The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (34 page)

“Michael? Michael!” Engelmann shouted from the base of the spiral stairs at the entrance to the Hall of the Arborists. “Come on, son, you have a guest here to see you; a captain, no less!”

“A captain?” Michael’s voice called from behind one of the grand bookshelves of the Arborist library. “What would Tahd want from me? I already saw to all the horses in the royal stable, and I made sure that they were all fed and groomed,” he explained as he carried a large stack of books to one of the library’s tables. As he set them down, he looked up to discover that his guest was present here in the library with them.

“Sir!” Michael said loudly, coming to attention and saluting the captain.

“Well, I am certainly not Tahd, but in a roundabout way … yes, he does require something from you,” Armas said, feigning offense.

“Lieutenant Armas, forgive me sir.”

“
Captain
Armas, it is now, young groomsman,” Engelmann scolded him with a creaky voice and an amused wink.

“Oh! Well, then please forgive me twice over, Captain,” Michael said, embarrassed to have disrespected the man who rescued him from the arrows of the archers and the madness of the mob.

“No forgiveness necessary,” Armas said with a kind smile. “I see that your arm is mending just fine, which apparently is good news to the Arborist here! That way Engelmann can have
you
carry these monstrous tomes all over Haven.”

“Yes sir, it is. The healers that you sent me to were more than generous with their skills,” Michael thanked him.

“Well, that is good news indeed,” Armas said. As he spoke, his attention turned to the room in which he now found himself, and he became distracted from the conversation by the overwhelming rush of childlike wonder that flooded his thoughts. His eyes were suddenly captivated by the immensity and otherworldliness of the Arborists’ hall. The glowing columns and ancient scrolls gave off a palpable sense of something magical in the air under the burning tree.

“Well, go on, Captain; the young man is waiting to hear what it is that the Citadel would have of him. Unless, of course, you would prefer to join him as my student,” Engelmann said to him, playfully breaking the enchantment that the hall held over Armas.

“Well, it is a bit impossible to
not
be a student of yours,” Armas chuckled. “Ask any and all who have ever had the task of conversing with you, and see if they did not come away with a new sense of wisdom!”

The three of them laughed a good while before Armas remembered his orders. “In any case, Michael, the Chancellor and the new governor have requested that you prepare to set sail with the colony in less than two days’ time. You will serve as the groomsman for the outpost and will play a critical role in the success of this mission.”

“Captain!” Michael said, a bit dumbfounded by this stroke of good luck. “This is a great honor! How did they come by my name?”

“Well, that is of little concern to you, groomsman,” Armas told him.

“It was you, sir, wasn’t it? I know it was. Thank you, Captain. I won’t let you down!”

“It is Tahd you will have to keep pleased from now on, for I will not be joining you on the voyage,” Armas answered.

Michael’s face fell. “Why ever not? Surely they cannot find a better captain than you, sir!”

Armas scowled. “Now then. Tahd will make a fine captain, and you would do well to pay him the respect his office is due.”

“Of course … of course, sir,” Michael responded apologetically.

“As for right now, it would be wise to say your farewells to your teacher here, your family, and whoever’s daughter has stolen your affections. Make preparations swiftly, for the company will travel to Abondale in the morning.”

“Yes, Captain, I will indeed!” Michael said excitedly. He looked to Engelmann for approval, but his excitement was so great that he did not catch the trepidation on the face of the old Arborist.

“Well, young groomsman,” Engelmann said with a worried sigh, “it would seem to me that you are about to begin a journey; though I doubt it is the one you expect.” Engelmann shot a glance at Armas, and without words he communicated his disapproval of this turn of events.

“Thank you, Captain! Thank you for this chance!” Michael blurted out, still oblivious to his teacher’s warning.

“Do not thank me, for I am just the messenger,” Armas said both to the eager groomsman and to the old Arborist with the grizzled expression. “Now go. I will see you at amber’s first light by the Kings’ Gate.”

With that, Michael and Armas shook arms and nodded their silent kinship. Michael gave Engelmann an exuberant embrace before running past the golden branches and up the spiraled iron stairs.

“He will crash from the great heights that his youthful heart has taken him to today, Armas.” Engelmann spoke ominously. “I sense that his disappointment will mirror your own, only his will come by a blade that cuts much deeper.” Engelmann turned his gaze from the stairs and back to the captain who stood by his side, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow. “Though … I tend to believe that these shared disappointments are but the catalysts for an even greater good. Yes. Perhaps I should not worry so over the cause of this brief misery, for that very misery might bring the last hope for those of us that remain.”

“What does that even mean?” Armas shook his head in amused frustration. “Must you always speak in riddles?”

Engelmann smiled a knowing smile, and then pulled his long pipe out from his brown cloak and sparked it to life with a flick of his fingers.

“Even your silence is cryptic, Engelmann,” said Armas as he stared at the brooding face of the Arborist. “Please make sure that the branches are delivered to the Citadel right away.”

Engelmann nodded while puffing away on his pipe, his stare seemingly fixed on something other than the present conversation, something that Armas was clearly unaware of. Not sure what caused the conversation to abruptly groan to this eerie halt, Armas said an awkward goodbye and took his leave from the Hall of the Arborists.

The old teacher sat there in smoky silence, mulling over wisdom that seemed to have entered, unbidden, into his knowing, and in turn consumed his thoughts with an inescapable tension. Without warning, and yet without causing alarm, a great wind blew through the ancient hall.

Engelmann’s green hair whipped violently in the gale of unlooked for wind, and the glowing roots from the great tree shone brighter than even in its strongest days; the silver glow was almost blinding as the hallowed chamber exploded in unprecedented light. Engelmann stood strong and stoic as the light permeated the chamber, an anxious and yet eager expression on his face. Suddenly, from the entrance to the hall, a pair of violet eyes soared, swift and deliberate amidst the brilliant silver, towards the windblown Arborist. A storm of books and parchments, tomes and trinkets swirled in chaotic cyclones as gust after powerful gust surged from somewhere behind the violet eyes. The old Arborist turned his weight and fixed his gaze towards the storm, leaning into the wind so as to not be carried away by its force.

“What are you?” yelled Engelmann into the storm. “Who are you?” Wave after pounding wave crashed against his willowy resolve, but his heart did not despair. “What do you want from me?!” he screamed with unflinching intrigue.

Somewhere amidst the swirling winds and the crashing debris, the sound of an Owele’s screech pierced through the tumult, finding its mark in the mind of the Arborist.

The time is coming when the power you have so faithfully served will be removed from this world
.
Doom to all who have put their confidence in the tree alone, for evil comes even now, on the wings of darkness, to devour and enslave the race of men.

“How can we defeat this dark evil?” Engelmann shouted against the wind, struggling to find his voice. “How can we hope to overcome, if the light of His power has left us?”

Endure
.

Engelmann closed his eyes, for the brilliance of the shining silver had grown even more intense. He waited, listening for the wisdom and guidance he hoped was yet to come.

But fear not, for dawn will break both beautiful and terrible, like an army with banners unfurled, like a bride pure and eager. Its coming will devour the vile serpents that have enticed the hearts of men with their false light
.

“Where will we find this dawn?” Engelmann yelled at the top of his lungs, desperate for his words to be heard amidst the howling storm. “How will we endure?”

Take hope, Arborist
,
for parodies of death and mockeries of life will consume those who refuse to hope. But you, with a defiant act of faith, shall form a remnant of the hopeful that will endure to see the dawn.

“But who would dare to hope when the light has failed us? Who will resist the suffocating pull of fear and panic?” Engelmann begged against the wind.

This is your assignment, Arborist. You are a call to arms; you are a voice crying out in the night. You are the heart of the resistance of Haven.

Hope now. Hope always.

“But what should I—” Engelmann’s shouted question was interrupted by the deafening silence of the swift and sudden departure of Owele and storm alike. The noise and the wind, the blinding silver and the thunderous words drained from the hall in the blink of an eye. The wind-tossed parchments floated silently to the floor as Engelmann’s mossy beard and greenish hair fell back to their proper places.

The iron willow door burst open and a voice shouted out in a panic. “Engelmann? Ispen? Aspen? Brothers?” Footsteps hurriedly pounded down the spiral stairs, and the sound of heavy breathing punctuated the panicked volley of questions.

“Engelmann? Engelmann! What happened, brother?” Elmer, the youngest Arborist, clearly disturbed by the sight he beheld, was a bit out of breath as he asked his questions in the wake of his panic. Engelmann stood there, unmoving, his pipe no longer holding a burn, his stare fixed on something unseen, and his ears shut off to the concern of his younger brother.

“Engelmann!” Elmer shouted as he grabbed his friend and shook him awake. “What happened? Is everything alright?”

The old Arborist blinked the astonishment away and rubbed his bearded face with his still trembling hands, taking in the full weight of what he had just seen and heard.

“Brother?” Elmer continued to ask.

Engelmann met his gaze, and it was clear to Elmer that something had indeed shaken this predictably stalwart teacher. His face, which normally was as tanned as the bark of his namesake, now looked as grey and brittle as a pile of spent ash.

“My brother … we have a rather weighty task to accomplish,” Engelmann told him slowly. “I am going to need you to come with me.”

“Why? What is it? What are you talking about?” Elmer asked.

“Well, to begin with, we have some shiny sticks to deliver to our …” he searched for the word, “
unenlightened
King.”

“Shiny sticks?” Elmer asked. “You don’t mean …? Brother! That kind of irreverence could lead to your death! You must not speak that way in this holy place!” Elmer was visibly worried, afraid that he would be considered a party to the offense. “You must recant your words before the THREE who is SEVEN does something that you might not be able to undo!”

“Elmer, I think I will take my chances,” Engelmann said with a bit of his characteristic temerity back in his voice. “Jhames has ships that need to set sail, and if these sticks make him feel better about it, well … who am I to stand in his way? Besides,” Engelmann paused to scratch his mossy beard, “I have a message I think he will want to hear.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

M
ichael
busied himself with his final preparations, greeting the day with a wide-eyed vigor before the first flames of amber began to lick the sky. His excitement overwhelmed whatever weariness he might have had at the lack of sleep from the night before. His last few hours had been a flurry of arrangements and goodbyes as he readied himself for the adventure he was about to embark upon.

His father spoke of pride and honor, and his mother lavished him with the worried fussing and kisses that all mothers are inclined to pour upon their children, regardless of their age. Though she told Michael she was happy for him, the truth was that his mother had not known the taste or sound of real happiness for nearly twenty years. She did her best to buoy his excitement, though Michael knew it was mostly an act. With his leather pack stuffed tightly and his farewell embraces made, Michael briskly walked through the alleys and streets of Westriver in pursuit of his newly appointed destiny.

He was but half a league to the Kings’ Gate when the silver sky rang with the unfamiliar tone of an unfamiliar horn. Long and round did the earthen notes ring in the pre-amber dawn, and at first Michael was startled by their strange sound. Here in the walled city, the only sounds that were permitted to ring out like this were the short, bright notes of the Capital guard’s brass, and of course the ominous notes that came from Priests’ long golden trumpets, signaling the unwelcome news of the felled branches.

Michael stopped to listen, not sure whose pursed lips and bellowed breath birthed the foreign sound. The last thing he wanted on this day, of
all
days, was an uprising from a desperate band of outliers or some sort of skirmish that would require him to ready more horses and delay or possibly abandon his new assignment altogether.

The strange horns rang out again; their unusual sound bounced and echoed off the stone-paved streets of the walled city. This time, in answer to their call, the short, bright blast of the watchman’s brass welcomed the foreign sound with a tone of expectancy.

“The woodcutters!” Michael exclaimed with a sudden realization. “Thank the THREE who is SEVEN they have arrived!” Michael instinctively reached up towards his collar, looking for his sacred flint, which for the whole of his life had made its home fastened securely around his neck. This time, just like the last few dozen times in the past several months, he had to remind himself that it was no longer here; it was safe in Cal’s keeping. Michael hurried off, his feet animated all the more by renewed excitement. A tale or two about his dearly missed friend would hopefully soon follow his greeting of the woodcutters.

It was here, at this time of day, that one of the most awe-inspiring treasures of all of Haven was on full display. The “melding of the fires,” as Engelmann would call it, where the bright silver of the evening’s flames mingled in stunning perfection with the warming shades of morning’s amber, was a breathtaking sight to behold.

Cal used to call it the “intertwingling”. Of course Michael would not-so-graciously remind him that “intertwingling” wasn’t even a real word, but that never seemed to deter Cal.

“Some kinds of beauty cannot be merely defined by
real
words,” he would say in mock offense. “No, brother, beauty like this must inspire language anew.”

This beauty, however one would describe it, had gone long unnoticed in the greying twilight of the tree, and so it was that one of the greatest of all travesties unfolded daily in the great city of Haven. The evil dark had won an inconspicuous victory, for what could be a more crippling strike than for beauty to show herself in all her revealed glory, and yet go completely disregarded by minds too fixated on the lesser preoccupations and worrisome troubles of their days?

As Michael paused his hurried pace for a moment, he watched the unassuming glory of the mingling light. He wondered how he had spent so much of his life not ever noticing, much less caring about, the beauty that still shined through the chaos. His newfound awe mixed equally with disappointment in himself, and he realized it was rather odd for him to even recognize this haunting regret. The days since he had come under the tutelage of Engelmann had brought all kinds of new revelations into the forefront of his consciousness.

I shall miss this intertwingling of Cal’s,
he told himself.
For I fear that we will be too far across the Dark Sea and too busy in our assignment to appreciate moments such as this one.

Michael could hear the loud clamor of pounding hooves and snorting horses as the company of woodcutters approached from the North. They came to a halt just outside the Kings’ Bridge, and Michael thought they appeared like giants atop their mounts. Their beards and furs made them seem like something from another world altogether, far removed from the sophisticated and largely clean-shaven populace of Haven.

In what seemed like perfectly orchestrated timing, the huge, iron portcullis of the Kings’ Gate woke to life; its reverberation could be felt all the way on the opposite side of the river. Michael watched as the knights, mounted atop their destriers, led the company of the volunteer men-at-arms across the Kings’ Bridge to meet the arriving contingent of woodcutters. He couldn’t keep the anticipation from welling up in his chest as he watched the brave guardsmen file out in practiced columns of regimented order. Michael ran as fast as he could towards his newly-arrived brothers, not wanting to miss out on this momentous union, nor to be seen as one who was less than committed by arriving late to the parade of men bound for Abondale.

The two gathered groups of men stood in perfect juxtaposition. Those who were trained by the Citadel stood at resolute attention, their green and silver ablaze in precise uniformity, while the burly men of the North each wore his personality in furs and helm. The northmen did not stand at trained attention, nor did they salute those with whom they had not yet bled; no, each man in the company of woodcutters showed his silent respect for the moment in the way he saw fit.

The line of men-at-arms split as a tall man, one head and shoulders above the rest of those in his command, walked proudly through the ranks of what was obviously his company. His great, black cape was fastened to his green chest guard by two silver trees, one representing the tree of Haven, and the other the new colony across the Dark Sea.

“Welcome, my brothers,” the tall, dark-haired man said to the company of woodcutters. “I am glad for your arrival, for we have much ahead of us. Which of you is Yasen? The one they call the North Wolf?”

“I am Yasen,” Goran said in an exaggerated bow. “I am the North Wolf.”

The men of the North broke the silent tension of the serious moment with a gale of laughter. Yasen dismounted his horse and made his way over to the tall man. “Please forgive Goran here, for the THREE who is SEVEN chose to weave all of his wits into the fabric of his hair, so as you can see, he is a bit … witless,” Yasen apologized as he pointed to the shiny, bald spot atop Goran’s thick head.

“I am Yasen, chief to these woodcutters, and humble servant to our Priest King,” he said, extending out his arm in a gesture of friendship.

The dark-haired man stared at Yasen, face unmoved, as if the silent gears of his mind were debating whether to reprimand or befriend this barbaric northman. Finally something seemed to settle in his mood, so the governor took Yasen’s arm in his own and forced a rather uneasy smile as he let out a bellowing laugh. “Welcome Yasen, welcome to Haven; though I regretfully must say that we won’t be here long enough for you to enjoy its full hospitality. I am Seig, governor of the first colony, and I am pleased to finally meet you.”

“That’s just as well, Governor, for I am not sure how long the hospitality of your city would last with the likes of these fine men running loose within its walls,” Yasen joked in a half-serious tone.

“Come, Yasen, let me introduce you to my captain of the guard,” Seig said, motioning to a man a dozen or so years his junior. The captain came forward, extending a slim arm out to Yasen. His thin jaw was steeled with the responsibility of his newly acquired office, his nerves robbing the moment of any possible joy. His thick, silver-colored hair gleamed in the light of the amber tree, and Yasen could not help but be mildly amused at the pretty face of this new captain of the guard. Though winsome features such as his may have earned him favor in the courts of the Citadel and perhaps with the women of Haven, Yasen could tell that the officer was not nearly as confident as he looked when it came to the prospects of the rough, arduous affairs of exploration and battle.

Yasen shook arms with the young man, bridling his hesitation and amusement.

“Captain Tahd here has served me loyally for nearly seven years as one of my brightest lieutenants in the Capital guard.”

“I trust that your men, bald or otherwise, will do their best to offer a bit more respect to their new governor,” Tahd suggested to Yasen.

“Well, I don’t know if I would trust
that
too much, but I will do my best to see to it that they swing their axes when the time comes,” Yasen replied, attempting to break the uncomfortable tension between himself and this silver-haired, little man.

“What are our orders, Governor?” Yasen asked Seig. “Do we plan to ride to Abondale immediately or are there other agendas that I am unaware of? For I have a company of restless axes and restless men, and I would so like to unleash their restlessness upon the forests of the Western Wreath, as soon as we can manage.”

“Well said, Yasen,” Seig clapped him on the back approvingly. “This kind of eagerness is just what our colony will need. Perhaps you are the right man for the position after all. Huh!” Seig looked through the ranks of guardsmen and woodcutters until he found the man he was looking for.

“Armas!” Seig shouted out. “Could you join us, Captain?”

Armas, who had been waiting, mounted upon his white courser, rode over to the small council that stood just outside the entrance to the Kings’ Bridge. With a smoothness of practiced familiarity, Armas dismounted and greeted the gathered group of men.

“Yasen,” Armas said, clasping arms with the northman. “It is good to see you here, friend. I trust that Hollis sent us his best men?”

“He did indeed. Captain, is it? When last we spoke just a few days ago, you were but a lowly lieutenant,” Yasen said with a wink and a smile.

“A report if you please, Captain,” Seig interrupted him. “Are we ready to depart for Abondale?”

“I have received word this morning from Carina the shipwright. The Arborists did indeed deliver the gilded branches, and even now she and her men are working to properly secure them to the two ships.”

“What of supplies and provisions?” asked Seig.

“Already on board, Governor,” Armas told them.

“Tell me, have you heard from the mastersmith about sending us smithy of our own?” Seig asked. “For we have eager—rather,
restless
axes that will need a great deal of attention.” He nodded in acknowledgment to Yasen.

“We have,” Armas announced. “One has already been sent to Abondale to see to it that all of his materials are properly stowed aboard the
Resolve.
“Armas looked down at the bound ledger he had been carrying with him. “It says here that his name is …” Armas searched amidst the pen marks and scribbled accountings, “Wielund, and it would seem as though he has been the prize apprentice to the mastersmith for these last four years.”

“Very good, Armas,” Seig commended. “I am sure your friend Yasen here, and all of his fine woodcutters, will be relieved to know this Wielund.” His tone underscored a hint of sarcasm in reference to the northmen, but he kept it veiled with the polished expression on his countenance.

“It is not just my men and I who will be glad to have him. It shall be all of Haven! For once those branches burn up, it might be his skill alone that keeps your great city’s fire alive.” Yasen spoke the truth with little disguise or care for the politics behind his words.

Tahd’s face bunched together in an obvious display of dislike for the woodcutter who spoke his mind so freely. Armas, doing his best to not sink the expedition before they had even set sail, called over to Michael, who had been busy searching for a way to make himself look useful while the officers held conference.

The groomsman ran over right away, taking his place amidst the small council. Armas address the gathered men. “This here is Michael, he will be your groomsman for the first colony, and has proven—”

“My apologies,” interrupted Yasen, holding up his hand, “but we have a groomsman. He is a brave man, and he is quite familiar with our methods, not to mention our horses. If it is just the same with you, Governor, I would prefer it if he is the one tending to our mounts and our beasts of burden.”

“Oh? I was not informed that Hollis would be sending one of his groomsmen along with his North Wolf across the sea,” Armas said, puzzled. “Perhaps, then, Michael here will just tend to the destriers of the knights and the mounts of the officers.”