The Shadow Tome (ch. 4 & 5)

Chapter Four:
The Insurrection

He was running now, though the trees. He could not see them, but he knew they were there. Waiting, stalking. He could feel eyes upon him, and he damned them for hiding in the shadows and tormenting him. He demanded that they come.
And the face in the night spoke, and it said that the time had come for their battle to begin and that they would meet before the end.
He heard a distant voice, and he began to fall away from the eyes, and into the night.
* * * * *
“Wake up Matt! Damn it, wake up! Becken shook him firmly, rattling Matthew to the bones. He sprang out of bed and looked about his room.
Becken and Mortimer were there, with faces stricken white with fear. Matthew could here the shrieks of women and the cries of battle and dying men from beyond his quarters wall. Panic swept through him.
Upon leaving the high clerics council, Matthew returned to the barracks and relayed what he had learned to his companions. They had decided to rest for a short time before departed. It now appeared to be a grave error.
It was Mortimer who spoke. “It has begun. They are in the city, sweeping the streets and they are not alone. Many of our own men are with them, now in colors of black and crimson.” The rage of betrayal burned with in him.
“Our own men you say?”
“Aye,” he said grimly. “Not all though. I found some good lads face down in the gutter. Matthew, we must leave, and it must be now!”
Mortimer and Becken were already donned in their war armor and bristled with weapons. Their faces were drawn and haggard with lack of sleep, and fear was etched into the lines of their faces.
Matthew retrieved his sword from its resting place along the wall, and grabbed the sack of provisions that he had assembled earlier, from the wooden table. The three of them then raced out the door and down the hallway of the barracks, and into the city streets.
The shrieks were loud now, and they came from all around, searing the soul with pain, and Matthew could hear the sounds of battle erupting from near and far. The entire city was in chaos. Bodies littered the side of the roads, many had been mangled by cold steel, their throats slashed and their entrails spilled on the stone. Other corpses laid as ash, seemingly burned away by fire. The once white city was now washed in blood.
With their weapons drawn, they fled as fast as their feet would carry them, towards the city gates. Their boots pounded against the stone, and the puddles of blood on the road splashed into the air, stained their clothes.
As they rounded the block, the cloaked, wraith like men set upon them, accompanied by treacherous Auroran guardsmen. Three to one they were out numbered, but they tore into them as a stone breaks the wind. Matthew hewed the foremost to the ground with a single stroke of his sword, but two more took his place, their blades cutting the air. Matthew parried their blows and thrust one back, but the other bore him to the ground with a broad shoulder. The wraith swung his wicked blade to the stone, but Matthew rolled aside and the blade harmlessly struck the stone. With a sturdy kick from his boot he repelled his attacker and rose to his feet.
Becken and Mortimer battled the others, desperately trying to flee from the clutches of the enemy. As Matthew dispatched his attackers, Becken, with his short swords drawn, danced around the blades of his assailants, weaving his body around the cold steel. He drove his right sword into the chest of a guardsmen and kicked the body aside. He parried a blow from the other with his left blade before striking the throat of his attacker, spraying the stones with crimson blood. Becken then turned to Mortimer, who cleaved one mans skull with his broad axe, before striking another in the chest.
Blood flowed freely down the street as the companions renewed their flight towards the city gates. Small skirmishes littered the streets, and the three men in a righteous rage, slew every enemy that crossed their path. They soon turned off the main road and entered a small alleyway, taking cover from a large host of guardsmen.
As the three men prepared to journey forth again, Becken halted, unable to continue. “Wait,” he cried. “I have to save Leneia!”
“It’s to late Beck!” Screamed Mortimer. “She’s gone, and so will we be if we don’t leave this place!”
“No! I will not leave her to die!”
Matthew interjected. “Beck, she’s already dead!”
“Damn you Matt. You don’t know that! How could you know that!”
“We must get to The Historian! Everything depends on it!”
Becken shook his head. “All of it be damned!” And he stormed back across the alley and out of sight.
* * * * *
Becken tore down the road, all caution fleeing his body as he ran as a mad man through the city. Attackers assaulted him from every direction, but he rent them asunder and did not slow. Blood sprayed the night air in his wake, and his face was smeared red. Rage permeated his soul and bled into the air around him.
He turned down another road and headed toward the palatial district, killing all in his path. Guardsmen in armor of black and crimson lay bleeding in his path, agonizing from the point of his blades.
Two black cloaked men charged him with their wicked blades glistening. Becken let his swords fly through the air, cutting the wind before impaling his attackers in their brains. They jolted backwards, lifeless, as blood sprayed anew, and Becken, without slowing, drew his blades from their skulls and continued his sprint into the district.
He turned left, then right, before coming to a large three story house of wood and stone, thatched in straw. He bolted passed two gargoyles that stood watch in the grassy lawn and charged through the door.
He was stricken with horror as he entered the nightmarish abode. He saw Lord Sommerton, pinned to the wall by a spear that jutted from his chest. His eyes were frozen open in a macabre stare that betrayed the fear he knew before his death, and blood still spilled from his slashed throat, falling in dribbles upon the dark green carpet.
Becken repressed the need to vomit.
By the lord’s feet lay the Lady Sommerton in a pool of her blood. Her body was stripped naked, bruised and broken. Her throat was slashed and her face painted in horror. Becken filled with rage. They had ravaged her before they killed her. They had desecrated her body and spat upon, and had made the old man watch. Before they speared him to the door. His heart was broken.
Leneia.
A horrible scream jolted him back to reason. It came from another room, and he knew whose it was. Becken bolted down the green carpeted hallway and towards the screaming. He sheathed his swords and drew two daggers from his belt as he went. He charged through the door and into the upturned bedroom.
Her dress had been violently torn away, revealing deeps cuts and bruises on her naked body. Four guardsmen in red and black occupied the room. Three held down the screaming woman while the forth stood between her legs, pressing himself against her. Her legs flailed the air in desperation, but the forth’s grip was like iron and he laughed as she screamed.
Becken howled in rage as his knives sang a fatal tune, plunging their blades into the soft throats of two guardsmen. Blood sprayed from their throttled necks and they dropped to the ground in agony, while the other two turned to meet their attacker.
Leneia, now free, rolled from the bed and onto the carpeted floor. Using her arms, she crawled along the floor, for her legs would not carry her.
The last two guardsmen drew their weapons, but were torn to pieces by Becken’s rage. His swords slashed their throats and flung pieces of flesh around the room with blood splashing the wooden walls and saturating the carpet.
When they were dead, Becken ran to Leneia.
She was laying on the floor naked and smeared in blood. The inside of her thighs were red and swollen and she could not walk. She was weeping and would not open her eyes. Becken took the bed sheet from the mattress and wrapped her in it to cover her naked body. He then cradled her in his arms and held her small, fragile body close to him, whispering comforting words into her ear, as he walked briskly out of the death ridden room. He followed the hallway to the back of the house, where a door led out into an alleyway. He carried her through the doorway and into the shadows of the alley, creeping against the walls to avoid being seen.
Becken held her for what seemed like hours as he crept through alleyways and around houses, and his arms burned with exhaustion. He ignored the pain, for he would not let go. Not now. Not ever.
There was a whisper, and Becken looked down at the woman in his arms. She was looking into his eyes with tears streaming down her face. She looked for words to speak, but she could not find them. Becken’s heart ached and his rage consumed him, but those eyes, those perfect eyes, brought him back. He could not change what had happened, but he could see to it that she would be safe. Forever.
Becken reminisced for a moment, of his family, who had met their end in their home of Dellwood Vale. “I share your pain, my lady,” he thought.
After a while longer, she spoke. “Beck,” she whispered at last. Tears began to stream from his eyes as he heard, and his voice cracked as he tried to speak.
“Yes, my dear?” He responded weakly.
“Mother, and father?”Becken’s voice failed him, but hid eyes betrayed what had happened. She began to cry anew, and Becken cradled her tight to himself, and she wrapped her arms around him and cried into his blood stained shirt.
* * * * *
The guardsmen spun to the ground as Mortimer cleaved his arm from his body. Another guard cried out in anguish he was cut down by Matthew’s sword and the two companions raced across the street to the cover of another alley.
The nights violence had only intensified since the two had left the barracks an hour prior. They had fought for every inch, and more and more it seemed hopeless. Matthew desperately wished that Romand was with them, but he knew that in all likelihood, that the high cleric was already dead. He had seen the monastery swarming with guards and the black cloaked wraiths, and he had watched as a group of monks battled against them, unleashing white rays of holy power against them. Wave after wave of men were smashed to pieces by the awesome display, but they eventually had been over powered and cut to pieces by wicked blades.
Matthew thought of Becken, and how he had so foolishly dashed off by himself to save the girl. He could not bare the thoughts that raced through his mind. Where was the goddess in this unholy death. Why had she left her people to be slaughtered so. Who was it that now besieged them.
“If only Romand were here,” he mused. “He would know what to do.”
* * * * *
“Where is he old man? By the darkness your silence only guarantees you a slower death!”
The king held the old cleric by the throat, suspending him in the air. Still, the old man made no sound, and remained silent.
“I swear to you, no manner of heaven can be worth what you will endure if you say nothing! He declared. But still the old man said nothing. His face was etched with fear, and sweat poured from his brow.
The king spoke. “Very well, we shall do this your way then.” Lysander drew a dagger from his belt with his free hand. The old man squirmed and wriggled as the lord of the city slid the blade across the clerics stomach. Blood spewed forth from the wound and splashed against the stone floor. The other holy me sat in horrid silence as the macabre spectacle took place before them. Armored guardsmen and black wraiths surrounded them against the wall, and their swords were drawn against them.
Still clutching the old mans throat with one powerful hand, the king glared into his eyes as he sheathed the blood stained dagger. Then, with sloppy precision, plunged the free hand into the open wound. Grasping an intestine, he began to slowly draw out the clerics entrails. The old mans mouth opened as if to scream, but he made no sound.
“Still you say nothing, old man,” the king sneered. “Don’t think you will die soon. My magic will keep you alive, only so that you might suffer more before the end.” The kings mouth broke into a wicked smile, and he mocked the cleric, but still the old man did not speak.
Soon, he was dead.
The king discarded the body onto the floor like a sack of flour, and released his grip on the entrails. The bloody flesh fell to the ground in a splash of blood and fluid. King Lysander turned to the door and began to leave the room.
“Lucious, come,” he commanded. Turning to the other soldiers, he spoke to them.
“Slay the lot of them.” Lucious followed the king out of the room as red painted the walls.
They plodded down the bare hallways of the monastery, where bodies of monks and sacred knights littered the floor.
“Is the city secure, captain?” The lord asked after a moment.
“The followers of light are all but dead, sire. A few scattered ones remain, and are being put to the sword as we speak.” There was silence again for a moment, as they continued their path toward the sanctuary.
“It disturbs me greatly, captain, that not only is the high cleric unfound, but also the first knight is not among the fallen.” The king halted his step and glared at the captain. “And most importantly, the boy is not dead, is he captain.”
“No sire.”
“Well, see to it! Chosen or not, he will die the same as any man. The other two are nothing compared to him.” Lucious nodded.
“In the morning, they will come. All that hear the master’s summons will come. Many here have already done so. From across the face of Leodoria they will come to stand before these walls, and draw the word in our master’s name. If he is not killed, all this will be jeopardized. He will seek out the ancient one, of this I am sure. I want you to prepare for his journey, if he does escape this place. He must not reach the library. Is that clear captain”
Lucious nodded. “Yes, Sire. It is clear.”
The two men entered the hallowed sanctuary. More bodies laid strewn about the mosaic floor, and pews had been over turned. Blood stained the perfect white of the walls, and the idol of Aurorai had been pulled down and hacked to pieces. The king smiled at such desecration.
“Yes, holy one. You are great indeed,” he mocked.
And then, he laughed.
* * * * *
Matthew and Mortimer crouched behind the wall, slowly advancing along the edifice. They saw the two black wraiths ahead, conversing in hushed, dark tones. Matthew could feel the wind begin to blow harder and it whistled through the buildings, howling through street and alleyways. He saw the black clouds sweeping in over the city, blocking out the stars, issuing in complete and utter darkness, Matthew welcomed the oncoming storm, for it would help conceal their movements.
It had been hours now since the horror had begun, and now the city was quiet again, however, it was silent more sound then death. Matthew felt like such a fool for trusting the king, who had slain the children of Aurorai to a man. The kingdom was no more. Destroyed by an unknown darkness. The dark lord who hid in the shadows, unrevealed to the world. Cyrinth Myriad would now be a beacon of malice upon the world. It would bring only death. Deep inside he knew that this horror had not been for Cyrinth Myriad alone. He thought of the good people of Auron, and he prayed for their souls.
They continued along the side of the building, moving towards their target. The rain began to fall in moderation, and the droplets broke upon the stone streets and buildings. The two companions were soaked to the bone, but now they knew they were nearly invisible, and the enemy never saw them coming. With a single stroke they each knocked one of the two men down with the blunt of their blades. Quickly, they stripped the black cloaks from the unconscious men, and covered themselves in the dark garments
They moved from building to building then, like shadows in the night, and soon arrived at the main gate. It was heavily guarded and none were allowed to pass through. Even their disguises would not aid them here. Matthew began to despair, for all hope seemed lost.
The rain began to pour harder, and sheets of water fell upon the city, mixing with the blood to create rivers and lakes of crimson and pink.
Matthew spun around as a hand grabbed his shoulder. He drew a dagger from his belt and prepared to strike.
“And just what are you going to do with that my son,”asked the hit h cleric in a semi sarcastic tone. A smile reached Matthew’s face as Romand Sohm came into focus.
“Romand! We thought you were dead,” Matthew exclaimed in a hushed voice.
“Dead? Me? Of course not. She will let me know when it is time , and it is not this night. And I found some friends of yours.”
Matthew and Becken were overjoyed when they saw Becken emerge from the darkness with Leneia cradled in his arms. She was sleeping in his arms, wrapped in a bloody bed sheet.
Matthew wondered what horrors Becken had found at the house. Becken did not return Matthews smile, and only nodded grimly at his two companions. Matthew and Becken’s eyes met for a moment, and they betrayed what had transpired at the Sommerton house. Matthew felt his eyes began to well with tears as he began to understand what Becken had seen.
“My friends, Cyrinth Myriad has been claimed by the dark lord,” Romand declared. “All those who refused his name were tortured and slaughtered. The weak in faith have sided with him, and the wilder men from the country come now to the dark one’s feet. I do not know what has become of Kendalar, but I believe we have no friends left here. We must escape and flee north to the Historian. The fate of all men depends upon it.”
“But high cleric Sohm,” interjected Mortimer. “There is no way out of the city.
Romand responded. “So they would have you believe. Fortunately, I know this city better than most, and there is another method of escaping this place.”
“There is a well at the Lions Plaza that is a secret entrance to tunnels that lead under the city and into the forest. It is our only chance, and we must go now.” They all nodded in agreement.
Romand took the lead now, and they followed him through alleyways and courtyards and under the safe cover of porches and catwalks. The rain poured heavier and the crash of thunder could be heard rolling of the saturated buildings. For what seemed an eternity, they worked their way through the city. To their dismay, lightning began to light the sky, revealing them in the darkness.
If they did not get out soon, they never would.
At last, they reached the Lions Plaza. Bodies were strewn about here as well. Noblemen and cleric a like, had been cut down by the sword and their lifeless bodies were now soaked in rain. To the left of the stone plaza was a grove of pine, staning among the wet grass. In the grove, stood the well, and their means of escape.
“There it is,” declared Romand, pointing in the direction of the well. “We must be swift, or are presence will be revealed.”
The five of them, Becken still cradling Leneia in his arms, raced across the soggy grass, and through the heavy rain, to their haven. They were nearly there when a streak of lightning lit the sky, and the cry of soldiers was heard, as their figures were revealed by the storm. The guardsmen raced across the green after them, cutting off their escape. The foremost of them were rent to ash as Romand sent streams of hot white magic into them, tearing their bodies apart. Matthew and Mortimer cut through the second wave with sword and axe, and blood mingled with the rain.
They soon reached the small stone edifice and Matthew, Mortimer and Romand quickly formed a tri circle around. Becken began to descend the well. Leneia held on tight to him with her arms and legs around his body, and they vanished into the dark cistern.
Above the abyss, the battle raged, and more soldiers came, but were cut down by the mighty power of Matthew’s rage.
Mortimer descended next. Strapping his axe to his back, he climbed onto the well and disappeared below the stones.
“Matthew, you must go now, I will hold them long enough, then I will follow!” Matthew nodded in understanding to the clerics words. Grasping the iron bars, we slid into darkness.
Alone now, Romand unleashed a powerful, brilliant white aura of magic that smashed into his attackers, tearing their bodies to pieces and burning them to ash.
When the light dimmed, he was gone.

Chapter Five
The Night Visitor

Captain Evyan Fandorius scribbled his signature onto another dry piece of parchment, an endless toil for the veteran soldier. Light from the candle on his desk flickered as he glanced over at the high stack of army reports, sighing heavily. “Hardly the work of a soldier,” he mused to himself.
The captain had, at one time, been the finest in the east on the field of battle. He had led the armies of the Elvynwood to countless victories against the enemies’s of Laeriana, goddess of life. His blade had swung true, and his voice spoke like thunder, but such was his youth. Now, nearly an old man, he was confined to the idle task of recruitment and training. He had to frequently remind himself that it was Laeriana’s wish that he put down his sword, and teach the new generation the way of the warrior.
Evyan sifted through a stack of injury reports from the last week. He grunted as he read them, signing each one before replacing it on the desk. Next, he moved to his sub commander’s reports. He skimmed briefly over each report, signing those that he approved, and sliding those he didn’t approve into the desk drawer.
He moved to another stack of parchment.
For a man nearly fifty years of age, he did not look it, side from his long, silvery grey hair. His face was lined from age, which gave him a certain distinguishment that was accented by his neatly kept beared.
Time had been good to the old warrior, for such was the goddess of life’s gift to the people of Elvynwood. Those that did not die in combat would live to see a hundred years. Such was their strength.
The final drips of candle wax seeped slowly into the glass tray as Evyan set down the last of his papers. He placed the sorted files neatly into the drawer of his desk and rested the quill and inkwell beside them. He then stood from his chair and wrapped himself in his cloak that had rested on the furniture piece. Illuminated only by the smouldering embers of the fireplace, he walked to the door, and pushed it open gently. Locking the door behind him, he plodded down the stone hallway and out onto the city battlements.
It was an unusually cold, clear night in the city of Enwyn. He held his cloak close to him as his boots clicked against the stone. Sentry guards were posted on the wall, standing by torches for warmth, peering out into the darkness of the North Valley, towards Dellwood country. A mysterious anxiety plagued them this night, and Evyan took notice to his lads nervous state. He stopped every so often to check up on them, exchanging kind and encouraging words to them. He felt it as well, though he would not show it.
As he made his rounds, a young soldier stopped him.
“Captain,” the soldier said. Evyan turned to acknowledge him.
“Ah, soldier Jyrna, what troubles you this night?” Jyrna’s eyes surveyed his surroundings before speaking again.
“Such a cold night sir,” he said. Evyan nodded.
“Aye, that it is.” The captain peered into the darkness of the grasslands that spread out before the city and he could see small fires from the farmhouses that dotted the countryside.
Jyrna moved to speak. “Sir, I fear, as do many of the others, that something moves in the west. An elusive force.” Evyan knew that which the soldiers sensed to be true enough, for he felt it as well. He put those feelings behind him.
“Lad, how long have you been assigned to the wall?” Jyrna paused for a moment, thinking.
“Nearly a fortnight, sir,” he finally said.
“I see.” The captain paused momentarily before speaking again. “Well, my boy, it is a strange thing, the night. It will say queer things to you, if you let it sing its song. Especially here, on the battlements, where many have died by the sword. It is normal for such things to come in the darkness. You mustn’t let it take your wits though, for with out them, what are you?” Thinking for a moment, Jyrna responded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You are blind, soldier, with out your wits. In battle they are as important, nay, they are more important, then your strength and skill with a blade. It is our wits that see us through the day of red, and onto the next.” Jyrna nodded in understanding, although Evyan had the distinct impression that the young soldier only feigned comprehension.
“I think I understand your words, captain. I will try to not let the night startle me so.” Evyan let a small smile cross his face. He laughed softly before speaking.
“Jyrna, there are men older then I that are manipulated by the night. Do not expect that you will quell such things with ease, for you are young, and you are admitted much.” The captain saluted him then, and took his leave, continue his plod down the battlements and around the city.
The moon began to slip behind a wall of clouds as Evyan ended his rounds upon the walls. Descending down a stone staircase, he left the battlements, and walked on the city level, now dwarfed by the large structures.
The city was quiet, as it was upon the wall, and the commoners had long since retired for the night. Evyan plodded down the cobbled street as his boots clicked against the stone. The roads were dimly lit with lamp posts every so often, and guardsmen with torches made their rounds, ensuring that all was in order. Evyan offered the sentries a curt nod as he passed them, and they saluted him as he continued his night trek.
The night was now shrouded in a thick overcast as Evyan entered the cities eastern gardens. He plodded down the path around the vegetation, following to the path to a quaint, stone house, thatched in straw that stood between a grove of pine.
Years ago, the ruling house of Enwyn had offered him a home in the military wing of the government facility, but he had bluntly refused. The small stone house had been occupied by his family for hundreds of years, and he would live no where else.
As he approached his home, he smiled as he saw a faint light illuminating from the two small windows at the front of the house, and thin wisps of smoke expelling from the chimney. He smelled the strong scent of roasted lamb wafting in the air. His stomach rumbled as he approached the door and fumbled with the ring of keys at his belt. He found a particularly odd shaped key, and placed it in the keyhole. He swung the door open.
The house was simply furnished. Ahead of the door, a fire burned in the hearth, and a spit held the lamb, slowly roasted a golden brown. To the right of the door was a wooden dining table and cupboards, that were built against the stone walls. Between the cupboards sat a water basin. Another door opened into a small bedroom.
The floor of the house was simple stone, except before the hearth, where a bear skin rug lay. Two rocking chairs were placed upon the rug, facing the fire. Evyan smiled as he saw his wife, D’nyra, sleeping quietly in one of the chairs, wrapped tightly in a blanket. Her face was elderly and lined with wrinkles, as was his, and her once long, golden hair, now mingled with strands of grey that fell upon her face. All things considered, she was still as beautiful to him now, as she had been nearly thirty years before.
Quietly, he approached the sleeping woman, and gently kissed her forehead. D’nyra stirred, and slowly opened her eyes. She smiled sleepily when she saw him, and rose from the chair.
“Did you just come home now,” she asked, rubbing her eyes. Evyan yawned as he replied.
“Aye, the paper work never seems to end at that infernal desk. She smiled at him, and they kissed tenderly, treasuring each others company.
D’ynra reached for a pair of thick, padded gloves beside the hearth. “Well, the lamb should be just about done, now. Are you hungry?” Putting on the gloves, she reached into the hearth and drew out the spit. The smell of the lamb wafted into the air, and Evyan’s mouth watered at the aroma.
“My lady, I will always be hungry for your lamb.” He smiled again at her.
D’ynra brought the spit of lamb over to the table where she carved it with a knife, and set the sliced meat upon tin plates. Evyan produced a wineskin and two tin cups from the cupboard shelves. Setting the cups on the table, he poured the wine, before setting the skin on the counter top.
They ate their meal then, enjoying one another’s company. The one thing Evyan liked about no longer serving on the battlefield was that he would not be away from her anymore, and she would not be sick with worry that he might not come home again. He had always despised being gone for so long on battle campaigns. Field rations her not slow roasted lamb, and the company of soldiers was no substitute for the love of a wife.
When they had finished their meal, D’ynra washed the plates and cups in the basin, before replacing them in the cupboard. Evyan walked back over to the hearth and placed several more large birch logs onto the flames to help ward of the nights chill. He then turned from the fire and, taking her hand, led her into the bedroom and shut the door.
* * * * *
Evyan was deep in an untroubled sleep when a sound awoke him. He looked over to his side, checking to see that D’ynra still lay comfortably beside him. He could see the door to the bedroom, and it was opened partly, revealing the larger, living area. He could see the shadows from the fireplace dancing on the walls.
As the fire crackled, he could here the distinct, creaking sound of the rocking chair, swinging back and forth. Evyan looked again to the bed, where D’ynra still laid, sleeping. His body grew cold.
Why was the chair creaking?
He slipped out of bed like a shadow and drew a long knife from the night stand beside him. As light as a feather, he padded over to the door and peered into the room. He could see the shadow of the chair, swinging back and forth, plainly on the wall, and the creak of the wood was unmistakable.
Drawing courage, he eased the door open the rest of the way, and, like a cat, stepped into the fire lit room.
“It pleases me to finally have you join me on this night, good captian.” The cold airy voice stopped Evyan in his tracks. He had just set foot into the room, and regardless, the intruder had known his presence.
The cold voice spoke again. “Come, now, I pray you. You need no longer stalk behind the door.”
Evyan revealed himself now. With the weapon drawn, he faced the intruder.
A black, cloaked shape sat rocking slowly in the chair. The figure breathed deeply, sucking on a pipe. The intruder exhaled a cloud of rank smoke into the air. Evyan knew it to be a leaf not of his land. It smelled of Mulden Mord.
“Who are you!” He demanded.
The man responded. “My name is not of consequence. I have come far to see you, captain, for there is much that you need hear.” The man exhaled again and Evyan choked on the pungent fumes. He caught his breathe and spoke.
“Reveal yourself! Why do you hide in the shadows!” The man only nodded and rose from the chair, bringing his face into the light. Evyan gasped in horror as the face of the Aragothan came into view.
His skin was ashen white and heavily lined by age, and his grey eyes were brow less and slanted upwards, perched above a small pointed nose. His lips were thin and pale, and held on them a wicked smile. The whole of his face was long and pointed, and was suspended by high cheek bones and course, unruly white hair hung down over his black robes. Evyan recognized his kind immediately, for there was no mistaking one of the Aragothan faith.
The Aragothans, children of Aragoth, the god of death, dwelt in the land Mulden Mord. The sworn enemies of Laeriana, they had battled each other for seven thousand years. Many times had Evyan led the armies of Elvynwood against the foul children of the god of death.
Wild eyed, Evyan lunged at the Aragothan, his knife bristling in his hand. “Foul beast!” He cried as he struck. The Aragothan did not move from his place, and only made a wave with his hand, that froze Evyan in mid strike. Try that he may, he could not move the knife another inch.
“Please captain, spare us this bigotry,” he said. “Have I not the same disdain for you?”
Evyan spat back.“You speak poison from the serpents forked tongue!”
“And you and angel’s lies,” the other retorted. “But now is not the time for an ancient quarrel. It is destiny that has forged our meeting together this night.”
Evyan scoffed. “You speak of destiny, death child, but it is you who broke into my home.”
“It was necessary I’m afraid, but regardless, I mean you know harm.”
“Hah, such a notion is not within your grasp, villain.” The Aragothan turned back to the fire and peered into the flames.
“I will admit, that to stand here, with my people’s mortal enemy, is a strange thing to me as well.” He turned back to Evyan. “But the world has turned upside down now, and new events have been set in motion. Believe me when I say that you are not my enemy captain. Nay, I hunt something far greater then your petty goddess!”
“You speak deception, dark one. I will not be lulled by your poison tongue!” The other rolled his eyes.
“Please captain, had it been my intention, I could have killed you before you knew of my presence, but such a thing would only doom my cause to failure. Will you not here my words?”
The Aragothan had certainly confused Evyan. What did he mean, speaking of destiny, and a greater enemy? Had the dark fool gone mad? All the same, he seemed to have no choice in the matter.
“I will listen to you, darkling, but know that I do so unwillingly.” The other only nodded.
“I am a member of the Order of Gothenshade. Seven thousand years ago, my people, and yours, were nearly destroyed by one known as the lord of vengeance. Before you speak against this, know that this history was lost to the world long ago. It is still unknown to us why the rest of Leodoria does not recall the history. We must speculate that we were made to forget this past, but for what, I know not. Even his name has been forgotten to us. We have retained very little of the past.”
Evyan laughed bitterly as the Aragothan told his tale. “You offer me tales of your own concocting, darkling, and provide me no proof of your sincerity.”
“Whether you believe now or not makes little difference, captain. Only that you hear it.”
Evyan sighed and submitted. “Very well, continue your story, dark one.”
“My order was created after the vengeance lord’s downfall, to safeguard the knowledge, and see to it, that he never rises again.”
“And so why do you reveal yourselves now?”
“Because, good captain. The lord of vengeance seeks to reign again, and the time of blood comes quickly on the swift wings of death itself.” The Aragothan looked to the window to see the sky begin to lighten in color, announcing the slow arrival of the morning sun. He turned back to Evyan.
“My time here is almost gone, but I must tell you. There are ancient tomes that speak of his return, and the words speak that a select few will conduct his final downfall.”
“And so that means. . .” Evyan was cut off by the others quick voice.
“Good captain, the texts speak of you.”
The morning rays of the sun began to creep through the windows, ushering in the morn.
Evyan could here the sound of voices now, coming from the city streets. They were filled with panic.
“And so it has begun,” the other declared. Evyan now began to fear.
“What has begun?” Evyan demanded, but the Aragothan gave him no answer.
“Goodbye, good captain. We shall meet again, before the end.”
And then he was gone.