Prologue~
King Taranis plunged his sword into the Wicked’s stomach, releasing as much magic as he could through his blade. The Wicked writhed in pain, his screams ignored by the rest of his battalion who were fighting King Taranis’s men.
“Where is Vasilis,” Taranis asked, fiercely shoving a stray Wicked against a wall of rock. The Wicked grimaced and spit in the King’s face. With one large, clenched fist, bedecked with Noradian’s finest gems, Taranis pounded the Wicked’s face until it turned red with its blood.
“Vasilis,” the Wicked snapped. “Vasilis…he is in there.”
“Thank you,” Taranis said, wiping the spit from his face. He then nonchalantly thrust his sword into the Wicked’s gut, pulling it out again and proceeded to where the Wicked had pointed to.
The Wicked had indicated his ghastly finger to a tent in the back of the battlefield. There were figures of two men inside in an obvious struggle. Taranis quickened his already swift running.
“Vasilis,” Taranis roared, wielding his bloodstained sword. “Vasilis this must end.” Taranis watched as the outline of two Adilyte’s heads were smashed together by an outlined tall, burly man. The outline of the tall man began sharpening his sword.
Taranis glided his sword down the side of the tent to reveal the Wicked, standing in triumph over Taranis’s dead soldiers.
“Taranis,” Vasilis said this in a lethargic way, making the name almost one syllable.
Taranis stood fast, his sword ready. He was not going to let this man murder anymore innocent Noradians. As king, it had been his duty to repel those acts. But he had failed. And now as he looked into Vasilis’s blood-shot eyes, Taranis made his silent oath to avenge the lives he had not been able to save.
Leaping forward, their swords clashed. In an on fitting rage, Taranis brought down his sword, cutting into Vasilis’s shoulder. Without much avail, Vasilis took his own weapon and missed Taranis’s head by an inch as Taranis ducked low and swept Vasilis from his feet.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Vasilis growled, leaping back up.
The two men looked like they were dancing as they circled one another, tempting each other to make his move. Vasilis moved first. Gliding forward, he cut the tops of Taranis’s thighs. Grimacing in pain, Taranis’s hands began to glow. He faced to the palm at Vasilis and shot a streak of magic at his chest.
Vasilis flew backwards into a tree with enough force to shake the hefty branches up top. With great agility, Taranis flung his sword at Vasilis’s head, nearly missing as it embedded itself in a nearby tree. With his magic, Taranis made his sword ricochet back to him.
Vasilis glowered at Taranis, his eyes turning a deep, but bright red. Using his own spells, Vasilis located Taranis’s sword as it flew back toward him, and made it shatter into splinters of diamond.
Taranis’s heart fell as he saw his favorite sword burst into dust. Blind with revenge, Taranis used all his strength to cast the most deadly magic he knew at Vasilis.
Vasilis fell to the ground, thrashing in extreme pain. Taranis watched his foe jerk wildly as the magic spell tightened its grip around his heart, shrinking it until it was nonexistent.
“Taranis,” Vasilis breathed, his eyes wide in naked fear. “Taranis you can’t leave me here, not like this.”
“Vasilis you deserve to die like the rest of your Wicked, you are a demon. You should be honored to be killed by a king.”
Taranis watched as Vasilis’s blood began to drain from his face. He had mad positive the man would die a slow death.
“My King,” Vasilis said, he smiled a malicious smile. “I have killed you too.”
Taranis suddenly felt the slight pain in his chest. He then looked down at the sword, his own sword, protruding from his heart.
“How could this have happened,” Taranis snarled. “Why?”
“Because the Wicked always win,” Vasilis said, his dying words.
Taranis lay there, watching the battle carry one like nothing had happened. Then he saw his Adilyte, Exavion, run by. Exavion had stopped to look at Taranis, looking into his eyes. Taranis gave him a small nod to carry on the battle.
But Exavion did not. The King had died, and now Noradia was in trouble.
~
The funeral procession for King Taranis D’el Kyndreck, lord of Nytscape and ruler of Noradia began at high noon. Adilytes, soldiers of Nytscape, marched in a long formation, carrying their beloved king in his closed casket which was made from the finest wood of a fireick tree, glowing like an ember as the sun shinned its light. A sash spun with silk the color cerulean lay vertically down the coffin. A golden hawk holding a sword in one talon and the Book of Amity in the other was embroidered in the middle.
Queen Eponelle led the long procession with a young man, her trusted Adilyte, Mortimar K’el Warrick. The Adilyte, like every other, was adorned, head to toe with swords, daggers, and rifles most of which lay on the outside of his black leather tunic to discourage any enemies from killing his queen. Behind them the church choir followed, singing the Hymn of thy Fallen. On either side of the procession, it seemed that all of Noradia had gathered in the capitol, seeing if it was true that their much loved king had been killed.
The Adilyte, always without emotion on their faces, were showing the slightest sign of loss as they carried on to Gawain’s Cemetery of the Lords. Among the four Adilyte that carried the coffin was a young man, King Taranis’s son, Prince Damon. An Adilyte himself, he showed only a hardened form of grief. His mother however had steaks of tears down her face.
The prince, trying hard to look ahead, couldn’t block the effect of the Noradian’s stares. Damon was sure that the Noradian’s were scared, frightened that now they had no king, not knowing what should happen to the land. There was no denying the weak state of Queen Eponelle and Damon knew she wouldn’t be fit to rule. Damon, however, did not want the throne. He had begged his mother, in time that she should remarry, or find another heir. But she was bent on Damon becoming king.
As the procession led into the cemetery, the Adilyte took their place around the entire perimeter which stretched over one-hundred acres. The High Priest stood by the open grave, next to the King’s elegant tombstone made of black marble. The symbol of the hawk holding the sword was sculpted on top of the tall tombstone.
Queen Eponelle and Mortimar stood in wait as the four Adilyte brought in the casket, lowering it carefully into the grave. The queen nodded to Mortimar to proceed as the four stepped away.
“Kiyet,” Mortimar barked.
The entire perimeter of Adilyte dropped to one knee in flawless unison so the people of Noradia could watch their king’s ceremony. The High Priest took a step towards the grave and began.
“We come here today, gathered in the Cemetery of the Lords, to burry our beloved King Taranis D’el Kyndreck, lord of Nytscape and ruler of Noradia. To honor him, O Lords, you who are the Fathers of honor and the Lords of all wellbeing; look with compassion, we pray, upon all gathered here now, that our minds and hearts shall be at your command. Grant that this service of honor, which we now hold in your name, may bring to all a sense of divine nearness and great trust in you. And may the peace of you Lords, even the peace that passes all understanding, abide with us and rest upon all these dear ones. We pray through the Lords of Water, Sky, Land, and Fire. Aquwei.”
Damon watched as the High Priest beckoned him and his regiment to open to casket. Not knowing if he could control himself if he saw his father’s lifeless body, Damon waited a moment, preparing himself for the inevitable. With a small flick of his index finger, the casket’s lid creaked open and hovered upward. His hand glowed to luminescent white as his magic surged and the cover floated closer to him.
Wincing at the weight of the wood as it got higher in the air, Damon called for his regiment.
“Kiyet,” He hissed.
The three other Adilyte fell forward and lifted the lid with their magic as well and rested it safely onto the ground beside the grave. The High Priest continued.
“Adilyte, Mortimar K’el Warrick, will now speak,” the High Priest said, gesturing for Mortimar to begin.
Mortimar was a tall, sturdy man. His face, elfish and attentive, made most swoon at his presence. From under a thickness of black hair, gleaming hazel eyes watched the crowd until silence was breached.
“King Taranis was an honorable man, built like a hawk with undying attention to his people, vision for a brighter future for the kingdom, unrelenting power, an unseen energy, leadership, and intensity on the battlefield. Killed by Wicked hands, King Taranis will be avenged, and we shall repay those bastards with no mercy. May the Lords guide Taranis.”
There was a loud applause from the Noradian audience. Mortimar bowed and stepped back for the Queen Eponelle. Slowly, she walked over to the grave. King Taranis was a tall man. His eyes closed from eternal sleep would have been a bright gray. His brown hair fell around his chiseled face, framing his wrinkled eyes, extenuating his wise look.
With much control, Queen Eponelle knelt down and retrieved the crown the king held in his cold hands along with his dagger.
“As Queen Eponelle D’el Kyndreck of Noradia I hereby renounce my throne in order to pass it down to my son, Prince Damon D’el Kyndreck of Noradia.”
The crowd became silent, watching in amazement as the young man stepped forward to claim his throne.
“Mother,” Damon said. “I will not take it, you know as well as I do that I am not ready.”
“Damon,” the queen said meekly. “I will not be living much longer and you know that.”
“I will not agree to this,” Damon snapped.
“I will not argue with you Damon,” the queen looked around at her subjects. Most were looking up at the sky as an Adilyte sky ship made its way through the sea of clouds.
“I love you my son,” Queen Eponelle breathed, unsheathing the dagger from its pouch.
Damon watched in horror as his mother plunged his father’s dagger into her chest. The Noradians let out cries of terror as their queen began to fall. Mortimar, without emotion swooped over to catch his queen.
“Damon will be a great king,” Eponelle rasped. “Take care of my boy Mortimar, and promise you two will get along.”
“I shall,” Mortimar promised. “I will die a thousand deaths before any harm comes to thy king.”
Mortimar and Damon held her as she exhaled her last breathe, dropping the crown into the dirt. The High Priest then walked over, resting a hand on Damon’s shoulder.
“She will be buried with your father,” the High Priest said. “There is room.”
Damon’s head snapped over to look at the priest.
“I will not have my mother buried without a proper funeral like my father,” Damon rose, snatching the crown from the ground.
“We will have a sermon for her as well,” the High Priest said. With much hesitation, he added discretely. “She will not keep.”
Damon’s face became contorted as he began seething with rage. Mortimar set the queen down carefully and stepped behind Damon, grasping both of his arms, constraining them behind his back.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mortimar said coolly. “Killing the High Priest will not do anyone any good.”
The High Priest took a step back in utter fear.
“Let go of me,” Damon growled. “I will not be constrained by you.”
Mortimar tightened his grip on Damon’s arms making the blood rush away.
“I will not,” Mortimar hissed. “You are going to dishonor your family.”
“I am going to dishonor my family? You were the one who just stood there while my mother took that dagger to her heart.”
Mortimar thrust Damon to the ground in anger.
Damon watched as Mortimar’s hands lit up in a dark blue with his incantation. Eponelle lifted from the ground and her noble gown transformed into a long white gown, her wedding gown, the red stain on her chest mended.
“Step up boy,” Mortimar said. “Help me lower your mother.”
Damon took a small step forward, setting down the crown, and raised his hands which lit up white, helping Mortimar lower his mother so she rested peacefully next to the king. The High Priest looked over at the crown Damon had set on the ground and walked over to retrieve it. Once Damon and Mortimar had finished putting the casket’s lid on top and the gravedigger had buried the coffin, the High Priest cleared his throat to get all’s attention.
“I, High Priest of the Church of Lords, declare Prince Damon our new king,” The High Priest looked over at Damon and nodded him over. With a small shove from his regiment and Mortimar, Damon stumbled slightly over to the High Priest.
The High Priest raised the crown in the air for all of the Noradians to see. When he had all eyes watching, the High Priest placed the crown on top of Damon’s head.
“I give you King Damon D’el Kyndreck of Noradia, Lord of Nytscape son of Lord of Dark, Taranis D’el Kyndreck and Lady of Dark, Eponelle. Ladies and gentlemen… The Night King!”
The Noradians were silent, unsure of their new king, but what started with one small pair of hands clapping, ended with a thunderous applause. Damon took in the whistling, and the shouting of his name. His Pride grew as he looked at his subjects. He felt liberated as he began walking towards Mortimar. He had suddenly gone from an Adilyte general to King of Noradia. He held power over so many people, and yet he didn’t know what to do.
Mortimar appeared next to him.
“I promised your mother I would look after you,” he said quietly.
“I don’t need a nanny,” Damon scowled.
Mortimar raised a hand and to his bewilderment, Damon raised his own, only Damon’s was glowing with magic.
“My King,” Mortimar breathed. “You surely wouldn’t want to have another funeral.”
Both young men stared at each other with hatred.
“I set to the Wicked camps at dusk,” Damon yelled suddenly, not breaking his gaze with Mortimar. “Kiyet, let us leave.”
The Adilyte began to proceed out of the Cemetery of the Lords, following their new King.
Mortimar glided up to Damon and began walking next to him.
“King,” he said softly. “I don’t think setting off into the war will help you any. If you die, you have no children to take your place.”
“Who said I would die,” Damon said, sneering.
Mortimar drew in a frustrated breath.
“Damon,” he said softly. His tone was forward and tense. “You are not thinking right now. I say we see the Keeper. He will know your next move for Noradia.”
Damon looked over at Mortimar. “I suppose you’re right.”
~
The Keeper entered the vast entrance of the Grand Hall. A man by the name Mortimar was leading him to the new king, King Damon. The Keeper was a tiny old man with skin the color of toasted almonds and wrinkles deep like caverns. His hair was white and was sticking up every which way. But he was wise and very much respected throughout Noradia.
“This way,” Mortimar said, guiding the Keeper into what appeared to be a dead end.
“Oyei velari tutari letyr,” The stone wall suddenly began retreating, dividing to each side of the black marbled pillar. It revealed a long, dark tunnel which led to a dim light at the end. “Kiyet.”
Abruptly, the tunnel lit up with a warm, but bright light.
“Come,” Mortimar said, walking into the tunnel, the Keeper following. As the Keeper stepped over an invisible thread of magic, the stone began to reform its wall.
Damon sat behind a large desk piled high with books. He was in the secret study only he and his father had known about, but in the latest days of being king, he had found he could trust Mortimar. There was a loud series of knocks and Damon stood.
“Kiyet.”
The door opened to reveal Mortimar with the Keeper behind him.
“I bring the Keeper,” Mortimar said, stepping into the room. The Keeper followed until he was offered a chair which he took graciously, bowing to both his superiors.
“I understand you are the new king,” the Keeper said once everyone was settled.
Damon realized the Keeper was blind as his milky blue eyes darted aimlessly.
“Yes,” Damon said. “Keeper I was hoping you could aid us in finding a way to help the kingdom-”
“In which way?” the Keeper barked. “You must speak clearly- my old ears have trouble finding words sometimes.”
“I want the Wicked gone,” Damon said. “I need to protect my people from them, but they are getting nearer to the kingdom…they already have a territory set in the Forest of Sloan.”
“I see,” The Keeper said. “Then you must go to Rune.”
“As in the Village of Rune,” Damon asked.
“Yes,” the Keeper said. He then let out a long series of coughing attacks before Mortimar used his magic to calm the man’s throat.
“Would you like something to drink,” Damon asked.
The Keeper shook his head.
“There is a young woman, her ancestors have passed it down to her and she has hidden it, you must find it so you may use it…it is the only way to save the Noradians.”
Damon looked over at Mortimar. Despite his emotionless face, Damon could sense the worriment in Mortimar as well in himself.
“What is this woman’s name,” Damon asked.
“Claramae Lockert,” the Keeper said, closing his eyes.
Lifting his hand up in front of him, the Keeper began his skrying into the future. The Keeper suddenly jolted from his trance and began trembling.
“You must leave now,” the Keeper said his voice hoarse. “She is leaving…for the city of Arlynn. She is being chased by something…or someone rather.”
Damon stood from his seat.
“Keeper,” he said. “How will this object help us destroy the Wicked?”
“It is part of the Lord of Light-”
“I will not bond with our enemies,” Damon snapped. “The Light King will never get credit for anything. He will never be forgiven for killing my brother.”
“Keeper,” Mortimar said slowly. “What is a follower of the Light King doing here, Craccia is so far from Noradia?”
“She does not know,” the Keeper said softly. “But surely that isn’t a problem if you want to save your kingdom.”
Damon lowered his head, clenching his fists, his knuckles turning white.
“You must learn to control your temper young king,” the Keeper said warningly. “Or your kingdom will fall to the Wicked.”
“Then how do I find this object,” Damon said through bared teeth.
“You will know,”
“Do you even know what it looks like,” Damon said, trying to void his anger. But the man’s dilly-dally tactics was beginning to take a toll.
“No one knows what it looks like, but you will know,” the Keeper said. “If not, then may the Lords strike me with their forces.”
Mortimar rose to his feet.
“Damon, let’s go,” he said. “It will take a good two days. From what the Keeper has told us, we’d be lucky if the woman isn’t dead.”
Damon nodded in agreement.
“Kiyet, we leave now.”
)