Chapter One


The girl gasped for air, pushing herself up on raw elbows. The stench of burning flesh gagged her, making her retch. Her dress was torn from the sleeve down, the soft green velvet covered in dark blossoms of blood. More dripped from a gash in her forehead. She wiped her mouth with a shaky hand and pushed herself up. The rock underneath her gave way with a soft thump and she gasped, eyes wide. In the dark, it was hard to see as she groped for another rock to help her up. Her fingers found something promising, a branch perhaps. She pulled herself up and blinked swollen eyes. Smoke made her eyes water but she forced herself to keep looking. Her mind was still spinning; something had happened, but she didn’t know what. Slowly, ever so slowly, her eyes focused, just to shut them tightly again. “No… oh gods no…”

Once again, she opened her eyes. The once-white walls of Trogan towered above her, the bricks shadowed from soot and the fires at their base. The bodies of loyal soldiers and servants and commoners lay heaped in a pile, flames licking upon their bodies. Traitors hefted more bodies onto the ever-growing pyres, their laughter carrying on the wind. It was a sea of dead, stretching from the foot of the wall out. The dead were everywhere. The branch she was holding slipped slightly and she glanced down, only to recoil in horror. Tears burned in her eyes as she recognized her guard, Guisar. His throat was slit, and his mouth was full of blood. Flies danced around his eyes and in the gash. Numbly, she shut his mouth and lifted her hand from his arm. Such a loyal man…dead. Memories threatened to overwhelm her, and she shoved it to the back of her mind. She wasn’t ready yet. She didn’t want to think about this.

The girl blinked back tears and turned to look around her. The flames cast dark shadows against the walls, and she glanced away in disgust. Her eyes fell on the outline of something round, stuck on posts near the fires. There were about ten of them in an uneven row. She peered closer and recoiled in shock. The faces were slack-jawed and black from tar, but she recognized them nonetheless. The heads of Captain Sameron and Lord Vander were skewered on posts, along with eight other loyal men and chancellors. They had been some of her closest companions during the struggle. A tear slipped down her face, leaving a trail on her sooty face. The sky was dark with clouds, and a rank wind whipped through the skeletal trees, caressing her face. The Diamond Sea crashed before her, waves whipped into white caps from the coming storm. Pushing herself up off her elbows and into a sitting position, she gazed out across the ocean. The ocean was black and moody, so different from her memories. It was dark, everything was dark.

Breena felt her throat tighten as she stared blankly at the poles in front of her. The memories finally surfaced, flooding her senses. Tears slipped freely down her cheeks unchecked. She remembered the days when the darkness was just a far away threat, a black cloud over the plains. The sun still shone over Trogan, the sea sparkled with blue-green waves crashing against the white fortress. The peasants outside Trogan’s walls worked in the fields, harvesting golden wheat and hay. The long stalks of unharvested wheat waved like the ocean waves, blown by the wind. Inside the city’s walls, merchants sold their wares. Carpet dealers, street cooks, perfume dealers, and other ware-sellers filled the streets. Trogan was filled with colors and smells unimaginable. Down at the docks, Trogan’s magnificent navy waved their proud silver banners, Trogan’s white walls emblazened upon them. Soldiers manned the docks and sailors swarmed the decks. Fishermen brought their catch up and sea birds squawked overhead. Breena smiled slightly, seeing her city through the eyes of a child. Her memories were filled with wonder and excitement. The sea still glimmered with the reflection of the city. It was a beacon of hope to the girl and her father. As long as Trogan’s white walls stood pure, the darkness hadn’t won. She blinked and the vision faded. She was left staring at blackened walls, soot trails up the sides.

A shout broke through Breena’s thoughts and she jerked, bumping into bodies. Something moved to the right of her, and she froze. It was a dragging, slithering sound, almost like a giant lizard. The sound of footsteps followed it, and she shrank back into the surrounding bodies. From around the curve of the wall, a torch light lit up the darkness, and a soldier came into sight. His face was rough with day-old stubble and his eyes were bleary and red in the firelight. He was dragging something, and the girl shuddered when she saw the black outline of a body behind him. The soldier grunted and heaved the body onto the pile, muttering about something. She could smell the beer on his breath from where she sat. He chuckled evilly and began to sing a crude bar song. Grabbing the body, he turned his back to her and began to do something. From the way the man giggled and hiccupped, she was almost positive that she was glad she couldn’t see. Chuckling again and taking a swig out of the canteen at his side, he shoved another spear into the ground in the row of heads. Pulling out his sword, he raised it above the body and swung down once, twice, three times, messily beheading the corpse. The girl shivered at the sound, glad for the darkness. Then, the headless body was thrown onto the bonfire, the flames greedily devouring it like an animal. The head was dipped in tar and stuck upon a pole like the others, another trophy. Just before the man left, the light from his torch caught on the face. Breena gasped, but the man was too drunk to hear. Humming to himself, he wobbled around the corner and out of sight. She waited until his singing drifted away, then crept slowly forward, her wounds forgotten. Blood dripped down the pole and puddled on the muddy ground. Flickering light from the bonfire played across the still face. Ignoring the tar, she lifted a shaking hand to gently touch the face, running her fingers over the forehead, cheekbones, nose. Even in the darkness, she had recognized the blonde beard and wavy blonde hair, the wide open green eyes and crooked nose. The darkness had taken the King. It had beaten her father. Therin, king of the last of the good, had been killed by a bumbling, drunk idiot. Stunned, she sat back on her heels. “No…no, no, no, no…”

The darkness around her shuddered, and the flames cackled like laughter. The sea sent waves crashing upon the grimy walls of the city, roaring its ecstasy. Trogan had fallen. The riots had finally broken free of their restraints. The people had rebelled. The darkness whispered in her head, feeding wood to the flame of her despair. She heard the singing again and crawled back among the dead. The soldier dragged another body behind him, and her hands clenched. She hated this man. She hated them all, letting her father die… Breena glared into the roiling clouds. What was left for her? Her father was dead, her people were like dead. Everything was gone. Numb, she grabbed at the dagger still in her bodice and lifted it to her breast. Without her father, there was no point to living. Darkness had won. It was all over. A droplet of sweat ran down her nose, mingled with blood, and dropped onto the blade. Breena took a shuddering breath and steadied herself for the pain. Suddenly, the blade flashed like lightening, burning brightly. Yelping, she dropped it and pulled back. Ancient runes glowed blue in the darkness, fading swiftly. Moments passed before she could gather the courage to go near the blade. The sound of her breathing and of the waves filled her mind. Carefully Breena picked it up again.

Something tickled in the back of her mind and begged to be remembered, while the darkness strived to smother it. She could feel it, pushing and prodding to be remembered. He was still alive then, high on his dais as the day’s court drew to a close. Deep green eyes met hers, and Breena shivered. He had looked so sad that day, so tired. “My daughter, do not give in to the darkness. It yearns for your soul and for my soul. We are the only ones holding it back. The darkness feeds on anger, hate, sorrow, and pain. Instead, feed it the passion you have for your people, the life that flows in your veins, the beauty and grace that you have, and the love you have for everything. Above all else, my child, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of your life. Without a heart, a person is nothing, and without love a life is wasted.”

Her father’s voice faded into the gloom around her.

The tears came then, tears of grief for her father and for his people. They were now her people. Deep inside, she knew she was queen, and it tasted bitter on her tongue. She wasn’t ready for this. Her father wasn’t supposed to die. Her bitterness was redirected towards the darkness, and pity to the soldier. The clouds rumbled with evil laughter, and the flames leapt higher. Drunken laughter rang off the ramparts, and Breena choked back her sobs. She had to avoid unwanted attention Besides, Therin wouldn’t have wanted her to give up. Her father was dead, yes, but his people were not, nor his daughter. The tears slowed, and Breena wiped her face with the dirty hem of her skirt, then pushed the dirty, damp golden hair out of her face with the heel of her hand. “Remember the good times, my child, and they shall always live on. Love the ones gone, and never forget what they lived for.”

Therin had been strong when Oafane had fallen and her uncle had been killed. She had to love her father and remember him. She had to remember how the people used to be, before the darkness overtook Trogan, for they were all but dead now.

And the darkness too had once been good, or born from a creature once good. Breena felt her hatred begin to dissapate into stony resolve. As queen of the last stronghold of good, it was her duty to preserve the rest of Kerista from the darkness’ taint. It came from her people, and she was responsible for its destruction. She would deal with it. As she gazed around the fallen city, she swore not to let the Other Folk fall to the same fate.

The darkness recoiled at her thoughts, and Breena laughed at the sky. The world around her spun, winds swirling and water flying. She shut her eyes and thought about the days before this, when her father and she had sat up reading or talking about the kingdom, of a pure Kerista. Her face stung from the sudden storm, but she refused to move. She was a queen now. The wind howled in her ears flipping over the bloated bodies. Breena clutched the dagger close and remembered. Just as suddenly, the storm vanished.
Yes, the darkness knew she was there. It felt her strength, and it hated it. She had held it off before, and it was determined to kill her before she could stop it again. Breena smiled slightly at the darkness, at its fear. A child against a monster, and the monster afraid of the child. Then, the wound on her forehead came piercing back to reality, and she fainted.

 

Adair fingered the flute lightly, his deep blue eyes traveling down the smooth white rowan. Lifting it to his lips, he began to softly play. His slender fingers traveled up and down the instrument and light, fluid music floated on the air. Darrin sat close by with his bow at the ready, his young face taut with seriousness. Adair grinned as he watched his friend. “Is something coming to get you, my friend?” Darrin didn’t move, his green eyes intent on the forest around him. Darrin frowned but stayed silent. Lowering his flute, Adair listened for a moment when his companion did not answer. The pristine forest around them echoed with silence, drawing them in. A twig snapped. The little stream seemed loud in the sudden stillness. Slipping his flute into his pack, Adair reached silently for his bow and notched an arrow. Darrin nodded, and both aimed across the stream. As the creature got closer, more sounds met their ears. Sounds out of place in their forests: quiet sobs, heavy breathing, and something being dragged. The two glanced at each other, then moved together. The arrows whistled through the underbrush, thunking softly into flesh. The creature moaned and fell. The two men slipped on their packs and rose to their feet.
Carefully the two men crept forward, their feet making no noise as they crossed the stream. Both bows here already notched and ready. The creature groaned quietly ahead of them, hidden behind heavy boughs of evergreen and oak. Adair motioned for them to split up. Licking his lips, he pushed aside the last branch and stepped into a small meadow.

Spring flowers and grasses waved in the wind. They brushed light fingers against the leather of his boots. To his right there was a patch of flattened grasses. Darrin emerged from the other side and Adair waved him forward. Lying at the edge of the field, a troll lay oozing its dark green ichor onto the grass. Its bruised-looking hide was studded with the arrows of other battles, and the mark of darkness was burned onto its forehead. The young men grimaced at the ugly thing. The ancient symbols boiled across the thick orange skin. Adair frowned at the mark, yellowed with age. In disgust, he pushed the troll’s head away with the heel of his boot. Stupid creaturr, wandering through Avalbane’s lands. Something groaned again, but it was not the troll. The two arrows had made sure of that. Squatting next to the troll, Adair held his breath against the stench and the unpleasantness of his task and shoved.

“Is it alive?” Darrin was standing a safe distance away with his bow taut. “Should we kill it?”

Adair frowned and stared down at the crumpled form. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t look dangerous. He pushed the troll completely off the thing, then rolled her onto her back. It wore a bloody, ripped tunic-like dress, almost an undergarment, across its body and there was a nasty gash across its head. Adair glanced down its body but it was too covered in troll blood for him to make out much more. He kneeled to get a better view of the human and saw a long gash from its collar bone to its naval. The wound seemed relatively fresh compared to the head wound. Caoimhe needed to see this creature. Darrin poked Adair gently in the side, his face questioning. Sighing, Adair pushed himself off his knees and brushed dirt off his pants. “Yes, it’s alive. Don’t shoot, friend; it’s hurt.”

He kept his eyes on the Folk, for it was obviously one of the Folk. “We should at least stop its bleeding. We will bring it to Caoimhe. She wouldn’t want a dead Folk lying around Avalbane.” He nudged the creature with his boot, grimacing as the blood smeared across the toe. “We won’t find a clean rag off that. Give me your shirt.”

“What?” Darrin stared wide-eyed at him.

Adair frowned. “Well, do you have anything else we can use to stop the blood?” he demanded. The other man blinked but pulled off his shirt. Backtracing to the stream, he dipped it thoughtfully in the water. The packs were just across its banks, so he slipped them both over his shoulders. Their weight was nothing compared to his thoughts.

The Folk looked to be young, and its wound at least a couple days old. Still, it was so covered in filth, mud, and troll slime that he couldn’t be sure. With its size, it could have been male or female. The shirt dripped down his side and Adair clenched it. Caoimhe. It was her order that any of the Folk were to be brought to her. The woman was altogether too trusting. Part of him wanted to kill the creature and blame it on accident, but Darrin had already seen it. Still, Caoimhe was putting everyone in danger with her little pity decree. What if this Folk was one of the Fallen Ones? It could easily be one of the Lesser or Greater demons. He forced his feet to continue moving. The trees themselves could be spies for the darkness.
He hesitantly approached the prone form. Darrin was kneeling by its head. “I have checked its forehead for the mark, but there isn’t one. Just this huge gash. Would you pass some salve?” Adair handed his friend a small pouch from his pack, then began to dab gently at the chest wound.

He frowned as he worked. Darrin and he had moved the troll away from the Folk to save them from drowning in its stench, but he was beginning to suspect their smelly friend wasn’t the cause of the Folk’s wound. It was buried under days worth of muck and the troll had much more recent wounds. Thrice Adair had to return to the spring and continue with his patient cleaning before he got down to the skin. The skin was pale in the sunlight. Rocking back on his heels, Adair chuckled. “See, Darrin, I told you I could do it.” The other man gave a mock-angry frown and tossed two silver coins to his friend. “Now, to find what else is under this muck…”

The forest was dark by the time Adair finished. The wound was clean. Finally, he had gotten all of the dirt and slime off it. He smiled slightly. Yes, the wound was infected, but it was clean for now. Darrin had left before sunset to get a couple more men together to bring the Folk to Caoimhe. Darrin had finished cleaning the head wound just before he left. Adair sat back and admired the creature before him. In the moonlight it almost looked pretty. He would most definitely be rewarded for this great deed to the Folk. Many elves who had rescued one of the Folk received the honor of an audience with a Dragon, the highest of the Folk. He watched the creature’s chest rise and fall with its breathing. Suddenly Adair sat up. He had been so focused on cleaning the gash that he hadn’t really looked at the Folk. The blood drained from his face and he gasped for air. The moonlight danced across the curves, the soft cheeks, the rosy lips, the rounded, unnatural ears of a female Man. Hatred boiled in his veins and he spat in disgust. What had he done?

 

The Elves stepped back from the leader of Men. Orbagon threw his head back and cackled with mad glee. “You elves think you are the greatest! You are the Immortals, the warriors of the forest!” he mocked. “What are you now that you are in my presence?? Worms!” He spat at the foot of the nearest Elf, brown eyes lit with a crazy light. “The lot of you are worms! Crawling around before me!” The Elves watched will cold indifference. “Stupid as they come,” he crowed. The wizard lifted his gnarled hand, then clenched it into a fist. “Bow to me!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. The man grinned.
“We will never—Ah! What…what trickery is this!” The Captain’s armor clanked as he fell. Adair stared from the back of the troop as he felt his knees begin to buckle. Shocked, he tried to fight it, horrified as the others fell around him. Orbagon’s laughter echoed around them and Adair glared with pure hatred at this mere mortal who dared control the Immortal. From his place in the dirt, he watched his people reduced to nothing.

The wizard’s brown eyes began to burn with an inward fire. “All elves are now my slaves! See how you like to be treated, eh? An eye for an eye, eh? See how it feels, my worms?” His pale skin began to ripple with streaks of black lightening, growing and swarming over the wizard’s body. They pulsed and swelled like a thousand snakes under his skin until Adair felt like vomiting. “I, Orbagon of Men, controls the Elves!” the old man screeched. Vultures circled above the group and laughing dogs huddled at the fringes, waiting. Orbagon’s eyes clouded black until they were pieces of coal, even the whites dark. His white-gray hair whipped in the wind. “I have the power to rule all of Kerista!” he screamed. He raised his clenched fists, and Adair felt his insides begin to pull. A female Elf near him barely bit back her scream. “Die, my worms, die!” He lowered his eyes to the warriors before him. “Fifty of you and you cannot restrain me.” He grinned wickedly, his rotten yellow teeth gleaming in the odd light. “And after I dispose of the rest of you arrogant fools, I’ll destroy those pesky Dwarves, remove the Dragons, and rule Kerista myself!” The wizard cackled, stretching his hands further and further upwards.

Adair searched for the Lady among the Elves. Where was she? Had she escaped? That monster Orbagon had demanded her presence, no doubt to kill her first. The young soldier glanced at each face and finally found her near the front. Her dark hair was standing slightly on end in the electricity, but her face was calm. Adair grimaced as he saw Orbagon’s magic working on the Lady, but she didn’t seem to notice. The Elf caught a glimmer of an object in her hand, the barest sheen of light. Then Orbagon screamed, and the pain grew worse. Adair fought the dizziness, turned his gaze onto the old man and nearly retched.

Black ink-like liquid oozed out of every pore of the wizard’s body, gushing out of his mouth and nose. He clenched his fists tighter and an Elf screamed. “No! NONONONONO! I can’t lose! I will have all power! Nooo…” A cloud of black erupted from Orbagon’s chest, pulling the liquid towards it. The black in the man’s body swiftly drained, and he stood frozen. The cloud grew and boiled, shadowing the statue of the wizard. Orbagon was almost transparent, his body frozen. And then, the cloud swirled over the corpse, and the wizard exploded into a cloud of dust, blowing away on the wind.

The cloud giggled, and Adair started. It giggled again, like a little child, yet the laugh held every atrocity, every evil thought and deed, and every horrid thing imaginable within it. Adair retched all over himself. The wind blew stoutly into the Elves faces, carrying the smell of burning, rotting flesh. A voice like nails on metal ground in his mind and he writhed. “So, I have conquered the Immortals, the Elves, second only to the mighty Dragons. And soon I shall conquer them also.” It folded in on itself until it had the vague form of a creature. The thing never stopped changing shape, grotesque and deformed in any of the shapes it chose. The Elf dry heaved again and grabbed his ears, trying to keep the voice out. Caoimhe sat in her place at the front, her hands clasped at her throat. Damn Men! Damn them for this thing they created!

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.03.2011

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