The Colors of Elberia; book 1 of The Black Blade trilogy

By Matthew Ballotti

The Rolak Plains had been roiling with the colors for months. Evil creatures had been attacking the Havens since the disturbance had started. Niethon and a band of color guards had gone into the plains to see if they could determine the source of this evil. Only Niethon had returned, but he had gone quite mad and would not speak. Only after a couple of weeks did he begin to remember. As he awakens, he finds he can trust no one, not even those he used to consider friends. He believes the only chance he has of saving the Havens is to warn Hetta, the yellow tarek and the woman he loves, of the impending doom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MWB Entertainment
• Release date: Mar 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476419961

Book preview

The Colors of Elberia

Book 1 of The Black Blade

Trilogy

By Matthew Ballotti

* * * *

Copyright 2012 by Matthew Ballotti

Published by MWB Entertainment at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events depicted in this book are fictional and any resemblances to real people or events are purely coincidental.

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* * * *

To my parents: without whom entire worlds would have never existed.

* * * *

A Map of Elberia

* * * *

Forward

Breath is life..,

Long ago, Elberia was a highly advanced planet and a great hub of trade and learning. It existed peacefully with the other civilized planets in its sector of the galaxy. Its people were proud of their culture and heritage. It was strong, vital, prosperous and still growing. The Elberians were striving to discover more, and soon it seemed that all the universe's best-kept secrets would be unveiled to them. And so it was when Elberia was at the height of its civilization, before the experiment and the great catastrophe that followed.

Reaching beyond their comprehension to try to grasp powers they could not control, two scientists inadvertently brought the colors to Elberia. The world fell into chaos as the colors, and the creatures of the colors, ran amuck over the planet. The weaponry, and all the technology of modern science, failed as the colors spread their powers across the lands. Civilization was lost as the barbarity of the colors took command. The people of Elberia had nothing left to lose but their lives, as they fled before a massive army they didn't understand and couldn't fight. A few brave men tried to fend off the attackers using ancient weaponry and long-outdated battle tactics, but it seemed useless. The Elberians were far too outnumbered. It seemed as though nothing could stop the total annihilation of the Elberian people.

In the heat of battle, as all seemed lost, eight Elberians emerged as saviors of their race. Frustrated and desperate, seven men and one woman found ways to use the powers of the colors to their advantage. They turned the tide of war and drove back the horde of creatures that threatened to destroy them all. Those who controlled the colors became tareks, the leaders of the Elberian people. The tareks led their people to the lands where they would establish The Havens. Here, they were safe from the invaders that still roamed the great Rolak Plains. Here, they learned to use their powers to stabilize the colors and make the lands work for them. Here, they were able to rebuild a civilization that was dependent on nature and the magic of the colors, not technology.

That was four hundred and fifty years before Niethon was born and, in four and a half centuries, not much had changed. The Rolak Plains were still untamed. The tareks still breathed life into the colors of The Havens. All seemed normal enough, but Niethon was worried. The Rolak Plains had become too wild and chaotic. Something was out there, something powerful and evil. That something was the reason The Havens weren't as safe as they once were. That something was driving vile creatures into The Havens to choke the breath from them. Niethon was determined to find out what that something was. He took a few brave color guards into Rolak with him on that quest.

Niethon returned to The Havens alone. No one knew whether he had found the answers he sought. His mind was gone. He could only stare out over Rolak, saying nothing, barely breathing..,

* * * *

Chapter 1:

Niethon's Return

Niethon breathed. He watched the swirling colors on the Rolak Plains from the parapet. His purple breastplate offered no stability to the chaos in his head. He thought about the colors; yellow, red, orange, flitting across the rickety ground of the plains. Green, blue, violet flashed by his eyes, rolling away with unseen purpose. Niethon rocked against the cold stone, searching for meaning. The entropy of the colors continued pulling his mind apart. The purple tinge of his skin no longer had the power to hold him together.

Niethon's eyes wandered to the sky. Clouds over the plains reflected the madness of the earth. Feint, light hues splashed and tainted the strata. They scampered northward with the late autumn winds, hinting tumult, ready to shed their tears onto dry ground. To the northeast, a ray of sunshine broke through the overcast. Niethon turned instinctively to this hope. He caught a glimpse of the yellow mountains in the distance, then the opening closed. For a moment, he found himself thinking of the love he held for the yellow and smiled. His hands grasped heavily at the stone as the dark voice took hold.

Niethon's breathing slowed. He felt the grip on himself grow stronger. His hand tightened against the violet stone of the outpost he stood in. He raised his head slowly and looked inside its walls. Not far from him stood Cabve and Labve. The lemtrek and commander were whispering to each other. He knew them. They were, at one time, his good friends, but they were also Yterli's right-hand men.

Why should that bother me? Niethon shook himself, The violet tarek is also a friend.

Niethon felt himself slipping. The darkness began to close round his mind. He sensed Cabve rush to him as his knees buckled. Through the tunnel of his vision he saw the concern in the light, violet pallor of his friend's face.

Don't worry about me, Niethon tried to say, I'll be alright.

No words came out of Niethon's mouth as his head fell back. Cabve's face filled his sight. Cabve's lips were moving, but Niethon heard no sound. The face moved away, exposing the sky and clouds breaking up. The darkness finished closing its net on Niethon's being. He felt himself start to float, his soul tearing apart like the clouds in the sky.

Something pulled him back, enclosing him in a small box of blackness. He tried to fight his way out, but his limbs, his soul, were pinned. Not yet, the dark voice boomed in his ears, I have need of you still.

Niethon tried to flail at the voice. He longed for the freedom of flight, a release, through death, of his terrible purpose. The harder he fought the more he felt his strength being sucked from him. He attempted to go deeper into himself, to grab more of his will. He failed. Exhausted, he could do nothing but rest as the dark voice laughed sardonically in his head.

For too long I have thirsted for my own freedom to let you go free now, the voice went on, I still have need for your knowledge.

Niethon felt as if his sinews would burst as, one by one, his muscles were wrested from his control. His breathing grew shallower, then he was no longer aware of breath. The box became smaller. Niethon shrank inside it. As he rushed further into blackness, he lost all sense of feeling, inside or out. He raced toward a place where light never penetrated. As he arrived he was crushed. A terrible cold gripped him. It tried to make him smaller still, to force him tinier than humanly possible. Niethon mustered the last of his resources together. He felt a little warmer and let his energy fly at the walls which bound him. The walls flashed momentarily and dissipated it into a void beyond his recognition. Niethon's will fled him like a laugh in the wind. He collapsed into nothingness, becoming smaller, colder, number, until even those concepts held no meaning for him. He was now nothing, nothing save a memory enclosed in a small black box.

For awhile, Niethon was left alone in his pitch prison. It may have been seconds, it may have been hours, but it seemed an eternity before the dark voice returned.

Your will and mine are one, it said.

Perhaps, Niethon thought. But perhaps this is only the memory of a voice, or perhaps I am the voice and nothing but a voice.

The voice laughed cruelly, filling Niethon's tiny existence. "I see even as there is no hope left for you, you continue to struggle. Your black prison, though small and cramped, is spacious and comfortable compared to the place where I was kept. Though I have been able to snatch you from the freedom of death and bring you back to this place, I am powerless compared to that of the jailor who kept me. Do not think I will let you die easily − that escape will not be yours.

"You passed into the black wind and passed out again. That, my friend, shows you have great force of will. But do not fool yourself into thinking your force of will is greater than mine, for your feat only allowed my soul freedom and our wills to join.

"I created this prison deep in your own body. You are cramped, but warm. My jail was much smaller and colder than this. My jailor took all I had from me. I have not the power to extract memory from life; therefore, I have need of your knowledge in this strange land. Do not think that means I will go easy on you, for I can trap you here with little more effort than the snapping of fingers.

But now I see you need rest. It is no matter, I can stand another day of rest. It is best you know of this place where I can send you when I please. You will stay here until I grant you permission to leave. Consider these things I have said as we sleep tonight. Never forget, I am stronger than you. If you try to resist me, I will not hesitate to send you here again. I require your knowledge only to make my task easier, but it could be completed without you. Once my task is completed, perhaps we will both be allowed the freedom death brings. Otherwise, we will remain forever in our prisons. My purpose is now also yours. Think on these things and sleep well tonight.

~~~~

Niethon dreamed of flying. As he rose higher, he looked down on the Rolak Plains. The sun danced on golden grain and ripened it for harvest. Rising higher, he caught sight of the mountains in the east. They glittered white, grey and purplish in the daylight. To the west, he spied giant forests of reddish hues which performed colorful symphonies only for the changing seasons. Further west, he saw the western mountains, over which were lands that held mysteries he knew nothing of. He wondered at his strange familiarity with the things he saw.

Where are the colors? he thought.

Then oceans came into view. The world melded into a pinkish sphere. He turned his sights to the greater space outside his world and headed for other planets. He gazed outward toward other suns. It was all strange and new, yet somehow he knew where he was heading. Suddenly, he felt as if he was being chased. He rushed by a cold, barren planet at the edge of his solar system. A large metallic shell came into view, floating desolate and dead toward the void. Niethon felt that out here even the spirits had abandoned the ship. Now only distant stars filled his vision. He aimed his mind at a star in the constellation of Pertonia, the furthest one on the right. Without knowing why, he felt salvation waited there. As he raced his mind toward the star, he felt the black winds catch him. His dream collapsed into one of falling. He fell into a black abyss and the darkness closed around his being.

He heard the dark voice laughing at him as he shrank into his black cell.

Once again you have failed to escape, it said. Even millions of miles away I can control you. You can no longer have safe dreams, and I will control your reality.

Niethon tried to scream in defiance. His voice froze in his throat as the dark voice's sardonic laugh filled his being. It was a laugh which only slowly faded away as Niethon sprang up in his bed.

~~~~

Sweat soaked his entire body and the sheets he had been laying upon. Cabve came to his side and stared into his face as Niethon's hands dropped from his eyes.

Are you alright? Cabve asked.

Where am I? Niethon responded.

In your room at Fayn Catoma.

Niethon looked around himself. Cabve read the disorientation in his face.

The fayn on the boundary of Trynla and the plains, he explained.

Niethon continued to gaze around the room, recalling only bits and pieces of his past life. His mind groped in a dark haze, grasping some of the more familiar things. His crystal sword, one of only a few in The Havens with a lashilt, leaned against the wall by the door. An image of Yterli, drawn in a silken wall hanging, peered at him from across the room. At the side of his bed, near the foot, lay his purple breastplate. The proulbird, symbol of Questifa's keep, glowed bright white in the middle. A purple, crested helm lay beside it. Between them, a sash with a red dagger and the rest of his vestments were in a pile.

We built it as an outpost to the west, Cabve continued, and to slow an invasion from the plains, should the unnamed forces attack, remember?

Niethon remembered. He pictured every detail of the fayn in his head. The stones of the outer walls were visible from miles away because of their light violet glow. They had been cut from the Yamarack Mountains inside Trynla, in Tarek Yterli's keep. Narrow hallways in the outer walls barely let two men pass abreast. Slim, gothic arched windows opened in slits toward the Rolak Plains and the inner courtyard of Catoma. These provided the thirty-five hundred archers of the fayn with ample protection and firing room.

There were two tiers to the hallways in addition to the ramparts on top of the walls. These all ended at corners in tight spiral staircases inside towers. The stairways only left room enough so that one man could defend his comrades should the walls be breached and retreat be necessary. The stairs emptied into an underground labyrinth carved deep in the earth, designed to confuse and trap an enemy.

The courtyard was an open parade ground, defined by the high outer wall and a lower inner wall made of the same violet stone. The inner wall provided protection against enemies high on the outer wall with an arched stone roof. Slim, rectangular windows, horizontal to the ground, provided archers openings to launch attacks from. The second line of defense had no other openings except for four stone doors located and hidden in the middle of each wall. Large, circular rooms and gutters along the inner walls could be used to disperse hot oil. Gargoyles below the slits would spray it on the enemy forces.

Inside the second wall stood a small village of barracks and support buildings. These were all wooden buildings with thatched roofs, designed for the comfort of the thirty thousand-man contingent rather than defense. Should the fayn be attacked by enough men to breach the walls, these buildings would be burned and any of Yterli's forces remaining would escape through the labyrinth underground and continue fighting a gorilla war while reinforcements were mustered. Niethon recalled the close, crisscross streets of the village. He knew every important structure. The armory and stables were situated in the middle of the square. Surrounding these were four low, long buildings for mess, recreation, practice and special training, and officers quarters. Sixteen buildings around these housed support forces and sixty four more buildings formed the outer ring and bunked the soldiers. All these buildings had secret entrances into passages below built into the floors.

As Niethon relived his days at Catoma, the days before his journey into the Rolak Plains, he envisioned all his experiences to the minutest detail. His mind opened up to things he had never noticed while the events were taking place. A small statuette carved in red stone in Labve's office, the intricate designs on the legs of the mess tables, even the small variations of violet color in the grasses of the parade grounds − all things that he had taken for granted before his ill-fated trip seemed wonderfully beautiful to him now.

He knew the fayns, knew them well. He had helped design them. Memories flooded into his consciousness like light piercing a dark room whose door had been suddenly opened after being locked for ages. He knew of the traps set deep in the labyrinth, the thick stone slabs set to crash down at the base of the towers to cut off an oncoming enemy, the rooms with false floors set over boiling mud pits, those places where spikes rained down on advancing soldiers or walls closed in and crushed them. He remembered the wider passage where cavalry entered and exited the fayn far from the outer walls. He knew of each escape route available so foot soldiers could escape, reform and attack the enemy's rear. Suddenly, Niethon found himself in a reel, trying to stem the tide of memories from his mind.

Niethon? Niethon, are you alright? Cabve's voice floated across the sea of visions into Niethon's ears.

Niethon's head jerked.

Yes, yes, he stammered, I just felt dizzy for a moment.

A moment? Cabve tried to sound unconcerned. I've been talking about the fayn for a good two minutes while you've been staring into nothingness.

Have you? Niethon questioned.

Cabve's face came sharply into focus. Niethon groped for recognition. Yes, he was a good friend,

Cabve, my friend, he said. How long have I been here?

What? In the fayn? Cabve asked.

Niethon nodded.

Going on six days now. You've been acting very strange, white as a ghost and wandering about in a daze, saying nothing. Spending your time staring at Rolak as if it would have your soul, should you turn away. We were beginning to think you had become another Halton until your color came back yesterday, just before you fainted. If you feel up to it, I will tell my brother you've recovered a semblance of your former self. The news will do his temper well. He's been extremely worried.

Cabve hesitated and waited for an answer. He sighed and turned to leave when none was forthcoming.

Wait, Niethon commanded.

His mind's eye pictured Halton. He had seen him just before he went to the plains. Halton was kept in a cell at Fayn Catoma, deep in the heart of the labyrinth. While Niethon had visited, all Halton could do was sit and rock himself and sing silly childhood songs. At one time Halton had been a violet lemtrek, Tarek Yterli's most valuable color guard, but the plains had left him an imbecile.

Something out there, Niethon muttered under his breath before his mouth forced itself shut.

What? Cabve asked.

Nothing, Niethon said, I was thinking of poor Halton. I'm happy not to have suffered his fate.

As I am. Questifa said you had a stronger will than he. Personally, I believed him. I knew you long before the colors on the plains went wild and I always thought you were a more powerful warrior than Halton.

Yes, Niethon began to feel his confidence return. He was regaining control. Yes, I was good. Still am, he added as an afterthought.

I see you are returning to your old self, Cabve sounded somewhat relieved. Labve will be pleased. With your permission, sir, I will fetch him.

Please do, Niethon said.

Cabve bowed and turned to leave. As he opened the door Niethon added, And bring me some food, if you will. My stomach feels as empty as a mountain cave.

Cabve turned and looked at him.

It should, he said. We haven't been able to get you to eat since you came back. You drank only slightly, and we had to force it into you. Yom knows how long you went without on the plains.

With that, Niethon found himself alone. He started to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. He lifted his body from the bed and felt his legs hold him up and balance him for what seemed to be the first time. Then he remembered he'd been doing this all his life and recalled he could walk. He went to the stand by the door and pulled out his sheath. His fingers touched the smooth etrel hide and tingled. He fumbled as he tried to put it on, but he quickly regained control and buckled it around his waist. He picked up his blade and slashed it a few times in the air. The gesture felt familiar and fulfilling, yet somehow futile.

Something out there, on the plains...

Niethon sheathed his sword. He walked to the window and looked out. His room was situated in the officers' barracks, only a short run to the entrance of the stables. Two guards stood sentry by the entrance.

Funny, I don't ever remember them doing that before, he mumbled.

The stables was a tall building. It had to be to house the four thousand stilmars and all the riding gear for the cavalry. It used five ramped tiers with eight hundred stalls each. These were arranged in nine squares, eight with one hundred stalls around the outside of the middle square, which was used to store equipment and food for the stilmars. There were several doors in and out of the stables. Only the one nearest Niethon's room seemed to be guarded.

The armory was the tallest building in the fayn. There they not only stored weapons, but food, drink and clothing. It also housed several of the servants and guards and had several quarters for visitors. Few people ever came to visit these outposts, but it was thought at the time they were built that it would be nice to have some amenities for any merchants or traders that might happen by. The armory and stables stood next to each other like mountains towering over the flat barracks surrounding them. They seemed to Niethon to be a break from the boredom and tediousness of the otherwise dull fayn.

Niethon found himself thinking suddenly of his steed. The stilmar was a magnificent beast, larger than any he had ever seen, except for those ridden by the tareks. The purple ivory jutting from its lower jaw gave it an air of such majesty that Niethon wondered if it would lead the herd in the wild. He imagined it would. He had named it Tarmin after an ancient Elberian king. He knew the stilmar had survived the turmoil on the plains.

Labve's arrival tore Niethon from his thoughts. He was a tall man, nearly six inches taller than Cabve, his brother. Niethon had to look up only a little to meet his eyes, yet Cabve's were below his. These things registered in his brain like never before.

Niethon thought. He knew he was a slim six feet, putting Cabve about five nine and Labve about six three. Both brothers had two inches on him in breadth, but Niethon knew he was the quickest and strongest of the three. He marveled that he might think on such things after so many years of friendship.

Niethon, Labve said as his hand extended toward him. Niethon took it and gripped. I'm so glad to see you up and around as your old self, Labve's eyes delved deeply into Niethon's. I see the old twinkle back in those purple eyes, he concluded.

Of course, Niethon said, Did you really think I would let myself be taken by the confusion of Rolak?

Labve chuckled. Niethon suddenly remembered he was talking to the new lemtrek of Trynla. He bit slightly the inside of his cheek.

Your strength astounds us all. Niethon caught the slight tone of suspicion in Labve's voice. But, still, only time can truly heal you.

Cabve stared silently between the two men. A knock shyly rapped the door.

Enter, Niethon commanded.

A man came in with a tray of food. He turned to Cabve.

Sir, he said, the food you requested for the prisoner.

Niethon started back in shock. Labve glared at the soldier and held him in check. Cabve shrugged and blushed a brighter shade of violet than he should have.

Sir, the soldier stammered at Labve. Sir, I did not mean to...

Yes, yes, alright, Labve reprimanded. Niethon is an old friend and will understand. Yet, Tolomar, you have earned my wrath and will be dealt with presently. Go now with speed and silence.

Tolomar put his fist to his breastplate and bowed. At the same time he slipped out of the room backward with stealth and closed the door.

Now Niethon glared at Labve. The men's eyes seemed to form a bridge in the air from face to face.

So this is how you treat an 'old friend,’ Niethon demanded. As a prisoner in his own design.

He gestured as if to contain the whole of Catoma.

Niethon, please understand. Labve did not plead, he merely explained. After Halton and his party were utterly destroyed on the plains, we cannot trust anyone. Rumors from the south have continued since you left and the newest news is grim indeed. The last few days we have walked with you and allowed you the total freedom of Catoma. Our greatest fear has been that you might turn on us and force our hand in combat at any time. You never responded to us and we thought you totally mindless. Yet, we have left you the comfort of your room without the least bit of malice. Tomorrow, Tarek Yterli arrives to question you. When he sees you are your own self, surely you will be let free to stay or return to Questifa's keep of Predlo.

Niethon felt a shudder in his spine at the mention of tareks, yet he knew not why he should fear their names. He only knew he could not let them glance into him, not yet.

There was something on the plains, something...

No! screamed Niethon, I see now your trust in me fails. I refuse to be treated as an enemy to the color guards!

Niethon felt his hand move to the hilt of his sword. Labve's hand also moved, twitched in anticipation. Cabve gasped and fell back, ready to take belated action. Niethon calmed his muscles and relaxed. His hand fell from his sword. They were good friends.

I am sorry, Niethon clenched his fist and, putting it over his chest, bowed to Labve. My good friend. I hope I have not warranted undo distress. Labve continued watching with his hand at the ready. This sudden awakening seems to have upset me more than I realized. Please go. I must nourish myself and take time to think. I forget how dire our situation becomes.

Cabve returned Niethon's bow and exited without a second thought. Labve bowed to Niethon, but was not in such a hurry to remove himself from the tenseness.

Perhaps, he said searching for comprehension, perhaps if I had been out on the plains with you, I might better understand.

Perhaps, parroted Niethon, perhaps not. I don't know that I fully understand what transpired.

Then understand this, Labve said forcefully. Although you are an old friend and dear to me, not once did you ask of, or mention, the other six.

The other six?

Six of my best men who went with you on your quest for knowledge. Could you have forgotten them so easily? This is not like you, Niethon. I am their commander. They, and I, put much faith in you, 'old friend'. I should like you to show some concern for them.

Niethon was taken aback for a moment. A darkness welled up inside him and momentarily tunneled his vision. He fought to regain control, to remember.

There was something on the plains, something...

My dear Labve, Niethon wept, I fought hard to keep them alive, yet I could not. They had not my skill and we were sorely outnumbered and taken by surprise. When the worst came I thought it best to save what I could of the quest. I managed to get back here, alone, by sheer luck. I watched in horror while the others were slaughtered, unable to lift my hand to help. Niethon's face was wet as he looked up to meet Labve's eyes. I do not wish to recall anymore.

Labve lowered his head. I understand. I think, however, he added, Yterli will wish to hear this in more detail. I leave you to think on this as you repast. I am not ungrateful.

He bowed and left the room.

~~~~

Niethon ate the tasteless meat and vegetables in silence. His mind became clear again.

There was something on the plains, something...

He knew Yterli was not to be trusted. He knew none of the tareks were to be trusted. Even some of the color guards in the upper circles might be in on the tareks' evil plans. These thoughts ate at Niethon's being as he sated his hunger. He knew of the horror the tareks wished to reap upon the land, of the evil things they wished to bring to the people. He did not know how to stop them. He could not remember Rolak, the pain was too great.

There was something on the plains, something...

For an hour, he stared at the stables, then he fell into a deep sleep.

~~~~

Niethon dreamed. He stood in a strange mist in a black land he'd never seen before. Grass lay oozing at his feet as if it had been burned from the inside out. A sickly, wet smell reached his nostrils. He wretched. The fluid from his stomach blackened and bubbled as it hit the ground. Niethon sniffed and swallowed as he tried to hold down the rest of his bile.

He looked down at his chest. The proulbird glowing at him gave him strength. He straightened himself and peered into the mist. He could make out only vague, dark shapes as the fog thickened. The grey mist began to darken. It encircled him as if it were trying to choke the life from his body. He clasped the hilt of his sword. His palm sweat slickened his grasp on the sword. He felt the malevolence of a great evil above him. He looked up to see a twenty foot shadow, darker against the dark mist, descending toward him. The shadow grew, death approaching from the sky.

Run, a voice told him. Run. You must leave this place.

Niethon forced one of his feet to move, then the other one. He was running. He slammed into a wall hidden in the fog. He whirled around, stepping to his left. As he did so, he tripped over an old tree stump. The stump seemed to fall with him, pulling up decayed roots as its sleep was disturbed. Niethon's helm smashed hard against the firm ground. The smell from the dirt choked him. Tears welled in his eyes.

He shook off the pain and gazed upward. The dark destruction from the sky glared at him with orange eyes. He scurried backward on his haunches to the wall. His eyes widened as he sat in wet muck. The beak below the fiery orange orbs gaped. A deep-blue flame lit the back of its throat.

Niethon's right hand drew his sword, his left shooting instinctively upward. He grasped a knob in the wall behind him and pulled himself to his feet. A fiery blue bolt shot from the shadow as Niethon dodged to the left. Green lightning shot through the creature from Niethon's lashilt. The shadow let out an ear-piercing shriek as its head twisted back toward Niethon. Something behind the dark shape caught fire, a shrub trying to cling to life in the wasteland.

The knob turned as the blackness readied another blast. Niethon found the portal in the wall.

Light poured into Niethon's head. Torches stuck in tree trunks spewed light onto a path in the ebony woods. Cabve's form sprang up before Niethon. In his fright, Niethon clubbed Cabve's clavicle with the hilt of his sword. Cabve crumbled like a house of cards. His body sprawled across Niethon's path.

What's he doing here? Niethon thought. His ears picked up the sound of beating wings. Run, he told himself, he'll be fine.

Niethon glanced down at Cabve, then darted through the corridor of trees. Sweat chilled his spine as the fluttering of wings passed above his head. He forced his stiff legs to move faster. A perpendicular branch in the path appeared to the west. Niethon stopped at the junction and hesitated. The wings cast a coldness in his marrow as they passed overhead. Frozen by terror, Niethon cowered by a tree. He felt the cruelty in the sky circle. He gasped for breath as it moved northward. Niethon sprang to the west.

He ran for what seemed an eternity amidst the glares of dying willows. Their branches reached for, but never touched him, as he ran along the strangely glowing pathway. Perspiration poured from his pallid, purple brow. As he neared the edge of the torches, he saw the forest open into blackness. The willows seemed to separate as a garke moved into a position blocking Niethon's escape. Niethon raised his sword and charged.

Niethon had fought garkes before. The long, lanky creatures were very fast and excellent fighters. Normally, their three eyes, one in the middle and two offset to the sides of their faces, missed nothing. This one seemed taken by surprise. The mouth on the noseless face opened as if to scream, then suddenly clamped shut. A silent clang echoed dully in the forest as crystal met the metal of the garke's sword.

Niethon thought himself extremely lucky. Usually the garkes carried dual rods, a strong wooden staff with razor sharp, pointed blades on either side. The wood of their deadly weapons was reinforced with a thin, rocky material running through the center. Their hands were ideally suited to use the dual rods, for they had two opposing thumbs on each hand to strengthen their grip. The arms of the garkes were also longer than those of a man, and could keep even the longest sword away from their bodies.

This particular garke had nothing but a sword to protect itself with. It was also a good deal shorter and stouter than most garkes. Many were taller than seven feet and some had been seen at eight feet or more. This one, however, was less than six feet tall, a good two or three inches shorter than Niethon.

Must be an adolescent, Niethon thought as it parried his second thrust.

The garke's parry left its right side exposed. Niethon came into its head with a well-placed elbow. The creature's knees buckled and it collapsed to the ground. Its sword made a loud clank as it fell to the forest floor. Niethon didn't stop to think, or to finish the garke off, he heard the wings coming back. He darted from the lighted woods into the black night.

He found himself in a meadow. Two hillocks, a hundred yards or so away, offered sanctuary. Before he could take his first step toward them, a heavy fist hit the back of his head. Niethon rolled and sprang, spinning to meet his attacker. This creature was short and squat, but very muscular. The eyes in its head were arrayed in the same way as a garke's, but its face had large, flaring nostrils, a smaller, sterner mouth and a lower forehead. It was considerably shorter than a garke, but a great deal stronger. Niethon recognized it as a garbone. He had fought these before, for they often teamed up with garkes. He knew them to be slower than the garkes, but because of their smaller stature and greater strength, they were usually a more difficult target to hit.

The garbone was on Niethon immediately. Again, Niethon had luck. The garbone was wielding a sword instead of the usual heavy dual battle-ax it should have carried. Niethon parried the sword and almost knocked it from the garbone's two-thumbed hand. A swift, powerful kick to the garbone's midsection doubled it over. The hilt of Niethon's sword cracked the back of the creature's skull as it bent over in pain. Niethon turned and ran for the hills − the wings had spotted him.

Dark thoughts formed in Niethon's head as he crossed the meadow.

You cannot beat the mascar alone, they said. It is the ruler of the skies, the greatest ravage your world has known.

Niethon knew not where these thoughts came from, but they seemed to originate from the mascar itself. Niethon had little time to think what this meant. He only knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, he had never seen such a creature, but he had heard of it somewhere.

I will devour your flesh and scatter your blood on the fields of Alegea, the thoughts continued. What remains will feed my young.

Niethon felt the hatred above rapidly descending on him. The hillocks loomed in front of him, becoming larger at an impossibly slow speed. He knew he'd never be able to outrun the mascar. The shadowy figure landed at his backside. He felt the orange eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. Breathing hard now, Niethon found a spurt of energy in his legs. His speed increased. Events unfolded too quickly for him to do anything but act on impulse. A cave opened at the base of the hill in front of him. A small, frightened figure darted out of the hole and ran north. Niethon paid no attention to it as he dived into the cave. A flaring blue flame shot over his head and crashed into the rocks before him. The stone splintered and rained down about his upper body. Somehow, the cave opening closed, shutting off the deadly intruder from doing further damage.

The passage was dimly lit. The reek of animal waste filled Niethon's sinuses. He thought, for a moment, he also detected a slight odor of rotting flesh. Ominous sounds of life rustled in the dark hollows along the sides of the main tunnel. Niethon caught his breath, then deliberately started down the corridor. He peered into dark pits, trying to glimpse the forms he could feel watching him. They seemed content to keep to their tiny cells.

Niethon felt apprehensive. Something was looking for him, he knew that. It waited in its web of deceit, holding the others at bay. He began to hurry, to sweat. Breathing heavily, he flattened his back against the wall under a torch. Shadows danced eerily in the tunnel. Something seemed strangely familiar to him. A little way down, he spotted a split in the cavern, a passage to his right. He slinked to it. A single light sputtered in the passageway. Niethon approached it slowly. Something conventional cried to him. He tried to locate it.

Something on the plains...

The stone, beneath the torch, that was it. Niethon pushed on it. A deep rumbling rolled through the caves. The middle of the floor opened, exposing a ramp leading into a sub-passage. Cool, fresh air flowed into the cavern. A warm, wet tongue touched Niethon's cheek. He jumped away from the wall and whirled to face a possible onslaught. He held his sword at the ready as he stared into the dark hollow to the left of the torch.

His would-be attacker stuck his head out of the stall. Niethon chuckled when he recognized his stilmar, Tarmin. He sheathed his sword.

What are you doing in this Yom forsaken place? he said as he pet the stilmar's snout.

Tarmin nuzzled his ear. Niethon heard feet approaching in the distance. He knew danger neared, hundreds of garkes and garbones.

C'mon boy, Niethon said as he tugged at Tarmin.

The stilmar stamped and Niethon noticed the animal had been cruelly tethered to the back of the cell. A bit was embedded in Tarmin's mouth. Niethon noticed the blood coming from Tarmin's lips. He choked back his anger as he sped to release his steed. A few quick motions untied Tarmin and removed the torturous piece from his mouth. Niethon swiftly mounted Tarmin with a great leap and wrapped his hands in the thick fur of the stilmar's mane. Noise thundered in Niethon's ears, shouting in strange tongues, doors slamming and feet scurrying over stone floors. With a simple word, Go, Tarmin reared and bolted into the subterranean tunnel. The wind whooshed past Niethon. Greyish, bumpy walls blurred into mists before Niethon's eyes. The sound of pursuit quickly faded into the thundering silence of flight. The euphoria of riding lifted Niethon's spirit.

Niethon felt himself meld with his mount. He felt no jolts as the stilmar galloped. His hands in the massive mane felt moisture dripping onto them. The muscles rippling under Niethon's thighs recoiled through his back. The team undulated in perfect unison as they exited from underground into a deep forest.

A cool night met the pair. Stars peeked through tangled branches above like cold cat eyes. The trees moved past, ghosts in the late-fall air. The sweat beads started to freeze at the end of Tarmin's mane. The stilmar's eyes penetrated into the night. His body swerved by trees and rocks with such precision to shame the most responsive rider. Niethon knew not how he held on. He felt as if he was flying.

Niethon rode until exhaustion took over. He slowed his steed to a trot and waited until he came upon a soft growth of moss. He stopped his great beast and fell to the ground. Here he slumped into a deep sleep.

~~~~

Niethon opened his eyes. Cabve and Labve filled his vision. They were laughing in his face. Niethon tried to move his arms. They were stone. His 'friends' moved away, revealing the face of Parston, a healer in Fayn Catoma. Parston showed Niethon a bowl of brew, then laughed and moved away.

Thurgeon, Niethon thought. Hallucinogenic, paralyzing.

Only the ceiling remained for Niethon to study. He watched the cracks running and dancing in the wood. A light flashed across the violet wood, glowing weirdly and giving it life. Steps approached. Yterli's deep, violet eyes appeared over Niethon. His face came slowly into focus. Yterli laughed sardonically.

So, the great Niethon, Questifa's lemtrek, has returned, sarcasm bloodied the tarek's voice. Now, we'll show you how we deal with those who try to steal the tareks' secrets.

Yterli lifted his hand. The jewel in the ring on his finger glowed with brilliant power. It touched Niethon's forehead. His brain burned. Niethon screamed.

The dark voice laughed.

That was only a small demonstration of my domination over you. The voice came from Yterli's throat.

All the faces of his friends looked down on Niethon as Yterli stepped away. Niethon struggled to move. The faces laughed horrifically.

What's the matter, Niethon? Cabve asked sarcastically. Can't get up?

More laughter, haughty and loud.

Still Niethon struggled.

No! he tried to scream, Nooo...

Pain racked Niethon's body as he sprang up in bed with a gasp. Slowly the laughter in his head died in the darkness of his room. He was alone. Steps outside his door echoed; they offered him no solace.

There was something on the plains, something...

Niethon collapsed back into his bed. He felt the sweat soaking his sheets. He fell back into a deep sleep.

Niethon dreamed. He stood in a strange mist in a black land…

* * * *

Chapter 2:

Trynla

What's the matter, Niethon? Cabve said sarcastically, Can't get up?

More laughter, haughty and loud.

Still Niethon struggled.

No! he tried to scream for the fifth time, Nooo...

Pain racked Niethon's body as he sprang up. The laughter died slowly in his head. He could no longer tell where he was. Light tortured and blinded him. By the feel of the ground, he was no longer in his bed. In fact, the odors reaching his nostrils told him he wasn't even in his room at the fayn.

It all must have been a dream, he thought as he rubbed his eyes with his palms.

Niethon breathed deeply. He opened his eyes, blinked away the blindness of the light and gasped. By the earthy smells, fresh air in his sinuses and the feel of soft growth under his body, Niethon had expected to find himself in the madness of Rolak. Instead, he found himself in a strange, violet land. His eyes adjusted to the bright morning sun. He saw he was sitting on a small growth of sphagnum in a hollow in a forest. The violet of the land emitted brilliantly out of all the surrounding life, glowing peacefully in a symphony of strength and security.

A cool breeze floated over Niethon. He shivered. For the first time, Niethon realized how wet he was. Sweat glistened on his exposed skin, its dark purple hue contrasted vaguely with the brilliant lavender of the dirt smeared on his breastplate.

A new awareness began to awaken in Niethon. As he rose, he discovered how stiff he was, how sore. Though he had just woke, he felt tired, tired almost to the point of exhaustion. He was also cold, wet and hungry. His stomach growled. He remembered running, he couldn't remember what from. Death? Garkes? Garbones? The plains?

Rolak, that was it. He had ridden his stilmar out of Rolak. Had he fled to Trynla? Managed to find his way to this dell of sphagnum? How long had he slept here?

What happened to his men? Had they escaped? No, it was too painful to think about. Niethon clasped hard on the hilt of his sword. The proulbird on his chest glittered dully in his eyes, vacant of answers. Niethon tried hard to remember.

There was something on the plains, something...

Niethon shook himself out of his trance. He breathed deeply and examined his present predicament. He needed to gain control of himself and his situation. He needed a plan for the future.

He checked himself over first, carefully moving each joint through its full range of motion to make sure nothing was broken or torn. Except for a few bruises here and there, his body seemed to be operating one hundred percent. None of his sores seemed particularly tender and, despite the grit and grime ground into his body and clothes, he felt as well as could be expected. He sighed in relief and began to concentrate more on his surroundings.

He knew he was in Trynla by the violet carpet over the land. Mosses and ferns grew abundantly on the gentle slopes leading down the dell he stood in. Above the crest, trees raised their barren branches bravely toward the sky. Niethon was struck by the innate beauty of the plants. Even in the late autumn they pronounced their life and vitality to the world. Such was the power of the colors the tareks reaped upon The Havens.

He started up the slope, heading for drier uplands. He removed his helm as he walked. His hair had become matted to his scalp. The wind blowing through it felt refreshing. As he approached the trees, the scenery grew taller and tried to block his view. He moved faster. By the position of the sun, he estimated he was heading northward. His hair dried. Ferns began to tangle around Niethon's legs. He wondered how he had ended up at the bottom of the pit. The slope steepened as he neared the top. Had he tumbled into it and fallen, rolled down the hill? The ferns became deceptively high as he neared the crest. His breathing became heavier. Fronds now brushed against his chest and upper arms. Niethon replaced his helm. He grappled with the plants as the edge of the hole came within reach. The ferns were now taller than he, stretching their leafy fingers to assault his face. Niethon tried to quicken his pace. The flora had hidden the true pitch of the hill. Niethon felt his hand reaching for his sword. A vine tangled around his wrist. Niethon lurched forward, upward. He popped onto a slim, mossy ledge, face to face with a small escarpment. He panicked.

Niethon drew his sword and turned with a scream to face the encroaching wildlife. Green flame cut through their front line, cleaving fibrous limbs from sturdy stalks. His crystal blade flashed brilliant purple as he hewed through the nearest intruders. He slashed wildly into the plants, but there were too many of them. They grabbed and pulled at him, tried to pull him downward and imprison him at the bottom of the dell. A mocking laugh grew louder in his head like a building wind rustling the leaves into a tumult.

No! he screamed aloud as he sheathed his sword and turned to run, You won't take me back there!

With a tremendous leap he scampered up the twelve foot wall which loomed in front of him. Dirt crumbled and fell beneath his feet. His hands grasped at rocks and toeholds in the outcrop. He scampered to get his hands over the crest. His fingers barely gripped the loose dirt over the edge. The footholds he had found moments before began to give way. He was slipping. The ferns grabbed at his ankles, pulling him into their fiendish trap. He spotted a violet finger of dead wood protruding from the cliff side to his left. With one last, final effort, he leaped for it as the last of his supports tumbled down the side of the hill. The fingers of his left hand closed tightly around the lifesaving branch. He forced his swinging motion back to the right and reached his forearm over the side of the escarpment. He managed to place his foot at the base of the branch and push-pulled himself upward. His head emerged over the top. He brought his left hand to the higher ground and pushed his body so that the edge of the cliff split him at the waist. He swung his legs over the top and rolled onto his side, breathing heavily. He was free.

Niethon sat up quickly, his legs folded, and buried his face in his hands. He wept quietly for a moment or two with dismay. Had the land really turned on him? He stood up, walked to the edge of the small cliff, and looked down into the dell. The ferns had peacefully retreated to where they belonged. They looked up at him with fear and respect. The ledge he had stood on was littered with debris, dull and lifeless, carcasses of a great battle. As his eyes moved downward, the plants further away from him still glowed unobtrusively with virility and strength, except where they laid trampled from his passage. The bed of sphagnum at the bottom seemed to momentarily darken, but the shadow quickly passed and it readjusted to its original hue.

From this new perspective, Niethon realized the dell was, in fact, a rather large, overgrown sinkhole. He also realized, as his eyes scanned around the circular edge, that he had chosen the most difficult way to the top. The violet ferns whispered in amazement to each other. He had escaped them by defeating their toughest troops. Niethon shook and bowed his head, then turned and walked away.

A few steps from the sinkhole, Niethon stopped to regain his composure. He surveyed his surroundings. The forest wasn't too thick here, trees seemed to politely grow far enough from each other to allow men to pass freely. The floor of the woods was matted with a whitish violet compost from the leaves which had fallen weeks or days before. A few birds still twittered and bristled in the branches above him, but, for the most part, an eerie silence echoed between walls of distrust placed in the depths of this wild land. A small, fury rodent, a quilldome, scampered up a tree not far from Niethon. It had probably been spooked by his sudden appearance. The animal barked threateningly at him. Niethon lunged forward and, with a 'boo' and a flurry of arms over his head, frightened the small creature away. He laughed.

With the suddenness of lightning, Niethon recognized where he was. This was the forest of Drimnal, in the northeast quadrant of Yterli's keep. He knew this place, not well, but he knew it well enough. He had passed through these woods several times as he traveled from Fayn Pesh, in the yellow haven of Lemfro, to Fayn Catoma. Only twice had he wandered off the main road to explore more deeply this secret of Yterli's keep. Still, he knew the trees of the violet tarek's domain, and these were definitely hardwoods which grew in the northeast rather than those found in the southern portions of Trynla.

Niethon thought about the times he had traveled in this land with his friends, Cabve and Labve. These were pleasant memories of good times, jokes and laughter.

How has this land come under such evil? Niethon wondered.

Things are not always as they seem, a dark voice answered.

Niethon nodded his head in agreement. He knew now that Yterli had planted the evil, used the violet color to destroy the very land he had been sanctioned to protect. Niethon had been in Trynla when he first started into Rolak on a quest for knowledge. Now, he had gained the knowledge in the insanity of the plains, and he was frightened by it. Questifa, Niethon's tarek and keeper of the purple color haven of Predlo, was at the core of the madness, he was convinced of that. Yterli must have fallen prey not long after. Niethon knew he couldn't go back to the deep, dark purple of Predlo. Questifa couldn't look into him, discover what he knew, Questifa was too strong. Nor could Yterli see him, not yet. Niethon knew he had to muster what support he could before he could fight such incredible might and hope to win. He had to gain his own power.

Yet how could he escape from himself? He was of the deep purple skin of the Predlonites. He looked at his hands, his vestments, even now he seemed to have become a shadow of Questifa's desires. His dark purple skin made him appear a black smudge even in the relative darkness of Yterli's violet domain. How could colors so close become so contrasting? Perhaps there was yet some hope left for the violet.

Niethon began to walk slowly among the trees of Drimnal, examining them closely. Outside they glowed the vibrant violet they always had, but inside he detected them starting to darken, struggling to follow their master's will to thwart any who may challenge his power or try to destroy him. Niethon understood he needed more than just ordinary people to fight this power, he needed a tarek. But who could he trust? Bractus, the blue tarek, appealed to Niethon. He was strong and secure in his power, yet even he may have already fallen prey to the darker tareks' schemes, for he, too, was a tarek of a darker color. Why take a chance and fall into a trap? Flarino, the green tarek, was also a likely recruit, but his land of Kataro was a long, dangerous journey away. By the time Niethon could make it there, he, too, may have fallen to the misguided, evil powers Questifa controlled. By the same token, Tralru of the red and Manfroklo of the orange resided in lands far too distant to travel to in safety. No, they were all too risky.

This left Niethon with only one hope, Jedseru and Hetta, the yellow tareks. They were the only tareks who shared the power of the color they controlled. They also controlled the magic of the lightest color and were the least likely to let the forces of blackness overcome their hearts. They, also, were two. If he could enlist them both, his own power would be twice that of a single tarek. So, although Kay-Careva, the city which housed the main inhabitants of Badar, the blue color haven, was closer, Niethon decided to take the less dangerous route to Kay-Norde, the yellow tareks' seat of power.

Niethon smiled at his decision to take positive action. A dark, haunting laugh, which had buried itself in the deepest chambers of his mind, seemed to fade with a slight echo out of his being. He started to trudge northeastward toward Kay-Norde with a feeling of renewed confidence. He had a purpose, a new reason to live.

He marched for a long time, maybe two hours or so, keeping his purpose at the forefront of his thoughts, yet in the back of his mind doubt gnawed at his soul like a grolsh at a bone. Clouds blew in from the west and created alternating conditions of brightness and shadow. The air seemed to grow slowly but steadily colder. Niethon began to hear strange sounds. He kept checking over his shoulder trying to catch a glimpse of something following him. The woods began to grow thicker.

Somehow, Niethon managed to keep his thoughts bright. Hope had not yet faded out of his anima. He thought about Hetta. He had met with her several times. Her face had always struck him as extraordinary, young and bright with deep set amber eyes, a perfect, tiny nose and cheek bones set high and round. Her yellow hair cascaded over her gracious shoulders like a waterfall and her skin tone was lightly contrasted to accentuate her intelligent eyes and well maintained, sensuous hair. Surely, her body was the most voluptuous he had ever seen. She had the firmest, most well proportioned figure of any woman alive in Elberia.

He recalled the times they had sat across the table talking about defensive preparations. He had known then that he was in love with her. He remembered the way she had looked at him with her thoughtful, probing eyes. As the picture formed clearer in his mind's eye, he recalled that look with greater detail. The slight smile she so readily gave him when he greeted or spoke to her in general was, in his imagination, as bright and uplifting as a summer's day. He remembered the way her eyes glistened and her face flushed slightly whenever he would gain her attention. He now knew she, too, was in love with him. At those times he was too busy with his work to notice such feelings welling up inside. Now he realized how wrong he had been, thinking those looks were purely professional courtesy, and how much he had missed in his