《The Lost Legacy》


 Prologue

    Year 1150 of the Third Epoch¡­


    Around her the woods kept quiet as it were before she ever set foot inside the forests. The absence of winds had made her wary, the branches and the leaves so still that she could not help but look askance at the tall, deciduous trees. Something was amiss, she thought. The Dark Forests had never a good reputation, but there was nary an eerie feeling whenever she had ventured into the shadowy woodlands that dotted the lands of Galacor for leagues, covering a little less than half of the wide country. But today, as her feet plunged into the heart of the forest, her skin tingled at the coldness of the land, the stillness in the wind. Even the air seemed unwholesome.


    The look and feel of the forest would have sent another person running, but she...would never be afraid. Fear was uncommon for her, like it never existed. And if there was any, she never showed it. She was Keyara, Princess of Alkameth, and she was not going to be afraid of anything. Not even the dark, not even the shadows that seemed to peek at her from behind the trees.


    If it were not for the tiny baby in her hands, she would have stood her ground and fought, but now, worried for the life of the little one, she ran, her feet forging her own criss-crossed path. The roots that cropped up out of the ground mattered to her not.


    She was being hunted. Or rather, her baby. She had to save her little boy at all costs and the best way to lose her hunters was to get to the other side of the river. If only she could get to it. The river was still a mile away and her feet groaned of pain, having run for leagues. She paused for a while, her breath coming in heavy gasps. Her right hand placed on the nearby tree, one with the broad trunk and its bark as rough and sinewy as it could get, she stood, her other hand patting the bald head of the baby. Keyara had not named him yet. There had been no time. As soon as the baby had been born, they had come. Vile creatures born out of darkness, far north under the icy glaciers of the doomed mountains. Her summer palace had been destroyed, now probably lying under charred debris. Her people dead, most of them at least, their blood wetting the grounds once considered holy and favorite to the Gods. They had attacked -- through land, sea, and air; riding on their fire-breathing dragons, sailing on their ships with dark sails, and mounted on what she could tell were horses, only mutilated and evil-looking. Men and women had quailed alike, as most often did under the cold glares of the minions of The Brothers Dark. She had wanted to fight, but Valakh, her counselor, had advised her to seek the refuges of Alkameth, her father¡¯s city far to the west, and alert them to the rise of evil in the east. And she had run, shamelessly, oblivious to the fact that Valakh was surrounded by hellhounds by the time her feet paraded her out of her beloved palace.


    An arrow struck the bark of the tree, its tip black and reeking of poison. The sheer force with which it had come left a whooshing irritation in her ears. She turned to look behind and caught a glimpse of her pursuers. They were still far behind, but she knew they would close in soon enough. A brief smirk decorated her face and covering her baby with a pink embroidered cloth, she ran again, this time her heart regretting the choice to not stand and fight.


    She zigzagged through the woodlands, the dark figures howling at her. Arrows flew at her, but always missed. Her hands caught hold of a wooden branch, thick and rough, lying nearby and swiveling, threw at it one of her pursuers who had almost closed in. The wood hit him right on his nose and he fell down on the ground with a heavy thud, grunting and snarling in pain, his hands clasped on his bloodied nostrils. She let out a loud laugh and ran again. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Up above her the leaves began to rustle. Frowning, she looked above and saw a black smoke trailing, at its front and behind the figures of its arms showing, shaped like talons, sharp as a dragon¡¯s claws. ¡®Daemons,¡¯ she cursed under her breath and heaving a deep sigh, she quickened her pace and hastened to her right. Far yet visible, she caught a gleam of water; her ears pricked up at the sound of a gushing stream. She smiled and made towards it. She was so near to getting to her destination. The daemons would not follow her over the water. Not yet.


    But her hopes were short-lived. The daemon struck the earth with a dark force that sent her flying into the trees. She clutched her baby hard, her eyes wide with shock. The daemons usually never set foot on the ground, yet this one had done so. Her back struck the trunk of a tree and she squirmed in pain. Nonetheless no shriek left her mouth. She looked at the baby; he was safe. For the moment. Breathing heavy, she looked towards the river and saw the daemon lunging towards her, a flaming sword in his hands, the hilt of which she recognized to be darksteel, forged in the fires of the dark castles to the north. Indecision swept across her mind, her body feeling helpless, but by the time she had gathered herself, the daemon had covered a lot of ground. Sweat trickled down her forehead as the hand that held the fiery blade raised to smite her.


    At the last moment, her figure wavered and ducked under the heavy blow, catapulting the daemon towards the tree, its black head butting against the bark of a tree. Keyara, carefully holding the baby, slithered under the wide legs of the gigantic monster, and ran towards the shimmering waters of the river that she knew was nigh. She heard the daemon roar, the sound of which sent shivers down her spine. Terror overcame her for a moment, making her stop where she was, her limbs as if ordered by someone. The air became colder and breezier. Turning behind she saw the daemon face her, its darksteel sword still in hand, and lunge towards her like a snarling and hungry wolf.


    She knew she could not fight both the daemon and keep her baby safe. There was only one thing she could attempt to do and get the baby to safety first. She shook aside the gripping terror, her limbs relaxing as her maternal instincts of protection flowed through her body. Quickly plucking a long, slender twig from a nearby tree, she muttered a short incantation. As the daemon came and pawed at her, she swished the twig in the air from left to right. The daemon howled and fell backward. A silver but transparent wall separated the creature from her.


    Keyara moved the twig on the ground in a circle while the daemon kept up its attempts to shatter the wall. But Keyara knew that the wall would stand as long as she was nearby. She stood her ground in the middle of the circle, its rims burning with a lightning blue fire. Breathing heavily, she closed her eyes and held the baby high in the air. Her pink lips moving, her black hair waving, the baby soon dematerialized into the air. She heaved a deep sigh, her bones suddenly weary. The spell of teleportation, she had been taught, was a dangerous magic to cast, especially for novice magicians with no practice and experience. But for one such novice, she had come far enough. She knew her spell had succeeded and she had lived. The baby was now safe. Her lips quirking, she prepared herself for a fight, just in case. She looked behind. The river was now near, the gushing of its waters loud. But far away behind the daemon she heard the howl of hounds, many in number. The wall would not be able to withstand a full attack. And so she ran towards the river, the twig in her hand turning into a sword that glowed with a bright light that dazzled the daemon away from the wall.


    She was quite near the water, perhaps a hundred feet away, when she heard the wall behind her break. With a quick turn of her head, she saw the daemon standing rooted to its place, but in place of him, the hellhounds raced towards her, snarling and growling, baring its bloodthirsty teeth. Their gray eyes seemed so full of dark it made her shudder. But throwing aside the fear, she plunged her sword into the ground, blue ripples circling towards her enemies. Most hounds yelped as the magic burned through their furry skins, but some jumped above and made towards the sword behind which Keyara squatted, her hand clasping its hilt, her eyes determined to kill.


    ***

 Chapter - I

    About Eighteen Years Later¡­


    The morning light peeped in through a corner of the round windows, one among the three that dotted the brick walls of his bedroom. Kerrigan yawned as he woke up, the drowsiness still enticing him to lay back on the bed. A silent breeze gusted in through the opening by which the dawn had crept in. It was cold and shivery, he thought, even though the long winter had passed. A colorful spring had made its way to the western countries of Galacor and the snow on the Wickerone Ranges to the east was just starting to melt.


    His ears pricked up at the noise of the running water nearby; a rillet that ran to meet the Great Sea to the west, originating in the mountains. He stretched his legs, cursing the sound of the gushing stream. The cacophony made by it was excruciating to his ears. All day, all night. Why ever did his parents had to build a house so close to the water? He would never know.


    He drew aside the ragged, dirty curtains, letting the sunlight through. The chill in the air suddenly vanished, the room getting warmer. What sleep he had in him vanished. Rubbing his eyes, he walked out of the room into a hall, which was empty. A frown encroached on his forehead, wondering where his parents had disappeared to.


    ''Mother!'' he shouted. ''Father!''


    Nobody answered.


    The door, he saw, was open. His brows furrowed again. His parents were never that careless enough to leave the door open. Even though they had nothing precious enough for the bandits to target them, his father still liked to keep the doors closed unless and until necessary. Only during the summer, when the weather was hot and the sun burned outside with ghastly heat would he consider leaving the doors open, eager to let some wind in. Not that it helped, he had heard. The winds during the summer were hotter, though a little humid. His mother used to say the weather was much drier to the east.


    But he had never experienced the heat of the summer. It had been winter since he was born. Eighteen years had passed since his nameday and the cold had refused to relent. People had begun speaking of it as the sign of coming darkness; rumors had spread of daemons and witches scouring the world, eating any living thing that crawled under the sun. All through his life he had trudged through snow and never once saw lush greenery. Except for when the spring had arrived. The snow thawed and slowly the green was making its return.


    He called out to them again. Yet there was no answer. Silence except for the gusting winds that grew warmer as the day progressed.


    ''Where are you?'' he whispered, his heart beating fast. Had something happened to his parents? Had bandits struck their house at last, and when they had, having found nothing, did something to his parents? Chaos sprouted in his mind, torn in two about what was to be done. He could rush to the cluster of houses lower in the valley -- a small town called Sipleton that lay on the foothills of the Wickerone Ranges -- and spread the word among its people. But his family wasn''t exactly any of their priority. They all looked down upon them, especially the ones who possessed gold in their coffers. His family was of the farmer''s clan, one of the lowest, and according to the Councilors, they did not warrant much attention.


    His feet led him running out of the house. To his front, a huge green field spread for a league or two in either direction before it ended on the fringes of a dark forest, except for the west where the fields met their end on the moist banks of the rillet. As far as his eyes could see, he could not see any trace of his parents. Sometimes, his father did work the land early morning, even before the sun showed its face in the sky. But there was no sign of him in the fields today. He turned westward where the stream flowed, the water splashing amongst the black rocks that blocked its path downward. He could see the rich white foam on the surface of the water. A bucket lay on its banks, empty and dry, much to his surprise. It was even more surprising that he could see that it was dry even from standing thus afar.


    Birds chirped in the sky above, flying from tree to tree. Sparrows and doves, pigeons and white swans, all nesting in the surroundings, all in absentia during the winter. The thought of them flying and the sound of them tweeting, save the guttural racket of the pigeons, made him happy. For a while. He forgot for that moment the absence of his parents. And when these birds had disappeared behind the brick walls of his house, the thought of them returned and he looked around with worry, creases appearing on his brows.


    ''Mother, Father,'' he shouted, his words carried by the winds across the land. Yet there was no answer from either of them. Where were they? Where had they gone? Did something bad happen to them? Dark questions made his mind uneasy. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ***


    Down below in the valley, in the wee hours of the morning, the town of Sipleton had erupted into a celebration. Children ran amok through the narrow roads of the town, crying for their parents and elders, each having a wooden flute in their hands.


    ''The peddler has come,'' they squeaked in their innocent voices. ''The peddler has come.''


    Doors creaked open and out came the elders, gathering up their baskets and whatnots to carry the wares from and to the peddler. They had all been eagerly waiting for him to arrive. The winter had seen no trace of him. They needed his wares now, but most importantly, they wanted to hear stories, tales of the outside world. For years now they had gone without knowing the happenings elsewhere in Galacor and the lands beyond. And so as they breezed down the muddy paths, each wore a smile on their faces, their anticipation carrying across the town.


    ***


    Kerrigan knew better than to follow the path to the forests. People spoke of the wolves that lived in them. In the beginning, he had thought they were tales to scare him, but a day had come when he had heard them howling. And where one wolf prowled, the pack that it led followed. The mere reminiscence of that event sent shudders down his spine and he cleared such thoughts away. No, his parents wouldn''t dare go into the forests, not unless they had desperate need of wood, which they didn''t, considering he knew there were countless logs of wood kept in their barn, and even if they did, his father would never go deep. He would stay in its fringes. But most of the time, his father bought wood from the village. It was expensive, but it was safe.


    But the footsteps told him otherwise. He was sure the prints matched his parents. A pair of twos marching straight towards the dark woodlands. He wondered what madness had grasped both of them. Had they heard something? And if so, why had both of them gone? The whole logic of it seemed foolish to him. They knew they had a son who was sleeping in his room, oblivious of what was going on. But then, more and more he thought about it, he could not help but soothe down his misunderstanding. Where his father went, his mother would follow, especially if there was danger lurking. Had they left him because they had sensed something evil? He had no answers to any of his questions and it did nothing but irk him.


    A crow cawed out loud as it perched on a wooden stick placed in the center of the field. He looked at it with great disdain. For some reasons he hated the passerine species. He distrusted the kind, especially the ravens. Crows, he tolerated, convincing himself that they were lesser relatives of the ravens. The latter he believed to be creatures of darkness, spies of the shadow. His belief was shared by many in the country, by almost everyone who hated and feared The Brothers Dark.


    ''Shoo!'' he cried at the crow, which did not bother about his waving hands. It, much to his annoyance, did not move and began to caw louder. And suddenly, it fluttered its wings, black as coal, and flew away towards the forests with nary a look at him. He found its behavior weird and as he took another step forward, a strange ache assailed him in the head. He knelt down on his knees and held his face in his arms, his mouth dying to scream. Yet no sound he made for fear of attracting whatever it was that lurked in the woodlands. His breath came in gasps. His eyelids blinked faster than usual and then drooped to a close. He fell down on the ground in a swoon.


    A blue circle of fire encircled him. He was standing on a chariot led by two horses, one black and one brown. In his hands he held a greatbow, his fingers clutching at an arrow he had made appear as if through magic. He took aim at his opponent, a middle-aged woman who stared at him with great confidence. She was a warrior.


    He let loose the arrow and it flew with the wind at the woman. And just as he turned away to pick up another shaft, in the corner of his eyes, he saw the arrow turn into a flock of ravens that turned back towards him and pecked at his flesh.


    He screamed out loud, squirming in pain as skin left him.


    ''Kerrigan, wake up, dear,'' said a woman in his ears.


    He woke up with a loud gasp and saw that his mother was beside him, a wide smile on her face, her light blue eyes looking at him with maternal affection. His father stood behind her, a look of concern on his face, his fingers on his dusky chin.


    ''What happened, son?'' his father asked. ''You were thrashing yourself on the ground as if grounded with pain.''


    ''N...nothing,'' he stuttered.


    His father did not respond. Yet in those eyes he saw that his father wasn''t done yet.


    His mother broke the tension. ''Come along now. Back to the house you go and in the comforts of the bed you sleep. A field is no place for a young boy like you, especially when the cold has not gone yet and when the summer comes nigh.''


    They led him through the fields back to their house, not far away.


    ''Where had you gone?'' he asked.


    His mother smiled. Pointing to a basket of corn, she said, ''Gone to get some corn, dear. Will make you some roast for breakfast. You go and freshen up. Some cold water shall drive what remains of your dark nightmares.''


    He nodded. ''Shall do, Mother.''


    Just as he turned to go, a small boy, with disheveled hair, appeared at the door, panting as if he had run all the way uphill. His name was Petros.


    ''What''s it, Petros?'' his mother asked, sweetly. ''And why are you panting thus? Run far?''


    The boy gave a nod of his head. Kerrigan could not help but smile.


    ''The peddler is here.''


    ***

 Chapter - II

    ''The peddler has come.''


    The words came sweet from the boy''s mouth and Kerrigan had enjoyed hearing it. His face had lit up like fireworks, red and beaming. Ever since his childhood, he had heard tales of this peddler, who his mother used to say came often into town to sell his wares and would stay through the night telling stories of the outside world. But all through the winter, he had never come and the entire town had sulked.


    Kerrigan had never met the peddler before, but he seemed to know him quite well. Cutting through the fields, jumping on the rocky outcrops, he made his way downward to the valley, a smile on his face, eager to see the man of his stories. His parents screamed behind him on the path, pleading for him to wait, but Kerrigan did not pay a heed. He just ran as fast as his feet could take him.


    The road to Sipleton wound like a snake and would have been a longer route. The path he had taken was a short cut, but dangerous. To his right was a sheer drop, not so deep yet enough to break bones should one fall.


    Pebbles flew from beneath his feet as he crossed little tribulets and orchards of apple and grape. Dogs barked at him as he strutted across the breadth of the fields; some even pursued him. But he minded them not. His only thought was on the village and the peddler who visited it. One could say he was under a spell, mesmerized by the memories of the stories his mother used to tell.


    He finally reached the peaceful town; only this time, its roads were inundated with people who seemed in quite a hurry. He could not blame them. After all, even he had zigzagged through the wilderness to reach here, even as his eyes darted from house to house, wondering whether he could pinpoint the place the peddler would be staying in. He couldn''t.


    Children jumped on the streets. He was sure his excitement matched theirs. Dressed in his nightly clothes -- a dusty brown shirt and black trousers -- he made his way through the walking throng, smiling at each as he passed the people by. They stared at him weird, their brows frowning. Some called curses at him, but he bothered not. He had become used to them. He belonged to the lower clans and the people who stayed in town did not like them. Him, most of all. What it was about him that bothered them, he could not tell, and he did not want to know.


    The houses were made of bricks, just like his home. The paint of each varied depending on the choice of the household, but most were red or variations of the color. Ever and anon, he would encounter a green, and that house would stand out among the rest.


    Most people in the town were middle-aged. Most men, at this time, would be preparing for work, but courtesy the arrival of the peddler, all genders alike made way towards the huge clearing to the south where the peddler was rumored to have set shop. He followed the crowd, more excited than they ever were.


    The peddler was an old man with a gray beard and a bald head, and he sat on a wooden stool right in front of his magnanimous red tent. Behind him, a pair of burly men ferried furniture from one place to another, and another -- a slender man somewhere in his early twenties -- was labeling the items by sticking a piece of white paper and writing on it with a blue quill dipped in black ink.


    But his eyes returned to the old peddler again, the aura of the latter making him curious. The wizened-looking man sat still, waiting for the men and women of the town to gather around him with a calculating smile. Kerrigan began to get irked by his appearance. He had expected the peddler to have a good presence, but the sight of him sent tremors through his body. The gray eyes told him that the peddler was ancient of age; in them was wisdom and strength alike.


    When all had come, or rather, most, the peddler stood up and paced on the dais he had had erected. Kerrigan scoffed at the old man''s inclination towards showmanship. A dais for a sale of wares, he murmured, smirking. But at the glares of the townspeople around him, he kept quiet. They did not like it that he was making fun of the one they had come to hear. Of course, he hadn''t meant to joke about the appearance and the proclivities of the peddler, but they wouldn''t know that.


    The yellow sun had become brighter, the sudden warmth forcing people to cover their heads with scarves and kerchiefs of myriad hues. He stood rooted to his place despite the heat and stared straight at the motley crew that worked without stop on the stage. His eyes taking him ack to the peddler, he wondered what story the old man was going to tell.


    ''Kerrigan,'' someone called.


    Turning, he saw that his parents had arrived and with them was young Petros who strived hard to get to the front so he could see the peddler enact the tale from the front rows where children usually sat. To Kerrigan''s surprise, Petros failed as the men and women around him cursed under their breaths. The sadness that followed made him pity the small kid. He moved to bring Petros to where he was standing, aloof and on a stony outcrop, its surface gray in hue.


    But he was interrupted by the old peddler who began to speak. ''The town of Sipleton. I welcome you here,'' shouted the gray beard, ''as I always have. I must tell you that the long winter has made me travel less and so might not have as much tales of the world outside to tell.'' At this, the throng grunted. Some of them cursed. ''But that does not mean I have no story to tell.''


    Sighs of excitement followed.


    ''Today, in this beautiful morning of the much-awaited spring, I shall tell you the tale of Atillor The Broad and the greatbow he possessed, the one famously known as The Gusserat, using which he killed the tall daemon named Gorthag.''


    Many among the crowd curiously looked at each other and then at the peddler. Kerrigan could see the ignorance on their faces. But he had heard of The Gusserat, which was said to be a magical bow that could only be used by a person to whom it gave consent to. However, he only knew the tale in brief, having heard it from an uncle who lived in Ruthbox on the other side of the mountains. His uncle would not tell him more as he was but a child then, not old enough to hear the gore and the violence that came with the tale of Atillor The Broad. Today, he was eighteen-years-old, mature enough to handle the stories, but he frowned at the presence of the children. Their parents and caretakers did not move to send them away. For a moment, he felt a bit envious.


    ''Who''s Atillor The Broad?'' asked a man who stood just behind the row of children. Kerrigan remembered that he was none other than Blarc, the town physician.


    The peddler smiled. ''Patience, my dear Blarc; curious as always, aren''t you?'' he laughed.


    Kerrigan raised his brows. He was surprised the peddler remembered the physician''s name.


    ''But I will not delay now,'' continued the old man, ''since you all seem to be hungry for stories and tales. Never have I met anyone as curious as the people of this quaint little town, somewhere isolated in the wilderness. Perhaps it is the lonely location in which you dwell that make you people yearn for the happenings of places more populated, always yearning for that noise and clamor. So be it then. Let me start the tale of Atillor The Broad.''


    The crowd bobbed their heads in anticipation. Kerrigan could not help but join in the excitement.


    ''Once upon a time in the far northern settlements of Glaecea, the huge continent of which Galacor is part, lived a middle-aged man named Atillor. He had broad shoulders and was tall, and he was a farmer''s son.'' A murmur followed. ''One day it so happened that a royal carriage was passing through his lands, carefully making its paths through the swerving roads when one of its wheels got stuck in the soil. The retinue that accompanied it, all great horsemen, dismounted and tried to move the wheel out of the earth. Despite their strength, they could not lift it. Out of the carriage stepped a Princess, whose name was Lorelei. She was the daughter of the king of Armandor, the great monarch Brodstr. She was as beautiful as the radiant sun, fair of skin and golden hair that lengthened into curls behind shoulder. Her eyes were iridiscent blue, her nose pointed, and by nature a good judge of character. She had been traveling the northern fringes of her kingdom, the land now controlled by the Shadow. Asked she did the reason for their failure, to which the answer they knew not. They deliberated on how they could get out the wheel and for hours they got no solution. Afternoon gave way to evening and evening to night. The snow fell heavily that day and in no time they were all deep in snow. Shivering and their teeth warring against each other, they sat, their fires all extinguished, losing out all hope. The dawn came swift and even though the snow began to melt, the heat wasn''t enough. Frost bit them.''This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    The children had their mouths shaped like an "O".


    He couldn''t help but smile.


    ''The ninth hour of the day came and up trudged the snake-like path none other than our Atillor. He had been seeking his missing flock of sheep and saw to his front the unfortunate situation of the travelers. Being the kind person he was, he ran towards them and cleared them of the snow. And then looking at the carriage, he nodded and removed the wheel with his one hand alone. The Princess was surprised and shocked at the same time. Her followers too could not help but admire the strength Atillor had in him. All enquired of his being, of what he did, and of how he was able to accomplish the feat. But he only gave them modest answers. To most questions, he was shy and answered in a word or two. Lorelei began to look at him amusingly and whispered to her retinue. The head of the horsemen, a man named Surd, asked him to accompany to the city of Portsmouthe, a citadel by the great ocean, where it was ever warm and humid, a place winter never touched.''


    ''Winter never touched?'' mouthed another of the townsfolk. Kerrigan turned towards the voice but could not decipher who it belonged to.


    The old peddler smiled. ''Yes, there was a time when the Shadow had not gained such a power as it has now, and winter was short, reigning the earth for two to three months. And Portsmouthe, it never dared to touch. There was ever warmth there, and hope. But let us not talk about winter any longer for the season bears weary memories, dark and hopeless. Let us talk of what followed.''


    The crowd shouted excitedly.


    ''Atillor, with the blessings of his elders, accepted Surd''s proposition, and journeyed with them to the South and the West. To Portsmouthe he came, and wonder took him. The magnificence of the castle, its huge walls of stone, and its royal splendor left him open-mouthed, which made him embarrassed all too often. Surd asked him to come to the barracks the next day, having acquired for him a small room for his stay. And so Atillor obeyed, punctual as he always was. Day after day he trained under the eyes of the warriors. With mace, he excelled; with swords he was deadly. But he became the master of the bow, a weapon recently acquired by mankind. To gain the skills of bow magic, he was sent into the forests and after long years he returned, bearing gifts unlike any in the world of men had seen. He could use magical arrows that far outranked those who had already studied them. Many said he was gifted by the angels.''


    ''Was he?'' asked a young boy, eager for an answer.


    The old man nodded. ''He was definitely blessed. But these gifts, though earning him many accolades, got him resentment as well. Many knew that he was the son of a farmer and considered him of a low caste. It was only because of Surd''s recommendation that the trainers had taken him in. And now that he was growing in skill far beyond them, they could not help but envy him. Even Surd began to feel jealous. Even more so because the Princess Lorelei had fallen in love with him.''


    The peddler stopped to drink some water from a jug placed nearby on a short wooden table.


    ''Now Atillor began to sense slowly the hostility his own peers bore him, although they weren''t so open about it. The admiration they had for him suddenly turned into fear. But Lorelei''s company made him forget all about the hardships. A day came when Surd rushed into the courtroom and spoke about daemons and how they had been sighted on the land''s borders. He said that Gorthag was their leader and the king very well knew who that was. Surd had the courtiers clamor for Atillor''s name. The Princess looked horrified when Atillor accepted the mission, to which Surd and his followers secretly laughed. Nobody had survived a duel with Gorthag. Lorelei offered to go with him and being a woman of tact, she argued that she knew the arts of healing and would be of help to Atillor. The King had refused at first but then finally relented, heaping the responsibility of her well-being on Atillor.''


    He gulped a mouthful of water again.


    ''The duo traveled for leagues, over the mountains, and under the hills, through valleys and across woodlands; sleeping in dark caverns, its floors full of slick. One day they came upon a shrine dedicated to one of The Trinity. It was not a huge temple, but big enough. It had an aura that beckoned Atillor towards it and despite being a non-believer in the powers of the Gods, he entered the temple. There were a few priests about, all clad in holy saffron, their black hair knotted. A bright, white light led him through semi-dark corridors, followed closely by Lorelei. In one of the sepulchres, he found a greatbow lying encased in a transparent cocoon that burned with silver light. He grew enamored of it and paced towards the bow. Lorelei looked at it with knowing. She had read about greatbows in the library. "The Gusserat," she whispered, her voice echoing through the room. He bothered not about the name. His hand plunged into the cocoon and held the bow in his hand. The Gusserat shone, giving a sign that it had accepted Atillor as its owner as long as he lived. Taking the greatbow then, with the blessings of the priests, they continued on their journey. They soon came to the borderlands where Gorthag was last sighted. For two nights they camped at one place and the third night, Lorelei went missing.''


    The children gasped.


    ''But,'' the peddler said, smiling as he saw the looks on the children''s faces, ''Atillor found her, gagged and held captive in one of the daemon''s dens. A huge duel he fought with the daemon Gorthag and he finally killed him, the great General of The Brothers Dark.''


    The children looked happy.


    Kerrigan grinned. He knew the peddler had let go of the gory details of the battle, having hurried through it, knowing well the children were in the crowd. The adults seemed to heave in secret a sigh of relief.


    ''What happened next?'' asked an eight-year-old with black curly hair.


    The peddler laughed. ''They returned to Portsmouthe and married each other with the blessings of the King. Surd and his followers were quietened forever. The greatbow lay in his possession for the rest of Atillor''s long life. When he died, the greatbow just disappeared.''


    ''Are there any descendants?'' ventured Kerrigan.


    He could feel the old man''s eyes on him. It felt like he was being ripped apart, his soul lain bare to the peddler.


    ''Yes, there are, but where I know not. Brodstr''s dynasty fell two kings after Atillor when the regime of Addam raided its shores. And after that, an army General who had served under the erstwhile king took back what belonged to Armandor and made himself lord. It is his line that rules Armandor now despite vehement opposition from a line that boasts of being descended directly from Atillor himself. I know for a fact that they are frauds as they are descendants of the last king''s dalliance with his mistress. Bastards, all of them, and hence they do not have lawful claim to the throne.''


    ''But there are no legitimate descendants?'' Kerrigan asked.


    ''I know for a fact that the last king had a son and a daughter through his wife. The son was killed in battle with a daemon soon after Portsmouthe was lost. The daughter, I think, fled south. Nobody has seen or heard of her ever since.''


    ''And where now do you think The Gusserat is? Has it returned to the shrine where it was once kept?''


    The old man gave him a mysterious smile. He frowned. What signal was the old man giving him?


    ''The Gusserat disappeared with the death of Atillor the Broad. But it has been seen in many a hand since then. At least three that have been recorded in history.''


    ''And now?''


    The peddler grinned wide. ''And now The Gusserat is in my possession.'' The old one whistled to his followers. The two burly men pushed the greatbow, now encased in a silver cocoon just like it had been in the stories. The crowd stood awed at the magnificent craftsmanship of the bow, white like an elephant''s tusk.


    ''Behold The Gusserat!'' the old man bellowed.


    ***

 Chapter - III

    The peddler''s declaration astounded him, more than even the very sight of the greatbow. Questions raged through his mind, one after the other. How had he acquired it? Had the greatbow accepted the old man as its owner?


    Kerrigan''s eyes glanced through the crowd, who were as shocked as he was. They all stood there with open mouths. He could see the peddler smile; there was pride in him, that much he saw. But he did not understand the reason for all the histrionics. Why was he showcasing his prize now of all times?


    He stepped forward; as he did, people glared at him but went back to staring at the greatbow. ''How has it come into your possession? Surely, there lies a tale.''


    The peddler laughed. ''Truth you speak, Kerrigan Dorconar.''


    Kerrigan winced at hearing the full name. He found it uncanny that the old man knew his full name when today was the first time they had met.


    ''Ho...w...?'' he started to ask.


    ''What? How do I know your name? You speak in the same tongue as your parents standing at the back of the crowd somewhere, and I know them quite well. Oh, I am sure they will attest to the fact. And as for how I came into the possession of an acclaimed greatbow, well, there is a long story there, one I would not like to speak about as of now. If my wish be spoken of, I would like to relinquish this weapon for I no longer desire to wield it.''


    ''That would mean...''


    ''That I would have to die? Not necessarily. Greatbows have rules. The first is that they accept its owner. The second is that they can give it away.''


    ''But...what if they gave it away to a person who does not deserve it?''


    ''Just because the second rule is valid,'' the old man explained, ''doesn''t mean that the greatbow will ignore the first rule. I have brought this here so the greatbow has the chance to choose any of you. Perhaps one of you is worthy of such a weapon.''


    Murmurs spread through the crowd. Whispers that spoke in cold tongues. Each wanted to test their mettle, he heard. He wondered whether any would succeed.


    ''So who would want a try?'' the peddler asked.


    At least twenty among the crowd queued up. All of them belonged to the warrior caste, Kerrigan saw. Each wanted to prove who was superior. But something inside told him they would not pass the test.


    The first one was a sturdy young man, somewhere in his early twenties,, with an athletic build. He stepped up onto the dais and paced briskly to where the greatbow lay cocooned. His hand met the silver shimmer and with a smile, plunged it inside. Sudden as a bolt of lightning, he cried. He removed his hand, his skin showing burning welts.


    ''Oh,'' warned the peddler. ''I should have told you all. The candidates the greatbow rejects shall have their hands burned and the scar shall remain a sign forever, a reminder to the people of how unworthy they were of it.''


    Hearing the old man, half the queue stepped back into the crowd, much to the chagrin of their elders. It was better to face a loss of face than have red scars and a loss of face. Kerrigan could feel their confidence wavering.


    One after the other, the young men tried, and each met the same fate as the previous one. After the first, the nineteen had dwindled into a line of ten. And none of the ten had succeeded. The crowd whispered amongst themselves, their hopes of sending worthy people to the king''s service dashed.


    ''So,'' the old man spoke, ''The Gusserat does not find anyone worthy among the lot who tried. If the younglings have failed, perhaps the elders shall succeed?''


    ''Nay,'' said one of the elderlies. ''What shall the world say of us when they learn that the elders of the town gained glory when it should have been the young who should have done so? We have already acclaimed much of what renown is granted us, and even if the greatbow shall accept one of us the way it does, our future is short. We have what? Twenty to thirty years ahead of us? Nay, peddler, it will do us no good to seek for such glory as you intend to grant us. Your gift, though humbly appreciated, we have no choice but to refuse.''


    Everyone turned silent as they heard the ominous words. The peddler grunted and said, ''But even in two or three decades, you may do much with my gift. I am sure there are still kings and princes who would like to have a formidable warrior who wields such a weapon as The Gusserat.''


    ''Sure,'' replied the elderly who had spoken before. ''Two decades could see the fruitions of my actions. But, peddler, I have seen many a battle in my day, and so have the warriors here beside me. I could not endure the sight of my weapons spilling blood and wetting the earth. Rendering women widows and children orphans, I have not the strength to do it, not anymore. My place is beside my family, to look after my dearest wife and the children I have sired, even though not as glorified as myself.'' Turning towards those who had failed, he said, ''Those who failed need not take to heart their lack of success in the test today. Perhaps it isn''t your destiny to hold a weapon like The Gusserat, although it would have done the town a great honor. But the events today do not mean that you shall not seek glory again in the future. Let not my ramblings about the actions of war dissuade you from seeking service of a greater lord. You are all warriors and your duty is to protect the realms from dishonorable men and creatures of shadow. So lift your hearts up.''


    Kerrigan smiled. He knew that the elderly man had seen the morose faces the younglings of the town had and spoken the right words to lift up their spirits.


    The peddler nodded. ''Then what am I supposed to do about the test? I wish to give mankind a gift.''


    ''Perhaps in some other towns you may find a worthy suitor,'' suggested another elder man with gray hair and beard.''


    ''Your suggestion is valuable, Eggthorne. But...this is the last town. I cannot break my oath.''This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    The elderlies sighed. They knew the importance of a finished oath. ''We are sorry, peddler. We know oaths unfulfilled could be a heavy burden upon the heart,'' said Eggthorne. ''May the Light help you find a better suitor. Perhaps there will be some village you have not scoured yet.''


    The peddler looked at the crowd, going over each of the faces, and then suddenly, his eyes drifted to Kerrigan again.


    ''You, young man,'' he said, pointing to Kerrigan. ''How about you? Would you like to try?''


    Kerrigan shuddered. He could hear the crowd gasp. Much of the elders had taken affront.


    The old man grinned, anticipating that the crowd would turn against him for asking Kerrigan, the son of a farmer, to try. Until now he had talked to the warrior clans out of deference, but now, to defend the young tiller, he would have to speak the truth.


    ''A son of a farmer cannot hold weapons, peddler. It is an affront to our laws,'' shouted a warrior from the crowd.


    The peddler laughed. ''The Gods treat everyone as equals, warrior. Young Kerrigan here has every right to claim this greatbow and the glory that accompanies it as much as you have, or rather, had. The Gods have seen fit that you are not worthy of The Gusserat. But you shan''t stop others from claiming that which might have been yours should you have focused more on the right than on the wrong.''


    The warrior came out to the fore.


    ''Tie your tongue tight, peddler. Or I shall cut it out from your mouth myself.''


    ''Threats, warrior. That''s all you can make.''


    The warrior brandished a short sword and moved to attack when the others stopped him. ''Pay no heed to this uncouth,'' they told him. ''He speaks that which he doesn''t understand, for all his tales.'' Turning towards the peddler, the warrior who had first failed said, ''We can''t allow a farmer to claim a weapon, old man. Never. Not in our lands.''


    ''Your lands?'' the old man scoffed. ''Forget you not that these lands are but a gift to you from the Gods. If the Gods can give it, they can take it back also. Besides, the lot of you have proven useless. A warrior''s duty is to protect and be humble, not act haughty and judge others by their stature in society. By doing so, you have brought your pathetic lives to such a low as has not been seen in years. A warrior should not just spill blood but also fight for justice. But then, what is law without justice? And what is justice when it cannot have meaningful laws to back it? Tell me, O Warrior! You yourself have failed to lift The Gusserat. None of your warriors have the strength to become a bowmaster. What will you do when a vast army comes? Beg for aid elsewhere? Or flee with your tails hanging between your legs? Or give away foolishly your meaningless lives? The latter I don''t think you will do. Conscience and honor, that is what your kind has lost.''


    Turning to Kerrigan, he continued, ''Come and try your hand, young lad. Don''t cower to these people whose strength lies in mockery. I see in you a potential, a power. Come, lad. Lift The Gusserat.''


    Kerrigan stepped forward much to the annoyance of the crowd who cursed at him. He looked at the greatbow and wondered if it would accept him. Doubt gnawed at him. Should he try his hand where everyone failed?


    Doubt is a man''s enemy, Kerrigan. It will eat you on the inside like a canker does an orange. It will stop you from reaching your full potential. Lift the bow, Kerrigan. I know you can do it. You just need to focus.


    He stared at the old man who just smiled, his hair waving in the wind.


    Looking at the peddler, he felt a revival of hope inside of him. Perhaps he did stand a chance to be a bowmaster. He relished the thought. Bowmaster. That had a nice ring to it, he muttered to himself. All this while, he could feel the old man''s eyes boring into him as if reading his thoughts. He quickly purged all fantasies that assailed his mind and stood himself near the greatbow.


    He dropped to the ground on one knee, his skin pricked by the sharp stones. He could feel his warm blood ooze out of the little holes but kept his eyes closed, concentrating on his inner strength. The old man looked at him with a smile on his face, as if knowing what he was up to. Moments later, he opened his eyes, feeling fresh and rejuvenated and placing his left hand on the grip, he tugged at the greatbow. The Gusserat came into his hands as if it was waiting for his touch. The skies above grew dark and thunderous; lightning flashed gray and silver while the villagers looked at him and the sky with fear and surprise, some even with shock. Only the old man stared at Kerrigan, happy and proud.


    Kerrigan lifted the greatbow above his head, its limbs shimmering with a faint white light that moved around its rims. He smiled. His excitement knew no bounds as he looked at The Gusserat with pride. Holding it tight in his hands, he deigned to keep it back onto the stand, but even as he moved to do so, he dropped to the ground, screaming as an unheralded pain assaulted his mind. His vision seemed to blacken and the bow in his hands could not stop vibrating. Darkness grasped him and a flurry of images flitted through his mind.


    He found himself standing upon a ridge covered in gray mist, its shrouds thickening as the lands spread eastward. Ever and anon, he heard a cry, like that of a vicious beast that circled high above him in the sky. Another jolt of pain assailed him and then he stood at the side of a river, which at first was a sparkling blue, and then at his sight turned a crimson red, the color of blood. Fear took him and he raced upstream, climbing amidst sharp precipices of rocky mountains that grew on its banks. Everywhere he turned, on the mountain walls he saw queer signs, all marked in black. Most of them he could not make out. Some he could, but even those were blurred images. As his hands fleeted over one of them, everything went dark and he fell as if pushed. He flailed his hands and called for help, but none came.


    He fell down on a patch of green grass, a clearing amidst the great forests. He saw a man, black hair but graying, teaching a blurry figure on the use of bow magic. The figure was about to shoot a golden-gleamed arrow when figures in black approached from the sky like wisps of smoke. He stared at them, fear grasping him. He started to run when the golden arrow smote the dark birds with talons and rendered them into flakes of ashen cloth that fell down on him. Still reeling from the winged assault, he touched an ashen flake. Everything him around turned distorted and when the visions became clearer he found himself holding a greatbow much like The Gusserat. He tugged at it and the bow twanged. Sound rippled through the air, the reverberations causing him to close his ears with his hands. When the noise had subsided, when the world had stopped circling, he stood amidst a bloody battlefield witnessing two strange figures battling it out in the style of the bowmasters. Wounded bodies lay in front of him, crimson blood gushing out of the fresh cuts on their skins. He tread carefully, dancing on his toes to avoid touching the fallen men, towards the battling warriors. Swirls of wind and thick fog obstructed his vision. Waving his hands to drive away the misty tendrils that seemed to have a mind of their own, he waded across streams of bloods and rotting carcasses of horses and broken chariots, only to trip on a sharp rocky outcrop, his face towards an eyeball that had dropped out of its sockets.


    He screamed. ''Get it away from me! Get it away from me!''


    After a moment, the throbbing in his mind stopped and he found himself back at his village, its people looking at him with raised brows and confounded thoughts. He grunted and arose, weakened by the assault made by the greatbow.


    The peddler smiled. ''What you experienced, my dear Kerrigan, was the trailer of the future...your future. And if you have experienced the greatbow''s gift then it only means that the greatbow has accepted you as its master. Now you may claim it.''


    ''I...I am...''


    ''You are its master now, Kerrigan. The Gusserat is yours to keep.''


    Kerrigan could not believe his ears.


    ***

 Chapter - IV

    Twice the bells chimed every hour in the silent city. Nobody knew who rang them. Whether it was the wind or some lone left-away denizen, not a soul could guess. But the bells continued, indicating the hour had passed, without fail. Some wanderers, few as they were, wondered at this occurrence. They then spread rumors of demons and ghosts, of magic and sorcery, but she knew it was neither. At least, neither of what she practiced. Not magic. Not sorcery. And demons and ghosts ¡ª unlikely she had always maintained, trying hard to quell the rumors.


    Empty streets greeted her wherever she went. What people there were left had hidden themselves in the houses, never coming into the light. They preferred the darkness, it was said. She did not wonder why. The curse had affected them and their city. What was once a flourishing place, known for its trade and merchants, for its riches and silks, was now a ruin.


    She walked, weathering the storm that was upon her ¡ª a by-product of the ancient curse that had laid waste to the lands around her by The Trinity themselves. The storms and many other things that people would call natural disasters deigned to impede the entry of people into this land. Khalankhum it was called ¡ª the abode of The Brothers Dark when they were in power, long before they fled into the north, never to be seen again. Yet it was said that there was a darkness in this place, a remnant of the shadow they cast, terrible and evil. Darkness that fed upon innocent souls. And still she had come here, wanting to see the accursed place for herself. Even though her sources and friends had told her tales about Silthri, this city that stood on the eastern borders of the cursed land, she had come. Some would call her brave, others foolish, if they ever came to know about it. But she did not care. She found this the perfect place, suited for her meeting with Valakh, her demonic lover.


    The bell tolled again, this time louder. It sounded more like a knell, singing of ominous doom. But she walked on regardless, her fair hands covering her eyes, sheltering them from the heavy winds that gusted about her. The storm made an orotund noise. Eerie it felt, cold even. Turning left onto another empty street, she strode on, her pace quickening. She wanted her business done as fast as could be possible. After all, she had to cross the entirety of the desert again, even though her route only took her through its northern borders where the shadow did not care to touch. But who knows? It just might when she returned.


    She came face-to-face with an old decrepit building that had once been an inn. What once was joyous now gave her the feeling of being morose. No sound. No people. No hustle-bustle as would have been at somewhere normal. But here, an uncanny silence reigned.


    The inn now had walls that boasted of cracks, long curved ones that raced from the ceiling to the floor. The wood on the door was broken at too many places, with enough holes to seek a sneak peek inside. She pushed it open, the planks making a loud noise as she did. What light there was outside, and that was not much, illuminated the dark insides of what she knew would surely once have been heavily lit. Spiders built their webs from wall to wall, seeking to ensnare a careless victim. She frowned. Why had Valakh called her here of all places? She detested spiders, always finding them queer and thought of them as dangerous. Most of the time, as she had learned, spiders did do the bidding of the dark ones. They were spies, for demons and worse.


    But she wasn¡¯t surprised to find them here. Valakh was a daemon, after all. These spiders could very well serve him, call him their lord, she thought. Fingering the sharp blade with a golden hilt hung to the right in a neat leafy scabbard, she strode in, the spiders running on the strands as fast as their feet could carry. She scowled.


    Bending underneath several webs, she found Valakh sitting at a table not far from where she now stood.


    ''Keyara!'' he called out, noticing her. ''Come. Sit.''


    She smiled and headed over to the table, which was the only one without a crack. She sat on a seat opposite Valakh and stared at him longingly, as if she had met him after a long time.


    ''How fares you, Keyara?'' he asked, sounding concerned. The crimson in his eyes danced around the corners. ''Was your journey well?''


    ''Well enough to avoid whatever evil lurks in these accursed lands,'' she replied, adjusting her black silken dress.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    ''And how fare our children? Are they safe?''


    She nodded.


    ''Safe they need to be,'' he sighed. ''None can know of their existence. They have a great role to play in this world.''


    ''I hope we know what we are doing. Sometimes, even I wonder.''


    ''The Shadow must be stopped, Keyara. With each year that passes by, The Brothers Dark grow stronger. Their power was unmatched, save by a few, in the height of their rule and even though weakened after they were banished from these lands an age ago, their power remains unmatched still. Should they return to these lands, their power will grow tenfold and they won¡¯t be defeated again ever, until the ending of this world. So says The Prophet and we know he is always right.''


    She hummed. Like The Prophet, she knew Valakh was always right. ''But what about our children? How can they stop The Shadow?''


    Valakh smiled. A smile from a demon was always scary; made a mortal twinge inside, but she had gotten accustomed. ''Their blood will play a role. With the infused qualities of both you and me, they have a strong chance to fight The Shadow. Their bloodline will play a hand in the rise and fall of the kingdoms of men. Yet they will be the pioneers of Light and defeat The Shadow once and for all. Long time yet for that to happen, but this is just the beginning.''


    ''I sure hope so, but what do we do now?'' she asked, her forehead creased in thought.


    ''Try our best to severe the connection between this land and its former owners. The power The Brothers Dark possess is closely tied with the places they inhabit. If this land falls out of their control, their power will be greatly lessened.''


    ''But it is out of their control. They do not hold sway over this land longer,'' she countered. ''The Trinity¡¯s curse holds them at bay and even the remnant of The Shadow that dwells here is rumored to be dangerous to the creatures of the dark ones.''


    Valakh spat. ''The Trinity¡¯s Curse is weakening, my dear Keyara. With time the curse grows frail, and The Brothers Dark have now amassed enough power, if my sources are to be believed, to nullify the effects of the curse. And as far as the remnant that dwells here, with all the knowledge that they possess, I am sure they will find a way to tame it. It was once part of them; it will heed their words. Trust me, Keyara. Evil times are coming ahead, and mortals and everyone on this earth must prepare themselves for the wars that will surely come. Yes, they will, whether we severe the connection or not. But if our plans are successful, we would have contrived to weaken them so much that all of us have a chance to be victorious. A lot of our success will depend on our children and any that they may sire themselves. And this is why no one must know of them. Yet. For they are looking for them too. Oh, yes! They have heard of them.''


    Keyara blanched as she heard Valakh¡¯s last words interspersed with the whooshing noise of the wind. As Valakh grunted, she heard the wind cry wolf. It was a distinct howl, followed by more.


    ''Wolves?'' she arose, alert. ''What are wolves doing in the desert?''


    ''Not wolves,'' her lover snarled. ''Shadow hounds.''


    She cursed. Shadow hounds were the most dangerous creatures that hunted in the world. They had not been heard of for nigh a thousand years, but here they were, where none looked to find them.


    ''How?'' she asked, although her heart never wished to hear whatever answer Valakh might give. ''So far south?''


    Valakh brandished his blade, made of darksteel, forged in the fires of The Ice Fortress. ''You must hide,'' he said. ''They will find your scent but I will draw most of them away, even all if I can. And when you see a chance, run.''


    She nodded. Demons knew shadow hounds better. It would be well to heed his advice, she knew. Quickly, she hid in what seemed like a closet, and in there, time seemed like forever. Shadows circled her and every moment she expected to find a shadow hound or more clawing at the door outside.


    Howls she heard, louder than before. Ten she counted in succession although she knew there were more. It was said that shadow hounds moved in a pack of thirteen and it might very well be that there were that many in the city, hunting her, trying to find her. She silently removed her blade from the scabbard, made of lightsteel, forged by the ones people called The Hashims. She hoped against hope that she would survive the day.


    She made to open the door when she heard a loud scream. Valakh, she cried in a whisper. But she knew she could not rush to his aid. Her heart almost broke but wished he was safe and that the scream wasn¡¯t that of his. The wind almost made it difficult to notice the pitch and tone. It could have been anyone, she consoled herself. Heaving a deep sigh, she pushed the door open and eager to get out, she almost did not notice a shadow hound snarling at her from atop a cracked table.


    ***

 Chapter - V

    Her maid had stopped her recital of one of the poems from the tale of Beluria the Old. The poem was meant to put her to sleep, but Felicia, everyone knew how she was. One poem made her lay on the bed, another made her drowsy, and the third finally put her to sleep. The maid had only completed one and would have gone on to the next if she had not heard a knock on the door.


    As the maid rushed towards the wooden frame of the mammoth door that kept the Greentree Princess inside, Felicia stretched her hands and adjusted her nightdress -- a lilac blue gown that covered her modestly. Gradually, she awoke from her bed, cozy and crimson-cushioned, and walked cautiously behind her maid.


    The door opened revealing a slender man with hair as black as night, with sharp green eyes that made him look like a sorcerer -- which she knew he was not. She heard her maid''s voice rise and grill him about his choice of time to visit the Princess. Ungentlemanly, she heard her maid call him.


    ''Let him in, Maryse,'' she said, making sure for one last time she had dressed right. She did not want to give any man the satisfaction of looking at her skin, fair and without blemish.


    ''But, my Lady,'' the maid complained. ''It is an ungodly hour that this man chooses to visit. Surely, he could wait until the morning.'' Her tone was gruff. Turning towards him, she said, ''Come back in the morning. The Princess is tired after a long day and desires to sleep.''


    His lips curled into a smile. ''But the Princess bade me in, Maryse,'' he said, his tone as if taunting.


    Maryse scowled. ''The Princess knows not what she wants, Argo. Go now and come in the morning. Whatever you have to say, say at first light.''


    ''But...'' he tried to convince.


    Maryse raised her hand. ''Argo, listen to me. Go now and come back at dawn. This is no good hour that a man should visit a woman thus, unless it is your wife, your sister, or your family. If you enter, people shall speak.''


    Felicia sighed. ''Maryse,'' she yelled. ''Let him in.''


    For a moment, her maid fell quiet, stared at her as if she was going to lecture her, and then, deciding better of it, she walked out of the room in a huff.


    Felicia knew she would hear a lot of choice words the moment she came back. She could not blame her. Maryse had looked after her well-being ever since her mother had died and had become protective of her.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Argo walked in and looked with wonder at her bedchambers.


    ''Now, Argo,'' she said, ''this better be good. I have risked much inviting Maryse''s wrath. By tomorrow night, I could write a book with Maryse''s choice words. So whatever you want to tell me, it better hold my attention, or I would have my guards feed you to the dogs.''


    The man winced. ''I intend nothing, my lady. I wouldn''t have come at such an hour unless time was of the essence. Earlier we make the preparations the better Galacor will have a chance to survive.''


    She frowned. ''Speak plainly, man. What preparations? What have you learned?''


    ''I''m not sure what to report, Princess,'' he said, brows creased. ''Only signs I think evil.''


    ''Signs?'' she asked. ''What signs?''


    ''Ravens flying in huge numbers as if scouting the lands. Puddles of water in the desert turn dark like crimson blood. Smoke arises from the center of the cursed lands. And men with warts on their faces. They scare me, Princess.''


    ''The curse is intact, then, but weakening,'' she groaned. ''Ravens are creatures of the dark ones and if they have been seen back this far south, it won''t be long before the shadow returns back to its old haunts.''


    ''That''s what I fear, Princess,'' said Argo, terrified. ''The desert has begun to swallow the green lands beyond the borders of the cursed lands on either side. I saw parched trees where I swear there were green ones when I visited last.''


    She sat back on the bed, her shoulders slumped. These were the signs of the return of The Shadow. If it were allowed to set its roots in the cursed lands again, never again could it be thrust back. She wondered if The Council had taken note of this and would do anything about it. Or would they stick to minding the affairs of men, settling the skirmishes that arose out of petty egos. Would Galacor be reunited and march with its armies eastward? Most importantly, what would her father do? A bowmaster such as he could do great deeds in the east.


    ''I owe you a great thanks, Argo. But perhaps if you had told it to me at dawn, I would have seen a glimpse of hope. But now, the night sends darkness and shadows to assail me. I see not what can be done about the menace that brings our doom nigh. If we sit quiet, The Shadow will consume us all.''


    The man nodded and bowed his head.


    ''Collect from Maryse tomorrow what money you are owed. Tell her to add some extra coin as bonus.''


    Argo beamed with joy. Excitedly bowing and crying out her praise, he scurried out of her bedchambers. Heaving a deep sigh, she went back to lay on her bed when Maryse tumbled into the room again, fuming.


    ''Now, Princess, it looks like we still have to teach you some manners.''


    Felicia smiled.


    ''Letting a man into your chambers at such an hour...'' The maid went on, not noticing that Felicia''s eyes had drooped to a close, the curl of her lips still lingering.


    ***

 Chapter - VI

    The dawn came swifter than she had thought. After Argo had left and Maryse had gone on lecturing, she had gone on to sleep. The first peep of light fell on her face, having barged in through the window to her right. The warmth of that beam of rays had driven what drowsiness she had left.


    Felicia yawned as she got off the bed. If it were up to her she wouldn''t get up until it was high noon, but she had things to do now. Convincing her father into taking action was no small task. But the light around gave her hope, as mornings always did. Changing into an outdoor dress, she strode out of her bedchambers, down the corridors that were surrounded by escutcheon-laded walls, and out of the citadel via a doorway that led directly into the gardens.


    Her path led her through garths that bloomed with flowers of myriad colors -- some jasmine, some rose, and at the far end, in the pond, some water-lilies. As she walked, she kept repeating the words she had prepared once she had woken. Even though her desire to put forth her views was strong, she still felt nervous. Her father, Airasanda Greentree, was a strict person with codes and values, with the belief that the elder people were always right and the young would do good not to meddle. But she had always questioned that belief. How would the young learn if they did not make mistakes? Experience would teach them, she would counter.


    She hoped that her meddling in the affairs of The Shadow would not earn her his ire. The matter of the dark ones was not something to be trifled with. But she did not care. The news she had heard yesternight terrified her. The rise of The Shadow spelled nothing but impending doom. Galacor would be the first to fall if The Brothers Dark were allowed to set foot inside the cursed lands again. Straightening her bent posture, she quickened her pace, head held high, face fresh, and dressed in dark velvet, towards the wooden gate at the near end of the gardens, careful to evade the thorns that protruded out of the stalks of the rose shrubs.


    The gate creaked as it swung wide open. A gardener nearby looked at her for a moment and then returned back to watering the plants. She climbed down three stony steps and after, her feet stepped on the red soiled path that led to the river behind the citadel. She knew her father would be there, engaging the calm of the gushing water. It was his custom every morning to be beside the cold foaming waters, its force sprinkling tiny droplets onto his face as it smote on the dark rocks, closing his eyes and meditating. Paying obeisance to the sun, he had told her once.


    She never begrudged him his desire to be alone. After all, despite being a great bowmaster, he was also a human. But today she had urgent business that would not wait. The desire to apprise him of the coming of The Shadow was strong within her.


    Birds flew in circles above, chirping merrily as they did. Some sat on the trees that grew on either side of the path. She looked at them and smiled. Nature was such a beauty, she told herself. And birds -- she desired to pet them. However, she had not been able to decide which. Her father had given her his blessings as long as the bird was not a raven or its lesser relative -- the crow, or a vulture. She had laughed then and assured him that she had no desire to tame either. But as for the rest, it was a tough decision to make, even in the calm of the morning when a cool breeze gusted about her.


    She had expected a fog in the early morning, but for some reason, it had dissipated. She loved walking in the fog. It reminded her of her childhood when her mother would seek her out. She would remember her fatuous laughter as she ran helter-skelter, away from her mother. The thought itself would bring a smile to her adolescent self. She was about to be eighteen now and she wasn''t ready leave her childhood behind. Those seemed like golden days, the future only looking bleak and gloomy, more so if the news about The Shadow turned out to be true.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Her ears pricked up at the gushing noise the river made. Heaving a sigh of relief and wishing the thoughts of her childhood away, she paced briskly towards the river, the smile on her face withering.


    ***


    Her father had the open faces of his palms facing each other, looking east to the rising sun. Stones on the river beds crackled as she stepped on them, slowly making her way to the tall man, his long, black hair already on the cusp of turning gray. As she came within two paces of her father, she stopped and bowed. ''Father!'' she said.


    He turned towards her, his eyes boring into her, mildly annoyed. ''Any reason to interrupt, Felicia?'' he asked, his voice gruff. ''You know as well as the others that this is the time I reserve for myself and I do not meet anybody, not even my own daughters. I did not think that you of all people would forget that.''


    ''If it was not important, Father, I would not have...''


    He waved his hands. Wrapping a white towel over his bare chest, he said, ''You have come. That''s all that matters now.''


    ''I bear tidings, Father, and not all well.''


    He gave a slight nod. ''As well. The world is on the brink of change. It wouldn''t surprise me to hear that any news which may come henceforth would be grim. Tell me, Felicia, what tidings do you bear?''


    ''The cursed lands, Father.''


    ''What about them?'' he asked, his voice stern.


    ''The curse, Father. It is weakening.''


    ''And what makes you so sure?''


    ''A reliable source told me this.''


    He gave an irritated laugh. ''And what made you investigate the cursed lands in the first place?''


    ''Not my intention, Father, but I had sent my informants eastward, to gather what tidings they can, and one returned bearing news that I shuddered hearing. If the curse breaks, Father, The Shadow would have an open path to reclaiming those lands from which it was once banished.''


    ''Stay away from these matters, Felicia. None of this going to benefit you or anybody else. Such information, or misinformation, can cause unnecessary panic. Do you understand?''


    ''But Father...,'' she started.


    ''I would not have any more of this talk, Felicia. Do not concern yourself with matters that do not involve you. Let them be the domain of your elders. This is why there is a Council. Only it shall decide what to do should The Brothers Dark make their move. And let me tell you this one thing: The Brothers Dark are two separate people, each one having a purpose of his own. While one loves discipline and order, the other loves chaos. Yet they are the sides of the same coin, and if they are to enter the cursed lands, if they even have amassed such power as you seem to think they have, they have to merge their souls in order to retake their homeland. And that they will not do, under any circumstance. Now you know why I am not too worried.''


    Felicia made to argue but saw that her father would listen to her no more. She saw him turn his back on her and return to his posture. She sighed. What if you are wrong, Father? What then?


    ***

 Chapter - VII

    The storm had broken.


    Felicia wondered at the weird turn of the weather. Since when did it rain in the spring? When she mentioned it to her maid, Maryse had just shrugged, telling her that she was not a weatherwoman. That had made her laugh. Maryse and a weatherwoman, that would have been funny.


    It had been a day since she had talked with her father about the affairs of the east. She had no interactions with him after that.


    ''Silly of you to meddle in things you know nothing of,'' Maryse had mocked. ''The elders are right for a reason, you know?''


    She had just shrugged. Perhaps Maryse was right. Perhaps not. But why was her father so mad at her? He had always known her nature. She was a rebel at heart. Couldn''t she be forgiven? After all, her intent was for the good of Galacor. She detested The Shadow, for more personal reasons than human. There was word going on that her mother was killed by a daemon. The cause of death wasn''t verified, but the claw marks indicated a daemon''s talons. Felicia had harbored a great anger and propensity for vengeance since.


    She stood on the balcony, watching the early morning dew settle on the green shrubs in the gardens below. The droplets gleamed a golden orange as it refracted the sunlight she was glad to be seeing after many a squally night. ''Beautiful!'' she remarked, a smile on her face.


    Birds chirped in the sky, some perched on the trees that grew tall in the groves to the side of the citadel. They sounded musical to her ears. In the summer and the autumn, she usually liked to listen to them sing. She had a special liking to the green parakeets, always flying around in pairs, singing and sometimes even repeating the words they heard people speak. But today, she looked around for them. Nary a sight of them she saw. She missed them, as she had done all winter. Had they come to harm because of the blasted snows? She hoped not. But something inside told her not everything was well.


    Huffing and sighing, she went back into her bedroom, closing the glass doors behind her. The room suddenly darkened, only illuminated by what little light the windows half-covered by purple curtains allowed. Cold grasped her; she cursed. Only a while ago she had been graced by a degree of warmth. Now, an uncanny chill bit through her skin.


    She felt her cuticle harden and a pulsing pain surged through her body, making her fall down on the marble floor on one knee. A scream escaped her mouth and her head going in circles, she fell down in a swoon.


    A terrified look crossed her face as she found herself in a land full of devastation, an earth touched by the cruel fingers of The Shadow, tainted and evil. The dark waste stretched barren for leagues in all directions, save for a few interspersed puddles. They held a dark liquid in them, of a crimson kind and translucent. Some of them even bubbled as if they lay atop a hot bed. She took a step back and bumped into someone heavy. She turned around and saw a man with warts on his face, red as blood. A shriek left her mouth and she ran, her legs carrying her as fast as she could.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The speed made her surroundings blurred and the cursed lands gave way to a field of grass where she saw an old man teaching archery to his pupil. Who they were she could not clearly make out. She made her way forward intending to ask them where she was and if possible, the directions back to her citadel at Maishire. But even as she took a few brisk steps, the twain disappeared and where they had once stood, a mist took form, its tendrils wrapping her in its cold embrace. For a while she saw nothing but white smoke. She stood amidst it, not knowing where she was, helpless and afraid, when she heard a loud twang. A bowmaster, she thought, and she was overjoyed at the thought. It must be her father, she said to herself, and shouted for his help. But none came. Neither help nor her father. The mist did not relent.


    ''Help!'' she cried again and again. Yet only silence greeted her. She knelt on both knees, the sharp stones on the ground pricking her skin. Her body suddenly started to ache and she screamed aloud.


    It felt like she was in a void. The mist had disappeared when she opened her eyes. Everything around was dark except for what looked like a door through which a beam of light popped in. Her eyes had turned red and she scrubbed them often for the skin around them had started to itch. And every time she did that, the door seemed to get farther away.


    She crawled towards the door, not being able to walk. The muscles in her legs seemed to grow dry and cold, as if dehydrated.


    Whispers met her ears. ''Feliciaaa,'' she heard someone call out. The voice seemed to be coming from the door. Determination growing, she increased her pace.


    The door seemed near. Hope grew in her as her face met the bright white light. Just when she thought she had reached the end of her dark torment, she felt claws piercing her flesh on her legs. She squirmed in pain, gasping out loud. She felt the warm blood trickle down her skin.


    Kicking, she tried to push whatever it was that had attacked her away, but it wouldn''t let her leave. Gathering strength, she turned to look at what had caught her. The creature was a daemon of the ancient world. It was huge, black, and horned. Its eyes gleamed red and its teeth bared themselves to her, sharp as needles. She screamed, which only made it more angry. It dragged her away from the door, the mud splashing from under her. Many screams followed as she was engulfed by the darkness.


    Suddenly, the dragging stopped. She turned upside-down and saw a dark sky without stars. Her chest heaved, taking in deep breaths. She coughed; even the air in this place was unwholesome and full of dust. Her legs still pained, the blood still oozed.


    ''Feliciaaa,'' she heard the voice again, this time louder. Her body shook as if she was experiencing some kind of shock.


    Opening her eyes, she saw a white light at first, its brightness blinding her. The vision soon cleared and she saw Maryse bending over her, shaking her. Her breathing heavy, she woke up from her swoon and found herself back in her bedchambers. She felt glad to return home again.


    ''What happened, Felicia?'' asked her maid.


    She stared at her but could not get any words out. She could not explain anything that had happened to her. ''Wha...t?'' she replied with a question, still shaken by the dark experience. ''What happened?''


    Maryse grunted. ''That''s the question I have been asking you. You were lying on the ground, thrashing the marbles. For a moment I thought you had ingested some poison. But thank the Gods, you are all right, or appear so at least. Don''t you scare me like this again, woman. Princess or no, I shall throw you down the balcony should you intend to give me a heart attack.''


    She smiled. ''I won''t, Maryse.'' She knew her voice was unconvincing, but Maryse seemed to nod.


    ''Stand up now and dress,'' ordered her maid. ''The citadel has visitors.''


    ***

 Chapter - VIII

    Kakuro despised the tunnels that ran underneath the city. He quite liked the world outside: the bright, azure sky, feeling that warm but humid sea breeze, watching the ripples the salty waters of the ocean made, standing on the white sand beaches, and basking in the picturesque beauty of the rainforests that stretched on the rocky slopes of the cliffs that rose high in the center of the great isles of The Abhorijinis.


    But it was an order that made him go sneaking like a rat in the underground sewers, although much of the tunnels and gutters were cleaner here more than the ones on the eastern side. Most of the tunnels that led east-to-west had been blockaded a long time ago.


    The ground beneath him was all stone, so were the walls on either side of him. The surface of the walls, however, were jagged. He minded them not, only the darkness. He missed the sun that he knew was shining outside, bright and yellow. If only it were not for the orders of the Lady Aimora...he would be standing above ground, not in these dark subterranean tunnels.


    His footfalls were low. Kakuro was careful not to make any sound. He had come here after his employer had asked him to investigate the truth behind ritualistic murders and the presence of a temple dedicated to The Brothers Dark. His employer wanted to know whether people in the city were indeed worshipping The Shadow, whether those involved had given up the religion that said The Trinity were Gods.


    It wouldn''t do him good if any of them found out. His investigations had revealed the existence of a devil-worshipping cult that sacrificed animals and slaves the kingdom bought from lands on the continent far away to the east. Not from Galacor, but from Armandor and the far regions to the north. Blood magic, his employer had said. Darker the blood, more power to The Shadow.


    He had spat at the term. He had never thought the people in the Abhorijinis were capable of such dark and evil things. Why would people even want to pay obeisance to The Brothers Dark? Answers of any kind escaped him. It seemed so naive to expect anything from those who had turned to evil and used sorcery to get what they want. Why would anyone consider leaving the respectful domain of The Trinity?


    The Hashims, who worked on behalf of the Three Primordials, took good care of those who stayed loyal to them. After all, they were the original inhabitants of Glaecea. And merciful and bountiful as they were, they had gifted most of the continent to the mortals who had come scouting for lands from the unknown lands in the west. The Hashims, or like people liked to refer them as -- angels, had restricted themselves to the domains of the south and rarely interfered in the affairs of men. So what harm was there in their servitude? Through their powers that belonged to the light, they protected us from darkness whenever they could, aiding in the fight against The Shadow. He had heard of the cursed lands to the east of Galacor. He knew what had happened there. The Brothers Dark had been defeated and banished to the icy regions of the north. And some people still liked to hail them as heroes. He scoffed at their choices.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    If some of them in the Abhorijinis practiced the dark arts, he would gladly send them to the confines of hell. He would not give them even a proper funeral. He would let their bodies rot and leave them to be food for the vultures.


    He heard voices.


    They seemed more like whispers, incantations spoken in a language alien to him. He peeped through a hole in the wall and saw in the adjoining corridor an idol, as black as shadow, sitting inside a brick temple, anointed on all the four sides by candles that burned with a golden flame. In front of the idol, in two separate columns of four rows each, with a narrow path in between them, sat the followers who worshiped the darkness. Heretics, he cursed them.


    If this wasn''t enough to surprise him, there was more. On the narrow path that divided the sets of the dark cult walked the royal couple, arm-in-arm, a smile on their faces. He balked at the sight of his King and Queen. This wasn''t possible, he told himself, yet the truth was right in front of him. If the rulers of this land had themselves bowed to The Shadow, then the realm was doomed. He made to move, to go report back to his employer, but then, he heard the loud bleat of a goat.


    He peeked again. The goat was being led by an old man clothed in white, the noose hanging tightly around its neck. The man must be a priest of some kind, he guessed.


    As the old man stood in front of the idol, he bowed to it and turned to face his acolytes. ''Brothers, sisters, we are met here to pay our respects to those lords of men and daemons who have conquered many lands and even now that their power is weakened, their name brings fear to even the hearts of the bravest men. Today we shall sacrifice the one that gives us milk to drink, one that nourishes our life force, and lend our power to the Brothers whose will lets us live. Our King and Queen bow to them, so why should we not? By our actions shall they rise to power again, and when that happens, we shall be richly rewarded. A huge war approaches, my friends, one that will engulf kingdoms of men into a darkness so black as void that mankind shall know no escape. But we, his followers, shall weather that storm, for we shall be protected. So, my Brothers and Sisters, shall we proceed with our ceremony? Shall we lend aid to those powers that give us our food to eat, our houses for shelter, our water to drink, and our gold to survive?''


    ''Aye!'' shouted the acolytes in unison.


    The priest tugged at the rope that hung around the goat''s neck. The four-legged animal bleated again as it was forced up into the altar. He could not handle hearing his cries and just as carefully as he had come, he left. Not long after as he climbed the secret stairs, he heard the goat''s screams, knowing that it had died at the hands of cruel men who sought the destruction of their own race for their own paltry ends. He grunted and raced up into the corridors of the great citadel. It was time to apprise his employer of what was going to happen.


    ***