A Shadow Dawning

By Michael J Carroll

For centuries the world of Aeiar has been darkened by the Shadow; subjugated by a fallen hero. Magic, once used for beauty and creation, is ruined. It is now only a tool for destruction and malevolence, corrupting those who use it.

The few who remember the time before darkness have but a whisper of hope. A secret, aud

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dragon Alchemy Publishing
• Release date: Oct 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986478432

Book preview

Prologue

THE SHADING OF AIVUM AND THE FOUNDERING OF AEIAR

Heavy boots thundered across the polished marble floors of an ancient, powerful building. Arched ceilings to each side were supported by rows of massive pillars which reached the heights of ten Men. Here and there, between some of the columns, were marble statues in various colors, some decorated with gold or silver, all depicting a man or woman, or Aasranen in glorious pose. He scoffed at them.

He reveled in the sound of his footfalls echoing in this grand hall. The deep thuds of his boots beat in time, making a glorious symphony with the quaking and thundering outside. Mere days ago, he would have been nothing here. A mere one of thousands. But now, things had most wonderfully changed. He was not alone however, and he was framed by that which tainted this place, scarred its delicate facades, and soured the air. Mordith. He let a smirk dance across his lips in anticipation of what he would find. Some would still be here; he knew them all too well.

He basked in his walk through the hall, listening to the muted screams and terrified wails that echoed into the chamber from outside. Through the high windows, he could see the world growing darker. Light, which had been so abundant, now waned. The violet-colored sky itself was rent. Pieces of the very air were torn away, revealing only the expansive black beyond. It was as if the sky were crying in pain. The Ellanin, what was left of them, rushed through the air, racing about each other, warring with one another. Lithias, the Windsong, vainly tended to the tattered sky as he fended off his siblings from destroying it any further. Traeille the Mist and Erielle the Rain pounded against the swirling wind. He could see them, and their awful battle. It was terrifying. And more so, it was exactly what he wanted.

Still, bars of defiant light stabbed their way across his path, illuminating the dust which fell from the ceiling as the ground trembled. In the distance, concussions and the unmistakable sound of Lightwaves peeled through the din of screams.

What has happened?! A man shouted to his right. It was an older man, was his name Desid? He could not be sure. He raved, sounding half-mad. "Our doom! Our doom is at hand. What have we done?" Just as quickly as he had come, the man had vanished, likely rushing to his death. Desid should welcome it. They all should.

He delighted at the thought of their surprise, their shock at finding him here. He licked his lips at the thought of them seeing him with Mordith and very nearly laughed. He clasped his hands behind his back and continued to stroll through the hall. Ah! The Prion! The governing body of Wizards. He had often wondered just how they would handle such a turn of events. Apparently not well.

For minutes as he walked, he mused on thoughts of the Great Wizard Toliuth, and his little page boy Galland, just how frightened they must be at seeing their world destroyed. How certain of victory they had been! He closed his eyes to savor for himself their sense of defeat.

And so Jah Restin failed, a familiar voice said from ahead of him. The columns still concealed the man, but he knew who it was, and so he smiled. This was a far better outcome than he could have anticipated.

No, he responded. He succeeded more greatly than the Prion imagined. Slowly, as he walked, the man was revealed through the columns. All his hopes for shock, or fear, were dashed as he gazed at the wizard Astrah Sorimel.

The man sat, in his customary ill-fitting, and out of style clothing. He lounged on the Hand of the Light’s throne, a throne that wasn’t his. The Hand of the Light, Basrin Moridas, was no-doubt dead at this very moment. He gave a moment’s thought to looking behind him to see if Moridas’ body was still where he had left it hanging but chose against it.

Your world is dying, Astrah. He said, with the shadow of a smile.

Yes, I see that. Astrah said glumly. The Shadow is reaching beyond the east as we speak. Astrah was robbing him of his moment! He did not seem frightened, or defeated, instead he seemed…resigned. Are those for me? The Wizard lounging on the throne asked, indicating the Mordith with a lazy gesture.

No, he responded. I am here for whatever is left of the Prion.

Ha! A genuinely mirthful laugh. You vengeful little man. You’ve become such a sad cliché. Cast out of the Prion, and where do you turn to lick your wounded pride? You become His pet! No more than the errand boy of someone greater. Again. Astrah accused despite being keenly aware of his situation, but uncaring of the consequences. Here for the Prion, you say? Astrah swung his leg down from the arm of the throne and leaned his elbows on his knees, looking down from the dais. "There is no Prion. It was destroyed the moment Jah Restin failed, and this cataclysm began. Its purpose was destroyed in that moment. The rest of this is just…emphasis." Astrah waved his hand absently at the world trembling around them.

Always the philosopher, he said, shifting his weight onto one leg-content to converse for the moment. What was coming was far more enjoyable, and it would be worth the wait. Did you dream of this moment, Astrah? Did you divine the possibility of his deception?

Yes, Astrah said. And I warned them. Only one listened. It was a fool’s errand to begin with. He frowned at Astrah’s comment. This was not going at all how he wanted. He was beginning to get angry. Ah, the effects of the Dark Gods are showing through you already, Dres.

That is no longer my name! he nearly shouted. I am Traelius. Astrah smiled sardonically.

Of course you are. What a lofty name. In the First Tongue, I believe it means ‘Trusted,’ am I right? He was right. The truth grated. A truly clever name. The jest was not lost on Traelius. Perhaps Astrah would die by the Mordith’s hands. It would be more enjoyable to watch him cut down by their blades, unable to use his power with them so close.

I was told to ask for the tomb of Mieren Lel. Traelius stated, making a show of looking through the columns. Again, Astrah smiled.

It was destroyed. Your Master’s shaking of the world razed the Mortal Hall days ago, Mieren Lel, and all that lay with her is gone.

He will not be pleased.

No, I imagine not. But I doubt very much he could do much more about it than he is already doing. Ruining the world seems like fair recompense for His perceived slights. Astrah jeered.

You mock him.

"Of course I do! The man was a fool, and those who sent him all the more so. Did He end the world? Did he destroy Aivum? No! Instead, he chose to ruin it. You speak of arrogance? In his arrogance, he has marred beauty and life forever, taken for himself all the power of the Shadow and set himself as God of the World. All for what? Revenge? Look what he has wrought, Dres! He has made this world a disgusting parody." Astrah shouted as he stood to tower over Traelius from the dais-all thought of the Mordith clearly gone from his mind.

And yet, here we stand. On the ashes of your long forged, once-beautiful world. Look Astrah, Traelius said, indicating the windows. Through the brilliant glass, they could see streaks of light rising away from the surface of the world, pulled away from it into the sky. The Aeillon. The Gods of Light. Even as we speak, Light is being banished from the world by the power of the Dark Gods, and that of Beldezar, the man you call Jah Restin Toliem. Your hero. Traelius smiled up at the fallen Wizard.

Astrah gulped noticeably. His eyes tensed as he considered Traelius before him. A long moment passed between them, before Astrah sat back heavily against the throne of the Hand of Light. He has won, Astrah. He has won and has chosen me to join him. And now, Wizard, you must die.

No. Astrah said absently, as though it were a passing thought, his eyes still on the windows and what lay beyond. The Mordith began taking the steps up to the dais. I wish to speak with Him. The Wizard said, his eyes swinging back to Traelius, wholly unconcerned by the Mordith drawing their swords as they strode towards him. I wish, above all things, to join Him.

Astrah looked to his right, back through the windows, as brilliant white light from the departing Aeillon flickered in the sky, beginning to coalesce in the distance. Below the Aeillon, they could both see the dark storm, encroaching upon them, flashing lightning and pouring rain over the bright green land. I will come with you. Take me.

Chapter

One

800 YEARS LATER

Snow fell around him, riding the gentle breeze and slanting across the high slopes of the mountain. The slate gray sky overhead held the familiar sight of a snowstorm common in this part of the world. The barren trees had not yet had a chance to sprout their dark life from the newly come spring. Snow drifts piled above his ankles where he stood in the gloom of the early morning, freezing his toes. He took a deep breath of the frozen air and the fog from his exhale obscured the scene before him. Two dead bodies lay bleeding in the snow, a dusting of fresh snow collecting on their clothes as they lay motionless. Two arrows each reached out of both men, the fletching of which were rustled in the gentle wind. A third man was crawling away from the scene, a deep gash across his chest spurting blood into the snow. He moaned through the blood in his mouth. The man clutched in vain at his ruined chest. He looked at his Lord with pleading, terrified eyes. His Lord did not look at him; instead, Singer did,-- the only other person in the clearing- with sad eyes.

Lord Tarril Tor’Aelthi stared across the clearing at Singer. His eyes were emotionless and unflinching. The person was focusing, as all Aasranen did before unsheathing their weapons. Tarril was no longer Aasranen, not really, despite being born so. Singer tore his eyes away from the dying man, and looked at Tarril. Singer set himself again, his mind folding itself in, limiting thought to the battle ahead.

Singer felt the cold, cracked leather of his ancient sword hilt clutched in his gloved fingers. He knew every inch of his father’s sword, his sword. He finished wiping the blood free of the shining white steel on a rag pulled free from his saddlebag. The world around him fell silent and still. The breeze was steady and unwavering, but the forest was silent. The plain gray sky only echoed the solitude. In the distance, a lone bird called out over the silence, and the far-off sound of beating wings could be heard on the gentle wind.

Singer’s warhorse stamped an impatient foot, Singer calmed it and whispered the First Tongue of the Aasranen into its ear gently, just above the breeze. Singer adjusted the bridle and removed the bit from the horse. He wanted the horse to be comfortable, should the battle end poorly. Singer removed the crimson cape from his shoulders and tossed it unceremoniously on the snow next to him. The bared blade shone in the gloom of the morning, and he saw Tarril’s eyes fall to the sword held at Singer’s side. Tarril’s eyebrow flicked up momentarily before settling back into place, refocused.

You finally found me then? And with your Father’s sword no less, how…sentimental Tarril sneered. Lord Tarril of Aelthelion drew his broadsword off his back and twirled it in his hands. Tarril was a bigger Aasranen, born in the Southern Regency of what had once been the Aasranen Empire. His hair was flecked with gray and silver, but the man still had a hardness about him. His face was clean shaven, and his cleft chin protruded strongly. He was notoriously over confident in his skills with a sword. His bright blue silk coat was embroidered with gold paisleys, and the coat hung low past his waist in the style of Miere Othien, where he had been hiding. His heavy wool breeches were still fine, and expensive, despite their rough look. Just looking at the Aasranen’s clothes, Singer knew him for the traitor he was. You could not achieve this type of wealth and stay true to Aasranen principles. Not anymore. "You choose not to wear the Ishendrei, yet you wear the crimson Lythier, and still proclaim yourself Aasranen? I find that a startling contradiction." Tarril mocked. Tarril fingered the crimson cloth Ishendrei around his throat. Singer gripped his sword tighter and took his stance, ready to meet his long held enemy in battle, finally.

You think your father would be proud? Tarril asked, removing his hand from his throat. Cast out of the Aasranen, as I am, forsaken the oaths that would allow your redemption, and now it seems, taken in by the Slayers. Ha! Tarril spun his sword in the air in a show of competence. In the now underground Aasranen culture, Tarril had been the Taeshendiel, The Masters of Blades. The Taeshendiel was the last defender of the ruling circle of Aasranen, the Echelon of Lights. Singer flexed his toes in his heavy boots and strode carefully across the open land, pushing his way through the snow. Packed snow fell from overburdened branches as he closed with his enemy.

Tarril wore a menacing grin as the younger Aasranen approached. Tarril would find that being a Slayer was not something to snicker at. Singer’s slightly curved blade flashed to meet the larger man’s sword, and the ring of metal on metal shocked the silent forest. Singer spun and felt the whoosh of Tarril’s blade inches from his face. He blinked in surprise. How fast the thing before him was with that massive sword! Singer took a few steps back, trudging through the deep snow. The flakes continued to fall around them steadily, uncaring of the desperate battle, twenty-six years two hundred and eleven days in the making. Singer refocused, as his mentors had taught him. His Aasranen blood pumped, and he could feel his surroundings. Singer re-gripped his sword and advanced on Lord Tarril. Tarril was smiling now, aware that he had surprised Singer with his proficiency. Singer steadied himself and knew he looked detached from the situation. That was true focus.

Tarril feinted an overhand blow but twisted to strike at Singer’s gut. The younger man was ready, and he parried the blade and turned it into an instant attack. The two were joined again, and this time the battle raged at length before parting.

When the two separated, Singer was clutching a bleeding hand, and could feel blood pouring from a deep gash across his ribs. Tarril had fared poorly as well. The Aasranen had a wound in his cheek from Singer‘s cross guard, a deep gash across his dominant arm, and a clean stab wound in his left thigh. The two men were stumbling around in the red and white snow. You have fought well today, Tyi-

That is not my name. Singer said fiercely.

Ah right, no longer Aasranen. Well, I hope your father is proud of you. You fared far better than he did. Tarril said holding his thigh. The Aasranen sounded awkward due to the hole in his cheek. Blood was pouring out of the Taeshendiel’s mouth, but Singer knew he was in similar shape. He could feel the blood from his wound reaching his legs. He showed no outward sign of pain, neither did Tarril. Their Aasranen heritage forbid it. The two enemies were stones and wrought steel.

We should finish this before we both die. Tarril offered. Singer nodded, and the two stumbled less gracefully towards each other.

They began swinging again. Once joined in combat, their wounds forgotten and the beauty and graceful dance of the sword continued. Singer took another blow that bounced off his shoulder after cutting deep. Tarril landed a fist in his eye, and over his teeth, but little else. Singer fared better. Tarril took another stab wound to the gut, and a glancing strike off his left forearm that broke the bone. Singer deflected Tarril’s final weak attack, the blade vanishing into the deep snow. Tarril was breathing deeply, cradling his stab wounds with his broken arm. "So, it is done. You have avenged what is left of the Fallen. What little purpose you have served. To think, the Aeillon will care little about what you have done with your life. And what do you go on to Tyion? Glory with the Fallen? Ha! The Aasranen are finished, and what lingers is failing. Ishentheil toranen Haielinthiel." Singer looked down at the kneeling Lord Tarril.

You failed the Aasranen, Tarril. You betrayed the Echelon. You go now to wherever betrayers fall, for Valhamortalar is no home to traitors.

You simple fool. The Echelon of Lights was dead centuries before your father. What was left when your father was Principal was a disgrace. Your family dishonors the Aasranen, and you intend to kill one of its last Lords. Forge on then, strike down the last of Aasranen history.

My name is Singer, and with this blow, I become the last of the Echelon of Lights. The sickening crunch that followed was swallowed by silence.

Singer fought the pain that took him after killing the traitor Tarril. His adrenalin was waning, and the pain took his breath away. He stripped his heavy brown coat off to look at the gash on his abdomen. The tear was deep and blood was leaking out of his side. He worried about seeing discoloration of his extremities and knew he was in poor shape despite his training. He pressed a piece of cloth painfully against his side and struggled to take a deep breath. He took a long drink of water and mounted as carefully as he could. He needed help with this wound, and he was unsure where he could get it. Slayers were not popular in this part of the world. They held a stigma for banditry and slovenliness. He turned the dark crimson cape inside out, showing its black underside and pulled it over his shoulders and replaced his dark hood. He couldn’t very well ride into a village declaring his lost heritage. Aasranen were hunted.

Shadows from dark clouds swept beneath a pallid sun. A drab landscape of hills and skeleton trees were in stark relief to the ever-present gloom above. Faded brown grasses hushed and bent beneath the swirling wind rolling over the countryside. Below the smoky clouds, nestled among the rolling, brown hills, sat a crumbling, fractured town.

In the distance, thunder rolled, foretelling the coming storm. Powerful storms came and went with punishing frequency. Two cloaks whipped furiously about on the wind, huddled beside the short back door staircase of a little inn. One shivered against the chill that had set in, the other leaned exhausted against the decrepit, crumbling stone wall. Filthy, cracked hands clutched at the frayed edges of their bedraggled cloaks.

Rien looked down at his hands. Dirt and grime were so pressed into his skin that he appeared darker than his heritage. His fingernails were cracked and bleeding in several places, and they were sore in the cold. He was so accustomed to the condition of his hands he hardly noticed. The dried, brown blood that flaked off had left red stains on his fingers and across his jaw. He knew he looked terrible. They both did. They always had.

His father leaned against the back wall of the building, his head hidden beneath a deep cowl which had concealed his face for as long as Rien could remember. Dark wet flecks were splattered across the outside of his father’s black hood. It was the same dark specks that were scattered across Rien’s own face. They both wore the blood of their poor friends. How many had made it out alive? They were only two! There had been so many with them. Rien wiped at his chin and could feel Niren’s blood smear across his face. Niren had been their friend for so many years. Now he was gone. Rien wanted to weep, but now was not the time. The fight may not yet be over.

Rien’s father was propped against the wall, half leaning, half laying against the decaying bricks. A wet, sickly cough broke through the gusting wind of the evening. They stood huddled behind a building on the outer edge of the town, hoping against hope they could be saved by a friend. It was dangerous to come here, but alone as they were, they had no choice. Kyen, Rien’s father, bent and nearly fell. His cough was overcoming him again. Kyen’s heavy black cloak more resembled a robe for the heavy, loose sleeves his arms were buried beneath. He folded himself up as he slid down the wall, trying desperately to control the cough that had overtaken him. If they were discovered here, they would both be killed. Kyen cried out weakly, a desperate cry that clutched at Rien’s heart. There was nothing either of them could do for him. Not for this.

The wind refused to calm, but it was not the chill that was making Rien’s hands shake.

Loud voices erupted on the other side of the back door to the building. Men were shouting. Father, Rien said, looking up quickly at the door, prompting Kyen to attempt to stand. He was still stooped, but he was standing, clutching at his gut with both hands beneath the robe. His father was in such great pain. A terrible pain, and one that Rien could never understand. If they saw us come here. Rien left the last unstated. They both knew what that would mean. Rien helped steady his father with his hands, Kyen’s thin weak body belying the strength of the spirit Rien knew he had.

Shut up, you fool! Kyen whispered harshly. The black hood swayed and trembled, as Rien fought not to recoil from his father’s outburst. I am fine, son. Rien could hear his father’s attempt to reassure him, but it was not going to work. Kyen was very sick.

Are you certain you can-

The back door exploded open. In less time than a heartbeat, Rien reached deep within himself. He felt lurking there, a power he had felt since birth, had been trained to know since before he could speak. It was a part of him, just as much as his arms. Aivum. What men called ‘magic’ or ‘sorcery’. It was nothing of the kind.

The power waited at the edge of his consciousness, waiting for him to seize it, reaching for him. Waiting for him to use it. It waited to destroy. What are you doing back here? A familiar worried voice asked. A small, well-weathered old man, his face lined with silvery scars at various angles across the left side of his face ruining his hairline, asked worriedly. Is it just the two of you? Where are the others? The old man asked gruffly. His eyes were worried and frightened.

We hope not, Master Raidlin, Kyen said, before succumbing to another fit.

Come in here before someone sees you! Raidlin said ushering them quickly into the building, his eyes looking beyond them both. He grabbed Rien by the wrist and helped him up the stairs. He did not touch Kyen.

Rien stepped inside the building, feeling the warmth of the place seep into him. His hands hurt a little less, and he was beginning to feel his ears and nose again in moments. They hurt. Just as Raidlin shut the door behind Kyen, he hurried them into a small side room. Your inn is as lovely as ever, Master Raidlin, Kyen whispered politely.

To the shades with that. You both look half-dead! What happened? I was not expecting you for several more months at the earliest. You come at a very bad time. Raidlin looked worriedly at the door. A very bad time. He was nearly bouncing from one foot to another, wringing his hands. Raidlin was not a man prone to worry, even at the worst of times. "There are many of them here. Two in the inn right now!" Rien’s eyes snapped to the door. He could not fight two, not right now. He was so tired. His mind reeled from the thought of another fight, even if he were to survive.

We lost another Newling to the Taken. We did not arrive in time to save her. Kyen whispered, choking down another cough, he tried to muffle it in the crook of his elbow.

Does Arthain live? Raidlin asked as he hurried them to the door on the opposite side of the room. Arthain was his father’s oldest friend, and near enough to family. Almost every person on the face of Aeiar knew who Arthain and Kyen were, or had heard some rumor of them, even if it was not their name.

Neither Rien nor his father made any motion or sound. They hoped Arthain lived, but the ambush by the Taken had been terrible. It scattered them. It was all Rien could do to stay near his father. Kyen, the unspoken leader of their little band, leaned heavily against the unadorned wooden wall of the room. Can we stay here tonight? Kyen asked, his deep voice rumbling dangerously through the inn. Absently, Rien touched his fingers to his bottom lip, where Niren’s blood lay caked and drying alongside his own. That was all that was left of their friend now, that and a feast for crows.

Raidlin did not move, he did not utter a single phrase. Footsteps echoed down the hall, at a slow, methodical pace. He cocked his head to the side, listening carefully. We must hide you. Raidlin said hurriedly. Out back! Into the stables momentarily. Take the key to the attic rooms. Raidlin handed the key to Kyen, careful not to make contact. He held the key as though it were a viper. The footsteps continued beyond the door to the small room they were whispering in. Kyen muffled another cough just as the footsteps went by. I will let you know when it is safe to come in. Now hurry! Raidlin opened the door and glanced out, making sure no one was looking. Rien gulped heavily. Fear choked him as he hurried back outside. The Enemy knew they were in the town. This place was not safe.

Master Raidlin! The familiar voice of Dilan rang out. Dilan was a nice enough fellow, who was also wise to his Master’s deception. Dilan had saved their lives in the past. Simple though he was, Dilan was loyal to a fault. Not that loyalty did Niren any good in the end. Rien thought bitterly.

Raidlin hurried them out into the cold air of the day again. The various gray skies and the drab brown landscape filling his vision in stark contrast at the end of the simple town. A few small homes and little buildings dotted the landscape leading away from the town, but somehow, somewhere deep, Rien could feel the town behind him.

Rien hurried Kyen to a dark recess of the stables, smearing into the shadows. They moved carefully around one of the horses, no doubt owned by one of the patrons of the inn.

The smell of horse and manure was sickly sweet and overwhelming as Rien settled his father down into the shallow straw. Rien laid his hands on his father’s forearm and felt the familiar chill seep into his hands and lower arms. As Kyen leaned against the back of the stable, he groaned in pain as Rien rubbed his hands together and breathed warm air on them. Rien patted the horse to calm it, and whispered into the gentle creature’s ear. The wind was cut by the building, the stable wall and the horse, so it felt warmer, but a damp chill still hung in the air. Rien absently wiped at his nose which was running through the unshaven stubble above his lip.

Kyen continued to groan, vainly trying to muffle the sounds for the sake of their safety. Rien closed his eyes against the sounds of his father’s misery. It lasted far longer than it used to before Kyen drifted to sleep, curled into the dirty, soiled hay in the back of the stable.

It was nearly an hour before Dilan’s blonde head emerged in the doorway to the inn. Rien, he whispered. Rien moved just into view and locked eyes with the young man. Come, now. Rien returned and gently woke his father, who was lucid instantly, almost as though he had not been sleeping. A single cough escaped him as he rose, but the two hurried past Dilan and into the warmth of the inn. Up, go on up. Master Raidlin is keeping them busy in the Common.

Silently, Rien and his father scurried up the stairs pausing at the fifth step to help his father skip the creaky sixth. They entered one of the small rooms they knew well in the attic. Two cots and a chest with a bowl were the only items in the wood paneled room. Rough wood beams and cheap nails were the only things to call this a room at all. Kyen went straight for one of the cots and fell onto the bed before Rien had closed the door.

Father, Rien said coming over to kneel beside Kyen.

I am fine, Rien! Kyen nearly barked. The hooded man then sighed before speaking again. I just need rest. But he was not alright. Kyen was dying in the foulest way imaginable. Niren’s death was much preferred over Kyen’s fate.

Through the simple wooden floorboards, Rien could hear the bustle of the inn. Muted voices echoed up to them in the room, but not loud enough to make out the words. Fear, his ever-present condition, still gripped at his heart. The Enemy was here. He wished to reach out with his mind and find them, but he could not risk discovery. Secrecy and stealth had kept them alive. He just hoped there were others that had managed to hide as well.

Rien sat on the other cot, letting his sore body rest. He leaned his back against the wall and listened to the ebb and flow of the inn beneath him. Uproarious laughter changed to chairs scraping and the sounds of a brief brawl, before clapping and more laughter.

To his left, his father was breathing quick and shallow, a wet wheeze constant. Rien felt his chin reaching his chest.

He could not tell how long he had been asleep, but the sounds of scuffling on the stairs woke him. In the back of his mind his power lurked, eager to be set free. Destruction lay at the edge of his mind. If only he reached for it. It wanted so desperately to be used. Fear lanced through him. It was an old, practiced feeling.

Heavy footsteps fell on the stairs just outside the room. Rien moved like lightning and woke his father. Kyen again was alert instantly. They moved in practiced steps to opposite sides of the room. Kyen, deep within the hood of his robe nodded twice to Rien, indicating he was ready. Had they been discovered?

Out of my way! A man growled angrily. More sounds of boots scraping, and a man stumbling. The doorknob turned as Rien’s mind stroked the power within him. He was as ready as he could be. He waited like a coiled spring, ready to strike with what little he had left in him.

A man fell into the room, his head covered in a shallow stained brown hood. He stumbled quickly before catching himself at the last moment. His gait confirming his exhaustion. Kyen, he breathed, as he fell against Rien. Raidlin followed the man into the room and shut the door making shushing noises.

Arthain, Kyen said coming over to stand near his oldest friend, but careful not to touch him. Arthain swept his hood off his face, revealing the nasty cut at his hair line which had covered most of his face in blood. The gore had mostly dried by now, but Arthain’s other wounds made him look terrible. He had bruising around his neck and the eye that wasn’t crimson with blood was purple, the iris ringed in blood. You’ve looked better.

Arthain chuckled weakly before coughing and groaning. Now I sound like you. Arthain said, smiling, his brilliant white smile in stark contrast to his visage.

You’re alive. Rien whispered disbelievingly. Arthain nodded despondently, patting Rien on the shoulder. He stood nearly a head shorter than Rien, but his presence filled the room in the manner of a much larger man. Arthain grimaced and looked away from them both. Did anyone else survive?

Arthain tensed his lips and swung his head around to look at his oldest friend, I cannot say. Arthain sat on a cot and rested his head between his hands, anger and frustration playing out on his face. I don’t know. Niren perhaps. He seemed to have gotten out quickly.

Niren is dead. Renalt hit him with a Lightwave. Rien said dispassionately. They had all learned long ago to deal with the death of their friends; cold disassociation was the only way. If they let themselves grieve, it would overwhelm them. Keillan? She was near you when they attacked. Rien proposed. Arthain’s head fell, his hands holding on to the back of his neck.

There were so many of us there. Kyen said. We weren’t ready for them. Light above, half of you were sleeping. Denton, Ricar, Daerid, Paris, Keillan. He whispered their names. The room fell quiet, Arthain’s heavy breathing the only sound in the room. Rien’s mind drifted to thoughts of his friends. He was thankful that Arthain had survived, but he worried over the others.

I am sure more are alive. We have our reputation for a reason, Arthain said, attempting confidence. He broke the silence with his characteristic levity. He was not one to dwell over-long on their misfortunes. Except for rare, specific occasions.

I hope you are right, Master Arthain. Raidlin said, worriedly. Rest yourselves. I will have Dilan bring you something as soon as I can manage.

As always, our most profound appreciation, Raidlin. Arthain said, miming the doffing of a cap.

Dilan brought several bowls of warm water for them to rinse themselves off. After splashing it over his face and letting it run down into the bowl, the murky brown water reflected back at him. He looked tired, wan and malnourished. It was not far from the truth. His legs felt as though they could barely hold him up. He turned to see Kyen, his arms holding his midsection, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of a cot.

Arthain, his face cleaner, but still smeared by the water, dirt and blood, collapsed on the cot and was asleep immediately. You too, Rien. Kyen said, his hood swinging towards the cot, indicating where his son should be. Kyen stood slowly, and methodically. It still brought a cough and a groan, however.

Rien grimaced but did not argue. Arguing with Kyen was a waste of time, he was smarter, and had the best retort for any disagreement Rien could offer. As his eyes settled on the cot, he realized how heavy his eyelids were, and he fell onto it in a messy heap, sleep finding him instantly.

Arthain, a raspy voice broke through Rien’s sleep. It was Kyen, speaking through gritted teeth. Rien was awake and alert in moments. Arthain took a bit longer, but the middle-aged wizard gathered his faculties and moved to the small porthole window that looked out to the back of the inn. Recognize that? Arthain’s face was a mask of stone. By the time Rien made it over to look, there was nothing to see.

What is it, father? Rien asked. Two glowing yellow eyes lit the inside of the cowl as Kyen looked up at him. The features of his father’s face almost visible in the dim light put out by his eyes.

Keillan, Kyen uttered. Rien closed his eyes and breathed out. Another had made it. Arthain spun around, his face still firm. His hands were taught, his knuckles white as he clasped his hands behind his back, attempting to look calm. He looked so tired.

They all tensed as loud voices rose up from the inn’s common room, but it was followed by laughter and the three men visibly relaxed. As the laughter died down, soft footsteps announced Keillan was coming up the stairs.

The door opened. A small, lithe presence filled the doorway wreathed in the light from the inn, cloak splattered and still dripping with mud. Hands on hips, the presence was domineering, for one so small. But the striking thing was the hair. Bouncing red waves poked free from beneath the dark brown hood concealing Keillan’s face. That was what Kyen meant. Keillan’s hair was almost unmistakable.

In one swift motion, the hood was pulled back to reveal a beautiful woman Her features were marred by a few faded scars, but to Rien, she was one of the most beautiful women in the world. It made her overcompensate by being so tough and determined.

Magic seemed to be equally prevalent with men and women in their little group and Keillan was one of the best. She had been friends with Kyen and Arthain for most of their lives. Ever since Kyen and Arthain had rescued her from being Taken, years before Rien was born.

What happened? Keillan asked fervently. She knew the rules for Raidlin’s place, as well as the rest of them. She was still quiet.

Ambushed. Arthain responded. Keillan strode into the room and gave Rien a brief, friendly hug.

Yes, I know that, she snapped. She patted Kyen on the shoulder in a familiar way, and stood in front of Arthain and gave him a quick, uncomfortable nod. As she turned to sit on one of the cots, Rien could not help but notice the grin Arthain stifled. I just mean…what happened? I tried to get to Daerid but I couldn’t reach him. Keillan said, breathing out. I don’t know what happened to them. Garrett, Daerid, Denton, Hovan. I tried to get to them.

I know, Keillan. Kyen said, comfortingly. She sighed, another resigned to their reality. None of them could afford the energy of dwelling on the fate of their friends.

Are we all that made it? I can’t believe it. Keillan said dismissively to her own question. Again, Arthain dropped his head and looked at his feet. Kyen merely continued to look quietly at Keillan.

Did you see what happened to Tjaden or Ricar? Rien asked. Ricar and Tjaden were the two he was closest to in their group. Though they saw each other rarely, they were the same age, and that made them three of the younger wizards.

No. The fighting near Telius and Ricar was intense. I was trying to get to Hovan. Keillan said. If Hovan did not survive…it’s just you my friend. Kiellan said looking at Kyen. Kyen was their only protection. It was a fact he was loath to admit, because of what it meant for Kyen.

So, Jheran and Morgan are dead? Kyen asked. Arthain swallowed audibly and turned away from them all. Keillan only grimaced.

Rien looked over at his father, his posture telling of his weariness. There was nothing any of them could do for him. If we’re all that made it out alive, Kyen… Keillan said, concern clear on her face.

I know. We are all aware. Kyen growled, barring his teeth under the cowl for the sound of his voice. Keillan recoiled at the ferocity in his voice. She was adjusting to his new short temper well. Rien remembered back to when he was a younger man, and recalled how Kyen used to laugh. Despite their circumstances, despite their desperation, he would laugh. It had filled Rien’s heart once, soothed him. But now it was only the shadow of a memory.

Rien’s thoughts grew darker than, thinking back to what he and his friends had lived through since those days. How many friends had been killed? How many had had worse done to them?

That is not the end of our troubles, I am afraid. Rien added. Keillan and Arthain swung their heads in his direction. Raidlin says the enemy is here as well. In the Inn. Arthain’s face, which was still holding a weak smile, drained of color. Keillan looked frantically at the walls as though she could see through them to where they might be.

Kyen? Arthain need not ask the question.

I have plenty of strength left, should it come to that, Arthain. Kyen sighed heavily though, which brought on a shallow cough. But let us see to it, that it does not come to that.

That seemed to steady the pair but the tension in the room was like a fog. Arthain’s hand was even shaking a bit as he brought his thumb to his lips. A familiar pose for him when he was thinking.

Hours passed as the four people in the room took turns drifting in restless sleep. Looking at them, they were bone weary, hungry, and scared. The light through the window dwindled, and the world grew dark. The sounds of the inn never faltered as people scurried about beneath them. The scraping of table legs and chairs being pushed back. Occasionally a fight would break out, only to be interrupted by taunts and sarcastic cheers and applause. It was a rough town. It was a terrible world.

The smell of ale wafted up to them through the boards as Innkeeper Raidlin opened the casks for the evening to sincere merriment. Rien brushed at his still dirty face with a callused and scuffed hand. The small tears in his skin ached a bit, but he was so used to it, it warranted only a passing thought. He itched at the growth of beard on his face before blinking away a bit of sleep that came on quickly. Kyen was sleeping. Arthain was muttering in his own dreams, while Keillan peered through the small porthole window. Bars of light stabbed into the room from between the floorboards. Raidlin had lit his hearth so they could have some light and warmth drift up to them. Two candles were lit as well, and combined, they gave enough light by which to see.

Rien pushed himself up quietly and stalked over to Keillan. He knew he was intruding on a private moment only when it was too late. I am glad to see you both made it, Rien. Keillan said, wiping at her nose and sniffing once.

You too, Keillan. You think others made it? Rien asked, not sure what else to say.

I hope so. She looked at him briefly before looking again through the window. Her red curls seemed like they were aflame in the candlelight. Something is wrong, Rien. Can’t you feel it?

He wasn’t sure what she meant. He shrugged, hoping she would continue. He stepped close to the woman and peered out the window as well, seeing nothing but a street filled with the coming and goings of a town at night. A horse was led by its owner, pulling a small cart with a lantern, a woman chased a young naked child back into a house, and other small things. Keillan saw the babe and smiled, her eyes seeming to drink the moment of innocence. Rien smiled too. Innocence was a rare and dwindling thing. They have always hunted us, Rien. Since your father saved me, I have been hunted. Our Legion far longer than that. But something has changed. They find us sooner, they chase us longer, they kill more of us. How are they finding us so easily? And why now?

It had been gnawing at Rien as well, but it was a concern for another day. Right now, they needed to escape Destun. Getting his father out of this town alive was his only concern. Your mother would be so proud of you, Rien. Keillan laid a surprisingly soft and tender hand on his cheek, and gave him one brief caress with her thumb. I miss her so very much.

Kyen coughed and grumbled as he woke, and Keillan’s hand fell from Rein’s face slowly. Her eyes lingered on him before coming to rest on Arthain where he lay on the cot.

A soft rap at the door brought them all awake quickly. Kyen growled angrily, and the muscles in his back flexed even through the heavy sleeved cloak.

Raidlin pulled himself into the room quieter than a mouse. Most of them have gone, but two have taken rooms here for the night. There was nothing I could do. Rien and Arthain exhaled. But there is good news. Another one of you has trickled in. He says there may be more coming.

Who is it, Raidlin? Arthain asked forcefully, and a bit too loudly.

Telius, by the looks of him. But...he looks different. Must have been bad… Raidlin got a far away look in his old eyes. Must have been very bad indeed, he whispered to himself.

The old innkeeper snapped out of his pensiveness quickly, coming back to the point. I will send him up as soon as it is safe. Might not be for a while.

Thank you, Master Raidlin. Kyen’s voice rumbled. The innkeeper swept out of the room like a wraith and the air in the room lightened dramatically. Another one made it. Telius.

The man was only a year or so older than Rien, and for that, Rien had always felt a pang of jealousy over the way the others treated Telius. He was a man of average height and slight build. He looked frailer than the rest of them even. He was blonde, though it was dirty most of the time, making his hair look darker. He had faded blue eyes, a striking color in a world a drab browns and grays. Kyen sat back and the soft light inside the hood winked out.

They could do nothing but wait now. Arthain paced around the room having stepped out of his well-worn boots. Through his drooping eyes, Rien could see the weariness pouring off of him, but Arthain would wait, awake until Telius was safely with them all. Rien thought back to the days when Kyen and Arthain would wait together. It had not been for several years. Now, Kyen got rest when and where he could.

The night dragged and Rien rested and kicked himself awake regularly. His eyes blurred with exhaustion when he glanced at Arthain leaning a hand against the wall. His head drooped onto his chest. Rien swung his weary head over to Kyen’s whose yellow eyes were boring straight into him. In the limited light, Rien could barely make out some of the lines of his father’s face. A face he had never seen, except in the gloomy light of his eyes beneath the cowl.

Keillan slept, her mouth held only slightly open, a gentle breathing filling the room with its soft cadence. Rien looked back at his father and the lights had gone out. Rien drifted at the edges of sleep for a time that seemed never ending, his body crying for him to rest.

Eventually, he pushed himself up, his muscles burning in protest. He shuffled over to Arthain whose head snapped up in an effort to look awake. Is that cut bothering you much? Rien asked.

No more than any of the others, Arthain said clapping his other arm across Rien’s shoulders, letting his hand hang off. How are you doing? You look no worse for wear, at least, no worse than the rest of us.

I got singed up a bit, couple of scrapes and bruises. Nothing too severe. We made it out before the rest of the Taken got there. Hovan and Jheran were caught in the center. We...

I know, Arthain said, looking back out the window.

Keillan thinks there’s a pattern. That the Taken are finding us easier than before, faster. They’re able to bring so many more Taken.

She is right. They are finding us easier than before. Arthain said, removing his arm from Rien’s shoulders to tap his bottom lip. We can’t gather like that. I don’t care what Galland says. They may be watching. We could bring them down on others. We must be very careful.

Rien nodded once, looking out the window in the hope that he could see Telius. I hope Jheran or Morgan make it back.

Me too. I hope they all made it. Arthain’s face told Rien he didn’t believe it. We’re lucky to have as many now as we do. Arthain let out a sigh and shook his head. His eyes stayed closed for a very long time. The commotion downstairs continued unabated for a long period of time, and it was not until the last moment that Rien heard footsteps on the stairs. The footfalls were heavy and there were clearly three sets of feet. The last few steps before the door, they could hear the boots scraping. Arthain, fully alert, nodded once to Kyen who returned it.

The door swung open to admit Dilan and old Raidlin carrying a severely wounded Telius through the doorway. It was now or he stayed in the stables. Raidlin said apologetically. Dilan, get back to the Common, make sure those tankards are full.

Dilan departed immediately, forgetting to close the door behind him. I love that blasted boy, but he hasn’t enough sense. Raidlin said, shaking his nearly bald head. Raidlin helped Rien carry Telius to the cot.

Good to see you, Telius, Rien said, as he threw his friend’s arm over his shoulders.

Now is not a time for levity, Rien. Telius said in his characteristically stern voice.

It took Rien a moment to realize what he was talking about. The generally poor condition of them all must have lessened the blow. Telius had a blood-soaked bandage, clearly the sleeve of his shirt wrapped around his head covering his right eye. The hand he was occasionally using to keep the bandage in place was missing the tip of his index finger, which looked burned and had bled down his arm. The ring finger was entirely missing, only a cauterized bloody stump remained.

Telius’ leg was not working either, causing him to limp along, leaning heavily on Rien and Raidlin as they deposited him on the cot. The man collapsed onto the cot roughly, groaning in pain. Keillan and Arthain swept in around the man, tending to him as best they could and making requests to Raidlin who firmly refused the copper coins Arthain tried to slip into the old man’s coat.

Raidlin departed quickly, as Keillan, Rien and Arthain huddled over Telius, taking stock of the man’s wounds and trying their best to tend to them.

Soon Telius fell asleep, unable to keep himself awake any longer. Rien turned around, looking for Kyen who lounged on the floor on the opposite side of the room. With his father’s yellow eyes glowing within the hood, Rien could tell he was awake, watching them all in silence.

Rien approached his father and sat beside him. Others had to have made it. Rien said reassuringly. Kyen merely harrumphed. What are we going to do now, father? Rien asked. Surely they will be looking for us in Maethion. Kyen’s head fell forward, resting his cowled chin on his chest.

Perhaps you are right. Every move we take now has risks. For now, we must tend to Telius as best we can, and hope others have survived and think to find us here.

Rien grimaced and looked at Telius, his body bloodied and ruined. Arthain sat beside Telius while Keillan kept her eyes out the window, looking for threats or for a sign of their friends.

The inn below began relinquishing patrons to their rooms or to their homes, and an eerie quiet fell over the place. This was when they had to be truly careful. Kyen’s condition was not conducive to stealth, and the creaking boards over Raidlin’s rooms could echo in the quiet inn. Raidlin and Dilan’s feet shuffled about the place with hurried steps.

When can we expect to be able to move? Rien asked Arthain. His father’s eyes were still locked onto them both.

Arthain looked past him and saw the man lying on the cot. A couple of days, assuming we are not discovered. Arthain said resignation tinging his voice. Or until word comes from one of the others. Arthain clapped Rien on the shoulder gently. His face was still dirty around the edges, despite the rinsing he had done from the now filthy wash basins. A ring of dirt and grime looked like a noose around his throat, the hair at his brow matted with blood and mud. For now, get some rest, whatever you can. The days ahead will be no easier.

They never are, Rien said.

The darkness outside became suffocating, the only illumination coming from the oil lamps and windows along the sparse dirt and cobblestone street. Two taps from beneath them were followed by the bars of light being snuffed out below them. Raidlin retired for the night.

Rien settled against the wall, sliding to a sitting position, feeling the sore muscles in his arms and back stretch in a mix of relief and pain. Rien felt his eyelids droop and fall, sleep slamming into him with almost painful force.

It felt as though he had not been asleep but for a moment, when a strange sound brought him awake. The others were all asleep, save Arthain who leaned against the wall, his head resting on his forearm. He looked like he was asleep standing up, as he rocked slightly.

To his right, Kyen’s head snapped up. His eyes glowing a fierce yellow. Ricar and Garrett. Was all Kyen said before groaning and pushing himself to his feet. He looked like a man with twice as many years in the way he moved. Not the middle-aged man he truly was.

Arthain was alert in a flash and peered out the window. He was joined by Keillan who looked slowly and carefully so as not to attract attention on the window. I don’t see them Kyen. Arthain whispered. The inn below was quiet, only the sounds of the cold wind slapping the building made any sound at all. Telius remained asleep, his bleeding staunched for now, and his wounds tended to by their makeshift bandages.

They are here, Arthain. We will just have to wait. The fools reached out to me!

And if they are like Telius? They may die without attention. Rien asked.

We must put our faith in Raidlin and Dilan for now. With luck we can speak with Baoren. Kyen’s mention of the large man who was their only other friend in Destun made Rien smirk. Baoren was a great man, large in both stature and personality, his son, Gairen was the closest thing Rien had to a real friend. They saw each other as often as Rien and the others made their way to Destun, which was every few months. Gairen had proven to be a good man, and as sincerely loyal as any friend could be. More so than Rien had any right to expect. Rien looked back and forth between Arthain and Kyen.

Baoren, his wife Caelia, and Gairen were not like the rest of them. They were not hunted for their use of magic. They were simple folk; Townsfolk. They tried to stay out of sight from those who ran Destun. No one sought that kind of attention.

Rien leaned his head back, hopeful that he’d be able to see his friend. The rest of them waited. If that big bastard has that burned smile on his face…I swear. Arthain whispered to Rien with a wink. Arthain was referring to the ever-present smile that played across Baoren’s face. It was an object of playful ridicule between the two men.

Kyen’s eyes closed as he stood near the door. Was he reaching out with his mind to Ricar and Garrett? A skill none of the others had. A curse none of them ever wanted. And now, a very dangerous skill.

Kyen cocked his head and listened. He raised his hand for the others to be silent. The sound of soft footfalls and a board creaking announced the presence of someone. As they had done all night, and with the presence of the enemy in the inn, they prepared for a fight, and hoped it was Ricar and Garrett.

A merry little ditty was tapped on the door and Arthain sighed exasperatedly. Keillan yanked the door open and in spilled Garrett and Ricar.

Ricar looked just as he had the last time Rien had seen him. There seemed to be no sign of a battle touching the man. He wasn’t bleeding anywhere, his clothes weren’t as covered in dirt and mud as the rest of them. He smiled broadly taking them all in. Well! Funny meeting you here! Ricar said. Keillan rolled her eyes, but hugged the man quickly, anyway. What is a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this? All these filthy men around?

Shut it, Ricar. I’ve had enough of you for a while. Garrett barked in a quiet voice. Garrett’s raspy voice was a perfect complement to their environment. He had had his throat damaged in a fight years ago. Though Rien had not been there for that.

Is that any way to talk to a friend who hauled you away from the steps of death? Ricar said, clicking his tongue a little too loudly for Rien’s taste. He was done, Rien. Four of them closed in on him. If I hadn’t been looking for Morgan and saw what was happening… Ricar left the rest unsaid.

And I’ve thanked you. Every time you’ve asked, haven’t I? Garrett said, sitting on the floor and leaning against the cot on which Telius rested. There isn’t enough room in here for all of us, Kyen.

We know, Kyen’s deep voice rumbled in his attempt at a soft voice. Are either of you hurt? Garrett pointed at a singed area of his coat around the ribs, and he had several scrapes on his hands, and the sleeves of his coat were torn, but generally they both seemed fine.

"Lightning nearly got me. If they had been able to use a Lightwave instead, Ricar wouldn’t have needed to save me." Garrett said, darkly.

We’re certainly better than Telius. What happened? Ricar asked, concern creasing his brow as he looked down at the sleeping man.

Same as happened to all of us. Keillan whispered exaggeratedly, hoping to get Ricar to speak more quietly. He plainly ignored her attempt. The two of you came out the best it looks like, happy to see that at least.

Ricar leaned a