Ekleipsis Read online

  When notices arrived of another village or group of people having been taken captive or murdered, blame was often placed upon the victims themselves, as if to say they could have avoided it by doing thus and such. Some even held the notion that if one were to leave the evil ones alone, not even speaking of such, then it would bear reason that they would do the same.

  This type of thinking often seemed to fail to change, lest they themselves be taken over by the Darkness, and then their own cries heard as the ones they refused to give ear to. Who then was left to comfort those, who had no comfort for their brothers and sisters?

  With such a mindset, it was left to the Sealed, the soldiers and seers, along with bands, who fought neither for King Salvare or Jagare, but self, namely militias and the Masonisti, to defend those who were prey for the servants of Darkness.

  § § § §

  The Sealed lessened in number over the years for there were those who said, “The King is not returning, but has forgotten us,” “The King has left us to the mercy of Jagare and his brothers,” and most gravely said, “It has been too long. King Salvare is but dead.” There was nearly never a mention of his father King Allmachtig from the lips of the people of Erde either. It had come to almost an each man for himself attitude of sorts. Even the Book of Wisdom was seldom read or found being taught in school but for history’s sake. Neither did the parents teach their children of such. They had become nothing more than simple history to some, only folklore to many, and merely lie to others.

  Though there may have been a Great Awakening, there were many who remained in Darkness, and those who failed to embrace the truth or give service to the King.

  A Glance into Darkness

  Standing upon the highest mountain in Oscuridad, Mount Dauthus, laid Jagare’s castle over his kingdom. It was a dark massive fortress with ten-foot stone walls and five-foot barbed fence layered atop them. No way in or out except through the main gates, which must only be opened at the sound of Jagare’s voice. His kingdom was surrounded by six mountains and ten lesser kingdoms. Three mountains to either side, along with his brothers’ five kingdoms to his north and five kingdoms to his south, Jagare was secure almost dead center of Oscuridad.

  It was the Shadow Lands which separated Oscuridad from Trachten and the rest of Erde. A continuous haze from the Shadow Lands stagnated throughout Oscuridad, leaving Jagare’s castle foggy, humid, and hot; most uncomfortable with no real water supply, but the bitter taste of the Kartus Ocean of which the moat surrounding Mount Dauthus was filled. Not that it bothered a man who had survived death.

  § § § §

  Legend had it that one of the Sealed had caught Jagare unaware in the Land of Trachten, when he and his army were marching toward Signum, soon after the death of Galtare. A silver arrow from amidst the open plains pierced Jagare’s head above his right temple. His servants rushed his body back to Oscuridad, but the people knew for sure he must have perished. There was so much blood and confusion, yet the bowman was never found.

  Many assumed it must have been one of the Masonisti, and therefore the reason why none had claimed the honor; for they did many things in secret. Others considered the soul, who had been brave enough to pierce Jagare with an arrow, remained silent due to the fear of their own life or possible repercussions upon their family.

  Following tales told that one named Piradad, a pale, appeared to the servants of Jagare within the castle walls, without entrance through the gates. It was said that he was brought by a Dragon named Rubicund from Kriminala Pasaule, a land far south from the Land of Erde. It was further told that Piradad held powers from the underworld, given him by the Dragon.

  Supposing it to be true, Piradad laid hands on Jagare with power from the Dragon and Jagare was healed, awakened from death. As with his grandfather Judarius, there were those who swore it was but the body of Jagare possessed by the Dragon himself. The son of a devil, from the lineage of devils, raised in the power of the Dragon by a pale, could only mean Jagare was now twofold the evil he once was.

  § § § §

  Sitting in a room constructed of dark marble dimly lit, a man of greying age held the role of the king of Darkness, so named by those who opposed him. The room was large and hollow. Windows with dark stained glass every twenty paces were the only breaks, besides the entrance around the square walls. To the norm it would seem cold and dry, with the smell of staleness lingering in every molecule of air.

  Dressed in dark attire, as if a shadow amidst the throne, slightly leaning to one side upon his elbow, he played with his large golden ring engraved with a dragon’s head. Thoughts of mischief and malice ran sadistically through his depraved mind as he pondered times past, the present, and what would come.

  “Piradad, come forth,” he growled deeply.

  “Yes, master Jagare,” claimed one, as he stepped up to the throne with a bow. Dressed to much the same likeness as a seer of the Sealed, he wore a black cloak (whereas theirs were mostly brown, white, or tan), and carried a staff – which often left one to ponder did it hold any significance or purpose as to the role of seer or pale.

  Nails, as talons, protruded from his boney, pale fingers, gripping his smoked colored staff. It glimmered lightly by the few lit candles, as though it were covered with a shiny glaze. His hand bore the mark, the seal of sworn allegiance, by which once taken, the bearer’s soul was bound by contract to the king of Darkness.

  “What seest thou?” asked Jagare in a defiant voice.

  In a deep, guttural accent, Piradad answered, “My lord, I have seen the destruction of the Sealed. The infiltration has been most successful, and the spies await your sign. Among the cities of the land, there are those who silently serve you and shall raise up against your enemies at the sound of your voice, my lord. Your patience shall pay off king Jagare, for it has caused the people to grow confident and slack that you shall not attack.”

  “Send for the Gibborims of the ten kingdoms (by this he meant his brothers). Have them come to Mount Dauthus on the night of the next full moon. The time approaches for all men everywhere to bow to their master! The hour cometh when the Dragon shall slay the people of the dead King which doth deny us our rightful place.”

  “Yes, my lord,” answered Piradad.

  “Have the engravers finished the image?” snapped Jagare.

  “Yes, my lord, they are awaiting your command,” Piradad answered again, stronger this time.

  As if irritated for the mere fact of having to ask the question at all, Jagare sneered, “Have the Gottlos and Ubils been counted?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Piradad replied with confidence.

  Jagare continued angrily, “Send one third to Trachten. Inform them that one is to live for testimony only.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Piradad replied again, knowing from experience this was the best response to keep one from the rebuke of Jagare.

  Jagare waved Piradad away. As Piradad left the room, Jagare rubbed the side of his head where there was only the faint hint of a small scar upon his temple, but a reminder nevertheless. Although he knew not the name of the soul who pierced him, all of Erde would suffer his wrath for it. And though he fully knew it was by the hand of Piradad and the Dragon, whereby he did yet now live, he had no desire to share his authority or power with either.

  A Goodbye to Remember

  The sunrise was beautiful. Slowly, a spotlight rose in the sky with shades of purple, yellow, and red flowing from it. Peeking over the mountains, large oaks and sycamores, it gave a marvelous display of radiance. Sparkling through the puffy clouds with colors of white and blue, a new day dawned. A soft, crisp breeze delivered the scent of fresh flowers, accompanied by calmness among the village. It effortlessly pushed away the thoughts of the storm the night before.

  MaZak and Dartego were making last minute checks, to ensure they packed all they would need for the journey to the Land of the Seekers, when Vandor walked up behind them. Wishing very much he could accompany them had robbed him of countless
hours of sleep the last few nights.

  “Good morning,” greeted Vandor with a small grin.

  MaZak turned around to focus on the voice behind him, “Hey there, little V.”

  “Good morning young Vandor,” added Dartego, facing his direction.

  “Today is a beautiful day,” commented MaZak.

  “Yes MaZak, the sun will shine on us today, and the breeze should lend us traveling ease,” agreed Dartego.

  “I agree Dartego,” MaZak replied, gazing upward.

  All three stared intently at the sky in a moment of silence.

  MaZak reached to place his hand atop Vandor’s shoulder, “Come little V, I have something for you over here.”

  Vandor’s eyes widened and his heart sped a little. Leaving Dartego by the horses and wagon, they walked over to MaZak’s shop.

  The building held the look of weathered-treated wood, yet sturdy, with a large painted sign over the entrance which read ‘Metal Works’ in bold black letters. All the shutters to the windows had been lowered and locked, to keep out scavengers while he would be away. They walked through the entrance, still open from their gathering last minute supplies.

  “Vandor, you will soon be a man…if not one already,” MaZak exclaimed, with a small chuckle, while facing the same cabinet from which he had once pulled forth three daggers.

  From the bottom shelf as before, MaZak reached for the wooden box having King Salvare’s insignia atop it. Vandor could only imagine what surprise the box held for him this time; for the dagger was more than he could have ever imagined. Still worn on his hip, he subconsciously felt the pommel lion head of the dagger with his fingertips.

  MaZak removed the locks on the box and lifted back the lid, to reveal something wrapped in an old grey frayed cloth. Vandor stood still with school boy excitement. MaZak lifted the item with care and placed it on the wooden bench, where he did his engraving work. Taking his time, as before to embrace the moment, he slowly laid back the folded cloth one layer at a time. Vandor dared not say a word to break the silence, for this time he wished to embrace the full anticipation and joy of surprise.

  The last fold of cloth was moved to reveal a masterpiece of the finest craftsmanship. Vandor waited with awe: a shine that was blinding, with the engraving of a ‘V’ which extended the length of the sword on both sides; a solid squared hilt wrapped with light brown leather; a double-edged blade sharp enough to cut frog hair, flowing to a tip that could pin a tick to the ground; a guard strait across, with a pommel as the dagger, in the shape of a silver roaring lion. Accompanied by a leather sheath with King Salvare’s silver insignia close to the top, these were truly works of art. Vandor was well pleased. His grandfather was no doubt the master of swords.

  MaZak turned his head to see Vandor staring with his mouth open. “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “Grandfather…You…This is the finest sword my eyes have ever seen. When did you find such time to form it?” Vandor questioned excitedly.

  “Many late nights little V, many late nights,” MaZak answered.

  “I am forever grateful. I shall wield it with pride,” stammered Vandor.

  “I assume you like it then,” smiled MaZak.

  “More so, grandfather. It is the greatest gift I have ever been given. Even more so than my beloved dagger,” Vandor grinned with enthusiasm.

  “Vandor, use it wisely. I have trained you somewhat over the years, but there is much for you to learn. We shall recover the thought at my return. A fine soldier of the King you may become.” MaZak paused to take a breath, looking down, then returning his eyes to Vandor, “Do you believe the Book of Wisdom from the King, little V?”

  “Yes grandfather, I have no reason to doubt you,” Vandor replied.

  “I do not ask if you believe me Vandor, but do you believe that which is written?” MaZak pressed.

  “Yes grandfather, I believe it all to be true,” Vandor assured him.

  MaZak displayed a sign of relief, or was it satisfaction; it was too quick to tell.

  “Vandor, if you believe the Book then you must believe the King. Though you cannot see him, you must believe that he is. This sword is made with the King’s pure stock; therefore, it is rightfully from him to you, to do his service. You will never be able to wear the King’s armor and be protected in battle against those who shall rise up against him and his people if you do not trust him.”

  MaZak continued, “You must defend the King’s teachings against those who oppose it, tell others of King Salvare, and do your best to protect them from the servants of Darkness. Even today there are those who know nothing of King Salvare or consider him but folklore.”

  “Grandfather, you have often spoken of these things. Why do you speak as though you are upon your bed to fall asleep forever? Shall you not return from Trachten in a couple of weeks? Thou knowest I believe and will be glad to converse with you upon your return. I most wish I could accompany you to the markets this year. If only father would allow me such pleasure,” Vandor pleaded.

  “I fear, that by my apprehension of too much study, I have neglected needed surety of your knowledge of the Book of Wisdom, replacing it with an over abundance of techniques with the sword and stories of my own,” MaZak pondered. “There must be a balance in the refinement of the spirit and the flesh.”

  “I’m not sure I totally follow grandfather,” questioned Vandor.

  “Um…” a breath, as he felt the Whisper move within him, “Knowing the art of battle without belief in the Book of Wisdom leaves one fighting for what? To fulfill a thirst of blood? No, Vandor. To know the Book of Wisdom is to know the cause of why we stand and trust the King, giving reason as to why we follow. It is not merely an outward training of the flesh, but equally an inward conditioning of the spirit. We do not fight for the love of fighting, for we are not mere rebels without a cause. We defend and proclaim the King and his words to help free those whom the Darkness would love to catch unaware and consume.”

  MaZak paused as if to clear his thoughts, “I cannot be with you always little V. You must take what you have been taught and use it wisely. You must desire that which is right. Against youthful lusts and foolish thoughts you must persist.

  “Do not allow yourself to be caught up in the pleasures of this world, to lose sight of your duties and the return of King Salvare. Do not let him return to see you wasting away in a life of lasciviousness, dishonesty, and mischief. Hold strong to your faith in the King and his words, and let not those who despise him cause you to waver. Though you cannot see him, be still, and hear King Salvare’s Whisper speak within you from the words in his Book.”

  Vandor pondered these things in his heart as his grandfather spoke. He felt sure his grandfather knew he much believed the Book of the King, and long desired to see him and the Shimmering kingdom. Why did he speak as though he did not know such, and as if he would not return? Vandor wanted to ask, but his thoughts were broken by his grandfather handing him yet something else.

  MaZak withdrew his hand again from the box, exposing a dark brown pouch with a white leather tie. “Give Kayla these. She asked me sometime last week if I would find time to make her some.”

  Vandor searched the pouch, “How many arrow heads did you make her grandfather?”

  “There are probably thirty in there, but tell her I can make more when she needs them,” MaZak replied.

  “Yes grandfather. She certainly favors the bow.”

  Locking up the shop, they returned to Dartego propped up snoozing against the rear wheel of the wagon. “Wake up lazy soldier,” shouted MaZak.

  “I hear yah, grandfather,” laughed Dartego, as he opened his eyes.

  “Little V, did you hear what this worn out boot-warmer said?” chuckled back MaZak.

  Dartego picked up a stick, “Well, I’ve got your staff here in case one of your bowed legs give out.”

  The two carried on for a few minutes while Vandor stood by sheepishly grinning, hoping he would not be so silly at that age. />
  They said their goodbyes and made one last glance around, to ensure all was secure in the wagon. Hugs were exchanged.

  “When I return, I shall no longer call you little V,” said MaZak. “Ye shall no longer be little, but a man.”

  “I shall await your return then,” answered Vandor with a grin.

  Vandor lifted his hand in the air, watching them travel out of sight.

  Joys for the Moment

  Vandor, holding a ring on his pointer, rounded the corner. He found Kayla sitting among the flowers behind her home near the edge of the east of Nesal, as she often did. It was a pricey silver ring: perfectly shaped with ‘Kayla’ inscribed around it, with a small daisy on each side of her name. Vandor had also inscribed ‘love Vandor’ upon the inner circle. It took him little more than a week to consider it perfect, spending hours on each little detail.

  For the moment he just watched her. The sunlight glistened through her auburn hair, waving at him in the breeze. The fragrance of sweet perfume gave his heart delight. Was it the smell of the flowers or Kayla which awakened his senses, he could not tell. His heart pressed to move him forward, but his mind held his feet secure to the ground.

  Sitting in a field of flora, Kayla sang to herself a song that many mothers shared with their children to ease their little minds at night. Her voice was beautiful to him. She was beautiful to him. He wished to tell her of his love, but was afraid to risk such friendship to be left with nothing.