, he rolled to his side, the pain from their attacks unbearable.

              You will not take this place.

              He managed to climb to his knees, seven of the creatures hanging from him and he saw the Rone’Pith casually crossing the room toward him.

              It must not reach the staves!

              He muttered an incantation and the clinging group of Pith dropped from him as cinders. He scrambled to his feet, pools of his blood beneath him, and dove across the floor. His breath left him as he landed, one hand around Klaemen’s staff. Spinning, he made for the other and stopped. A slathering Pith held the thing curiously in both hands, studying it.

              “Foolish beast. Die.”

  And the creature erupted internally, its innards running from every pore. Ayanor seized the staff as it fell and turned just as the Rone’Pith joined him.

  “Demon. Our end is here. I am only one, but many of yours will perish this day.” Ayanor said quietly.

  His opponent squinted its slitted eyes, puzzled.

  “You will understand in a moment…”

  With that, he brought the staves together. He could smell the hair on his arms burning.

  “Regrae Iraend’ess!”

  Instantly, he felt his being tugged in all directions chaotically. Limitless power flooded him, his eyes bulging. White heat covered his vision.

  “Klaemen?…”

  He sensed the ancient mage’s presence all about him.

  The Rone’Pith realized far too late what Ayanor intended.

  The Keep pulsed. Everything of flesh dissolved. The ancient structure crumbled in on itself then in a flash of silent, blinding light, erupted in an immense explosion of stone and wood. The ground splintered and cracked, toppling all that stood upright.

  The heart of Harquinn melted and was no more.

   

   

   

              Several leagues form the city, a steep ridge led up into the Dragonrun Mountains. For many years, traders had used its precarious path to travel to Ar’Hollow, cutting off many days with the shortcut. It was certainly not suited to be taken at full gallop, but this was the party’s intention.

              In moments, their horses scrambled up the rocky incline, struggling to reach higher ground. It proved difficult for the riders to hold on as their steeds picked their way up the ridge.

              Davaris rode like a man possessed far ahead of the rest, his horse snorting and frothing at the mouth. He was determined to get them out of harm’s way.

              “Come on!” he yelled. “We must reach the pass of Th’krade unseen!”

              Gorin charged on behind him, lumbering up the slope with hands and feet. He called out to Davaris, asking him to wait, but he was ignored. Shindire and Vasp came next, shouting to one another in Elven while Hagan and his brother brought up the rear.

              “Keep her under control, D’Pharin.” Hagan called.

              D’Pharin, it seemed, had gotten the most skittish of steeds and she was having a difficult time of the small stones under her hooves. He was an accomplished horseman but this mare was terrified.

              As they ascended, a thick cover of trees hid them from view, giving a sense of safety for the moment. D’Pharin cursed as the mare’s right rear hoof gave way, sending him sliding in the saddle. He righted himself and took a tighter grip on the mare, shifting his weight toward the ridge.

              Just then, she went down.

              D’Pharin and the mare slid suddenly off the ridge, the loose stones giving way and tumbling down below. They were now far above the tree line and a fall may prove fatal.

              Hagan spun and dismounted when he heard the gravel give way.

              “Hang on, D’Pharin! I’m coming for you!”

              D’Pharin’s horse screamed, its legs frantically searching for solid ground.

              “Whoa, whoa…” D’Pharin said, trying to calm her. He could tell that in her present state, there was no controlling her.

              “Hagan…” he called out through the dusty haze that had arisen.

              Hagan had nearly made it down to him, sliding slowly into a sitting position.

              “D’Pharin, you may have to leave her. I don’t think she can make it. Here, reach for my hand.”

              D’Pharin did not wish to leave the mare, knowing she would surely fall if left to her own devices. Reluctantly, he reached for his brother’s hand. Their fingers nearly touched and the mare panicked, falling to her side. D’Pharin tried to jump free, but his leg was trapped beneath her. He grunted under the weight as they slid farther down.

              Hagan watched as the two of them slid and tumbled down the steep rocky slope, far out of reach.

              “D’Pharin! D’Pharin! Are you hurt?” he shouted unable to see through the dust.

              Vasparian appeared above him, high up on the ridge.

              “What has happened?” he called out. “Where’s D’Pharin?”

              “I’ve got to go after him.” Hagan answered and began to descend.

              “I’m right behind you.” Vasp called out and climbed down from his horse.

              D’Pharin coughed and spit out bits of gravel as he rolled to a stop. He and the mare had fallen near to the forest floor, D’Pharin having finally been thrown free. He could hear the horse crying out but could not see her for the dust cloud they had created. Then, within the trees just below he heard another horse whinny.

              He squinted, trying to pierce the haze and made out several shadowy forms moving toward him from the forest floor beneath the ridge. He heard Hagan calling for him from above and cursed under his breath.

              Quiet, brother.

              The dust began to clear and the shapes became dark - clad warriors. Mournenhile’s soldiers.

              The foremost spurred his steed forward and dismounted. A great black helm sat upon his head, hiding much of his face, huge horns jutting from its sides. He seemed completely covered in armor.

              Something seemed familiar about this man.

              “Having trouble, little one?” he called out in a mocking tone. “Your precious Wind must have blown you from your perch, no?” His men chuckled in response.

              D’Pharin reached for his sword and found it missing, knocked free during his fall. Defenseless.

              Hagan was coming close, picking his way down and called out again.

              “D’Pharin! Where are you?”

              Please, Hagan. Keep quiet.

              D’Pharin stood and began climbing up the slope backward, his eyes on the tall figure below.

              “D’Pharin Marindel! Answer me!”

              The figure suddenly paused in thought. He burst out in loud laughter, his eyes wide like a madman, his soldiers grinning along with him.

              “Marindel, eh? Luck is certainly with me on this day. You are a Marindel? That must make you…brother?” He turned to peer up the slope through the haze.

              “Hagan Marindel!” he called out. Hagan stopped in his tracks.

              “Come down, old friend. Come and witness this historic event. Your brother is going to die by my hands. Surely you wish to be present.”

              Hagan wrenched his sword from its s
heath and began bounding headlong down the rocky incline. Anger and fear gripped him hard.

              “Malhain!” he shouted. A gust of wind parted the dust cloud and suddenly cleared his visibility. Not far below, D’Pharin tried in vain to gain higher ground. Malhain grinned up at Hagan and went to his saddle. Slowly, deliberately, he removed a long javelin, black in color. He hefted it to his shoulder, apparently testing its weight and once satisfied, he began to pace back and forth, all the while eyeing D’Pharin.

              “No, Malhain! Leave him out of this!” Hagan cried out, sliding closer in a frantic.

              “Oh, Hagan. After all, this is what I am.” Malhain laughed.

              D’Pharin suddenly found solid ground and was able to climb up several steps. He stretched out a hand to Hagan who was now dangling precariously just above on a small outcropping.

              “Come on, D’Pharin! Reach!” he called.

              “Move closer, Hagan! I’ve almost-“

              Their fingers touched but the rock beneath D’Pharins feet tumbled away and he slid down, once more just out of reach.

              “No!” Hagan screamed.

              “This day belongs to me, Hagan Marindel.” The voice of Malhain called out from below.

              Malhain stared at D’Pharin, judging the distance, planting his feet.

              I cannot leave him helpless, Hagan thought.

              He threw all caution to the wind and leapt from where he crouched. He dropped through the air toward his brother. At the same time, Malhain loosed his javelin, its barbed head whistling as it cut through the air.

              As Hagan landed, D’Pharin was frantically scrambling on all fours toward him, terror in his face, ghostly pale. His body blocked Malhain from Hagan’s vision.

              “D’Pharin! Down!”

              Just steps away, D’Pharins body went rigid suddenly. A thin black blade jutted from his chest, dark rivulets of blood tracing a path down his shirt. He mouthed silent words for a moment and fell into his arms, the javelin piercing Hagan’s left side as he caught his mortally wounded brother. He quickly rolled to one side, resting him on the rocky slope next to him, oblivious to the pain in his abdomen.

              “D’Pharin! No! I …” he screamed.

  “NO!”

              D’Pharin’s eyes met his for a moment and then looked to the sky. Blood appeared on his lips.

              “Hagan … i - it doesn’t hurt. Hagan,” he started, his eyes intensely meeting his brother’s once more. “Do not deny what you are.”

  “A hero.”

  The sentence came out as a whisper and his eyes slowly closed.

              His body went limp, a last exhalation rasping from his chest.

              Hagan ran his hands shakily over D’Pharin’s head and shoulders trying to coax him back to life. Then he put his own head in his hands.

              This cannot happen. Wind, please.

              Quickly his thoughts went to his youth and his brother being born. Then, to running through the forest, pretending to be soldiers. Then, Hagan leaving Lauden for the Battle of the Black Sun.

              “Why did I go? All of those years away from you. I know it was hard, D’Pharin. Wind.”

              He screamed as the tears flooded his cheeks. In the end, he couldn’t protect him.

              Then, Vasparian and Gorin knelt beside him, faces drawn with sorrow.

              “How?” Gorin asked, searching the trees below, seemingly now empty. His eyes had become black caverns of shadow.

              “Malhain.” Hagan whispered.

              “Hmmm…I will destroy him!” The Troll howled and began to descend.

              “No, Gorin.” Vasp said calmly. “You would perish as well.”

              “I must honor him. Avenge him!” Gorin said, his face avoiding their gaze.

              “Carry him away from here. Honor him in that way. Malhain has gone. This is all part of his wicked game. Rest assured, we will see him again.” Vasparian said, his eyes wet.

              Shindire stood at the top of the ridge for a moment. Stricken with grief, she turned away and motioned for Davaris. He was just now returning down the path, a confused look upon his face.

              The blue-robed mage dismounted and was among the others quickly.

              “In my haste I have cost him his life. If I had held back and remained with you-“ he began.

              “No …” Hagan said. “You did nothing wrong. He should never have been here. He should be at home in Lauden, saddling up the horses with his father.”

  He brushed the hair from his brother’s blood – streaked forehead.

  “Hagan, you are bleeding.” Davaris said, pointing to his side, now a dark crimson.

  “Malhain’s blade.” Hagan answered weakly and collapsed into darkness.