by Brian Murray
***
Within the great hall, the portal had opened twice and now was almost filled with milling creatures. The Darklord thought the creatures would break the solid rock doors, but he had miscalculated its strength made from the Dark One’s necromancy. He had other problems. Most of his dark magic was powered by the sacrificing of an innocent mortal. He needed an offering of a pure soul in order to complete the spell of communication. He did not have any humans and so he could not communicate with the Dark One. Moreover, without sacrifices, he did not have the power to break the door. He had his own innate power, but this was being drained controlling the creatures. He had to think. He needed power to sunder the doors. For the first time in a century, the Darklord cursed aloud. He felt trapped.
The portal shimmered to life and a burst of hot air extinguished all of the torches, plunging the hall into darkness. The Darklord raised his hands and spoke a word of power. Instantly, the torches around the hall burst back to life. The Darklord looked at the portal and an idea came to him. He walked forward and uttered a spell. Then he stepped into the liquid-like film that moulded itself around his small frame. Suddenly the film snapped, resealed, then rippled. Naats Flureic disappeared from the hall. The Darklord was gone from the realm of mortals.
***
This was the first time the Darklord had travelled to or seen the Realm of Yallaz’oom. He had spoken of it often with the Dark One when he had possessed an old man all those years earlier. But now he stood on the black, scorched soil for himself. Towering large in front of the Darklord was the Dark One’s Black Palace with a moat of lava bubbling around it. The Darklord looked up and his eyes widened. It was true. The sky was the deepest black in tone with blood-coloured clouds that bunched and billowed. In the distance a volcano erupted, sending out a plume of molten rock and ash high into the air. As he stood still, he could feel the evil magic that would corrupt normal men seep into his soul, giving him power. Inside his deep hood the Darklord’s face creased. He grinned. He could feel the magic swamp his senses. This was his realm. Home, thought the Darklord, I am truly home.
Two Keepers looked at the Darklord, confused. They were not expecting anyone to come through the portal without their master informing them. Behind the Keepers, several hundred beasts eagerly waited to cross through the portal to the realm of the mortals.
The Darklord spoke. “I am Naats Flureic, the Darklord, mage for and friend of the Dark One. I have come here seeking power. Mortals have blocked the doors in the hall beyond the portal and I need power to sunder them. I am the Darklord and you will do my bidding.”
The two Keepers looked at one another, then faced the Darklord. After what seemed an eternity, they bowed deeply. Two Caynians strutted up past the Keepers and towered before the Darklord.
One of the Caynians spoke, its voice deep and rumbling. “We have heard of you, mortal. Why have you travelled to his realm?”
“I need power. The creatures you have sent are trapped within the hall of our master’s fortress in the realm of the mortals. I need power to sunder the doors for they are too strong to be broken by mere beasts.”
The Caynian who spoke gazed upon the Darklord and then bowed deeply. “Where will you get power?”
The Darklord had not given this much thought. “I will think upon it,” he answered, shuffling past the Caynians and walking towards the Dark One’s home—the Black Palace.
***
Inside the sandy brown fortress, the pounding on the doors stopped. This worried Commander Fontis. He did not know if the creatures were going to try something different. But nothing happened. After a while, he ordered his men to stand down. He reduced the front line to twenty men, but kept reinforcement close—very close.
***
The Darklord sat on the Dark One’s throne, pondering his problems. He could feel his power swell; dark, foul magic penetrated him from the air, the building, the ground, from everywhere. But it was not enough. Then the answer came to him. He rose from the throne, shuffled down the steps, and flung the doors open. The Caynian, outside guarding the doors, bowed.
“Bring me one hundred fresh Wanderers,” ordered the Darklord.
“They are not allowed to come here,” countered the Caynian.
“They will not live long enough to know the route here and they will give me the power I need,” snapped the Darklord. The Caynian stared at the Darklord for a moment and tightened his grip on his huge axe. “You would question me, Caynian? Our master needs his Dread and I need to sunder those doors. You will do as I command, else the Dark One will hear of your insubordination.”
The Caynian jerked and snapped to attention. “It will be as you command.”
“Hurry, the portal opens again soon.”
“Yes sire,” replied the Caynian, bowing and moving away from the doors.
The Darklord returned to the throne. He sat down. I could rule this realm, he thought. It could all be mine. As the thought entered his mind, so did a picture of the Dark One’s blazing red eyes. The Darklord shivered with pleasure. If he had the Dark One’s Black Crystal and its power . . . maybe he could make a pact with the Prince of Darkness. The Dark One was becoming more and more confrontational. Madness swelled inside the Dark One—the prophecy and revenge against the Divine One drove the Dark One. The Darklord knew this and could only watch the Dark One make foolish, rash decisions. But the Darklord knew that to question the Dark One would mean an eternity of anguish. But suppose the Dark One loses, thought the Darklord, I could have power.Suppose, just suppose. The Darklord sat on the throne his mind racing. The prophecy . . . maybe, just maybe . . .
***
The Dark One stalked about within his tent while Malice waited patiently for new orders. Yet another attack by the Shadows on the mound had been repelled. The Dark One removed his helm and threw it. It clattered against his throne. He threw up his arms and roared with rage. He turned to face Malice and the warrior could see he was seething. Now was a time to remain quiet.
The Dark One took a long calming, shuddering breath. “Have they been sighted yet?”
“No master, there has been no sighting of them.”
“They will arrive soon,” hissed the Dark One vehemently as he sat down on his throne. He looked up at Malice. He was the only creature that came close to being a friend. “Do you think I am wrong?”
“It is not my place to question you, master.”
“I asked your opinion,” stormed the Dark One, his eyes gleaming.
“I am your warlord master, but firstly and foremost, I am your servant. I do your bidding. However, if I was in your position, I would have taken the city and then turned my army to face the Rhaurns.”
“You do not know why I am doing this,” hissed the Dark One, his voice menacingly cold.
“Sire, I believe you are playing with them. That much I know. You are drawing the enemy to us and you will be successful. This I know.”
“Yes, yes, I am playing with them, but they are making me wait. I do not want to wait. I want success. I want Her grovelling at my feet.”
“And you will have your success.”
“Yes, I will.” The Dark One sat pondering for a while. He closed his eyes and a smile grew on his scarred ebony face. “They are coming. They will be here soon.”
“How soon?”
“Mere weeks,” replied the Dark One, grinning.
“What shall we do in the meantime?”
“Wait, my friend. Now we will wait.” The Dark One began to laugh—an awful, malicious sound, lacking any mirth.
***
The Chosen stood on the mound next to his new general, Platos, and his deputy, Danf. The young clansman was so proud to have been called to the palace and receive his appointment. He looked at his emperor and thought back to his meeting with him the day before. His happiness grew when the Chosen explained he was to be taught by the senior priest to write, do numbers, and understand battle strategy. The only thing that disappointed the clansman was the
fact that his father was not here to share his joy.
***
“Why so sad?” asked the Chosen.
Danf looked up at his emperor. “I wish my father was here.”
“I know, Danf. He would have been so proud of you, and had several goblets of Daarina to celebrate no doubt.”
“Aye, he liked a goblet or two,” replied the young clansman, grinning.
“You will be staying with Platos and his wife. When you are not in lessons with Tikar, you will be learning the art of weapon making with Platos.”
Danf looked up at the huge master armourer and now Warlord for the Phadrine. “My wife and I are looking forward to having you.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” replied Danf, his voice choked with emotion. Platos looked at the Chosen, who shook his head slightly.
“It is the least I could do. We will be working very closely together and my wife and I are happy you will be joining our family.”
***
Danf cleared his mind and looked out from the mound at the Dread. They had not charged the mound for the last couple of hours. The beasts were not gathering, so it seemed as if they would not be attacking today.
“What do you think is going on?” Platos asked the Chosen.
“I do not know. But one thing is for sure, we could do with the rest.” The Chosen looked up and down the mound and saw many haunted faces. Even though the men had been well rotated, they were tired of the constant fighting against the beasts. “Have the men stand down,” he said.
Platos removed his helm to let the slight breeze cool his sweat-matted hair. The smithy was tired and he had lost more weight. Like the Chosen, he had spent every day on the mound, and in the middle of the most intense fighting. “I could do with the rest myself,” he admitted honestly.
The Chosen grinned. “Aye, you are not the only one. I am feeling my age.”
“Look it as well, sire,” said Platos, smiling at his emperor who had dark smudges around his eyes.
“Go and see your wife,” ordered the Chosen. “I will speak with you later.”
“Mighty fine idea. Home cooked meal.” Platos turned to the young clansman. “Danf, you coming?”
A smile grew on his face and he nodded.
“Good, let’s go.”
The Chosen chuckled at the two men as they walked from the wall. Platos was huge like a grizzly bear, whilst Danf was smaller and wolf lean. Still smiling, the Chosen looked out at the beasts—still no activity. He turned and walked down the mound to his stallion. He still had the feeling the Dark One was toying with him. He did not like it, but it gave more time for the Rhaurns to arrive. He shrugged. With several Imperial Guards around him, he rode back to his palace where his bed called to him.
***
The Darklord waited in the throne room for what seemed to be an age. All the time he was thinking—thinking what if? He had been told the portal had reopened and no beasts were sent through. Due to the difference in time, for days, the Darklord waited and waited, yet no one came to him. Usually a placid man, the Darklord’s anger began to grow. He knew that the Dark One was relying on him to provide a constant flow of new beasts to add to the Dread. Yet, as the Darklord remained in the realm of darkness, he felt his evil powers growing.
A thump on the door echoed in the hall.
“Come,” ordered the Darklord.
A Caynian entered the throne room and bowed.
“You have news?” asked the Darklord, his impatience rising.
“Yes, sire.”
“Well?” snapped the Darklord.
“The Keepers have found most of the new Wanderers you asked for. It has taken some time because they wanted to ensure they were fresh.”
“Yes, yes. How long?”
“They will be here in two to three days.” The Caynian did not wait for a reply, it just bowed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind it.
The Darklord rose from the throne and shuffled around the room, trying to ease his growing tension. He sensed a door hidden behind the throne. He walked to the door and gave it a push. It did not open. Frowning, the Darklord closed his eyes and uttered a spell. Nothing happened. A challenge, he thought. His anger was instantly forgotten for now his curiosity got the better of him.
He tried spell after spell, but he could not get the door to open. Naats could sense, almost taste the black magic sealing the door, but the spell that held the door closed just eluded him. He returned to the throne, sat down, and thought about the problem. What could be behind the door that the Dark One would seal with such a seal-spell? The Darklord continued to ponder this mystery. He did not hear the knock and so the Caynian hammered the door harder.
“Come,” snapped the Darklord.
The Caynian entered the room and bowed low.
“What is it?”
“There has been a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Several of the Wanderers have escaped,” announced the huge warrior, its voice resonant. “The Keepers are searching for more.”
“How many?”
“About ten of them, sire.”
“Bring the rest to me. That should be enough. I do not have any more time to waste.”
“As you command, sire.”
The Caynian left the Darklord alone in the room. Suddenly, the solution leapt into this mind. He rose from the throne and walked behind it. Calming his excitement, the Darklord whispered another spell. Around the door a blue glow radiated for a moment, then there was a soft click and it slowly creaked open.
The Darklord entered the room—it was small and the air thick. A magic glow lit the room, giving it an eerie feel. To the left of the door stood a chest-high black stone column. On top of the column rested the bust of a woman. The Darklord stepped closer to the image and saw the woman sculpted was beautiful. The bust had been created with love and care that contradicted the darkness that was Yallaz’oom. Her skin was smooth and one could image her long, flowing hair flailing on the slightest breeze. The woman had an oval face, full inviting lips, but large, lifeless eyes. He held the lifeless gaze for a while, intoxicated with the bust’s beauty, her almost magical aura. The Darklord dragged his eyes from the sculpture, drawn to the middle of the room. There on a stone table lay three books. The Darklord held his breath and reached out. He touched the books and felt a tingling sensation. Tenderly, he stroked the cover of leathery human skin, feeling its evil. He did not have to open the covers to know what they were.
“The Tomes of the Damned,” he whispered, trying to control his excitement. He licked his lips and opened the first volume. Then he cursed. He would not have enough time to examine and learn from them all. Naats quickly flicked through the pages of the first volume. Finally, he reached the Spell of Calling. Inside his deep cowl, the small man smiled. The expression lacked humour—instead it was full of greed. This was what he sought—the spell to summon the Prince of Darkness, evil himself. He memorised the spell and closed the book. Naats wished he had more time, but he knew he could not afford to be caught in the room. He left the room, replaced the seal-spell on the door, and shuffled back to the throne. With difficulty, he quelled his excitement. He had touched the tomes. The Darklord closed his eyes and recalled the script, the calligraphy—perfect, everything he had imagined the books would be. Secretly, he had been researching the history of the tomes. They were lost many millennia ago, but now he had found them. He knew that within the pages were all of his answers; within the pages waited ultimate power. With such power, he could be a god.
The Darklord had one piece of knowledge the Dark One did not have: there were actually four volumes. The fourth book was in the realm of the mortals, but it had disappeared from memory of all except a very few. The Prince of Darkness had created them when he was a mortal, but he had only possessed three of them. Before the Dark Wars, a cult from the Rafftonia calling themselves the Matrox had discovered the location of the book. The Matrox high priest and the Raffton emperor wanted u
ltimate power—they wanted to be gods. They had hunted for the book, but just as the Matrox had retrieved the book, they lost it and now its location remained a secret. The Darklord had spent a great deal of time uncovering the location of the tome. He had one clue. He knew the name of the man who had defeated the Matrox. Only recently had he realised the man who had stopped the Matrox had become the Dark One’s champion. The man’s name was Slayer. The Darklord believed the man could tell him where the fourth tome was hidden.
The Darklord did not share this knowledge with the Dark One. He wanted the book for himself. Within the pages, the holder can find spells that could become immortal and fight at the Prince of Darkness’s side against the higher gods. The book gave the holder the power of the gods, and Naats Flureic craved that more than anything—he did not want to serve anyone. The Darklord licked his lips. He would secretly learn from the first three volumes, then go and hunt for the fourth. With it, he would be invincible. His first mission would be to defeat the Dark One. The second would be to control the Prince of Darkness. All of the stars would be his to command. One step at a time, he told himself. He had to help the Dark One defeat the mortals. Then he could travel back and forth between the realms at will. Naats Flureic shuffled on the Dark One’s throne. For the first time in over a century, the man felt aroused. Neither the thought of being with a woman, nor a man did this. Only the thought of supreme power turned him on.
For days, the Darklord plotted and planned. He had thought of every possible outcome and variation. He decided he could not lose. All he needed to do was open the doors in the fortress in the mortal realm and he would ultimately win.
There was a knock on the door and a Caynian entered the room, bowing. “We are ready, lord.”
“Good,” replied the Darklord, almost jumping from the throne. He followed the Caynian into a large hall. It was the mirror of the locked hall in the other realm. The Darklord cast his eye over the many Wanderers that had been brought to him. There were many women and a few children. This offering should please the Prince of Darkness, thought the Darklord. The Wanderers would not have the same potency as living sacrifices, hence why the Darklord required so many.
