by Brian Murray
***
Several years after the Dark One left Riosocho, a ship glided silently into the port. Many armed men disembarked and searched the city. More than two weeks later, the ship left the city. A month later, a dozen or so ships sailed into the port. The surviving Cecillians disembarked and started to re-inhabit their lands. Over the next two thousand years, the population grew and, with it, festered a hatred for all others.
CHAPTER 3
THE DARK ONE, with Malice, Chaos, and Fury went through to the lands of Yallaz’oom. As they passed through the portal, their horses changed. They whinnied in distress as they grew in size and stature, and their eyes began to glow. Their colour changed, each horse becoming matt-ebony, their coats sleek and their legs thickened with muscles. Their manes grew, covering their glowing eyes and flailing in the gentle breeze like dancing black flames. Gone were their simple saddles, replaced with high-backed, dull steel saddles with matching stirrups. The leather reins and bindings changed from brown to black. Evil had changed the beasts and they now pawed the ground impatiently.
The Dark One strolled out onto the flat, black crusty soil plain and stabbed the Blade of Yallas into the ground. He chanted a spell, the language coarse and guttural. The land around him and the three warriors shook and trembled. Huge, deep fissures opened, snaking across the plain. Lava erupted from the cracks and solidified almost instantly, forming a massive black building. The steaming black structure grew upward to the sky and expanded outward. Huge conical turrets extended into the sky, their points hidden within bunching red clouds. The Black Palace grew around the men within a few heartbeats. Thick, tall black walls with wide ramparts expanded to surround the gothic black building. Around the Black Palace, outside of the walls, a moat of orange lava bubbled, plopped, and continually flowed so it did not crystallise into rock. The men now stood within a large hall inside the Black Palace. A fire blazed in the huge hearth and torches hung high on the eight columns that lined the room. There were no windows and the room full of angular shapes and edges was a home for dark, threatening shadows.
The Dark One turned to the three warriors and beckoned them over to where his sword remained, still embedded in the floor.
“Try and remove my sword,” he commanded.
All three warriors tried to remove the sword from the ground. They each struggled to pull the black sword free, but it remained wedged tight. None of them could free it.
“What does it mean?” asked Malice, his voice deep and rumbling.
“Our master was right,” replied the Dark One. “It means we are missing one—we are missing the perfect warrior who can also wield the Blade of Yallas. You should be four. As it is foreseen, it will be.”
“Where do we find him?”
“In the same place we find our army.” The Dark One effortlessly pulled the Blade of Yallas from the ground. He walked from the hall, through a set of large iron doors out onto a balcony overlooking the plain. He lifted the sword and pointed it towards a huge black mountain in the distance.
“It is just a mountain, master,” commented Chaos, shrugging his shoulders.
“It is more than a mountain, it is hell—it is Moranton. Within the mountain are the souls of all evil, corrupt men. Within the folds of the rocks, we will have our army and I will find the one who can wield my blade. I will find the ultimate warrior, the one who will be named Death. And then, my friends, we will be ready to destroy Her. When that has been achieved, the mortals will be our playthings and we will rule them in darkness forever.”
The Dark One with the three warriors left the Black Palace and made the journey to the black mountain. They reached the colossal mountain and the Dark One embedded the Blade of Yallas in the gleaming rock that made up its sleek, sheer slopes. “It is time to open the Mines of Moranton,” said the Dark One coldly, “the Mines of Hell.”
A shudder in the ground began. The tremors increased with intensity until part of the mountainside melted away, creating a tunnel snaking deep into it.
“Chaos, Fury, you will travel through the mountain to reach the Grey Path of the Lost Souls. There we will find miners on the roads and Keepers who will be the mine’s guardians. The Keepers will be Wanderers who have committed some form of foul indiscretion during their lives. Bring them here to me and I will transform them into our mine guardians. The rest of the sorry souls will be put to work in the mines and find the souls of pure evil men. Our own Cecillian army is buried within the mountain. They must be found to form my elite warriors. For the rest, I will use necromancy to create the nastiest creatures that, up till now, have ever walked any lands. They will form the bulk of our army. But first things first—go and find my Keepers.”
Chaos and Fury walked through the mountain and returned after a couple of weeks with thousands of souls from the Grey Path. The Dark One used his magic to transform some of the men into his Keepers. The men’s clothing changed and they now wore long, ripped grey robes. Deep hoods hid their faces in shadow so only their shimmering blue eyes were visible. No light could penetrate the darkness of their cowls and so their terrifying, twisted faces were never seen. Each Keeper possessed a long, iron-tipped whip hanging from its side. When the Dark One completed the transformation of the Keepers, he issued his commands. Their cold, gleaming blue eyes stared back at their master.
“You are the Keepers of the Mines of Moranton—my guardians. You will find miners from the Grey Path and have them dig within the mountain. I want my elite, the souls of my army from Cecillia, brought to me first. I also want you to find the one—I want my champion.”
“I am your champion,” said Chaos coldly.
“Chaos, in the land of the mortals you remain undefeated, but you are not able to wield the Blade of Yallas. You will not be my champion in this realm and beyond. Only the one who can wield my sword will be champion. There is one out there who is your peer with a blade, and to say that, the man must be utterly awesome. He must be perfect.” The Dark One looked into Chaos’s eyes and saw disappointment there. “My friend Chaos, you will have a chance to prove yourself—I have foreseen it.”
A deep-seeded self-centred hatred festered from that day, twisting Chaos’s mind.
***
Over the next couple of decades, within the Realm of Yallaz’oom, the miners dug out the souls embedded in the folds of black Moranton rock. They were transported to the Dark One, who used magic to create his elite from the souls of the Cecillian army, whom he called the Caynians. However, these men the Dark One changed and improved. Now, they were about seven feet tall. They had scarred, bald heads or plaited black topknots, with yellow eyes and grim, tight lines for mouths. The men’s skin was thick, like toughened leather, and coloured ash-grey tinged with blue. Many of them had donned helms protecting their caps, made of black metal rimmed with dark clammy fur with spikes and horns of various shapes and sizes protruding from the front and sides. They had huge, broad rounded shoulders with black metal plates moulded around their upper arms for protection and bolted through their bone to secure them in place. Their barrel chests were criss-crossed with scars, and thick biceps extended down to chunky forearms wrapped with chains and or leather strips leading to huge hands. Brown leggings covered their muscular legs tucked into knee-high boots that had steel plates protruding up to protect their knees. Thick black belts were wrapped around their waists with large metal buckles containing marks of the individuals rank. The weapons made for these creatures were either colossal, double-headed axes, or “bastard” swords. “Bastard” swords were gigantic broadswords, two hands’ wide, three fingers thick and long, about four feet in length, with leather wrapped around the double-handed hilts.
The Keepers continued to search, but they could not find the one—they still could not find Death. The Keepers started mining for others, the souls of men and women with twisted morals, including murderers, rapists, and other foul mortals sent to the mountain as penance for their crimes. The Dark One created a moulding chamber just outside the B
lack Palace where the Talon Hunters and Shadows were created. Each Talon Hunter had the head of a serpent with a ridged cranium, covered with tuffs of matted fur instead of scales, with lipless maws narrowing to a point, armed with rows of sharp teeth. The Talon Hunters had orange cat-like eyes and their heads, thick shoulders, and arms were covered in thick, black matted fur. The only bare part of the Talon Hunter’s body was its powerful barrel chest. Standing on two legs, the Talon Hunters were around eight feet tall and had thick, powerful limbs. These creatures had no weapons made for them; they would fight using their long thick talons to rend flesh. The Shadows had a scaled, elongated head shaped like a wolf, orange cat-like eyes and the body of a huge, powerful man. The difference was these creatures had exoskeletons that covered their backs, torsos, arms, and legs in living armour. Black as pitch, the creatures blended perfectly into the darkness. The speed of the creatures was awesome and they moved as silently as a light breeze. The weapons forged for these beasts were long quarterstaffs with double-bladed axe heads at each end.
Thousands upon thousands of the creatures were created in the moulding room and the Dark One’s army, called the Dread, started to grow, but still they had not found the one they sought. The Dark One became impatient, taking out his growing anger on some Keepers, killing many who brought bad news. He decided to journey into the dark mines himself, and spent over a year searching the tunnels and burrows. In a moment of frustration, he created the Solus with the aid of the natural corruption in the mine’s air—in fact, he used very little dark magic. Finding miners hiding and trying to escape the Keepers, he used the Solus to keep the miners under control and ensure they did not travel too far through the tunnels to reach Yallaz’oom.
Then on an unusually bleak day with thick, sinister red clouds billowing over Yallaz’oom, discharging vicious streaks of lightning and huge claps of thunder, the Dark One found the soul he had sought—the blackest soul in the mine. Maybe his elation clouded his judgement, or perhaps it was the darkness in the mines, but the Dark One did not notice the slight twinkle of white light deep within the black soul. The Dark One removed the soul from the surrounding rock and walked back to Yallaz’oom where Malice, Chaos, and Fury waited. He walked straight past them without uttering word, carrying the precious soul in his hands. Deep within the bowels of the Black Palace, the Dark One completed the Spell of Rebirth and Death was born.
The ultimate warrior, the man without peer, with the ability to use and master any weapon, stood naked before the Dark One. The man had shoulder-length blond hair, broad shoulders that tapered into slim hips, onto solid legs.
“You are no longer the man who lived in the lands of the mortals. The one named Slayer does not exist anymore. From this day on, you are Death. You are my servant, my champion.” The Dark One summoned the weapons for Death and embedded a dark red crystal in the hilt—a crimson crystal that represented the blood he would spill. He created the warrior’s silver armour with his crimson cloak that would billow behind him.
The Dark One walked through the Black Palace with Death walking close behind on his right-hand side. Once outside, the Dark One summoned Malice, Chaos, and Fury. He plunged the Blade of Yallas into the black soil.
“Pull it out,” he commanded Death.
The warrior stepped forward. With ease, he withdrew the blade from the soil and held it aloft, absorbing the sword’s power, his eyes shimmering bright red.
“He is the one,” stated the Dark One proudly. “I now have four, the four perfect warriors, and my circle is complete. We can now travel to the realm of the mortals and defeat the witch.
“Summon my army!” he bellowed. “We are ready to march. We go to war!”
When the army had gathered, the Dark One opened a portal between the realms. His army stepped through to the realm of the mortals and their bloody campaign began.
***
The Dark Wars were brutal beyond description. The Dark One and his Dread arrived on the grassy plains to the east of the Glass Mountains. There he created his fortress. He stabbed the Blade of Yallas into the ground and purged the ground of all life, all of Her magic. Plants withered and animals, insects, and birds all died. Almost instantly, the area became a dead zone. The Dread then marched east. On the green plains, an army of dark- skinned men faced the beasts. The first battle proved to be simply a slaughter. Men were ripped apart as the Talon Hunters and Shadows swarmed over them. Blood stained the ground and filled the air with its coppery odour. The Dark One sent out his Dread to hunt. They butchered all—razing villages and destroying clans’ camps, slaying men, women, and children. It took several months and soon the land became barren, stripped of its goodness—the land became devoid of life and the Steppes were created. Instead pastures of lush green grass, only stubborn wiry clumps remained. The Dark One then turned his army west and marched through the Glass Mountains. In the rolling hills west of the mountains, the Dark One tricked the Divine One.
The Dark One had his Caynians circle a village, stopping the inhabitants from fleeing. He and his four bodyguards entered the town. He looked up to the sky.
“I promise not to hurt these people,” he shouted. “All I want to do is talk.” The Dark One drew the Blade of Yallas and stabbed it into the ground. “Come forth and let us talk, then I will let these people go.”
He paused and listened to the whimpering people gathered around him. He so much wanted to slay them, feast on their blood, feel their pain, but he had to wait. His eyes glowed brightly. Then before him appeared a woman dressed in a silvery-white dress.
“I have seen the future, Frazellon,” started the Divine One. “You are a foul creature and not to be trusted.”
“Ah, I see you know my past, how nice,” he sneered with contempt. “Do not try and use your foulness on me. I know how you try to corrupt all with your sweet words, but words are just air and do not work on me.”
The Divine One gently shook Her head. “I am here to save these people.”
“You think you can save these people?” hissed the Dark One. In one fluid motion, he dragged his sword from the ground and pointed it at the Divine One. Instantly, black streaks of lightning leapt from the tip and encased the Divine One, who screamed in pain.
The Dark One chuckled. “So easily tricked, witch,” he said, casually walking towards the woman. When he reached Her, he lifted Her chin and stared into Her pale green eyes. “Your magic is failing you, wench. Your suffering is so pleasing. I will spend eternity enjoying your flesh and torturing your soul.” The Dark One slapped Her. Her head snapped to one side as his metal glove gashed Her flushed cheek. Only the Dark One’s holding spell stopped her from falling. He turned to Malice.
“Take Her to my home,” he ordered. Then the Dark One turned and looked back at the captured woman. “Before you go, I want you to see how these mortals should be used. Caynians!”
The massive horsemen dismounted and drew their weapons. The Dark One again chuckled when he gave his next order.
The butchery that followed was sickening. The huge warriors killed men, women, and children with equal ferocity. Men were killed quickly. Women and girls were repeatedly raped, then brutally slain, while babies were thrown between the Caynians like playthings, then killed. The babies’ horrific deaths were the most sickening and their tiny broken bodies littered the remains of the town.
The Divine One was unable to fight or defend the people. Her magic was being leached from the land and Her people were losing hope, losing their faith. She was forced to watch the bloodbath with tears streaming down Her face. Beside Her, the Dark One stood wide-eyed with a low, rumbling chuckling reverberating inside his helm.
When the slaughter was complete, he sent Her to Yallaz’oom, where he held Her prisoner in the deepest dungeon of his Black Palace. On several occasions, the Dark One would return to his black palace in Yallaz’oom and torture the Divine One. He felt ecstasy when he heard Her screams, her moans pleading for him to stop.
With the Divine One s
afely held in his dungeons, the Dark One and his Dread marched towards the undulating green hills, heading west. At this time, the leaders of the various peoples met in the mountains. They could not decide on what to do. Two of the leaders wanted to attack, seek revenge, but one wanted to request help from the Rafftons to the north of the Great Mountains. After much discussion, the leaders agreed to attack, knowing they would never get help from the Rafftons. So, in the foothills of the Great Mountain, the army of three nations gathered.
For the Dark One, everything was going according to plan. He just needed to subdue the last of the resistance from the Rhaurns, then he would take the majority of his Dread north. There, he would conquer the Rafftons and his true enjoyment could begin. Then the unthinkable happened.
During an insignificant battle, and as a gift, the Dark One sent Death back to the Realm of Yallaz’oom to torture the Divine One. Unfortunately, that would turn out to be a mistake. At the same time, the army of three nations started to head south to face the Dread. Several miles from the city of Rhamagabora, the two armies prepared to clash.
***
Death approached the dungeon, his eyes dancing at the thought of torturing the Divine One. He opened the iron door and entered the murky, dank dungeon. No longer divine, thought the warrior, smiling. Her silvery-white hair was matted across Her face, her dress was ripped, and She lay in the corner of the dungeon whimpering. Death removed his helm and placed it on the floor next to the woman. He crouched down and yanked Her hair so he could look at the woman’s bruised, battered face. Something at that moment touched him.
“Slayer,” She whispered, Her voice a mere hoarse whisper.
“Who do you call?” boomed Death, his voice deep and harsh like a winter wind.
“You.”
“I am Death. I know no . . . no Slayer.”
“You are the Slayer. Think, Xefth, look into your soul.” The woman reached up and touched the warrior’s brow.
