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DarkCloud
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of Lists
Jul 2000
time: 05:27
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Prologue
The lights exploded around him. He ran.
Shouts drifted down the corridor. He looked back once, then raced onward, heading toward the shimmering portal.
The portal’s blue light rays swirled and spun, casting dark shadows on the wall behind.
He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, then threw himself into the portal. His pursuers screamed, shaking their fists. A magical bolt slammed into the wall beside the swirling rays. The man was gone.
“Your incompetence has allowed Abbadon to escape.” The old man’s eyes lowered, their icy white orbs boring into the shameful countenance of the young man seated before him.
“I am sorry Ettnar.” The young man’s face contorted in agony, his beautiful features creased in pain.
“But, does it matter?” A brown-haired woman suggested, waving a hand idly as she flitted over, standing behind the berated. “He will not remember who he is... remember our ancient willing? And even if he- fate forbid- discovers his heritage, then how can he escape from our limiting spell? He will not travel far. His magic is not great enough to overpower the limiting spell.”
“Myrandda.” Ettnar sighed, bringing a hand to wipe his sweating forehead. “We cannot take that risk.”
“But he might not remember.”
“But if he does, and we fail to act, then the consequences will be catastrophic. We must act.”
“But we don’t even know where he has gone.”
“We will find him.”
“We can just look into the World Crystal. We don’t have to go after him. We can watch and wait until he does something dangerous.”
“Then will be too late.” The old man brought his hands together in front of his chest. Rising from his chair, he bowed his head in reflection.
“Our magic will hold him.” Myrandda insisted.
“Abbadon’s mere presence threatens the Lands.” Ettnar growled.
The chastised young man winced and bowed his head.
Ettnar continued. “Magic will return.”
Myrandda bit her lower lip. “That is true.” She nodded.
“Something must be done. Abbadon must be returned.” Ettnar declared, raising his white head. Eyes riveted on the frescoed ceiling, he spoke. “We must send someone. He must be returned.”
“But the forgetfulness spell will effect any whom we send.” Myrandda blinked.
“I knew that was a brash decision on our part.” Ettnar continued studying the frescoes. “Do you remember back to the last days, before we left the lands?”
“Of course.” Myrandda moved toward Ettnar in question, cocking her head to the side as she awaited his response.
Ettnar stood still, staring at a central fresco.
“Do you remember...” His eyes drifted to the image of smoky black figure, his hands aflame, a sword held aloft in one, a severed head grasped tight in another. “Do you remember the monsters?”
Myrandda hesitated. “-Of course.”
“Do you remember that they grew less powerful after we... and magic left the lands.”
“Of course.” Myrandda nodded, not knowing where this reflection was heading.
“Do you know that they are growing strong again?”
“All-Father?” Myrandda addressed Ettnar by his honorific title.
The young man’s head shot up, his face contorted in fear.
“Yes Thorin.” Ettnar lowered his head, staring into the young man’s eyes. “Your neglect of duty has led to this- I have looked in the World Crystal. I know what I have seen. The age of magic has returned.”
“Not the monsters!” Myrandda shook her head incredulously. She brushed back a brown strand that had accidentally fallen over her face. “I had thought that they would die off without Abbadon! They shouldn’t have been able to survive without their Dark God.”
“The Earth survived without the Light one... Magic survived without the Dark one. The two forces are still in opposition. Although the Earth has gradually become more barren and although magic can no longer exert its maximum destructive capabilities, both forces still exist.”
Myrandda was silent for a moment. Her lips parted. “True.”
Thorin wailed in loss.
“The monsters are moving.” Ettnar’s voice was dry. “They exist and they are growing stronger. Abbadon is practicing magic. They do not know that he exists yet, but they soon will. Less than a thousand heartbeats after his descent to the Lands, the monsters began to gain more power. They began to evolve into deadlier creatures, deadlier beasts..” Ettnar winced. “And they will soon strike at our humans, at our Tar, at our creatures: creatures of the Land.”
“They cannot have grown so powerful as to be able to do that!” Myrandda protested, clenching her fists.
“They already have. The humans in the Septuagent have already felt their rage. Those in the north, too, begin to feel tremors. The monsters are restless.” Ettnar frowned. “But thankfully, they are still, as a whole, weak now- leaderless. But their combined might is much more than that of our creations. And when Abbadon discovers his true destiny- he will lead them in destruction. Abbadon must be returned to us- his mere presence is awakening dread forces. With or without him as leader, the monsters will wash over the lands, deterred by nothing. He is magic’s champion. It’s source. His mere presence gives it power, gives it strength. The Earth has no such champion as of yet. Without a champion, it cannot defend itself.” Ettnar shook his head. “Our creatures, less attuned to magic than Abbadon’s cruel creations, will suffer greatly in the coming years. They need a champion. Someone must return to the lands and give them strength. Or else they will be blighted and destroyed.”
Thorin moaned.
Ettnar’s eyes focused on him. “Yes Thorin. Absorb yourself in self-pity. This is what you have unleashed.”
Myrandda’s face discolored as though she were sick. “But... wouldn’t sending another to the Land merely increase the magic- augmenting the monsters’ power.”
“That is true.” Ettnar nodded. “But once Abbadon discovers his true power- He will seek the monsters out- he will organize them, he will rule over them. He will call to them. And they will follow. And as he exerts more and more willings, strengthening magic through his exertions, they will grow stronger, their power becoming near-limitless. None will stand against them. Our creations will have no defense against their predations. They will need a savior if they are to live.” Ettnar lowered his head from the ceiling and stared dismally at the marble ground.
“After the Humans and the Tar are extinct, the monsters will live off their own hate, blighting the land. All that we created will be destroyed. All that we nurtured will decay. Everything will become chaotic magic. There will be no order to it, just sheer magical power... Everything will be as it was before we brought order to the lands. There will be no society. There will be no civilization. The monsters will not grow in knowledge or kindness or guile or cunning. They will never sicken, die or grow old. The land will die. It will become unchanging, ungrowing. Abbadon does not understand that this is contravene to our existence. He does not realize that the land needs more than magic to survive! Without the life of living people, without the living earth, without the people replenishing its soil, tilling it, moving it, and dying in it, the earth will decay.
“But Abbadon will not care. His monsters do not require food. His monsters do not die of natural causes. They merely live off each others magic- killing, dissipating and reforming. Abbadon will delight in the land’s death, its reduction to a hollow husk.
“He does not realize that without living things to feed his monsters, that they will have naught to replenish their magics. One day they will have no life to drain. They can only live so long off their own magics. When that day comes, the killed will fail to reform. And their race will die off and become as it was before we existed. It will seep back into the magic, the primeval beginning of everything.
“With no monsters, no humans, no Tar, we will have nothing to do, nothing to watch, nothing to observe. We will die of boredom. We will become insignificant. We cannot create any more. That power is gone from our beings. We have exhausted our resources. All we can do is observe. And yet, thanks to Abbadon’s actions, even that will be taken from us. After the living earth perishes, we will die.”
“Who will we send?” Myrandda raised her eyes to Ettnar’s horribly contorted face, her voice parched.
“Albion must confront his twin.” The old man stated.
“I will get the others.” Myrandda rose, hand shakily supporting her on the wooden table. “I will tell them of your plans.”
Ettnar’s eyes drifted up again to the fresco, his thoughts haunted.
Chapter I
The Beginning
“Sand. Sand, Sand?
“Grass? Trees? People?
“Who am I? Where am I? What am I? Why am I?”
Passersby hefting large pots and barrels over their shoulders hurried past. As they passed, they shot despising glances towards the strange man lying under the thin long brown leaves of the great Ophrek tree. Who was this man sitting by himself, not moving, not producing, not accomplishing anything. Was he a foreigner? Only thieves or foreigners, like those Indosan scum had any time for idleness. How could anyone even think to rest on this, Market Day, the day for trade and business, universally accepted across the warring principalities of Salis as a day to celebrate work and industry; never resting, never stopping.
The strange man shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the scraping sounds of shuffling feet and the noisy clanking horse-drawn carts, trying to orient himself among the bustle. There was much movement. He was the only person stagnant. His took a deep breath and snapped his eyes open, watching the moving masses.
Dark-complexioned men carrying tall wooden staves passed by silently, headed to market. Lighter skinned men wearing red glared at the dark-complexioned ones, some making obscene gestures at the dark ones. Stern-faced red haired women and dark-complexioned women with raven-black hair glared at each other across an invisible line running down the middle of the dirt paved street, the invisible line running but a few feet to the north of the tall Ophrek tree.
The disoriented man’s hand reached up, feeling the edges of the Ophrek tree, taking in its rough curves and black thorns. The man thought. ‘So this is an- Ophrek tree.’ He recollected, nodding. ‘But I am in…’ He strained his brain, trying to remember where he was. ‘I… know where I am. At least I think I do… But. I don’t know why I would, or why I should?’ He whimpered weakly. ‘I am… in… Salis… I think. But just what is Salis- and why do I remember it?’ He drummed his fingers along the Ophrek tree’s rough bark for a moment, then rose, grabbing onto the tree’s thorns, pulling himself from the ground. ‘I know more than I should- but not enough!’ The man bit his lip lightly and gazed again at his surroundings, surveying the crowd, looking for answers. He shook his head in wonder, still collecting his thoughts.
The man pushed off the tree and plunged into the crowd. The people shied away from him, drawing their red tunics closer to their bodies. Some snuck secret glances at him, eyes ominously peering over their tightly drawn clothes. The man began to notice the stares. He turned his head, but the people, noticing his movement, had already disappeared into their vestments. He quickened his pace. On his left, he passed several shops, selling everything from wooden staves to apricots to blue mithril flowers. Hesitating at a flower stand, he took in the fair aroma of the sweet desert flower.
The merchant, a burly middle aged fellow, crossed his arms threateningly.
The man opened his mouth to speak. The merchant held up a hand, then made a cutting gesture. The man gulped and backed away, his back jolting into the side of a passing woman. She wavered, teetering and losing her grip on a painted water jug that she had held between her callused hands. Falling back, her hands slipped from the jug’s side, and the clay went tumbling down to the ground. Striking a sand-covered cobblestone, the jug shattered, its pieces flying everywhich way.
The man felt something liquid flowing on his right cheek, he brought and hand up to the wound, feeling the pierced hole. Taking his hand away, he looked at it. In the middle of his pointer finger he stared dismally at a small pool of blood. With his other hand, he brushed back his short-cut hair.
The woman looked down at her shattered jug and shrieked in loss, hands clasping against her face in dismay. Turning her head slowly around the square, she sniffled, a tear rolling down the side of her red-freckled face.
The man blinked once and stared at her open-mouthed. Mouth agape, he bent down before her, not knowing what to say. The woman looked at him, eyes filled with tears. She stared. The black-haired man finally spoke. “I’m sorry.” He spread his hands before him, then bent down with his right and lightly grasped a few clay shards. The woman stopped crying. Her breath came ragged. She took a step back. The man opened his mouth again to comfort her, holding up the shards in offering of regret. The woman’s enormous eyes widened to their full extent. She took another step back. She looked him up and down, taking in the breadth of his dress and costume. After a quick intake of breath, she bit down on her lower lip, then turned and ran. The black haired man rose, shards still in his hand. “Please-” he called after her. She did not listen.
The man lowered his head, unfurled his hand and let the shards fall to the sandy ground. Everything around him was silent.
The man looked up, glaring at the stationary passersby, staring into their accusatory eyes. One man folded his arms together in a threatening gesture. Another’s hand went to a swordhilt beneath his black robes.
The dark-haired man extended an arm toward the crowd in a pleading gesture, letting his white robes droop down low. A sword was drawn from beneath black robes. Others followed. The dark-haired man looked to his right. Fewer people stood there. The majority stood to his left. Shivering, his eyes scanned the square for an escape. Still looking for an escape route, he started walking away from the ferocious crowd. A few took stepped toward him, but then halted, angrily eyeing him as he moved to leave. No words were exchanged.
The man quickened his pace, passing merchant stalls, eyes scanning for any exit from the hostile square he found himself in. Finally, he passed a place.
Backtracking a few steps, he turned his head into a darkened gap and looked down it. Yes, this was an entrance to an alley, blocked by a few worm-eaten crates. Perhaps he would be safe down here. At least he would be out of the sight of the fierce crowd.
Squeezing past the boxes, the man entered the alley. A few yards down the dank stone-walled crevasse, he stopped and looked back. No one had followed him. He leaned against a mossy-green building bordering the alley and breathed out hard, sighing with relief.
He leaned there for a few moments, shaking his head, unable to discern what the people’s reactions had meant, and why they had reacted in such a way. He could make no sense of their motives. He did not look overly unlike those people. Many of them had black hair. True, some had theirs dyed a vibrant red, but the majority had black... As for body size, the man had been no taller or shorter than many. He shook his head harder. He could not understand why they would find him so repulsive. Where was he? What sort of land could this be where people such as he found themselves reviled- who was he? What was he?
He pushed himself off the wall, feeling the dampness seep into his skin. Shaking off the wet, he walked slowly down the stone-lined corridor, head slowly moving across the breadth of the crevasse and taking in the sights, getting a better bearing on where he was.
Everywhere within the darkened alley, moldy green moss grew, thriving on the perpetual dampness and darkness. Then the smell hit him. The stink of it all. All throughout the alley lay human waste, likely thrown from the higher windows. The man found it all too much to bear, so he looked up, trying to block the stink from his nasal cavities. Looking up, he squinted, trying to see the sun. Buildings on either side of the narrow alley tiered out, their dank boards blocking a path to the sky. Little light penetrated down to the lowest level of the alley, and as the man looked upwards, he felt sickened. The building’s floorboards were rotten, and on them hung the people’s clothes. Between the stink of the waste and the down-drifting stink of dirtied clothes, the man forced himself to lower his head to retch. After doing so, he felt better.
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04-12-2003 12:37
(hopefully that will be really soon) I hope to send off my novel by Christmas as a long estimate, and in 2 weeks by a short estimate!
You will be the first Knight we build though. But that might be quite a ways away.
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