Читать книгу The Shadow Scrolls: Series Book One, The Vale of Blood - PD Ph.D. Lorenz - Страница 4

Even from the beginning, the blood of mankind has cried out from the ground, but never has it wept louder than one unequaled and compelling day. It was a day like no other, neither before nor since... a day with almost no date; a time outside of time. It was as if the moment itself were held in a sort of suspension, so as, to be near to everyone. It was at that crossroads of time that there lived a certain king… a king who did an unfathomable act; an act that would cast a shadow upon all.

The sun broke through the darkness that crisp winter morn with a piercing intensity, its rays sweeping over the Realms of Irenay like the euphoric feeling of an approaching new season. Irenay, a land whose birthright was peace, (for so it was named), was about to go through another birthing. It was a birth surrounded by struggle and warfare… And it was all bathed in great drops of blood.

The realm’s great white castle, Lock Kalaw, was majestically tucked into a pocket atop the highest peak of the Awlak Mountain Range. Still, it was an elevation that was dwarfed by the enormity and grandeur of the Range of the Unknown, aptly named for no earthly being had ever ascended to its heights. In fact, the lofty peaks no eye had ever even seen, for they pierced the very atmosphere itself and forever lay above the mists and fire of that heavenly shield. The day that we are speaking of also marked the time when the grand waterfalls of Kalaw broke open to create a torrential outpouring in comparison to the relative trickle of their former majesty. Those said waters were the same ones which flowed throughout the foundations of the castle itself, fed from the lofts beyond. It was said that the waters ran to and fro amongst the gardens and courtyards of the lock like nature’s children playing hide and seek amongst the rocks and pillars. However, on that great and terrible day, they surpassed their previous grandeur as the Range of the Unknown poured out even greater drafts from its refreshing springs creating quite a conundrum… For although the waters increased abundantly upon the land, granting greater life lending liquid, the realm itself was rather decreasing into a fall… That is, a descent to the greatest of depths, as we shall presently see.

The atmosphere of the castle seemed to draw and lose its breath all at once as the giant oak and iron doors of the Eastern Gate swung open with no small effort from the immense gatekeepers, for they had swung them open to the dawning of a new day. The entire keep reacted to the breaching of those doors, for the ancient doors of that particular set had never been opened before, reserved for such a day from the building of the foundations of the castle.

Bakers and butlers, saddlers, sewers and smiths… all watched with anticipation, their breath emanating from their mouths like hundreds of small chimneys growing cold. Even the veteran soldiers-at-arms watched with an air of uncertainty. Never before had the king departed from the Eastern Gate; never before had it been breached from without, nor within. It had always been off limits to anyone. A perimeter of forty lengths was cordoned around the entrance on the inside, and that for ages. One could hardly see the doors beyond the years of overgrown grapevines which had completely sheltered and shaded them by their growths; growths which were only allowed to be tended to once a year. They were sacred plants and sacred doors; sacred and locked doors… previously locked doors.

Emerging from the darkness of the Eastern Gate and the alcove of his own decision, the king strode aside his great steed, Diokalees, a war horse so magnificent that the other coursers of the castle fell depressed whenever he departed. He was the stud to all of the others horses of the royal household, horses that were bred and raised to measure up to the standard of him. Every muscle beneath his silvery coat, every twitch of his silky white tail, every majestic turn of his pillar-like head was marked by power and strength. The blackness that arose from his hooves to his lower legs made it seem as though he were riding on the very air. And yet, the humility in his loyalty and obedience to his master shone through with each flawless and seemingly effortless movement. The king need only hint in the direction with a slight twitch of the wrist and it would be accomplished with lightening quick reflexes. However, on that day, even the great steed Diokalees shuffled a hoof as the anticipation of the ride grew more thickly.

The king himself was dressed in his winter white furs that covered his hardened leather and forged gold battle array. Upon his head sat the Crown of the People, a crown with a multiplicity of precious stones inside and out. Inside, the stones were polished smooth like river stones so as to be wearable and fit only for the king himself. Outside, they were cut and angled in precisely a manner so that the colors of the entire spectrum sparkled as the rays of the morning sun flashed from beyond the gently passing clouds. Each step was a measured one… measured not to create a performance of some sort, but rather, it was a measurement from within. And a question lingered within his mind…

“Can I endure?”

The moments hung in the air like the end of a strummed note in the midst of an orchestration. It created a silence save for the morning breeze that slipped through the trees. Servants of all sorts observed from beyond the windows and walls of the keep. So did the soldiers-at-arms who quietly followed the king as did two other servants as they delicately anticipated any kingly command.

Halting Diokalees, the king ran his powerful vein swollen hand down the extent of the war horse as if to measure the length of his capability, for he knew that the ride would test his steed like no other. Upon reaching the golden horn of the saddle he, in one swift movement, swung himself aloft the horse and positioned himself upon its back. He was not a large man so the steed hardly moved beneath his weight. In fact, when the king walked amongst the population of the keep, he hardly stood out save for the fact that he wore the robes of royalty. At times, he would not wear them at all and no one would even notice his passing. His eyes were piercingly sharp and his face chiseled to a perfect balance between sparse and plump. His arms and legs were powerful enough to stand his ground if need be, but that of course, had never happened for most were awestruck by his shear commanding presence once they looked into his eyes. What they saw in his eyes was a quiet and gentle confidence that he wore like an invisible cloak and the sturdiness made one think that he were reading the very thoughts of his audience… perhaps he was. Besides that, his stature was that of many of the others in the castle, but the day that we have been speaking of had born something altogether different in the king.

It was something foreign, and it captivated the whole castle. Some of the onlookers wept, others shook their heads as if realizing for the first time that what had been written down in ancient scrolls had finally materialized. Still others turned away from windows and doors to corral their emotions for they knew that change, permanent and everlasting, had finally come to their world. At long last, the day had arrived and the castle would never be the same. It would be empty as their king departed, and they would have to leave to be scattered about the realm. They themselves would be empty as well… they, like the castle that they loved, would be empty and it would be void.

A long, lone trumpet blast shattered the dark mood and heralded the fact that the time was not a time for mourning, but rather, a time for rejoicing. Though change would be difficult, the ride had been prophesied from ages past and the occupants of the castle were well aware of its purpose though they did not fully know the depth of it. They did know, however, that it would be a turning point upon which not only the Realms of Irenay, but all realms would be hinged. And they knew that the hinge, and the door that was attached to them no matter how rusty and old it would grow, would cast a shadow that future generations would have to pass through and ponder.

Seated atop Diokalees, the king fixed his eyes upon the horizon. He gazed past the peaks and valleys that lay between him and his destiny and calculated the time it would take to get there…

Six days should do it, he thought to himself. I’ll rest as little as possible and stop even less… only for water, but no food. Food would only cloud my thoughts.

Without interrupting his ponderings, and knowing that his faithful servants were by his side, he quietly removed his furs and handed them down to one of them. With outstretched arms, the servant received the robes as a tear escaped his right eye. The king gently rested his hand upon the curvature of his head in a reassuring “goodbye” gesture. Reaching to his head, and with steady hands, he removed the Crown of the People and handed it to the other. To that one, he only smiled, signifying his trust and confidence at its safe keeping.

Immediately following the removal of the royal outer garments, his two armor bearers, who were massive soldiers-at-arms, presented weapons to their king. First to be presented was the long-bow, which was pearl white with ornate victory carvings on its shaft. It was made of Willowfeld, a wood found in only one valley of the realm. (In fact, it was to that valley that the king had set his course to that fateful day.) The wood itself was known for its strength as if petrified and its flexibility as if to be lithe. Its string was silvery, woven from hairs taken from the tail of Diokalees himself. It was strung as tight as muscle sinew. Next to be presented was the sword, double-edged and as sharp as a stinging winter wind. Its hilt was a crimson hue cured from the leather of a fine red heifer of the realm. Finally, the shield was presented, an exquisite formation of light weight green flint-stone called Emralhearth. It was the only tried and true protection that the king would ever carry into any battle. In fact, that same shield had sustained an innumerable number of strikes, but had never cracked, never failed, and showed no wear.

To the armor bearers, the two soldiers that had presented the weapons, the king nodded a nod that only comes from the comradeship of battles fought… A comradeship blended like an elixir and mixed with the inner chemicals of elation and relief, triumph and disappointment. The soldiers knew that they were forbidden to ride with him that day and all they could do was return his nod.

Thus, the ride began with a prompting by the voice of the king coupled with a gentle nudge of his steed as he stowed away his armament.

“It is time my friend. Now we move forward,” commanded the king to his horse.

Diokalees started with a gentle gait that carried them just past the crest of the mount. Below and beyond lay the Realms of Irenay, and to the south of that, thickly wooded forests beyond which lay his destiny. Though servants and attendants looked on, the king never once looked back, not even a glance. The trot quickly turned into a gallop, and the gallop increased with every stride. First one passed, then two, followed by three furloughs. Each distance passed with rapidity until the swiftness of the war-horse and rider matched that of the clouds above them. The race had begun at last, and the horse and rider quickly became as one almost blurred together.

The two swept down from the heights of the castle mount and into the hollow below. The king, realizing for the first time that the day had produced a stunning morn, was heartened with a leap of joy from within. Sucking in the fresh morning air, he filled his lungs with its newness and encouraged Diokalees with a hearty yelp which the steed responded to with a leap.

Following a road beaten down by the hooves of countless warhorses and wagons, they raced through shires, over dales, throughout forests, and across streams. For three days and nights they rode with only the slightest of stops at convenient waters. The small hamlets that they did pass were usually off the beaten path and stood amongst some trees or rivers in the distance. The sounds of pounding hooves were not uncommon, and up and to that point, not a soul had noticed the passing of the pair. However, on the third day, contact was made and it was not by accident.

The rider finally rested his mount near a lake fed by a canyon creek for he himself felt that he could have continued, but then again, he wasn’t the one doing all of the work. Dismounting, he shouldered his bow and sword for so he wore them upon his back, and grabbed the reins. He then haltered the horse to the edge of the lake where the stream fed the waters. Once there, the steed drank in the clear water with ferocity. Before drinking himself, the rider used the cool liquid of the lake to wipe free the sweaty foam that had formed around the edges of the saddle and side straps that led to the stirrups. When the horse had been fully attended to, the king released Diokalees to graze amongst the trees which he was more than happy to do. At long last the soldier-king drank from the creek himself.

By instinct, he refrained from slamming his face into the water though his parched throat begged him to. He rather patiently scooped the liquid with his hand, always keeping a watch on his surroundings. His instinct served him well, for presently there happened along two men which made their way to the edge of the lake from the cover of a bramble of trees on the opposite shore. He could clearly hear their voices as they expressed their frustrations which reverberated off of the clear mirror-like body of water. They were not soldiers that much was clear, for their grumbling spoke of the frustrations of a foiled hunt and how close they had been to catching their nemesis of twenty winters past. From the distance, their clothes spoke of the commonality of their livelihoods. One, the shorter of the two, waddled with a limp…

Hunters, thought the king to his self. By and by, they made their way closer to the king’s camp and didn’t even notice him until, if the king had had ill intent, they were within range of head lopping.

“You’re flustered over the hunt, hey?” stated the king.

“Hey, hoy!” shouted one of the men as he practically jumped out of his skin and into the lake. He was an extremely thin chap whose legs appeared as if they could barely hold up his frame as they poked out from the bottom of his deer hide robe. If it were not for the wideness of his hatchelled feet, he probably would have tipped over in the lightest of breezes, but he had a good and innocent face all the same. The other was stout and spoke with the growl of a bear through a thickened black beard.

“What would be bringing you to our neck of the woods?” asked the stout one.

“I’m on a journey my friend, only passing through,” stated the king with an air of humility. “Would that be fine by you?”

“Depends,” grumbled the bearded fellow.

“Yah’, that d,d,d,depends… It d,d,depends on…, well, it just d,depends…” The thinly man seemed to be at a loss for words, and maybe even a loss for thoughts.

“It depends on your intents and motifs’,” said the stout one with a deepening of his voice as if to thrust his courage ahead of his fear, for each of the men had finally noticed the war horse and the hilted sword and slung bow upon the stern frame of the stranger.

“As I have stated, I’m only passing through your dale.” He could tell that the men did not recognize him and he wasn’t the type to thrust his authority upon anyone. “It is your dale, is it not?” questioned the king.

“It is but one valley in the Realms of Irenay. It is not our valley, nor our lands, but the king’s alone. He has been gracious enough to allow us to fief to upon it,” stated the bearded one.

“Well said, and cleverly crafted. I can see that you are learned,” said the king. “By what names are the two of you called?” he inquired.

The king could see that the thin man wanted to speak for his face twisted and convulsed as he struggled to spit out the words upon his tongue so the bearded one continued as the pause hung on the edge of embarrassment…

“This is Oliver Hunt of the House of Hunt and I am his kin, Salmon… also of the House of Hunt. We come not only from the finest hunters in the realm, but equally, the surest trackers as well.”

“I’ve heard of your house, and I hear that it is a respectable one… What were the frustrations that the two of you discussed?”

This time, the stout man called Salmon grew even more grumbled. “My cousin here foiled the trap that I had set, and it snapped upon my foot. A bit of blood, but I’ll make it,” groaned Salmon.

“D, don‘t… you mean a fountain of blood, cousin?” shrugged Oliver.

“Aye, spilled blood is the test of a man is it not?” asked the king.

At that, he snapped his finger and Diokalees responded with a start. Both Salmon and Oliver backed away when they saw the approaching horse and it separated them from the sight of the soldier-king. By being in the shadow of the immense horse, they didn’t see how effortlessly the rider had saddled his courser and they were startled when he suddenly spoke down to them with a voice of authority they had not previously heard, his hands resting upon the golden horn of the saddle.

“If you are willing,” the king said from his height,” Go back the way that you came and you will see that the bramble thicket beyond has served as a trap for the prey that you seek... God speed you men.” With that, he nudged his faithful steed and together they sped away amidst flying mud that segued to dust.

The men stood in silence, contemplating the company they had just kept. In time, Oliver addressed Salmon. “S,s,s,…s,s…..s,…spill your thoughts, cousin, because I have none.”

“I was thinking that I could not possibly walk back to that thicket upon the foot that you have butchered even if I wanted to,” Salmon stated with an unforgiving gripe.

“Let’s s, see how bad it is now.”

Together, they sat on a nearby boulder to have a look at the wound. To their utter astonishment, they found no laceration, only dried blood beneath one robed leg. Salmon was amazed and tried to brush away the still fresh blood for it had previously been a gaping gash that, until that moment, had been more or less pouring from the wound.

“Water… quick… Get me some water!” shouted Salmon.

“Right,” replied Oliver as he filled a satchel that had been at his side.

“Pour it here,” barked Salmon… “Nothing..., there’s nothing! No wound, no cut, nothing! I don’t understand, am I mind-broken? Did I not receive a gash from your bumbling?” asked Salmon still mocking his cousin. Salmon stood to his feet and walked on his legs to test their strength, nay, even jumped upon them. “Nothing… nothing… is wrong!”

For a moment, the two just excitedly looked at each other and then together, as only the best and closest of friends could do, simultaneously leaped in the direction of the bramble of trees. They then ran toward their goal one passing the other until at last, they reached the tangled wood.

What they discovered there has been written of and studied for generations, and what they did afterwards has been told around a countless number of hearths since. There, amongst the twisted brambles, was caught a buck of magnificent proportions. The points of its horns were six apiece and its shoulders nine hand lengths. Too tired to fight any longer, it lay on its side knowing that it had lived its last moment and that it was time to give in to the sacrifice.

“What has just happened?” stated Salmon with his hand to his head and in a state of awe. “Who was it that spoke to us, cousin?” He nearly found himself at a loss for words as well.

Oliver, always the cousin with the least ability to place his thoughts into speech, created for his first time in his life, a most “cleverly crafted” and clearly articulated answer… “This deer shall feed our village throughout the coming winter, cousin. Once we deliver the goods to the store house, we shall track. Are we not the finest trackers in the realm? Together, we shall track this stranger who can be nothing less than a king. Perhaps even, our king.”

It was an ancient valley carved by the receding of a thousand floods and it lay high atop a vista on the far reaches of the realm like a massive basin perched atop a mantle. In fact, the king’s castle and the ancient valley heights nearly stood as equals, separated by a relatively small measurement. Over time, it had become known as the valley of all valleys, for it was the finest of vales in the Realms of Irenay, naturally manicured as if invisible creatures tended to it like their own private garden. The trees were Willowfeld, of which we have already briefly spoken of, except for the fact that the branches of those particular trees were coveted and used for the fashioning of premium weapons, that is, the most premium of weapons. The Willowfeld were not tall trees as some would assume them to be considering their age, but they were rather short and gangly. From their stems proceeded fragrant blossoms of lightening white pedals which, once they had escaped the confines of their buds, would quietly germinate in the ground only to re-bud once again into fresh pearl-white flowers that made the landscape appear to be snow covered. The rocks of the vale, as one would suppose, were highly uncommon as well. They were called Sturmstone, and were outcroppings of exposed natural marble columns that protruded through the soil at different angles and undulations. With various sizes ranging from the massive to the small, they were solid, immovable, and appeared to be meticulously placed amongst the dell like a great garden of the gods. However, all of those ornaments of the valley, if one could call them ornaments, were merely arrayed as such to serve as the bridal train to the vale’s one true prize, the waterfalls of Paraketh.

Paraketh was known far and wide as the most beautiful and valuable in the entire world. They were the only falls that were not fed from the heights of the Range of the Unknown. Some even called them, “The Bride of the Unknown,” as if the two were entwined, but never touching, separated by a great gulf of peaks and valleys that were blanketed with thick forests. Unlike all other cascades, its waters were milky white with a tinge of gold and were fed from fathomless springs that bubbled from some unknown well beneath the valley floor. Once those waters had made their way to the top of the natural fount, they would gently cascade over the grandest of all of the conglomerations of Sturmstone that sat atop the south side of the valley. All who gazed upon the tumbling stream were immediately captivated by its beauty. However, its value was even greater than the splendor of its appearance.

Known as, “The Healing Streams of Paraketh,” all wounds would be made whole at the mere sprinkle of the milky gold liquid. In times past, animals of all sorts would gather into the valley to bask in its peaceful atmosphere where no predators dared to tread for there was no greater frustration to a carnivore than a prey that could survive every wound, healed by the very mists that were blown about. Some said that even the Guardiers, unseen creatures of the realm, would spend their winters in the place.

Over time, the sons of men began to visit, which subsequently spread the word far and wide. And, as such is the nature of men, wars were fought… fought to the bitter end of all that was good and pleasant in that heavenly valley.

So, it was more of a sardonic sight that presented itself to the king on the morrow that he arrived, though he could remember a time when it was not so, and what did present itself on that fate filled day following his six day ride was not one of magnificence or grandeur, but rather one of desolation. It was a desolation that was caused by the countless number of battles fought on what had become the most perfect of battlefields. Where once stood the magically beautiful Willowfeld trees, there stood twisted and dead wind-swept tree trunks, half pulled up by their roots. Where, at one time, flaming white flowers blanketed the earth like snow drifts, there then lay bone-dry powdery dust out of which protruded cracked and crumbling Sturmstone pillars that had long ago served their purpose. They then were merely broken old soldiers-at-arms that had sustained a countless number of nicks formed by a countless number of arrow piercing and edgy lashes. And, alas, where once poured the life lending liquid of the Falls of Paraketh, dripped molded and rotted maggot covered moss which emanated a stench of death.

As if the decay were not enough to be overwhelming, what lay beyond the moldy veil was a sight much more ominous. What was then revealed was the sight of a deep and dank cave of unknown proportions and unknown horrors, for out of it seeped sulfuric mists of yellow and gray. One would have thought that the falls had merely been overtaken by some deep volcanic eruption if it were not for the far cries of some unknown and tortured creature, or creatures, which occasionally escaped from the black jaws of the grotto.

It was that cavern, that throat of the deep that our rider fixed his gaze upon from across the deathly expanse.

Fear pimpled the fore-arms of the king. Thoughts of turning back echoed through the caverns of his mind. The contemplations of his heart trembled within his chest and its pounding galloped in and out of normal cadence. Only the will of his determination to reach his objective, an objective that the whole population of the realm teetered upon, caused him to lean in the direction of the gaping mouth that lay on the opposite side of the vale. His contemplation was such that he removed himself from the back of Diokalees and crouched down upon the dust of the valley. There he thought only the thoughts that a soldier-king would think, thoughts that arose from the depths of his deep, deep heart. For hours on end, even unto the waning of the day, he never took his eyes off of his goal.

Alas, was it strategies that he contemplated? Was it tactics that flowed in and out of the mind of the king…? Or was it some hidden and mysterious prize that lay far beyond the blackness of the cave? Perhaps, he was just simply waiting for the perfect timing? Whatever be the reason, it was just long enough for two stragglers to appear high upon a crest of one the walls that helped to create the bowl for the valley to be housed within.

Oliver and Salmon had been tracking the king for three days. They barely had time to drop the deer that the king had mysteriously provided to them at the manor hut in their hamlet before they saddled the only two horses the shire owned. With the speed of the king ahead of them, and not knowing his destination, they trudged forward only stopping to examine the direction of the war-horses’ hoof prints as they left the earth to fly across some stream, or at times, some river. However, after a steely determination to make contact with the stranger that had so affected their lives, they finally found him far below the perch that they had climbed to. Winded and exhausted, they had just enough time to catch their breath when they saw the stranger rise from his crouched position and saddle his horse. What they witnessed after that would only make their stories even more remarkable… remarkable, and difficult to believe.

Diokalees neither shuffled nor swayed as he could clearly distinguish the expanse of the battlefield, for he was a war horse, and was bred and raised for such confrontations. He, like the king that sat upon him, was determinate. Together horse and rider paused only long enough for the sovereign to drop his weapons to the ground beside him, a movement that made the two onlookers high above gasp.

“What soldier enters a battle minus his weapons?” whispered one to the other.

First, the bow with its tried and true handle carved from the very trees that now lay in heaps about the valley. Then the sword which, as the king dropped it, the double edge pierced the ground and held fast. Next, the shield was flung away. It was the only weapon that the king took a second glance at after discarding, for it was his only means of defensive protection. Finally, with the finality of a choice made solid, he removed his battle array. Breast-plate, arm-guards, and flank-girds all fell to the side like a rain of unneeded wear. Where before the king had stripped himself of his royal garbs including the Crown of the People, he then removed his soldiery and became like most of the inhabitants of the realm he ruled... simple and peasant-like.

At last, the rider and his horse entered the valley, and the inner chemicals that surged through their bodies caused their pupils to fixate upon the goal, the deep dark maw of the cave. They started slowly, as they had done when they began their journey six days prior on a crisp winter morn. The ground beneath released its black ash-like dust with every step of the horse. A northerly breeze picked up as they began, and its hint of warmth touched upon the king. For a moment, it encouraged his soul as it lightly blew upon the back of his neck as if to remind him that the bitter cold of winter would, at some point, release its grip. At the same moment though, a southerly heat and anger filled wind beat back the pleasant breeze and its piercing stingers penetrated the corners of the rider’s eyes as if to mock his approach. It was the winds of war and the battle had begun, but the airy fight served only to solidify the severity of that purposeful moment, a moment that hung on a branch that hovered near the edge of eternity.

Together, more one than ever, the horse and rider increased in march and step as they proceeded into the vale and toward the gape of darkness. At first, there was no resistance, but that quickly changed and the once soldier-king turned peasant-rider could see that bows were being lifted from near invisible hiding places amongst the tree trunks with their tangle of roots. With that recognition, he urged Diokalees forward and gripped the reins even tighter. The bows that had been previously raised then produced reflections of sunlight as the polished arrowheads were lifted in the direction of the then swiftly moving target. The king could hear the strum of numerous war instruments as their shafts left their strings, and he waited for the inevitable stingers…, but the fires of laceration never came. It relieved the king, for he was in full anticipation of the pain knowing that the soldiers were well trained and well seasoned warriors… Then the second wave flew.

Three of the strikes sunk into his back, and two into his thighs, one in each leg. With a wince, the king dropped his head and focused upon his hands. He could see the white of his knuckles beneath his skin being covered with the red of his own blood as his grip began to loosen. That’s when another wave hit. More of the projectiles lodged into his back. That time, from his neck to his right flank… another in his leg and one in his arm. With that second strike, the sovereign slumped upon the back of the war horse, but still held on tightening his wounded thighs around the contour of the steed’s mighty back. The horse could feel the squeeze and perceived the need to increase his speed, not so much as a prompting from his dear friend, but rather as a cry for help.

A moment past before the king regained the strength, which was quickly draining from his body, to raise his eyes toward the cavern in the distance. He judged himself to be not quite half way across the battlefield and could see more of the stealthy warriors rustling amongst their nests ahead and on his right and left flanks. More arrows flew, and again the king was surprised when they missed his body all together. That’s when the horse beneath him was struck several times and the rider realized that the enemy was not aiming for him at all. They were truly in this trial together and it disheartened the rider to think that his trusty friend was suffering as well. However, the previous onslaught only served to strengthen the horses’ cadence and it was yet one more occasion for the king to be proud of his steed.

At the three quarter point, that is, at about twenty six lengths, the third wave of arrows found their marks. They were the ones that produced the most damage for they had been let loose at the closest range. The grand outcropping of Sturmstone that once served as the fount of Paraketh, and then helmed the depths of darkness, also served as the position on the field of battle where the enemy had created their redoubt. Determined not to allow the horse and rider to reach their goal, the arrows that flew from the bowmen nestled into the base of the cliff were duel headed and flew in a circular trajectory thereby striking with greater damage and ferocity. It was those missiles of destruction that caused the once mighty Diokalees to finally stagger, and the once majestic king to finally let go of the reins for the pain was too much to bear and the devastation too complete.

At that point, their path was not a straight one as it had been. For the first time, they were removed from their heading as Diokalees stumbled to the right, and the king slumped to the left. If it were not for the arrows that were lodged in the side of the courser, the rider would have fallen all together, but he managed to hang on to two of them which were fastened side by side on the forth quarter of the left shoulder. Seeing their last strike moment approaching, enemy combatants began to emerge from their hideouts with unsheathed swords in their hands. Like a tumbling projectile approaching them, each one craved for the fame of delivering that fatal swing, a swing that would never connect.

As the man and horse staggered closer and closer to the mouth of gloom, there arose one more arrow upon one more bow, and it was from high atop the Sturmstone tower. Appearing upon the mount was a warrior-prince of unrivaled splendor, second only to the king himself. Prince Magreth stood as a powerfully built and well carved leader of hordes. A thousand battles would only begin to describe the fullness of his list of achievements. He had become the ill gotten owner of many manor houses, lands, and even a city all obtained by deceitful gain. His dress was that of hardened battle array stained pearl-white from dye that had been obtained from the felled petals of the Willowfeld trees ages past. His helm was also carved from Willowfeld, but coated in silver and gold that, at that moment, glowed in the sinking sun. He held a bow of magnificent enormity and, it seemed, could only be raised and aimed by the strong arms that were fitted to his immense and towering body. In a strange way, his voice resembled a herald’s trumpet and a player’s lyre all wrapped together, or some other sort of wind and stringed instrument that had been formed and fashioned to announce war. And a war cry he did raise.

“My kingdom shall rise and never fall,” he harmonized from above.

It echoed down through the cracks and crevices that were inherent in the shear angles of the Sturmstone perch. The melodious voice had a hint of victory song hidden in its chords that caused the sauntering soldiers far below to stop in their tracks. It even produced a start in the heart of the suffering king and caused him to pull back his bloody head and tilt his whole body backward so that he could look upon his conquering foe.

Prince Magreth may also have discovered that two sets of additional ears on the opposite side of the valley had heard his decry if they had not been scrambling down the back side of the basin. However, even being around the corner from the entrance to the vale, Oliver and Salmon shuddered at the sound of his echoing decree. It beckoned them to speed their descent, and they managed to peer around the entrance into the dale that lay before them. That was when they witnessed the “last strike” but it was not completed by any mere foot soldier… No, it was Magreth himself who delivered the blow.

His arrow was not double pronged or even single pronged. Neither did it have any flight feathers. No, it was a single shaft so elongated and perfectly balanced that it was more like a spear than a simple fetcher’s arrow. It had a thickened mid-shaft with beveled ends and when it was let loosed, it neither quivered nor quaked. So straight and true did that arrow fly, that when it struck the heart of the king, it passed right through his body and half way into the hind quarter of the war horse upon which he sat. He had timed the shot perfectly and both the horse and rider fell, rolled, and finally slid only to stop just short of the mouth of the gaping cavern, a tangled mess of blood, sweat, and mud…

There they lay, steam emanating from the bodies in the sudden appearing evening chill with great beads of blood leaking into the dust of the valley that swallowed it like a dry and parched throat. A swell of victory cry grew within the diaphragms of the enemy soldiers and they surged forward toward the felled king knowing that their plans would continue uncontested. However, before their victory cheer could be released, the most unnatural of occurrences happened, and it caused even them to pull back from their advances.

It began as a peculiar wind and it swirled into tiny tornadoes about the valley. From deep within the cavern, a bellowing vapor arose from the deep. And then, as fear swallowed the atmosphere, two sets of mysterious tracks emerged from the gloom of the grotto. One would have only known that there was some sort of creatures emerging because the tracks could only be seen by the dust that they produced. As far as the creatures themselves, they were invisible to the human eye. Oliver and Salmon could see that something darkly mysterious was happening from a distance, and it deepened the darkness of the mystery, nay, the blackness of the nightmare they had been witnesses to. All eyes followed as the tracks made their way to the bodies of the king and his horse. When they stopped, what was then observed could only be described as nothing short of menacing.

In a moment of time, the invisible specters thrashed and tore at the blood stained clothes of the motionless body of the king that shuddered in response to their attack. Like a victory dance, they tore and thrashed about unaware to the human eyes save for the clothing, flesh, and blood that was flying everywhere. The thrashing continued uninhibited like a festivity of rage until all of a sudden it stopped, and for a moment, all that saw were filled with a dreadful awe. Then, ever so slowly, the torn and broken body of the king was dragged into the heart of the abyss. Like a macabre procession, he sank into the depths of darkness pulled by seemingly invisible claws on seemingly hideous and unseen arms.

A moment later and a long way from there, in the farthest distance north of the vale, the Range of the Unknown released a great flood of waters. It was as if the mountains themselves were convulsively weeping. The waters tore through the white castle of Kalaw and half demolished the structure… and its crumbling shook the sides of the mountain from the summit to the base.…

After that, all fell quiet upon the vale and the soldiers slunk away one by one after Prince Magreth had removed himself from his lofty perch. The hot wind eventually died down and the ashy dust settled upon the ground once again…

And then, silence prevailed…

The next day, when all seemed to be clear, Salmon and Oliver made their way to the war torn body of the great horse Diokalees, and dug a trough next to the place where he had fallen. While they dug, neither spoke to each other and only the thought of how they could possibly tell the tale of what they had seen. They wondered if any would believe the story of a warrior, possibly even a king, who had stripped himself of his soldiery, surrendered to the lances of a thousand volleyed arrows, and was dragged beyond a macabre gate into a well of darkness. And, as they pondered the meaning of it all, they hauled the body of his horse into the shallows beneath the floor of the valley…, a valley that would forever be known as, “The Vale of Blood.”

…Over the years Oliver, the once stammering hunter, became an orator and carried the story to the far reaches of the realm and beyond. As for Salmon, his once angry and bitter cousin, he quietly and peacefully communicated the account through the written word for the bitterness of life had long lost its purpose… And the story which he wrote, he writ upon a scroll, nay, upon a number of scrolls for that which you have just read was only the first of the Shadow Scrolls that I was compelled to write. For that was not the end of the tale… it was merely the end of the beginning.

The Vale of Blood

- Part One -

“Heroes are not born, they are forged… And most often, it is by fire.”

- Ancient Irenay Scribe -