Dark Destiny (The Darkening': A Contemporary Dark Fantasy Trilogy Book 3)

By Rosemary Fryth

It is a Bad Year and country girl Fiona Delany, the champion of the Fae has a monumental task ahead of her – to defeat a malign and evil organisation called ‘The Artificers’.
Aided by her fiancé Trent, and paranormal investigating friends Bill and Deven, Fiona must leave her home in Emerald Hills in Australia, and travel to Britain in order to discover the location of the mysterious Olivia who has disappeared somewhere in the now dangerous city of London.
Can they trust the strange woman called Branna who claims to be of the Fae?
Can they save humanity from an overwhelming despair that has it in thrall?
Humanity stands on a knife-edge – will it succumb to the despair and go into the darkness, or will it wake and return to the light?
Author of the epic fantasy Riothamus trilogy, Rosemary Fryth brings to her readers Dark Destiny, sequel to Dark Destination, and the third and final book in The Darkening trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rosemary Fryth
• Release date: Sep 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370940028

Rosemary Fryth

Australian Independent author writing epic and dark fantasy, and also poetry. 'Riothamus' trilogy (Heroic Epic Fantasy genre) - Able to be downloaded from Smashwords and other distributors. 'The Darkening' trilogy (Contemporary Paranormal Dark Fantasy genre) and "The Dresser Man" - Available from Amazon, now available from Smashwords

Book preview

Prologue

Summer Solstice – Wiltshire, England

His body already aching from the unaccustomed exercise, the young man hefted his heavy backpack over his shoulders and furtively slipped through the gap in the fence.

The night was unusually balmy for summer, and the full moon made it easy to follow the track through the abundant crops growing in the fields on either side of the path. The young man was not used to walking far, for the cancer that coursed through his body had robbed him of energy and vitality.

Grimacing, he adjusted the straps of the backpack for they were biting into his skeletal shoulders, and looked up and ahead. His destination was still a good distance away, and there was a ridge still to climb. A night bird flew over him, calling quietly, and the scent of the wildflowers growing among the chalky rocks in the path seemed in the warmth to be overpowering at times. As he slowly and laboriously climbed, he could see far away in the distance the lights of Marlborough, and beyond that, as a dim and distant glowing smudge, the metropolis of Swindon.

Above him the long barrow was a shadow in the darkness, it was a special night, a night to be honoured, and although he would much rather be at the celebrations at Stonehenge to the south, his errand was far more personal and important.

Sweating now, his breath laboured, he struggled up the hill to the ridge top.

Soon he would be able to sit and rest.

Soon he would be able to perform his small ceremony.

Pausing on the track, he waited for his body to recover a little before making the last climb to the summit. As he stood, he could hear the warm wind blowing through the crops, whilst overhead the stars sparkled in the sky like fairy dust. He smiled at that thought; perhaps the Powers would grant his wish at dawn. Perhaps his little ceremony would rid his body of the disease.

He had tried everything else, why not this. After all, he was a marked man, weeks only to live.

What more could he lose?

Finally, he gained the ridge top and with a weary sigh lowered his backpack to the ground. In front of him, the long barrow loomed black against the starry sky, a place haunted by the spirits of the ancient past. Soon, the Gods willing, he would enact his ceremony, honour the ancestors and hope for a miracle.

Sitting down he strove to catch his breath, for the climb had wearied him far more than he had thought possible.

Opening his knapsack, he withdrew a plastic bag in which he had placed some sticks of timber and kindling. Reaching further into the bag, he retrieved matches, torch, a bottle of brandy, two bottles of the finest and most expensive red wine he could afford, and a carefully wrapped hash brownie.

Taking all these items, he placed them on the path in front of the chambered Neolithic tomb and then flicking on the torch, he walked around the great stones that marked the entrance of the barrow and into the cold dark depths itself. Others had been here before him, for he saw small offerings placed in niches in the rock–an apple, a feather, even the bright glint of a silver coin or ring.

He did not touch the offerings, for it was not his place to do so.

Shivering, he stood silently his head bent honouring the ancestors, and then turning back to the entrance, walked back out into the night. He trained his torch onto his watch–it was less than an hour to the dawn.

Overhead something briefly obscured the stars, large and dark, flying southwards on soundless wings, and his skin prickled in response–he strained his eyes to see but discerned nothing, an owl perhaps.

Mentally he shrugged the image away.

Tiredness etched into his frame, he bent and arranged the wood into a serviceable pile, the kindling deep within. It hadn’t rained recently so the wood was dry and he hoped it would catch well. Off to the west was the near and heavy bulk of Silbury Hill, even more, mysterious and enigmatic than the barrow on which he prepared his solstice fire.

Carefully watching the horizon for the first hint of pink, he shivered again. The nausea was a constant companion now–not so much from the disease, but the drugs the doctors insisted he take, even though cancer still marched relentlessly through his body.

At last, the faintest sliver of pink marked the eastern sky and with practised ease, he flicked a match alight and thrust it, still burning, into the heart of the kindling. Immediately the paper, sawdust and wood shavings caught alight, the bright flames reaching and flickering to the heavier wood.

Standing, he waited for a minute or two, watching with almost primitive delight the flames lick at the wood. Then slowly he began to shed his clothing until at last he stood naked and shivering by the fire. The bright flames illuminated a body ravaged by disease–of prominent ribs and pelvis, a sallow unhealthy skin, skeletal face and patchy hair. The young man, at first sight, looked to be around four times his actual birth age.

Taking the brownie, he nibbled at it, praying that nausea would remain at bay long enough for his body to digest it, and for the drugs and herbs to take effect.

Taking the first bottle of red wine, he popped the cork and methodically emptied it on the ground near the fire, murmuring words of prayer, sacrifice and honour. He did the same for the second bottle, leaving a little at the bottom for a small drink for himself.

Finally, he opened the bottle of expensive French brandy and upended it onto the fire, which under the influence of the alcohol suddenly, and like a beast roared up, scorching the tips of his hair, eyebrows and eyelashes.

Overcome by the intense heat and bright flames, he staggered backwards, tripping over his pack and falling heavily onto the ground. As he sprawled, he gasped as he saw the sudden appearance of a small and intensely glowing crack in the air above the flames.

His hands stinging from the hard ground and his eyes half-dazzled from the fire, what came out of the rift defied his human understanding–the thing did not crawl out, but rather it oozed as slime or paste would as from an imperfect seal. It had no colour, yet all colours, taking in this instance the aspect of the golden-red flames.

Once the bubble-like creature had freed itself, the rift snapped shut behind it with an audible crack, and the thing, for it seemed to have no form other than a golden opalescent skin, and a clawed, serrated edge, launched itself at the young man’s head.

Still half blinded, the young man thought with horror that part of the fire had disengaged itself and flowed towards him. Reflexively he threw his body back onto the ground, and the creature slid by him, scouring him at the same time on the side of the face and head.

The young man, his face seemingly afire, screamed aloud in pain and drew into a foetal position, his head buried in his hands, bright blood immediately streaming from between his fingers.

The creature slid away, and like a mindless amoeba, divided once, and twice again before properly separating, disengaging–all four forms turning a mottled almost diseased grey-black. Each form undulated like darkening soap bubbles on the air currents from the long barrow until they were soon out of sight in the crops.

Huddled on the ground, the young man reached across to his pack and grabbed his discarded shirt, balling it up against his head and face.

After a long while, the blood finally slowed and stopped, but not before his shirt was soaked a sticky red.

Shaking with shock, he tried to stand, but dizziness overcame him. Eventually, vertigo passed and he struggled to his knees breathing heavily, trying to regain his composure. Questions raced through his mind.

What was that? What had happened to him? What had come out of the fire?

Wiping the blood from his eyes, his hands blindly reached out and touched the second almost empty wine bottle. Lifting it to his mouth, he drained it, hoping that the warmth from the alcohol would banish the chill that had set in.

He huddled for long minutes by the fire, waiting for the trembling to cease and for the blood to stop flowing. Finally, the shaking subsided and he felt strong enough to stand and dress again, even though his shirt was now a ruined, bloody mess.

Slowly he began to repack his backpack; the fire, now only red coals, he snuffed out with dirt kicked from the ground.

Straightening, he now felt odd, strengthened even, the ever present nausea had gone and with it the terrible weakness that had suffused him for so many months.

He touched his bloody, sticky, still painfully stinging face with hesitant fingers. Whatever had struck him had scored three distinct and deep lines across his skin, running from the corner of his right eye and cheekbone, across his temple, and into what was left of his hair. The wounds still oozed a little blood, but he could bear the pain, in fact, this was the best he had felt in months. Perhaps the ceremony had worked, he did not know, he would not know until the next hospital visit and the next lot of scans and tests.

Despite his ruined face, the young man felt oddly positive, uplifted.

Hefting his pack across his shoulders, he gave silent thanks to the Gods and the ancestors and walked back down the ridge to the road and his car below...

Those who believed had come in cars and shuttle buses, on bicycles and some had even hiked in on foot, travelling a great distance across the grassy and bleak windswept plain to where the great grey stones of the henge stood for countless generations.

The henge did not stand alone in the landscape. The plain was dotted with many smaller barrows and tombs–proof that the sacredness of the region dated back thousands of years to the Neolithic and beyond, and continued even to the present modern technological era.

The great gathering point at the massive hanging stones was crowded this year, not only with the regulars who made the pilgrimage each year but ordinary folk too, seemingly looking for reassurance, relief and hope beyond the normal confines of traditional cathedrals and temples of stone and glass. For this year had been a bad year–almost everyone touched personally by suicide or murder. Everyone knew someone, a friend, or a friend of a friend, a workmate, or even a family member who had succumbed to the terrible despairing malaise that was sweeping humanity.

Yet the crowds at Stonehenge were not typical of a general worldwide desire for hope, for elsewhere the stone, wooden or glass temples of the other world religions stood empty or scarce of worshippers, as devotees, seeing the despair around them, lost hope even in the divine.

There was a whisper too, that strange things had been happening, and strange things were seen. There was no proof, however, stories persisted on the internet about a terrible disaster earlier in Australia, and how creatures of myth had for a short time, walked and battled the mortal world. Belief was difficult, and most chose not to believe, despite the evidence that was put time again on the internet, and just as quickly removed or deleted by various agencies and authorities.

Publicly the Australian Government had written the whole disaster off as an explosion from lightning striking leaking large gas storage cylinders, but behind closed doors, urgent talks and meetings were held, to try to find a solution to combat an unknown and confusing enemy and a hopeless, helplessness that seemed to be afflicting mankind.

Therefore, those who believed came in their multitudes, to places already made sacred by time and legend, hoping that they might witness, that they might win hope, and banish despair...

The man stood near the towering grey stones, his backpack by his side. Despite the warmth of the June night, he seemed to onlookers stiflingly overdressed in a dark grey felt hat, a buttoned-up and stained brown overcoat, black trousers, and scuffed boots. Those who stood near him moved away, discomforted by his dark and morose air.

It was clear he had been sleeping rough for a while and, going by the ruined state of his clothes, his last accommodation seemed to have been a thorny hedgerow. He seemed nervous too: his left eye had developed a noticeable tic, he mumbled to himself, and he seemed to be fondling something under his overcoat. Parents with children noticed and surreptitiously herded their youngsters away and to the other side of the stones. The man’s muttering became even more pronounced as the pale pink of the dawn sun broke over the horizon, casting a rosy hue across the plain, and touching the tops of the ancient stones with its glow. Then, amidst the cheering and singing around him, the man took from under his overcoat a sawn-off shotgun and slowly and deliberately began to fire into the crowd, one or two cartridges at a time, reloading from a seemingly limitless supply in his deep overcoat pockets.

The crowd, thinking that someone was setting off banned fireworks, cheered and clapped, but when bodies fell, and the screaming started people scattered and ran in panicked confusion. They ran trying to get away, trying to find somewhere to hide, and trying to seek shelter amongst the stones. Shots pinged and ricocheted off the henge, chipping the great blue-grey stones, and marking them as surely as time.

Yelling with anger, two heavyset men, clad in the white robes of druids, sprinted in like pale ghosts, attempting to crash-tackle the shooter to the ground, yet were themselves brought down by a couple of well-placed shots. White robes soon blossomed with red and more bodies fell amongst the stones, and blood seeped like a sacrifice into the ground of the Sanctuary of the henge. Uniformed police who, for the ceremony, had respectfully remained a good distance away, now ran in, their weapons wielded openly in their hands. Unfortunately, the mass of panicked humanity meant that identifying the gunman was impossible and they hesitated to fire until they could confirm their target.

Suddenly the sun lifted properly above the low hills, ancient barrows and sparse groves of Salisbury plains. Its rays hit the stones, bathing them in a warm and heady glow; at the same instant, a crack of blinding brilliant light grew above the altar stone and an unnaturally tall and brilliant figure, wielding an eye-dazzling spear, stepped through the rift and to the mortal and mundane world beyond.

For a moment, the figure paused, staring as if in puzzled incomprehension at the ruinous stones and the fleeing, panicked crowd and then, espying the shooter, with a precise yet offhand gesture, threw the spear which flew unerringly at the gunman, piercing him through the chest and pinning him to the ground.

Immediately the earth shook and the great stones trembled and shuddered, threatening to fall.

With a flick of his hand, the glowing man gestured to himself, and the spear flew back into his grasp; then, with a great shout that shook like a thunderclap, raced away as fast as thought beyond the stones, eastwards till he was lost in the rising sun.

Large black birds that were not birds, drawn like vultures to the carnage, scattered with his passing, static-like blinking in and out of existence.

Back at the now quiescent stones, the crowd milled around uncertainly, though, with the death of the shooter and the silencing of the gun, the loud panic seemed to dissipate and dissolve.

The police, still uncertain of what just happened, moved deliberately through the crowd, searching for the shooter and for the mysterious figure who had brought him down; in the far distance, emergency sirens wailed.

Those who had survived the shooting–the lucky ones, sobbed and moaned, kneeling and mournfully keening over the bodies of their family or friends.

Amongst the bodies of his victims lay the dying body of the shooter. His dark eyes stared into the flawless dawn sky, and his shotgun lay discarded by his hand, spent and live cartridges scattered around him. He lay like a pile of crumpled laundry, the last of his blood pumping out of his body and onto the ground. Consumed by murderous irrationality his tattooed hand twitched once more towards his shotgun; then, with a terrible bubbling moan, the last of his life seeped away and, as darkness claimed him, he knew no more.

Chapter 1

Headphones on her head, Fiona Delany sat in the dark and listened intently.

She had been waiting for almost three hours in the van, monitoring the screens before her for a sound or image that might identify what they had come to investigate.

Earlier she had taken a break, stepping outside the van that was parked on the side of the road adjoining the sprawling cemetery. All she could hear was the low hum of traffic on the nearby streets and distant freeway.

In the cemetery roamed the Paranormal Oz Media team with their battery of recording devices. There had been reports of ghosts and hooded figures, and the council had asked them to investigate, so they had come. The team had already given her video and audio files to check from earlier in the evening.

Suddenly her walkie-talkie crackled and taking off her headphones, she held it to her ear and heard Bill Ander’s voice.

I don’t think we’re getting anything more Fiona, so we’ll finish up here.

You sure you don’t want me to come out? she asked.

Sure enough, we don’t want a repeat of Tassie, he replied firmly. We’ll be back in about ten minutes.

Fiona put the walkie-talkie down, and sat back and stretched, hearing her joints popping in protest. She did not want to remember Port Arthur but, unwittingly, the memories seeped back…

It was Fiona’s first mission as part of the POM team and she had been looking forward to her first trip away with Trent. The young couple had been inseparable since autumn last year, and, to general acclaim and to her parent’s relief, Trent had popped the question in April. Fiona knew in her heart that there was only one real answer to his question, and answered in the affirmative–that she would be Mrs. Eriksen. Now she wore a neat, but elegant sapphire and diamond ring upon her wedding finger, and was newly minted as his fiancée. They had tentatively planned their wedding for the following autumn.

Tasmania had been beautiful but cold and they had stayed in an early-Victorian hotel near the waterfront in Hobart before hiring a van and driving to the ruins of the convict gaol at Port Arthur.

No sooner had they set foot on the grounds when Fiona had felt a deep misgiving come across her and a strange, cold dead wind had immediately blown up, bringing with it an unsettling odour of rot and decay. Despite her dread, the team had gone ahead with the investigation but scarcely ten minutes had passed when Fiona, grasping her Fae-gifted pendant for support, felt pinched and poked, her hair pulled, her skin nipped and scratched, and her feet tripped. All around her voices screamed and moaned, and she heard the words ‘Avenge us’ and ‘Vengeance’ often.

Occasionally a spirit would briefly manifest beyond the confines of an orb and she saw the distorted features of men in old-fashioned prison garb and, more tragically, bloodstained figures dressed in modern clothing. It seemed to be that she was attracting every spirit, ghost and ghoul in the area.

After about ten minutes of this onslaught, she had endured enough and stumbling, ran back to the van.

Trent, hot on her heels, followed her back to the car park where he found her leaning against the van and breathing hard, her skin marred by scratches and red marks and already forming bruises. Whatever protection her pendant had provided against the Artificers in January had seemed to have little effect against the dead, and she had been vulnerable to attack.

After recovering and despite her assault, she had argued with the others, wanting to go back and continue the investigation, but the others had immediately vetoed her plan–Trent emphatically after seeing the angry red welts upon her skin.

Reluctantly Fiona remained behind in the van with the unused equipment whilst Bill, Deven and Trent finished their investigation into the old Prison and penal colony.

Fiona did not know why she was being targeted in such a specific way–it seemed as if the events of January, or perhaps even the pendant itself, had made her a human lightning rod for spooks and ghosts, drawing them away from the areas that POM was trying to investigate, and to herself, contaminating their research.

After that episode in Tasmania, Fiona had been trained by the others to monitor the equipment, staying well away from areas of paranormal activity–but, even then,