The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (6 page)

The Owele took one last deliberate tear into the snake, still holding the frozen stare of the nauseated young man. As Cal looked into the bird’s eyes, he could hear the Owele whispering in a scratching voice—or rather, instead of hearing it with his ears, he heard it from within,
feeling
a voice coming from the inside out as it enunciated his full name.

Cal-ar-min-don.

With a soul-startling screech, the Owele leapt to the air in a storm of feathers, his wings beating the silver night. He climbed into a furious flight, leaving behind a confused Cal and the remaining head of the mostly-eaten reptile.

Chapter Five

S
leep
had not come easy for Cal. All night long he was visited by visions of the Owele tearing apart the snake—only it was not just the one Owele, nor just the one snake for that matter. In the dream, Cal saw himself on the edge of the dwindling forest surrounded by these frightening birds of prey. There must have been thirty or forty of them, and not a single one looked as though it were a copy of the others. Some were brown, some white, some spotted; the larger of their kind had what looked like horns atop their heads. Each one of the menacing creatures had the same intense violet eyes and gleaming razor-sharp talons.

As they devoured their snakes, they moved in closer and closer, cinching in the circle like a hangman’s noose around the terrified groomsman. Their stare paralyzed every single muscle in his body. His mind was screaming, his chest was heaving, and all he wanted was to run as fast and as far as his frightened legs could take him before this eyrie of beaks and talons ripped him apart like they had done to the snakes.

All at once the birds raised their wings high and wide, a myriad of colored feathers on full display as they signaled their imminent attack. Just before they could launch at his face, he startled awake to the sound of a screeching Owele and his whispered name.

Calarmindon!

He woke breathless, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, all too glad to be awake. He was relieved to see that his flesh was unscarred and unbloodied, and he was anxious now for the day to bring plenty of other things that might redirect his thoughts to something other than hungry Oweles and purple light.

He arrived at the stable yard earlier than usual and began prepping the horses for the scouting party in hopes that the normalcy of repetition might untangle his unsettling thoughts. He had spent the last eight or nine years with quite a few of these four-legged companions, and their company always had a calming effect on his spirit. This assignment was more than his military and civic duty; Cal believed this to be his gift. He had a way of caring for these animals that none of the other groomsmen could seem to quite figure out. Perhaps it was that he took the time to talk and sing to the horses, perhaps they could sense his genuine care and affection, or maybe … maybe there was a greater purpose in this gifting that was yet to be revealed.

When Cal sang in the stables it was as if he held the undivided attention of all the horses. Even when Cal was silent, there was something deeper there, something magical about his sheer presence. The master groomsman himself noticed the equine phenomenon and often watched his young apprentice with a wonder-tinted jealousy.

“His mother had a way with the horses of Haven,” the master groomsman would often be heard telling some of the apprentices. “But not like this … this kind of bewitching is something no mother can pass down. I have never seen anything like it in all my years in the yard.”

The main stable yard was lined with hundreds of wooden stalls for the hundreds of four-legged tenants. The stables held the mighty war horses that stood nearly nineteen hands high, destriers with hooves the size of pumpkins; it also housed the light, swift coursers of the scouting party that were bred for their sleek size and quickness of foot. Even the work horses of the woodcutters had a place to shelter and rest their tired, overworked bones here in the main stable, though very few ever returned long enough to take advantage of its hospitality.

Adjacent to the main stable was the much smaller but much more elaborate Royal Equerry. This yard once housed the mounts of kings and princes, the elite hunting horses of the Citadel, and the fastest racers, so it was no wonder that its intricate architecture reflected the majesty of the superior creatures that were kept there.

Each stall was lined with carvings of the lineage of all the royal mounts, telling in stunning detail of the bravery, speed, and loyalty of these privileged beasts. The crossbeams and rafters that supported the vaulted roof resembled the waving mane of a horse in full run. It flowed in one unbroken beam of master craftsmanship, paying tribute to the equine form and to the mother of all horses, the fabled mare, Sigrid.

However, this palace of horses and history that was once kept with pristine order and elaborate care had fallen into neglect and disrepair over the last generation. The pomp and pride of the formerly cherished institution faded the day Queen Evande left the halls of the Citadel in despair over her missing husband. At her death and her absence, the hope of a future king disappeared from the heart of Haven.

The master groomsman held his office in the royal stable yard, but most of his days were spent with his apprentices and farriers across the way. The royal stables were now delegated to house the older carriage horses, and they needed far less attending to than did the rest of the cavalry’s mounts.

The master groomsman made his way into the south end of the main stable where the swift horses of the scouts and cavalry made their home. He was an early-rising man, and consequently had a habit of walking the yard each amber morning before any of his men were up for the day.

Upon entering the southern gate of the main stable, the master groomsman was startled to hear the clanging of spurs and the clatter of spilled tools hitting the wooden floors of the tack room. In all of his years holding this office, he had never encountered more than the lazy welcome of a few barn cats and a whinny or two from the resident horses at this time of the morning. These noises, however, sounded suspiciously like a thief in the midst of stealing one of his charges, so he quickly reached for the sword at his side.

He turned his head in swift motions, checking each of the exits to make sure that he wasn’t walking blindly into a band of highwaymen or a gang of thieves. When it appeared that the trespasser didn’t have any co-conspirators waiting in the wings, he raised his sword out of its scabbard and crept towards the tack room. He slowed his approach as he took in the sight of three saddles, one stacked on top of the other, rapidly approaching his position. He readied himself for the confrontation and pointed the blade of his sword at the thief who was trying to make off with the Citadel’s good saddles.

“If you know what is good for you, you will put those down at once!” barked the master groomsman. “Do you have any idea what the penalty for horse thievery is?”

“Horse thievery?” questioned the saddles. “No one is thieving any horses here, sir!”

“Well then how do you explain what you are doing here at such an hour, alone, with the property of the Citadel in your arms?” the master groomsman demanded.

“What? It’s me, sir … Cal. I’m just getting a jump on the day’s work. I … I wanted to make up for yesterday’s tardiness.”

The master groomsman walked to the stack of talking saddles and plucked the top one off the pile, revealing the pale, sweaty face of his young, yellow-haired apprentice.

“So it seems you are.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, sir, I really and truly was just trying to get these horses ready, and keep my mind occupied,” Cal told him rather sheepishly.

“Your mind, son?” the master groomsman looked at Cal suspiciously.

Cal knew the moment the words had escaped from his lips that his transparency was wasted on a man such as this, for most of the soldiers he knew didn’t have the time or the capacity for things like empathy or encouragement. He wished with all his might that he could have just shut his mouth and let the master groomsman believe his motivations were simply to work hard and get a head start on his duties.

“What has your mind so …” he paused to find the right word, “preoccupied?”

“Dreams,” Cal answered shortly this time. “I have had some very unnerving dreams, and I thought some early work would help me to clear my thoughts.”

“I see.” The master groomsman spoke calculatingly, a tone of annoyance in his voice. “Mind that next time you find yourself ‘unnerved’ and in need of some early morning occupations, you inform me first. It was lucky you didn’t find yourself occupied with the point of my blade!”

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Cal apologized and walked past his superior to finish readying the horses.

As the master groomsman studied the young man going about his assignment, he began to feel unnerved himself. He wasn’t sure if it was just Cal that gave him the feeling, or if it was the talk about dreams. For what does one have to dream of when the only hope in his heart is held in the feeble grip of a dying strength? It had been many branches since the subject of dreams had entered the conversations of these greying people, and the groomsman would much prefer that it stay that way.

Chapter Six

T
he
day had come and gone like most days in Haven. The woodcutters ravaged the dwindling forests to the north, the scouting party rode to the Herald Tower on the western shore, the city guards put down the insurgence of the outliers, and all while the rest of the citizens went about their mundane tasks of survival.

Cal made his way to the square in the center of the borough to meet the returning cavalry and lead their horses back to the stable yard to water and groom them after the long day’s ride. This particular silvered evening, the streets of Westriver were alive and bustling with the anxious sounds of those still eagerly awaiting the arrival of the woodcutters’ carts to bring them their rations of timber.

Cal, Michael and the handful of other apprentices had a wager going like they did most timber nights, each betting on who would arrive first, the oxen or the horses. The winners would watch the losers muck the others’ stables on the next day, walking around with an air of superiority as they lorded their victory over their fellow mates.

Michael had bet oxen to Cal’s horses this particular evening. If one were to ask the gathering crowd of citizens who it was they really were hoping for, the answer would most certainly be the same—oxen. With the arrival of the woodcutters’ ox-drawn carts came timber enough to quell fear and ease unrest for another few days. There was little love left in this once shining city, and their concern was not for the return of their long-lost King. Rather, what moved the hearts of these greying citizens was their self-made light, which only seemed to satisfy briefly and assuage their fear with momentary illumination.

Very few still held on to any hope that the scouting party would ride in and announce that they had just lit the Herald Tower ablaze, signaling the arrival of the King and the discovery of a new light. Few still remembered that they ever had a King to begin with, and fewer still would dare to recall what it was that drove him to leave the walls of the kingdom.

But Cal remained one of the hopeful, and he always seemed to bet horses. Though he knew that common sense and practical knowledge left little room for a legitimate belief that the King would physically return with a new light, he chose to hope, regardless of the facts.

“Maybe it’s blind faith, or maybe I just have a thing for horses,” he half-joked amidst the taunts of his fellow groomsmen. “But my bet is on the scouts!”

Like most nights, the streets came alive with the steady clomp of ox hooves, the creak of the tired timber wagons, and the cheers and celebration of the winning gamblers. Remised handshakes were made and insults were loudly hurled as the carts of the woodcutters made their bulky way into the borough’s square.

“Ha! We win again!” Cal’s fellow apprentices bragged and taunted. “I hope those horses plan on helping you muck the stables tonight, or you might just as well wager on not sleeping much, brother!”

“That’s a bet I’m sure not even the horses would take!” jeered another.

As the crowds of people began filing into their ration lines, Cal noticed something odd and out of place out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t say for sure what it was, but the dark flash of feathers sent a cold chill down his spine.

The rest of the apprentices carried on in their victorious banter, but Cal grew nervous. He turned his head this way and that, desperately trying to find the strange presence that had caught his eye.

At that same moment, the horns of the gatekeepers rang out bright and hurried as the guardsmen called for the gate to be opened. The noisy creak and clank of metal on metal added to the chorus of ration seekers and wager winners, and the din grew to a crescendo as the portcullis was raised at the Western Gate.

The scouting party, atop their swift mounts, came rushing through the gates in a frenzy of silver armor and green cloaks. One of the cavalrymen lay astride his steed, a growing red spreading from his chest and coloring the dun coat of his horse. Black, raven-fletched arrows stuck out from the soldier’s back and his pale face betrayed the agonized grimace he was trying to keep hidden.

The whole of the square quieted with a kind of fear they had not known before.

The lieutenant barked orders to the gate sentries, demanding that a healer be brought on the quick and that the gate be closed immediately. The rest of the scouting party dismounted and led their horses onto the cobblestone street as the square burst into a tumult of fearful noises. Archers filed nervously onto the wall while women and children cried out in desperate pleas, still clamoring for their rations. The pained groans of the fallen rider got louder with each labored breath.

Cal, Michael, and the other apprentices dashed for the horses, clutching their reins and hoping to keep at least one part of this chaos in some form of order. Cal grabbed the reins of Dreamer, the very horse that carried the bleeding and screaming cavalryman. The rider clung tight to her neck with the last bits of energy that he could muster. His blood colored her once tan coat a dark red as it bubbled and flowed from his chest.

“Come on girl, easy,” Cal said to the mare as he tried to sooth her worried spirit. “Easy, you did good there, girl.”

The lieutenant, who had now climbed atop the wall, was scanning the horizon for the threat of a second wave of whatever it was that had waylaid the scouting party in the dusky outlands beyond the walled city. Two more of his cavalrymen lay dead and bloodied not half a league from the Western Gate, though there was no sign of outliers or pursuing enemies anywhere to be found.

The unease of the moment tried to give birth to vengeance, for Lieutenant Marcum was a man of action, and he was ready to right whatever wrongs had just been committed upon his men. But he knew what kind of cost would accompany such revenge, and he refused to let this insignificant uprising from those outside the wall rob the peace of those who were safe here inside it.

“Citizens of Haven!” he shouted with a little too much feigned confidence. “Be not afraid! Though the outliers grow bolder with each passing day, they will never succeed in their feeble attempts to rise against the great and shining city of Haven! Now I urge you to pray to the THREE who is SEVEN and ask him for justice for our fallen men, and I pray you then honor their sacrifice for your safety by finishing your business here with a sensible measure of order.”

Despite his brave words, anyone could see that the lieutenant was obviously unnerved, and it was as if his uneasiness had become contagious to all who were present. People began dispersing slowly, whispering in fearful groups while they tried to appear focused on their assignments.

Some of the cavalrymen approached Dreamer and helped the wounded warrior off of her back, carrying him gingerly towards the healers who were fast approaching. The apprentice groomsmen were dismissed to carry out their tasks, but as they began to lead the horses away, Cal saw
it
again.

Oh no, please not now
, he thought urgently.
Not with all these people here
.

He tried to will the vision away with the sheer force of his thoughts, but he could control it no more than every other time before. Just as both horse and groomsman were passing the line of frightened people waiting for their rations, the nightmare happened all over again.

Descending in the sky from high above the timber carts, Cal saw a huge, dark-feathered Owele appear to come out of nowhere. It swooped down directly towards Cal, and before the incredulous groomsman could have time to react, the Owele fiercely clawed at the face of Dreamer.

Cal was frozen, partly from fear of the razor-like talons and the unexpected surprise of the violent bird, but mostly because whatever magic the Owele had on him would not allow him to move a single muscle.

To his great horror, Dreamer reared up violently in response to the flesh-ripping attack of the dark Owele on her soft face. She screamed in pain and kicked with what little remaining energy was left in her tired legs, barely missing the head of the frozen groomsman. She bucked wild, pummeling the nearby Priests with her flailing hooves, sending them tumbling into the team of oxen, and spooking the beasts of burden into a reckless stampede. Cal realized that the Owele was more than just a frightening vision, for the monstrous bird of prey was wreaking havoc upon his life in the here and now.

The timber flew from the cart, crashing into the bodies of the slow-responding onlookers. A shopkeeper with his back turned to the incident was plowed into by the runaway oxcart, and the wood rations were sent scattered in a wave of chaos all over the square, causing a riot of people fighting to claim ownership of the mess of timber.

In the middle of this storm of wood and blood and screaming horses, Cal stood frozen in time, like one of the granite statues in the great garden. He was locked in the magic of the Owele, who had settled without notice atop the roof of one of the taverns.

People were fighting each other over the remains of wood as the wounded and bleeding Dreamer ran screaming down one of the city’s back roads. Others began to tend to the fallen citizens, helping them to their feet and bandaging their cuts and bruises, but all of this seemed to move in slow motion to Cal. His heart was breaking over the carnage, but his body had turned to stone and he could do nothing but stare, his eyes locked in an unwavering hold with the violet eyes of the unseen, perched assailant.

The other groomsmen wrestled desperately with the reins of their horses, somehow keeping them under some semblance of control, which was more than Cal could manage. Michael yelled at the top of his lungs in a futile, frustrated effort to wake Cal from whatever it was that held him frozen. As the soldiers ran to break up fights and aid the wounded, the woodcutters chased after their berserk oxen, adding to the frenzied, chaotic mood of the unfolding scene.

In that moment, the Owele delivered his message to Cal’s mind with a whisper.

It has begun, Bright Fame
.

With a blood-chilling screech the Owele leapt from his perch, breaking the trance that held Cal and compelling him to fall to one knee. He gasped for breath and surveyed the carnage and the chaos around him that finally seemed to be making its way back to some sort of order.

Then, as he continued to survey the mess he had been a part of making, Cal’s heart sank. He watched the lieutenant, with too much weariness in his young face, closing the eyes of the now-dead soldier with his bloody hand. Dreamer trotted shakily towards the lieutenant, tossing her blood-streaked head and whinnying with anxiety as she seemed to almost hop with pain.

The lieutenant unsheathed his sword, ready to open up the beast for causing such mess, partly out of pity, but mostly out of rage. Cal found his legs and ran with desperation over to Dreamer, throwing himself at the horse as he lunged for the reins and begged her to follow his lead back to the stable yard.

“You!” the lieutenant shouted with disgust in his voice. “You call yourself a groomsman but you can’t even handle this … this damnable mare!!! Do you have any idea of what the both of you have done?”

Cal could say nothing. His head was hanging in shame as he put a shaky hand on Dreamer to try and keep her calm.

“Look at how she’s destroyed her face! She’s of no use to us now!”

“But it wasn’t her, she—”

“No, it wasn’t her fault!
You
just stood there frozen and useless while this crazed nag tore the square apart!” the lieutenant growled. “You are a disgrace to this kingdom. This death and this loss are on your hands now.” The loathing dripped off the lieutenant’s lips as he spat the words. He had found someone to blame the horrendous events of this day on after all.

“No!” said Cal. “I didn’t … I mean …” his voice trailed off as the words to explain the situation escaped him. “Didn’t you see the Owele?”

“I’m sorry … the
what
?” the lieutenant said, narrowing his eyes.

“The bird with the purple eyes … the glowing, purple eyes?” Cal gestured feebly into the air, but as he searched the eyes of the lieutenant he realized that his effort was in vain. They had not seen the Owele; no one had seen the damnable bird save Dreamer and him.

The Priests stood up from their toppled platform, dusting off the dirt from their green robes. The more embarrassed and enraged of the two called sharply for silence from the crowd. He made his way over to the lieutenant and the red-faced groomsman in an overly deliberate and offended manner.

“Is this boy one of yours, Lieutenant?” the Priest seethed.

The scene was almost too painful to watch. The soldier had ten times the strength and ten times the training, not to mention an unsheathed blade. None but a captain or commander should be able to correct the young lieutenant with such brashness. It was obvious to all who witnessed the reproach that the real power lay with the one who knew how to wield fear.

“He is, Priest. He is one of our apprentices, a groomsman in training,” the lieutenant respectfully replied.

“And what, young apprentice, do you have to say for yourself? Are you actually blaming this abominable occurrence on a mythical
Owele
? With
glowing eyes?”
The Priest’s words were swimming in a sea of outrage and incredulity.