The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (29 page)

Iolanthe looked to Faolán and then back again to Cal. She spoke with a weight often reserved for war councils and deathbeds. “You have done a great deed that is sure to be worthy of scores of Sprite songs, but this deed alone is just a small gust of wind before the impending storm.”

Faolán looked to Cal with what little warmth he could spare and said, “Our Queen has been given word by our great Father of an imminent war on the horizon—one waged by an unsleeping evil over the hearts of men and for the very city you have called home.”

“Our great Father has also revealed to me,” the Queen interrupted Faolán’s account, “that His light will come, and its strength will not fail. For out of the west a new hope will be born. From across the Dark Sea, a new light will pierce this darkness with a true and final victory.”

“But my Queen, what hope do we have against the winged serpents of Nogcwren if the sword of the dragon-slayer is halfway across the known world?” Faolán adamantly demanded answers to his fears.

“My Captain … my friend,” the Queen’s gaze had softened in response to Faolán’s transparent desperation. “We have no hope at all if we do not seek and find our great Father’s light. No sword, ordinary or otherwise, can ultimately rid the world of the vile evil that betrayal has wrought. We, of all people, have seen this first hand.”

As she turned and looked at Cal, the juxtaposing colors of weariness and of hope were all that were left in her beautiful gaze. “We must send him west, Faolán, for we cannot keep him for our smaller cause and ever hope to truly win.”

“Your word is law,” Faolán submitted. “I am merely afraid of the great pain that will come to our people if he and that blade are not at hand when the evil strikes. But I trust your heart above my fear, and I will do as you command.”

“Thank you, my Captain,” the Queen smiled to Faolán, knowing full well the price this submission had cost him. “Let us trust our great Father as we prepare to do our most heroic deeds yet.”

The captain bowed and saluted his Queen, then flew out of her chambers in a flurry of obedience to carry out her commands. She watched him fly away, staring intently into the empty air for moments after he had disappeared. Finally, she steeled her resolve to do what she knew she must as she turned to address the young man standing behind her.

“Come, Calarmindon Bright Fame, for I must return to you what is rightfully yours,” the Queen said. Ardghal, herald of the Sprites, flew into the Queen’s chambers with seven of his company carrying a familiar sword in an unfamiliar scabbard.

“It was you that rescued Gwarwyn from the watery grave, it was you who answered the calling of the beautiful dawn, and so it is you who must wield this deadly blade against the ravenous evil,” said the Queen with a solemn earnestness in her voice.

“But I am afraid, my Queen,” Cal replied. “I am afraid that I won’t know where to look, or what to do, or how to live up to the fame of Caedmon.”

She thought long and hard for a moment, calculating the very intentions of the young man’s heart, playing over again in her mind the words of the THREE who is SEVEN.

“Do not dismay, Calarmindon Bright Fame, for before there was fear, beauty lived … and a most deadly of beauty it was. Trust in our great Father, seek
His
light, and the beautiful dawn will break in over the shadow of fear.”

It was there, under the cover of the tallest Jacaranda, that Iolanthe, Queen of the Sprites, gave to Calarmindon Bright Fame the sword of Caedmon the dragon-slayer. She commissioned him with a kiss, and whispered magic words of warning and wisdom, words so beautiful and filled with deep and dangerous meaning that Cal could never have repeated them even if he tried.

Cal reached out to receive the blade that rested upon a table formed from the ancient stone of the Hilgari. As he grasped the hilt and pulled to release it from the confines of the scabbard that Eógan had cared for these many generations, his eyes fell upon the ruined steel. Doubts, disappointments, and waves of despair crashed in over the newly formed outcroppings of Cal’s resolve. This weapon was meant to fend off the darkness, but its lack-luster reveal threatened the flame of hope that was Cal’s very foundation.

“
This
is the blade of legend? This is what I rescued from the watery grave? This is what slew the ancient serpents and brought down the dragon hive?” Cal’s questions brought him to the verge of tears. “Why would the THREE who is SEVEN call me to carry a blunted relic when what I will need is biting steel?”

Cal picked up the tarnished and age-worn weapon of the mighty dragon-slayer, and instantaneously something happened in his hands. The feather-like feel of the magical blade turned to heavy stone, and Cal had to strain against its unbalanced weight. “What happened? What did I do?” Cal asked nervously, eyeing the sword with a bit of newfound reverence.

“The burden is great for those who must carry, in their mortal hands, the responsibility and calling of an immortal tool such as Gwarwyn.” Iolanthe spoke with nostalgia as she recalled the bright and dangerous days of an age gone by. “Perhaps there is still deeper magic at work here, despite your disappointment. For it was you alone who was called by the beauty of the sword; she brought you here with a promise of hope and an intention of victory. Take heart, for her voice does not lie. It is not in her nature to do so.”

“What … what should I do then?” Cal asked, quite perplexed at this turn of events.

“Carry the blade with you. Listen to her voice, and give her the care that she has been robbed of during these last generations of neglect,” the Queen told him. “Perhaps her glory will return, and perhaps we will see the depth of hidden magic surface when the time comes for you to need her strength. But do not abandon the beautiful dawn, for something in me can sense that your fates are tied together.”

Cal lifted the tarnished steel up with both hands, marveling at the mysteries he could not possibly understand. He ran his thumb along the dulled edge of the blade, starting at the base and working his way to its tip. It wasn’t until he touched the point of the sword that he felt her bite, and a line of crimson ran from his finger.

“Ouch!” Cal cried out.

“Perhaps even now we have misjudged her tarnished slumber,” the Queen said with a wry laugh.

Cal kissed away the blood and belted the scabbard around his waist, placing the not-so-harmless sword in its sheath. “Thank you, my Queen. Thank you for everything. I will do my best to become the champion that you and your people deserve, and I pray your words and your beauty will be ever fresh in my thoughts and my heart,” he said as a blush of color flooded his cheeks.

She smiled a warm smile that dripped with beauty from a well of grace. Her gaze held his as she flew close, leaning forward to brush his cheek with a gentle, parting kiss.

“The time has come for you to return to your Poet friends and prepare for the next part of your journey. But take heart, dear Calarmindon Bright Fame, for I will not send you off into the night alone. I will command one of my bravest warriors to accompany you in this perilous assignment. You have but to take your pick and they will journey with you to the ends of the world.”

“My Queen?” a voice from outside the chamber interrupted. “My Queen, I beg of you an audience, please?”

Cal turned around to see his blue-winged friend, Deryn, flying into her chamber room. “If it pleases you, my Queen, let me go with Cal, let me be the one to watch over his journey.”

She thought briefly. “It would seem fitting to the will of our great Father that it would be you, Deryn, sentinel of my house, to journey with our Bright Fame and aid in his quest.” Her serious demeanor softened at her next thought. “For even now a friendship is blooming in your hearts, and it may be that this new friendship could be your greatest ally in this most unfriendly task.”

Cal smiled to the small sentinel. “Are you sure you want to do this? It could get a bit tricky having a Sprite back in the world of men?” he asked only half-seriously.

“Well, somebody has to make sure you don’t get lost in the dark again!” Deryn jabbed back. Their laughter was caught up in an unnoticed wind as the echoes of their joy danced among the flowers of the violet trees.

And so it was that at the beginning of this quest, this great seeking, it was joy that watered the seed of their resolve as hope began to take root in the deepest parts of their hearts.

Chapter Thirty-Three

B
y
the time Lieutenant Armas of the Capital guard had come upon the northern borough of Piney Creek, Hollis and a small company of his men had been spotted by the gatekeeper at the Northern Gate.

Armas, a bit relieved that he didn’t have to make the long and dangerous journey into the northern territory alone, was all the more eager to greet his old friend. Seeing the caravan of the hardened north men brought a wave of comfort to Armas’ road-weary mind.

Perhaps Hollis has decided to follow the orders from the Priest King after all
, he thought as he rode towards the Northern Gate.
Dulled mind or not, I would not wish upon my friend the dungeons of the Citadel.

The lieutenant called out to the gatekeeper, and soon the portcullis was raised, so Armas rode out to meet the great chieftain.

The small band of woodcutters was not more than two leagues from the Northern Gate. The ride through this part of the road was still lit by the faint amber light of the burning tree, keeping most of the lurking dangers confined to the thicker parts of the shadowy dark. Armas’ grey gelding was swift of foot, and his green and silver cape fluttered in the wake of the horse’s speed as he rode with great haste along the northern road. The horns of the woodcutters greeted the lieutenant with their long tones as Armas pulled alongside the caravan of bearded northmen.

“Greetings, and welcome home! I come with an urgent word from the Citadel for Hollis, your Chief,” Armas said with genuine gladness in his voice.

The men had sallow complexions, like those who have gone without sleep for far too long. The company was comprised of about twenty men on horseback and one large, covered mule-cart that was bringing up the rear of the party.

“I am Hollis!” a large voice boomed out from the back of the company. “And just who might you be, lad?”

“Has the damnable darkness weakened your eyes that much, old man?” Armas shouted out in jest. “It is I, your old friend Armas!”

“Don’t speak to me of darkness, friend, for I have felt its ravaging toll against myself and my men; my eyes have taken in sights that I only pray I might one day un-see,” Hollis replied with a weariness that conflicted with Armas’ memory of his friend. “What word does our great
Priest King
have for me this day?” Hollis asked in mock reverence.

“Perhaps we should wait to speak of such words ‘til you and your men have a warm bowl and a tall flagon. Huh?” said the lieutenant, rather taken aback by the demeanor of the great chief. “I will ride ahead and warn the tavern keeper to make preparations for all of you. Then, my old friend, we will exchange words.”

Hollis’ weariness lifted for a moment, and the eyes of the large, red-bearded woodcutter sparked with life again. “Thank you. I am sure my men could use something warm in their bellies and a place to rest their tired backsides. See to it that you fetch a healer while you are at it,” Hollis shouted out to Armas. “For I have a few wounded men that could use a bit of tending to.”

“I will see to it,” Armas called back. “Meet me at the Gnarly Knob.” With that, the lieutenant spurred his horse and took off southward, back towards the Northern Gate to make preparations for Hollis’ men.

Shameus, the tavern keep and head proprietor of the Gnarly Knob, heeded the advice of the lieutenant; he had his daughter Keily put on a large cauldron of stewed rabbit and set to baking a couple dozen loaves of salted bread. By the time the woodcutters had made their way inside, a large table had already been made ready with bread and ale.

The lieutenant took Hollis aside after the chief had filled his large hands with food and drink. The two of them shared words and broke bread while the rest of his men recovered their strength.

“How are you, old friend?” Armas asked the weary woodcutter, carefully considering the demeanor of the old man. Armas could not deny that Hollis had a wilder, darker look about him than when they had last met. He began to wonder if, in fact, the Chancellor and the Priest King were right to question the faculties and judgment of this once-great chieftain.

“Well,” Hollis paused to take a long draught of his ale, “the forests have but a week of timber left for us to harvest, two at the very most. I have lost more men in the last month of days than I have in the last score of years swinging an axe out beyond the walled city … and I don’t see the world getting much brighter any time soon.”

Hollis slammed his mug onto the table, sloshing the contents over the edge, and leaned close into Armas’ face. “So you ask me how I am, and really all I can say is that I have a lot of questions that I doubt you have the answers to, and that doesn’t leave me in the best frame of mind.” The intensity of Hollis’ tone increased with each word that he spoke, revealing a layer of desperation and defeat there just under the surface.

“I am … sorry to hear that,” Armas said with genuine concern for his friend.

“It’s this damnable dark, lad! If the great THREE who is SEVEN doesn’t come down to our miserable world here soon …” he looked Armas straight in the eyes, his face still pressed in a little too close, “well, I am afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Armas asked, leaning slightly back in his chair to escape the rather off-putting stench of the woodcutter’s breath.

“The green-eyed demons, or ghosts, or whatever you want to call the evil that lives out there in the shadows.” Hollis had a vacant look in his eyes as he stared off past the lieutenant’s shoulder.

A beautiful, brown-haired barmaid interrupted their hushed conversation with a large bowl of steaming stewed rabbit and small plate of goat’s cheese.

“Thank you, lass,” Hollis said absently. She nodded back with a warm smile as she walked to the larger table of men to deliver their meal to them.

“Demons? Ghosts?” Armas whispered once she was out of earshot. “What are you even talking about? Hollis, have you gone mad?”

“I saw them, lad, with my own two eyes, I saw them.” Hollis, undeterred, went on with his tale. “An unnatural darkness followed them like a sickly fog that swallowed up whatever traces of twilight still remained in the retreating forests.”

“Maybe it is time you take a respite for a while, old friend,” he scolded while sopping up the stew with his loaf of bread. “I’m afraid all this darkness has done something to your faculties.”

“I wish that were all that this was,” Hollis said with grave sincerity. “But that’s not the half of it. Not the ghosts or demons or whatever the hell they are … that’s not what has me too scared to sleep in the silver light.”

“What is it then?” Armas asked hesitantly.

Hollis took another long draught, as if he were thirsty for the courage to even say the words. He finished the drink and wiped the drippings from his greying, red beard. He had not so much as blinked, let alone unfixed his gaze from the eyes of the lieutenant.

“Dragons,” Hollis said grimly.

“Dragons? You saw a
dragon
? That’s impossible, they have all been gone for generations!” Armas shook his head in annoyed disbelief. “Tell me that you did not send word to the Citadel about this. Tell me you did not write of this in your letters!” he whispered forcefully, glancing about the room.

Hollis dipped his bread in the bowl, brought the steaming brown of the stew to his lips, and took a lifeless bite. “And that …” he said with his mouth full of food, “is the problem, isn’t it? Because even if I had, that Priest King of ours would have reacted in the same manner that you yourself just did.”

Something like sorrow mixed with defeat came over the eyes of the great chief. “What am I going to do with only a couple hundred woodcutters against dragons and whatever other green-eyed evils are waiting for us in the darkness?”

“Hollis?” the lieutenant pressed, hardness creeping into his voice.

“No, lad, I didn’t write it,” he said like a child who has just been scolded. “And no, I didn’t see them either, but I touched their teeth … and I felt the weight of their magic lingering in the air like a coming storm.”

Armas was baffled to even be having this kind of conversation with this esteemed man, a man known throughout Haven for his steel-hardened resolve and flint-like conviction. Even though he did not wholeheartedly believe his report, his sense of loyalty would not allow him to completely dismiss it either.

“Hollis, my friend, I have known you long enough to see that something truly terrible must have indeed happened to you to shake your resolve like this.” Armas reached out and patted him on the shoulder with friendly placation. “But do
not
take these stories to the Citadel. They already suspect that you are going mad, and you must not give them any reason to confirm their suspicions.”

Hollis seemed to either ignore Armas’ words or simply not hear them altogether. He looked at Armas, drippings of the brown stew still clinging stubbornly to his beard, and spoke. “So what is this grave and important word that our Priest King has for me and my men, that he would call us out of our camp and send one of his prized lieutenants all this way to deliver?”

Armas let it go. “Right. Well, it would seem that a plan is in motion that will require the efforts and service of your woodcutters.”

“I have heard of this plan,” Hollis said with skepticism. “To seek the light, is it? Across the Dark Sea?”

“The Citadel believes that this expedition will keep the darkness and its evils in the shadows where they belong,” Armas told him.

Hollis looked up from the bowl of stewed rabbit, and for the first time since the two of them met on the road outside the wall, he looked fully present. A fire burned in the hearth of Hollis’ mind, its brave and stubborn glow alive there in his eyes. He listened as Armas went over the plan to colonize and the great task at hand.

“And so our Priest King has requested—well actually, ordered—that you assign forty of your best woodcutters to sail with the first wave of the colony. They must be prepared to leave almost immediately, for the ships will be ready to sail in a matter of days,” Armas told him as he finished with the mandate he had come all this way to deliver.

“And what of me? Do you know? Does the Citadel intend for me to lead my own men across the Dark Sea, or am I to go back to the shadows and wait for the green death to claim me?” Hollis grumbled out his question.

“That is not my place to say, old friend. I was just sent to expedite your arrival to the Priest King’s court so that you may confer with Jhames himself,” Armas answered deflectively.

“Ah, what am I talking about? I am getting too old for such adventures,” Hollis said, surrendering his pride a bit. “This colony is going to need all the energy of youth on its side, not some blunt old axe of a man like myself.”

Hollis crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, considering the plans that Armas had just shared with him. “So,” he said slowly after taking some time to think, “Do you truly believe that this mission could actually uncover a new light for Haven?” His words were cautious, guarded, as though he wanted to hope in the plans of the Priest King but he couldn’t actually bring himself to anything beyond skepticism and defeat.

“Some say that King Jhames is sending this expedition to seek the light … but I suspect he is just looking for more timber,” Armas admitted to his old friend.

“And I suppose that timber is all anyone really cares about, lad!” chuckled Hollis as he pushed back from the table and slammed his fists upon it to accent his words. “Oh, come then, let’s round up the men and you can lead on. I’ll go to your Citadel, and I’ll talk to our King Jhames, and just maybe I won’t talk too much about
dragons
. Ha!” He made a wild-eyed face at Armas in mock dementia.

Armas shook his head in amused disbelief at Hollis’ trivial humor on a subject that just moments ago had him so deeply afraid. Perhaps that was his way of coping with the toll of fear and anxiety that the darkness had been taxing him with, day after ever-darkening day.

The two of them began to make their way over to the rest of the northmen. “What about the healers? Were you able to find one here in town?” Hollis asked the lieutenant.

“No,” Armas said apologetically. “Shameus said that his daughter Keily would take a look at whichever one of your men put an axe through his boot. He said she was the closest thing to a healer they have had around here in weeks. But my guess is that your men won’t mind too much, having a pretty girl like her check up on them!” laughed Armas.

“Aye then, I suppose my little splinter will be better than nothing at all,” Hollis agreed. “My best man was attacked by one of the green-eyed monsters—a demon bear, truth be told. We stitched him up as best as we could, and to be honest I thought we would lose him too. Ah, but the North Wolf was not so easily beaten, and he is mending well enough.”

“Then … why the healer?” Armas asked.

“I hoped his eye would have recovered by now, but it seems to be growing worse,” Hollis told him. “The damned bear nearly took his face off. Thank the THREE who is SEVEN that the eye was all he lost.”