Soul of the Prophet: The Elder of Edon Book I

by David Angelo

  “I just want to let you know how grateful I am,” Alto said.

  “Oh, no prob,” Chok replied. “I’m just doin’ my job. Now, would you happen to know if there’s anywhere in this town I can stay for a few days or so?”

  “We have an empty room upstairs,” Alto said. “You can have that for as long as you need it.”

  “Why, that’s might kind of y’all,” Chok replied. “You know, I’ve never met a bar owner as welcomin’ as you. Most of the ones I know are just a load of self-serving, mean-spirited sons of—” Chok looked around at the crowd of youths, who awaited his next expletive with bated breath.

  “Excuse me,” Chok said. “I keep forgettin’ I’m in mixed company.”

  “You think I give a damn?” Alto replied. “Take it easy; they’re all old enough. Now let’s go upstairs so I can show you your room.”

  Alto led Chok out of the dining room, leaving Fin, Scarlet, and the rest of the home’s residents by themselves.

  “All right, everyone,” Scarlet said. “Fin’s back home and in one piece, so get back to work.” The residents sprang into action and resumed what they were doing prior to Fin’s arrival.

  “As for you, Fin,” Scarlet said, “Alto’s given you the night off, or until you recover from your encounter.”

  “But who’s going to take care of the bar?” Fin replied.

  “I will,” Cathwise said from behind the taps.

  “You taught him well,” Scarlet said. “Last night he held the bar all by himself without any issues or problems. Alto was so impressed that he doesn’t think Cathwise needs any more training.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him for the last three weeks,” Fin replied. “Anyway, you said we were having seared bass tonight?”

  “Oh yes,” Scarlet said, motioning toward a table by the fireplace. “I almost forgot. It’s cooked with parsley and sprinkled with squeezed lemon juice, your favorite.”

  Fin was never really fond of seafood, a trait that Scarlet often poked fun at whenever it was served. But tonight it did not matter if Fin was fed fish or gravel for his supper. Fin was so hungry that he had hardly taken a seat before he was picking at bones on his plate. Scarlet returned moments later, brandishing a pitcher of hard cider and two glasses.

  “You don’t have to go through so much trouble for me, Babe,” Fin said.

  “Oh, let me serve you just this once,” Scarlet replied, “but only this time. Once you’re back up and running, you’re on your own.”

  Fin smiled and took a sip from the fresh cider.

  “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Scarlet said, taking a seat across from Fin at the small table. “What do you think of the resistance group that saved you?”

  “They’re pretty robust for their size,” Fin said. “Black-Tooth seems like a capable leader, and they have a fleet of flying thingies called dragon wings, which they use to drop bombs on enemies.”

  “That’s neat,” Scarlet said. “But anyway, what do you think of this prophecy?”

  Fin put his cup down.

  “They told you?”

  Scarlet nodded.

  “Well,” Fin said with a sigh, “I truly believe they think I’m a prophet—the fifth one, to be exact—and I wouldn’t want to discount the possibility that the Prophet’s Song is genuine, but I think they have the wrong guy.”

  “You really think that?” Scarlet asked.

  “Babe, come on,” Fin replied. “Do I look like a warrior to you?”

  Scarlet hesitated.

  “Exactly,” Fin said.

  “But why else would the Cullidons kidnap you and try to put you to death?”

  “Perhaps they have the wrong guy too,” Fin replied. “I don’t know, Scarlet. Honestly, I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t want to disappoint them, because they risked their lives to save me, but I think that the prophet, whoever he is, is still out there, waiting to be found.”

  “But you have to admit,” Scarlet said, “the bar fight was pretty similar to what was depicted in the prophecy.”

  “Fights break out in bars all the time,” Fin said. “What’s so special about this one, except for the fact that I killed a Cullidon who tried to have his way with you?”

  “All I’m saying is never say never,” Scarlet said, placing her hand on Fin’s wrist.

  “And all I’m saying is don’t get your hopes up,” Fin replied. “To think that I, a guy who hardly knows how to put his dukes up or ride a horse, am destined to bring Edon back together again is, quite frankly, pretty ridiculous, if you ask me.”

  Scarlet remained quiet as Fin finished the rest of his cider. She looked a little upset, as if she’d secretly hoped that Fin would believe in the prophecy. Fin knew that she wanted him to believe. Scarlet had always had a stronger faith than him and was always more optimistic. Perhaps it was just in her nature to see the glass as half full, or maybe she was the sort of naive type who enjoyed believing in the fantastical. It was one of the personality traits that Fin loved about Scarlet, a nice bit of optimism to balance his skeptical mindset.

  “I know it’s early,” Fin said. “But do you mind if I hit the hay?”

  “No,” Scarlet replied. “Alto wants you to go to bed early anyway, so you can recover from the experience you had.”

  “I have a feeling it’s going to take me a while to erase all the things I saw from my mind,” Fin said as he stood up. “But a good night’s rest would do me good. Thanks for the supper and the cider.”

  “You’re welcome,” Scarlet replied as Fin made his way to the stairs. “See you in the morning.”

  With every step Fin winced a little in pain. Every part of him hurt, from the dull ache in his tail to the throbbing pain in his head, which pulsated with the beat of his heart. Fin felt like an old man whose body was stricken with the cruelty of age as he limped to his room at the end of the hall. When he opened the door to his bedroom, Fin was greeted by the familiar sights and smells of his personal domain. Everything was exactly as it was when he’d left the day before on that unassuming expedition for a new stool. The window over his desk was still open, leaving his room as chilly as the winter air outside. Fin looked once more out onto the village of Notnedo, whose snow-covered roofs were cast in a blue haze as twilight took hold. Taking in one last breath of fresh air, Fin shut the window and, for the first time in years, closed his blinds. He climbed under the covers of his bed and breathed the scent of his fresh, clean sheets. He let the weight of his blankets embrace him like a warm hug. Not long after his head made contact with the soft pillow, Fin was asleep.

  Fin had been asleep for a few hours when the wind outside started to pick up. At first it was little more than a mild breeze. But it progressively grew stronger as the night dragged on and developed into a powerful gale. Yet it was still not enough to wake Fin. He lay on his stomach, eyes sealed, mouth open, and a trickle of saliva soaking into his pillow. It took the force of a particularly heavy gust, which caused the window panes to tremble, to finally rouse the sleeping dragon. Fin slowly opened his eyes in a haze of confusion. His body was still half-asleep, and his mind was recovering from a dream. It was probably about Scarlet, one of those arousing dreams Fin had on occasion, where he would wake up the next morning to find his dorsal spines glowing red. But before Fin could remember, a gust slammed into the window with such force, it sounded like someone was trying to break in. Fin jumped and flipped over on his back, his heart pounding out of his chest at the sound of the crash. Fin could hear the panes of glass pulsate behind the curtains under the constant bombardment of the gale, the small latch that held them together struggling to keep them shut. This was the most powerful windstorm Fin had seen in years. The wind howled like a phantom, and the foundation of the pub quaked with every gust. It seemed that the longer Fin stayed awake, the stronger the winds became. Fin wondered if a tornado had touched down, a rare occurrence in this part of the land. In a move the logic of which Fin immediately started to questio
n, he got out of bed and crept toward the window, wanting to see what effect this wind was having on the rest of the town. Perhaps his head was still half-asleep, or some force was luring him forward, but either way, Fin approached the window.

  Before Fin could even touch the curtains, the latch broke, and the windows swung open. They hit the inside of the wall so hard that the glass shattered. A mighty blast of wind blew through the room and knocked Fin onto his back. Stunned, Fin tried to get up but was blinded by a sudden flash of light. Fin cowered on the floor and placed a hand in front of his face to protect him. Through the cracks of his fingers, Fin saw a magnificent bluish-white light emanating from the open window. It was as bright as the sun and filled his entire room with its luster. Then two glowing blue orbs appeared in its center, like a pair of piercing blue eyes. The light and the orbs were accompanied by a deep hum, which grew louder and louder until it was the only thing Fin could hear. Eventually, Fin thought he could decipher what sounded like words in the repetitive rhythm.

  “Fin.”

  Thinking that he was losing his mind, Fin shook his head and tried to rationalize this phenomenon. Was he dreaming? Did someone spike his cider? Was this some sort of mental breakdown caused by yesterday’s events?

  “Fin,” the hum said, “listen to me.” It now seemed to Fin that the hum was beginning to take on the tone and style of a female voice. It was deep, soft, and yet stern all at the same time.

  “What are you?” Fin asked.

  “My name is Blizzard. I am the Elder of Edon, the creator of all dragons. I have listened to the cries of the Faranchies for too long. Now the soul of the prophet has chosen you, Fin, to deliver them from oppression and trigger the Dragon Storm.”

  “But, Elder,” Fin said, “out of all the Faranchies you can choose from, why would it want me?”

  “That I cannot answer,” Blizzard said, “for I have yet to understand it myself. Regardless, it seems that you are skeptical of what your rescuers have said. I can tell that you do not intend to join them and instead to continue your life as it always has been. But before you make that decision, I want to show you something that may convince you otherwise.”

  The light from the window brightened until Fin could no longer keep his eyes open. The humming stopped, the wind ceased, and everything was as calm as it was before the Elder arrived. Fin opened his eyes and discovered that he was not in his room but on a cobblestone sidewalk in the heart of a large city. Buildings of marble and limestone towered over him, adorned with ornate carvings and relief sculptures on their exterior walls and facades. Some of the buildings were fashioned with trim of gold and silver, while others sported blown-glass windows that reflected the light of a late-afternoon sky. As Fin sat up and wondered how he’d gotten here, he heard a nearby commotion of shouts, moans, and yells, accompanied by the sound of rustling chains and the crack of a whip.

  Fin turned around and was confronted by a crowd of Cullidons, one thousand strong, standing between two buildings at the mouth of a city square. Their backs were turned to Fin, and they gathered around something in the middle of the square. Egged on by curiosity, Fin approached the entrance to the square but stopped short of the thick crowd, not wanting to bring attention upon himself.

  “They can’t see you, Fin,” Blizzard said. “You are like a ghost to them. Now get up to the square. There’s something I want you to see.”

  Humoring the Elder’s advice, Fin broke through the rear of the crowd and made his way to the front. Not one Cullidon cared to take any notice of the red Faranchie who had invaded their presence. Fin stopped at a gate that had been erected to keep the crowd at bay and beheld a sight that made him sick to his stomach.

  A row of Faranchie slaves, nearly two hundred in all and chained at the ankles, were positioned along the length of a long cord that lay at their feet. The cord was connected to a system of pulleys and gears that operated a giant wooden crane that stood several stories high. The crane’s hook was tied to a large stone statue that lay on its side and was covered with wooden scaffolding. While Fin was trying to figure out what the statue was, the sudden crack of a whip startled him and brought his attention to a Cullidon who stood at the end of the row of Faranchies.

  “All right, you lazy twats!” the Cullidon ordered. “Take the rope and pull!”

  The Faranchies bent over, picked up the cord, and pulled with every fiber of their beings. To make them pull faster, the Cullidon with the whip lashed it over their heads, making a constant crack that echoed for miles around.

  “For four centuries,” Blizzard said, “your people have been oppressed, exploited, and abused by the Cullidon parliament. On the one hundredth anniversary of their rise to power, parliament forced your people to erect this very monument in the capital city of Sebeth.”

  “Move it!” the Cullidon shouted, lashing a Faranchie who had let his side of the rope slack. Fin cringed as the Faranchie wailed in pain, his strength giving way. Meanwhile, the statue slowly rose upward until it became apparent that it was a giant sculpture of a Cullidon, made of white marble, standing atop a mound of some sort.

  “It’s almost there,” the Cullidon said, cracking his whip several more times in the air.

  One final, painful tug was all that was needed to bring the statue upright, and it settled with an earthshaking quake. Upright and visible for all to see, Fin saw that the Cullidon statue was standing atop a dead Faranchie, his right boot wedged in the crevice of his victim’s neck. The Cullidon stood tall in a proud stance, clad in a suit of armor, his fists planted at his sides. The statue’s face looked ahead, its blank eyes observing the sea of misery left in its wake. The Cullidon crowd broke out in ecstatic applause as Fin looked ahead in a state of disbelief and rage. He gripped the sides of the rail, his fists tightening around it, anger seeping into his soul. Meanwhile, the Cullidon with the whip directed some nearby guards to the Faranchie who had struggled during the entire ordeal.

  “This one here,” the Cullidon told his comrades. “This old geezer is no good to me.”

  “No…” the Faranchie moaned, but the guards unshackled him and dragged him away to an area at the side of the construction site, where a Cullidon was waiting next to a chopping block.

  “Daddy!” one of the slaves screamed, pulling against the chains. But the slave owner whipped her to keep her quiet.

  Fin felt helpless as the Faranchie was forced to kneel at the base of the chopping block, his neck stretched over the edge. The waiting Cullidon took out a sword and placed its blade on the back of the Faranchie’s neck, looking for the best place to make a clean slice. The Cullidon raised his sword in the air, the cries of the slave’s daughter drowned out by the cheers of the bloodthirsty crowd. In the split second before the blade liberated the slave’s head from his body, he turned in the direction of the crowd, looked Fin in the eye, and said, “Help us.”

  The bright light consumed Fin’s vision once again, and when it dissipated, Fin was standing atop a large platform in the middle of a dark cave. Clouds of white fog drifted over the surface of the ground like ghosts, their wispy tails twirling in the air. There was not a sound to be heard, the echoes from the scene before melting into nothingness.

  “Where am I?” Fin asked, but Blizzard did not respond. Instead, the clouds began to form into shapes big and small, tall and short. They surrounded Fin’s platform like an audience, and they began to take on strange features before his eyes. It was not long before the clouds began to resemble Faranchies and Cullidons, with arms, legs, tails, and heads. Details began to appear in the figures, including skin colors, facial features, horns, and frills. They surrounded the platform where Fin stood, looking at Fin as if they expected him to deliver a speech.

  “These are the spirits of Edonions,” Blizzard said, “who died at the hands of the Cullidon parliament.”

  To Fin’s horror, the dragons began to take on strange deformities, injuries, and ailments. Fin saw dragons that had been shot, slashed, impaled, and burned.
Some of them were missing limbs, while others looked like they had been starved to death, their bones showing beneath their pale skin. Others were mutilated, their skin torn to ribbons, eaten by disease, or burned beyond recognition. Every one of them moaned, the pain they’d endured in life continuing to haunt them in death.

  “Fin,” someone called.

  He turned his head in the direction of the voice and saw a Faranchie whose neck had been slashed. A stream of blood trickled from the front of his neck and down his torso. “Look at me.”

  “Me too,” said another Faranchie, who looked like she had been stabbed repeatedly, her skin pockmarked with deep lacerations.

  “Don’t you know that we’re all suffering?” said a Cullidon who had been burned to death, his flesh turned to char and his tissue seared. “It’s not just the Faranchies who are the victims. All of Edon cries with us.”

  “How long must this go on?” cried a female Faranchilldon. Her face had been peeled from her skull and hung, dripping in blood, over her chest.

  “But what am I supposed to do?” Fin asked. “I want to help you, but I just don’t know how!”

  “You will find a way,” said a Faranchie with a bullet hole in his forehead. “Trust us.”

  “Fin, listen to me,” said a Faranchie whom Fin recognized as Dorval. His head was slumped on his shoulder, his neck no longer strong enough to support its weight. “You have the power to stop this, right now.”

  “Listen to the Elder,” said a child’s voice at the foot of the platform. Fin looked down and saw a little Faranchie girl, no older than six or seven. Her little body dripped with water, and a pair of large stones had been tied around her ankles. “Embrace the soul of the prophet.”

  Suddenly, Fin was overcome by a wave of different emotions: anger, fear, sadness, depression, hurt, all the feelings that the victims had experienced when they died. Fin felt what they felt, saw what they saw, suffered the same crimes that were committed against them. Before long, his legs gave way, and Fin lay on the platform in the fetal position, his arms wrapped around his head and his jaw clenched shut, rolling back and forth on the ground. Fin closed his eyes while the negative feelings and emotions swarmed around him. A lump settled in the back of his throat, and tears formed. The emotions grew in Fin’s gut, building in pressure until Fin felt like he was going to explode.