by Brian Murray
Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA):
3724 Cowpens Pacolet Rd., Spartanburg, SC 29307
This edition published in 2019 by Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA)
All rights reserved.
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© Brian G Murray, author, 2019
©Donna Marie West, editor, 2019
©L. Bachman, L. Bachman designs, cover artist, 2019
©Lori Michelle, The Author’s Alley, interior formatting, 2019
This book is dedicated to those great geeks who spent many a late night at Skinny Melinks in Lewisham (for those who do not know, it was a comic shop now, I understand, rubble). Too many to mention, but you know who you are, so message me when you read this!!
PROLOGUE
TUCCI, THE SON of the Chosen, escaped from the Mines of Moranton and again walked the Grey Path. He was pleased with what Dax had said to him and hoped his father would hear of his good deeds. The young man looked over his shoulder at the Black Mountain of the Damned and smiled. The darkest part of the grey lands had proved to be part of his salvation as he had successfully seen the Rhaurns through the mines. He even prayed for their safety, as he had begun to like the men he had guided.
For several weeks, the young man walked away from the mountain with a positive bounce in his stride. He was proud of himself and nothing could take that away from him. He stopped one night and camped off the Path. He ensured he had the direction of the Path noted and fell asleep. For the first time in an age, in his sleep the young man dreamt. In his dream Tucci saw his father, the Chosen, who stood on the mound that circled the city of Kal-Pharina. Tucci smiled. His father wore a new breastplate, helm and strapped to his back two new short swords.
In his dream, Tucci watched his father as he drew his swords and held them crossed before his chest. Tucci could not hear what his father said, but he spoke to someone outside the city. His view changed and he looked over his father’s shoulder to the army that held the city under siege. He could see the warrior his father spoke to. In his dream’s eye, Tucci moved in close and in his sleep Tucci physically shivered violently. Tucci looked into the Dark One’s helm, the being of ultimate base, the creature that he had worshipped when alive. Behind the Dark One, waiting silently stood his army, the Dread. Tucci’s view shifted and he looked over the Dark One’s shoulder towards the city. There, standing defiantly on the wall was his father, and Tucci felt a surge of pride and honour.
The Dark One drew his own long sword, the Blade of Yallas, and pointed it at Tucci’s father. Black lightning streaked from the sword towards the Chosen and . . .
***
With a start, Tucci woke from his dream, sweating profusely. He looked around and saw only the bland grey scenery of the Grey Path. On the wispy breeze came a sweet musical voice. “Tucci, you have done well.”
The young man rose from his hiding place and walked towards the Path. As soon as he stepped onto the Path, the Divine One materialised before him in a flowing white dress.
Tucci fell to his knees and bowed deeply. “I did as you asked,” he said proudly.
“I know and you have done well. You have started on your long journey to redemption and possibly Paradise.”
“Thank you for the chance.”
“I feel you want to ask me something?”
“I had a dream of my father facing the Dark One,” said Tucci softly.
“Yes, as we speak, your father is facing the Dark One and his minions.”
“In my dream, the Dark One fired something from his sword towards my father, but I woke before I could see . . . Does he survive?”
“I cannot answer that question as the dream you saw is currently happening and the outcome is not yet known. There are many paths of the future and it is still hazy; thus, the true future path remains unclear. This war is one between good and evil. The world could remain as you remember it only if good wins or it will look like Yallaz’oom if the Dark One succeeds. I cannot, as yet, see which path the future will take.”
Tucci wanted to press the Divine One further but did not. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, there is something that you can do for me. If the outcome of the future favours man, then someone will again come to the Grey Path seeking your guidance to Yallaz’oom.” The Divine One paused. “There is one who could destroy the Dark One forever, who could remove his powers and kill the once-man. With the Dark One dead, the Mine of Moranton and all the evil contained within can be sealed forever.”
“Who is he . . . this One?”
“He will be the son of Children of the Light. He will possess the power and the will to stand up against the Dark One. This is the prophecy that only the Dark One and I know—the Prophecy of his Death. This is why he has been hunting the Children of the Light.”
“And you want me to guide him through the mines?”
“More than that. When the time comes you will know what to do. It is part of your destiny.”
“How?”
The Divine One smiled at Tucci. “You will know when the time comes.”
“I will do as you command, my lady,” replied Tucci, unsure of his ability and his part in the future. He paused. “But what happens if the future does not favour man?” he asked with an edge of worry in his tone.
“Then all will be lost and the Dark One will rule forever.”
“How will I know what the outcome is?”
“You will know, young Tucci. Take care and be brave.”
The Divine One disappeared as quickly as She had materialised. Tucci once again stood alone on the Grey Path with a decision to make. He looked back from whence he had come and, in the distance, he could just see the Black Mountain of the Damned on the horizon, a tone darker than its homogenous grey surroundings. He gazed in the other direction and sighed. He turned around and started walking slowly back towards the Mines of Moranton and his fate.
CHAPTER 1
A SILENT FORK of lightning streaked across the sky, flashing briefly, illuminating the sprawling, cluttered stone mass that was Riosocho City, a sea port in the nation called Cecillia. Almost immediately thunder rumbled noisily, rattling windows and wooden shutters. Heavy rain lashed down against the shutters, pitter-pattering rhythmically onto the old wood. Below, the rain splashed down onto the dusty road, mixing with the dried earth, forming veins of mud that ran down paths and crude roads. Soon, as the rain continued, the veins of mud merged together to form a small stream of dirty water that ran down every city throughway and alley.
Inside a large, dimly lit bedroom a woman screamed in pain—pain caused by a difficult labour. The healer in the room looked up at the father to be and shook his head. The baby was breeched. Looking down at the healer’s hands, the man blanched at the sight of blood—his wife’s blood. The woman screamed again; the shriek pierced the night, drowning out the rumbling thunder. The man walked to the window and pushed the shutters opened. Rain immediately sprayed into the room and the wind billowed the rich red, velvet curtains. The man stood in the window letting the rain soothe his face while he tried to gather his thoughts. He could not turn around and look at
his wife’s pain, but he could hear it. He could not look into his wife’s large, reddened tawny-brown eyes. She screamed again and the man jumped. He bowed his head and prayed for help, but received no reply. He had to decide and knew what his answer would be; he had discussed the matter with his wife. The man had no choice.
“Sir,” started the healer. He looked and sounded concerned.
“I know,” answered the man weakly, his heart heavy in his chest.
“I need an answer,” pleaded the healer. “If not soon, they will both die.”
The man’s dilemma—he had to choose a life. He had to choose between his wife, who he loved more than life itself, and his unborn child. The man turned slowly to the healer. Without making eye contact, the man simply said, “The child.”
The man did not stay in the room to watch his wife die. He was not a weak man, but . . . Instead, he left the healer to do his work and walked out of his bedroom without a backward glance. The man walked downstairs, deep in thought. His wife screamed again, but her shriek was cut short. The end. Tears filled the man’s eyes and tumbled down his face. He reached his library and poured himself a large drink. He gulped his drink as his child wailed for the first time. A new life was born, thought the man, but his beloved wife had died giving the baby to him. The man sat down in one of his large, high-backed leather chairs and cried himself to sleep.
***
Five years had passed and now the child, a boy, was bright and happy. The man looked down from his office window on the first floor of his house and watched the child run through their fields, chasing one of their huge black war-hounds. The dog, named Cleo, was the child’s protector and since the boy’s birth, she had not left his side. The man continued to watch the black hound lope towards the house with a large stick in her mouth. The child, who had thick, black curly hair, raced after her on his short podgy legs, squealing with delight. The man dragged his eyes away from the happy scene. He looked down at his accounts ledgers and continued his work.
Since his wife’s death, the father had virtually ignored the child. He could not face the boy, the cause of his beloved wife’s death. He could only see his wife in the boy’s large bright eyes. He knew it was wrong—he did not need telling, but the hurt had stopped him. Instead of looking after his son, he spent months away, building his shipping empire to now become one of the richest Cecillians in the land. He owned over eighty cargo ships, twenty-five warships to defend them, and many dockside warehouses. He mainly handled cargos for the Cecillian army, but also traded spices and cloths with the Rafftons across the Endless Sea. This had made the man rich. He was the only merchant who had successfully sailed across the Endless Sea and returned, securing exclusive trade treaties with the Rafftons. Some of the Cecillians voiced their concerns and scepticism about the Rafftons, but because of the man’s power, no one dared impose restrictions, not even the emperor who relied on the man’s ships, especially his warships. The man had earned enough money to build their current home outside of the city, maintained by many servants and groundskeepers. He also had a large house in the expensive district of the city where he spent most of his time conducting his business. He remembered returning home from his last trip. His son had been dressed in his best clothes and waited at the door with his nanny. The man’s coach arrived and he stepped down. The boy beamed a smile towards his father and shuffled from one foot to the other in silent excitement. The man looked at his son. He was about to smile when a picture of his wife’s face loomed in his mind. He bowed his head and walked into the house without saying a word of greeting.
Only now did the man resent the coldness he showed his son. He had missed him taking his first steps, missed him saying his first words. He closed his red leather ledgers and rubbed his tired, gritty eyes. He walked to the large, glass double-doors that led to his balcony on the first floor of his house and gazed out over his land. His child had grabbed Cleo by the tail and was being dragged through the mud. Suddenly, the dog stopped running and turned towards the tree line at the far edge of the field. The man looked towards the tree line but could see nothing. He looked back at the dog and could see that she was growling, baring her teeth with the boy standing next to her, looking in the same direction. The man switched his gaze back to the tree line and saw movement. He squinted. A pack of six wolves emerged from the tree line and fanned out. He could see that the beasts were thin and probably had not eaten in a while. To hungry wolves, his son made a tempting meal. Fear struck the man like a blow and he looked around his grounds for anyone. He saw no one.
The man opened the glass doors and raced out onto the balcony. He scanned the area below but saw no one who could help. It appeared no one was watching his son—they had left the boy to play in the field unattended. Annoyance filtered into the man, but he suppressed his irritation. He looked up at the wolves. They were slowly stalking towards the child and the growling hound. Paternal instincts took over. The man, as quickly as he could, climbed over the rail of his balcony and dropped to the gravel-covered ground that crunched loudly underfoot. Fear welled inside him as he raced towards the scene. As the man sprinted to his son, he grabbed a discarded spade that had been left stabbed into the ground by a worker. He looked up and saw the wolves stalking closer to the boy. In turn, Cleo, the war hound, stepped in front of the boy, ready to protect him. As he got closer, the man could hear the dog’s deep, menacing growl.
“Frazellon!” yelled the man to his son, his voice pitched high with fear, his heart pounding against his ribcage.
The fearless child turned and waved at his father. He then pointed to the wolves and shouted, “Doggies, Dadda.”
From the house, the nanny saw her master running across the field. Then in the distance, she saw the wolves stalking the boy. The woman ran to the kitchen and through to the servants’ dining area where the ten grounds staff where having lunch.
“WOLVES!” screamed the nanny, bursting into the room. The men around the table took a heartbeat to realise what she had said, digest the meaning, and were on their feet running out the door. She followed the men out the back door and stared helplessly beyond the running men.
Two of the wolves charged. Cleo met the attack. She opened her huge maw and snapped her sharp teeth around a wolf’s throat. Blood spurted from the wolf’s carotid and it went limp. The other four wolves raced in. The second wolf ran wide of Cleo and headed for the child. The wolf was a few strides from the child, ready to close its jaws around its meal, when the man screamed out. The wolf turned its head and for a fraction of a heartbeat saw the man. The beast did not see the spade swing towards it, nor feel its neck snap when the spade connected with its scarred muzzle. The man turned to face the other wolves that were attacking Cleo. The war hound used her claws and large jaws to defend herself. But there were too many wolves and they clawed and bit her in a hunger-induced frenzy. The fighting was noisy and furious.
Again, the man let out a cry and charged into the wolves. He hit a second animal with his spade, sending it looping in the air. From behind the man, the ground workers came running across the field, screaming and hollering to chase away the wolves. The wolves ran off towards the trees whining, leaving behind three dead pack members. The man turned to face his war hound. She had made a brave, mighty stand, but the beast lay on her side with both long and short gashes in her black fur exposing pink flesh. Her breathing came in short, sharp rasps and the man knew she did not have long to live. The man dropped the spade and knelt beside the hound. He stroked her bloodied maw, saying soft soothing words to her. Behind him, the man heard his son crying. He turned and the boy looked up at his father. The man smiled weakly to the boy and beckoned him over. The boy walked over and knelt beside the hound, next to his father.
“Cleo stop the bad doggies,” said the boy through his tears. “Bad doggies hurt Cleo, but Cleo get better.”
The man looked down at his son and watched him place his chubby little hands onto the hound’s flank. The boy closed his golden-brow
n eyes and his father nearly leapt back in astonishment. The boy’s hands started to glow a golden colour. The golden glow grew over the hound. Before the man’s eyes, the gashes in the hound’s flesh closed and the skin knitted together. Within seconds, the boy removed his hands and smiled. “Cleo better now,” he said, beaming happily.
Eyes wide with amazement, the man watched the hound roll onto her stomach, stand up, and stretch. He ran his hands down the hound’s flank and found no cuts, only congealing blood matted to her fur. Even the hound’s breathing was strong and even.
At that moment, the plump nanny, red-faced from running, arrived. “Oh my, oh my. Are you all right, Frazzy?”
The boy turned happily to his nanny, wiped his tears, and said. “Cleo and Dadda fight bad doggies. Cleo got hurt but she’s better now.”
“Good boy,” cooed the nanny, looking apprehensively at her master. “Go and wash now.
It’s lunchtime.”
The boy whooped and ran towards the house, the hound bounding in circles around him.
“How long have you known?” asked the man, who turned to watch his son scamper to the house, giggling with every step.
“For about a year, master. He healed my hand when I cut it.”
The man bowed his head. “I had no idea,” he said after a while, then looked up at his son. Genuine love twinkled in his eyes, the nanny saw it.
“He has the same gift as your good wife,” said the nanny proudly. But mentioning his wife, the man’s eye grew cold and distant again.
The man rose to his feet and dusted himself off. “Have Brother Bilal come see me as soon as possible. I want some explanations for this.” Then the man strolled off to the house as though nothing had happened and he did not look back.
***
“You have been hard on the child,” said the druid softly.
“If I wanted a lecture I would have asked for one. That’s not the reason I have called you,” snapped the man aggressively.
