The hour of the dark.

SEGINUS

“They’ve begun to move,” Eilbaad had murmured through his beard, kindling a torch in the murky depths of a damp, dark cavern—then came a screech of a bat. “See these black sacs here; they’ve but now come to walk. Honestly, I’ve no idea of what they are, despite my years; but I sought some knowledge from beyond ours.”

“And?” Seginus took the proffered torch from Eilbaad and hoisting it; above them, a tattered sticky black substance, akin to a web, hung—with its frayed ends once upon the stony limbs overhead—forging an eerie colossal labyrinthine canopy.

The rocks clattered down. “They are Arkins,” he said amid torchfire—treading the stone limb like ants that guided them toward the second layer of the rocky labyrinth. “Failed creations of the ancient Khorian King, forged in fear of Akashic, the Conqueror. Buried here during his fall, they thrive and breed without cease…” his firm voice ran everywhere. “They leave their ‘eggs’ here, and abandon them to dig holes underneath our lands,” he gestured towards the further side of the depths below; vast tunnels sprawled in every way. Seginus tallied them—fifteen in total.

“They must shun the sun;” he mused, “choosing to dwell in shadowed and all.”

“That, I do fear,” he said softly; a tinge of disquietude threading his voice as he peered intently into the dimness. “Some…unseen force is nurturing them. It is likely the Bloodkinds, for the Arkins carry a trace of their blood. This kinship led to their doing then undoing, and now, it may well be the cause of their awakening.”

“Bloodkinds…” So it was the Bloodkinds that freighted Seginus’s train of thought; another one in that train, though, was filled with less noble cargo—a fleeting thought to throttle Eilbaad. What game was he afoot? How was this ever a living forest? A monster that that threatens lives? “I suppose they’re quite a little trouble—”

“Ohoh…some for you brother,” he said. “We have not been among the living, where they scream bloodfest back then.”

“Indeed,” he said in return, a grin of certainty playing upon his lips. “I have not been awake.” He had slumbered through the ages when he was Segen’s age, a boy of early-eleven, when he had sought and crushed himself by the four hands of the Sphinx of Angar, the four pillars of black had chained him by own will, and that guarded his youth and mind against the sands of time that fell endlessly. Nothing had been covering his eyes, and had been whispering of none, until the once Teekish youth braved the sea of black sands of Ontario. He found himself face to face with the same greedy smile of mischief that once found him in a dank place of swirling rocks. He remembered how silent and scared his face had been when his eyes took in light.

“Do you think a single blade could stop a march of dead?”

“If that blade were mine…yes, they would fall.”

“You place too much faith in yourself,” he uttered, guiding Seginus along a trail marked by scattered black droplets of what seemed to be dried blood and the air reeked of rot and death.

“What do I believe if not even I could to myself? Do I believe it was the gods that made me?” there was a slight drop in his tone. “Everything I did was all I believed to be my own, each step of a rise and fall.” He then asked with just the hint of a smile; “How could I not have faith in a blade that had slain countless? Even if they are not the ones that had been born of flesh and blood, even if they are not the ones who could think, speak or feel, what does it matter to me?”

Eilbaad stopped. The torch flickered and the flames guttered low; their shadows, long and looming, writhed against the walls, as if alive and listening. “Do you remember the words that were said that day, Seginus?”

Seginus’ breath hitched.

“A curse on your blood,” he said. “A curse on your sons. May their lives be short. May they live and die in misery. May the gods curse them.”

“Those words are…meaningless.”

“I ought to know better than to argue with you,” puffed Eilbaad, the half-faded bloodstains of black led deeper; and they have now stood before a huge tunnel hole where the dark was thick; and silently wailing a chilly omen upon the wind; then seemingly unending. “This one leads far-north, Beef Flatts and will run past beneath Heaflo Mountain Wall exactly. The One-Eyed Vale was it?”

He nodded. “How fast are they?”

“Not as quick as the wind,” he said—baring the torch in forth against the drear of darkness. “About a month I say.”

“What is their purpose for all of this?” his eyes sharpened. “Arkins.”

“Segen,” said one behind, rough and carrying from afar; a cloak fell from an arm, and it was wrapped thickly in white cloth, then grasped his left shoulder tight. “Forget about all of this.” It came out in eyes quivering of horror. “Go home.”

SEGEN

Segen sat by a corner of a lone log, nestled among flowers by meadows, and followed grassy fields beyond. Eidana faced him, her fingers deftly weaving the stems of flowers, while Gran Gran Deeni sat to his left. All the while, the river’s song played softly, its gentle splashes seeming to shimmy and sway as they wove the blooms around. The skies spiel with the soft hues of early afternoon, and if anything, the scene was serene and quiet.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” said Gran Gran.

“Ah,” said Eidana. “I’m not making you another!”

“Agh!—how then? How do I do this?” groaned Segen, rubbing his sore clammy hands. They seemed to fight him at every turn, nearly ruining his work. Thorns lay scattered about—a prickly sea around him, when a blast of wind rattled the chain of flowers hung by the eave on a shed behind. He was weaving a crown of Cairul Flowers, the very ones Eidana had shown him. It was she who had taught him all about flowers, after all.

“Hmm. It’s not the easiest,” admitted Gran Gran Deeni. “It takes a lot of practice.”

“I can’t believe I’m wasting time on this,” huffed Segen. “If I wanted to spend my time on something, it would be fighting or practicing.”

“Suppose many are just different, Segen,” said Eidana—her fingers nimbly tucking the flowers into a crown. “Not all are just…meant for battle, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said dismissively. And suddenly, “See this?” Segen put up both his hands: “They cannot do this.”

Eidana gave him a light shove and a laugh. “Oh, you’re so silly.”

“What, me?” he said, and a small piece of stem fell from his grasp.

“Yes, you!”

“Alright, alright! Stop pushing me!” smiled Segen at her. “And stop laughing, or I will tell Auntie Lina.”

“Go ahead, then,” Eidana stuck her tongue out.

“I’ll do it,” warned Segen.

“Oh, look, it’s them! Your poppa,” said Eidana.

And indeed—it was so. Together they were, he and Elgar, leading a pair of fleet-footed coursers through the meadow’s tall grasses and white cloverfields, where butterflies and kin took flight in a fluttering dance. Segen took in his poppa’s visage, which was marked by haste. It was an odd sight that stirred unease within him. And then—unbidden—the image of the dark forest loomed in his mind.

“Segen!” called his poppa.

“Uhhhh...” Segen was lost for words.

“Uncle, we were just having fun,” said Eidana for him.

“Well, I’m glad dear,” he said, but his voice was cold. “We’re leaving.”

“Oh, no,” cried Segen.

“Now,” ordered his poppa.

And with that, Segen followed away by his arm.

“Poppa, what is going on? Why are they in a hurry?” said Eidana in a hushed voice. “I was just playing. Why can’t they stay?”

“They have begun moving, ” said Eilbaad.

“They?” spoke up Eidana. “The one’s under?”

“Mhm,” answered Eilbaad. “So they must cross the bridge before the night falls.”

“Ma, I bow to you,” said Seginus, bowing deeply. “And brothers, may we meet again. All in good faith. Segen, go on boy—bid them farewell.”

“Right! Farewell Gran Gran, and everyone else, thank you for the feast. And Eidana! And the others! Farewell!”

Gran Gran bid him also: “Be careful on the road, little boy, and I’ll pray to keep you safe.”

“Segen,” called Eidana at him and smiling.

“I’ll see you again,” he smiled back, “very soon. Farewell,” Segen bid last.

He slipped on his gloves, swung onto his bridled horse with a bit of a fumble and with very little grace, and set off. The horse was a young, shaggy brown thing, and also it was just like Segen, not quite used to the rocky paths among the pines of the forest. And as he rode, he could feel his gloves growing damp with sweat—a bothersome trait, especially when trying to handle delicate things (and for whatever reason, it would always happen during such); even often, left him struggling with tasks as simple as turning the pages of a book or wielding blades; of which, when bare and wet, it would get piercingly itchy.

They were now hopping and leaping from a small gully then a log to a rock; then a boulder with a moss-green hump, and another slippery log, and stopped at a flat stone that seemed a perfect seat.

“Come along with me and you’ll see what I mean; there will be peaches and plums, if you follow the honeybees humming…”—pluck—“come along with me and we’ll have the prettiest view”—pluck—“and I’ll give you the sweetest fruit and the tastiest mushroom stew; come along with me”—pluck—“and we’ll sing a melody…”

He plucked another nut and ate it. It was sour. And it pierced his cheeks.

The sky was—an array of color like a painting it was; far at hand were dense white splotches over there to the east, some blue swashes here and thereabout, and many rays of yellow westward—trying to crack through the clouds... All of this Segen beheld below a pine, many pines forward; and they galloped across the bushes that hung many red berries—of course, he also took many, and well, it tasted; it was not consumable yet, that’s all, so he settled for some green peas—tying his horse to a low branch and his poppa’s with many stumps around and oft squirrel-shorned. Then abreast was a dark-mossed rocky river with green water, and no sign of life too; yet, except chirping of birds but, far away really, and there was nothing of danger of the sort and he wouldn’t be hoping to be staying for long in a miserable place such as this.

The air did tell another tale.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

‘Eek!’ Segen wrinkled his nose—it was very foul; odor was foul. It could only be said as some rotten dead body laying around unseen but undeniable. ‘A dead deer?’ It was not shuddering of the sort; but the smell was enough to clear all the lingering taste of the vegetables, of which seemed too sweet rather than this…not this, too nasty. Why did they even stop here now? Creased his forehead was.

And thus, he hurried forth upon the little woody dell; and; “Poppa…” he pattered along the brook; leapt over a gnarled log, and stood sweeping his gaze before a snug burrow of many clefts—nestled beneath the hedge of a wet rocky wall—poking out beside a low grassy cliff.

Then the zip of his breeches was heard as he waddled into a cozy nook; sheltered on either side; to attend to nature’s call. Once his business was all done; a curious sound caught his ear—a low, rumbling growl. His gaze sharpened, and thereabout, in one of the burrows; he beheld a long tuft of black—was it grass, a rock, or something else? “Poppa! Look!”

“What is it?” called his poppa afar. “Little sir, better hurry up.”

“I...” Segen clasped a vine and stooped down—digging, his eyes twinkling with the wonder of his find. “I’ve…ummm…”

“What—?”

“…stumbled upon something most rare!”

He took the palm off his face with a sigh and “Boy, we have got no time to waste,” hurried his poppa, as Segen skipped back over the log with a splash. “We’ve no use for such; such things cannot help us.”

“Poppa, it’s a Grubb!” smiled Segen—putting up the rocky little being.

“Grubb? Why, that’s nothing but a stone.”

“It’s the same one from the book; and how they look; and oh, this is a rare find indeed…see?”

His poppa exhaled wearily, “Come now, little sir, return it where it came.”

“But—”

“No time for such folly; we’ve no need for a rock heap,” he sighed. “Quickly now, we must be moving!”

“Poppa! It’s how luck smiles upon us!” said back Segen. “And…you are ignorant. It’s not only just a rock. They’re not like sand krubbs—they have many uses”—he peered closely upon the grubb, which groaned softly, a sound most peculiar… Though unlike the grubb of the paintbooks, this was indeed the scarce forest grubb, as Segen eyed; a tiny tortoise it was, with a shell as rugged as the rocks and, most curiously, a beard. But not just any beard—the forest grubb’s was a deep black... “And they poop—”

“No thank you, and...” he hastened, stepping upon the loamy dirt. “We’ve no need for extra tidying, nor for whatever oddities it may have; treasure or none. Now, do be a good little sir and drop that rock—or whatever that is—will you?”

“Poppa!” Segen dashed towards him, his plea earnest. “This—”

“Noooo.”

“Grubbs, they munch on leavings, all sorts. Give it a thought;” said Segen, “and our tidying tasks shall be no more!”

Before his poppa could begin a word, Segen was quick to say, “Yes, yes! They nibble on whatever they can, it is vital to their very nature. See this place here,” he said, caressing the midst of the creature’s rocky carapace where a tender sprout budded. “Might be their fruit, though I’m not certain. But…I’ve read they grow a fruit you can eat, and that’s why they love to eat all, or so…”

“Well, is it?” His poppa, now with a sly face, turned and said, “Heh~he…well then, the creature comes along with us;” he gave a tug at Segen’s collar, “Little Sir, you’ll play a fine role indeed… My trust is yours!”

“What do you mean?” uttered Segen, swallowing, as they ambled by the pines, the earth sloping gently down in jagged boulders.

“It means just what I say,” he laughed. “You will be, to…erm, make use of your small size to sneak in! Do you hear what I’m saying, boy? Quietly-sneak-in!” he roared a whisper.

“Hmm? What’s this about sneaking poppa?” he let out with a second gulp betraying his unease; now, Segen felt a stirring in his gut—a sure sign that something untoward was afoot. “I’m not a burglar.”

“In a little hole, Segen—”

“And hole?”

“…a little hole!”

“Huh?” Segen pranced over a stone, eyeing how the rocks lay low like wee stairs and leaning in—what might be a long, deep cavern... “Little? Is it only a fit for someone such as me?”

“Oh, you’ll see…”

“Right there—the hole!” said his poppa in a hush. They had reached the bottom; and as they trod upon the rough sand, the wind whispered through the right crevices of the darkened tunnels…stirring the sharp stalagmites above. Dense hairy moss and ivy clung to the walls, and also vines hung down and matted into a wall, and the air was wafting the smell of damp earth. “See—look at the dark. That’s where you’re to go.”

“What! Uh…is that, wai—wa-wa-wait. Why me? Only me? Why?” When he kept his voice low—as did he. It was a dark hole—third the height of his poppa; which he could simply bend over and would be in—as it was wide enough. It groaned… His hands did slowly get wet. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid.

“You see…” said his poppa—taking the grubb, and finding a stone to sit upon. “My back hurts; hah-hah, such things happen when you get old, after all,” he rasped.

“So you want me—”

“Yes, I do—”

“Nope.” Segen bubbled his cheeks and shook his head, “Nuh-uh…I can’t—no…it’s dark. And-and—”

“You will.”

“…there’s a lot of…monsters,” Segen’s face dropped then let out a weary sigh. Nothing can be done about it now…

“You either do it…or…you’d rather be left here.” He put up a slight smirk, “I’m your poppa, and you should do always as your poppa says. Now, go in lil’ sir.”

“Come on now,” they both took a deep look. “All that scary stuff—It’s all on your mind…It’s just darkness…nothing to be afraid of,” he trailed off with a spooky tone.

“I… Fine!” grumbled Segen; “What am I supposed to do after?”

“Glad you asked,” he yawned deeply—stretching his back. “Just tell me what you see...and oh, don’t make a noise;” he bid him with a finger to his own words, “you don’t…”

“Why? Is there some—”

“Go in now. Go deepest. Go on little sir. Do not waste more time.”

“Arrgh!” he grumbled again, and did as he was bid; and with careful steps, he moved—the crunch of dust and pebbles, the rasp of sand and gravel beneath his feet. At the hole’s edge, he drew a deep breath, easing the flutter of fear within. “Poppa!” A low shout escaped him, rough against his throat as a pebble clattered to the ground. “That stings!” he winced, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head.

“Now, recall my words from before,” his poppa told him, “You can begin by softening the grip of your fear—until it fades away entirely.”

“I was!” he rubbed his head fiercely and gave his poppa a glare. “I don’t believe you are completely fearless!”

“I am not,” he rasped.

“Yeah...I know.”

“You must not let fear bind you,” he said, tugging a strand of his wavy hair behind his ears. “Kill them, Segen. Every single monsters in your head.”

“Mhm.”

“Do not turn back.”

Segen wheeled about—the whispers and moans of the wind through the tunnels were like the breath of ghosts. The dark was thick; the scent of damp stone and musty green mold was sharply scraping his nostrils...

And he began the slow and cautious walk. Crunch…crunch…crunch!—went his foot, and it echoed in the hollows above and below.

Then his breath came hard—his hand skimming the walls as he scooted on—and of all: cursing old Cob under his breath. That old teller of tales, spinner of yarns, had filled his head with nightmarish creatures; and now, this place—it brought to mind the Long Legs. Those ghastly creature of the deep. And as Cob had said: it had tall spindly limbs; skin like burnt charcoal and smelled of blood; eyes that glowed red as embers, and a sign of death in the dark: thick hair wild as tree roots; horns bent like a goat, and long sharp fingers that tapped out a sound like the ticking of death! And most horrifying of all: a maw in its belly, gaping in blood and greedy for flesh—human flesh was its favorite. Cob’s tales—once just fireside horrors—now seemed all too real as Segen recalled the fate of Princess Myna, lost to the darkness; her life decimated in red and mauled to death—just as Cob had told him.

Much like the Long Legs—Segen’s eyes glowed like a kindle of fire in the dark; gaze of fire, but he could not see clearly ahead, nor the dimmed light behind… He felt the wall with his left; then hung his right gloves to his belt; and his Serendum pulsed softly of qora into his sourfe of fire and brought forth fire qora surging to his bare palm. It sparked twice that lit up a blaze of fire.

He caught his foot on a stone; “I should go back!” huffed Segen; and the sound of the rolling rocks skittered off into the dark... “Agh!” His neck was stiff; and his toes began to ache with each step... Then “Hush,” no waking the cave.

Forward and forward he trudged—his breaths laboring, deep and deeper still into the darkest burrow he had ever known and had ever been. The fire, the sole comfort in this all-encompassing gloom, warmed him, while his heart was clenched with dread and swelled about its cage in whatever horror there may be. His sight brokenly conjured every manner of known terrors—darkness warping into a tall figure with white hollow eyes—a blink and it was gone and wondered if it was behind—and there was now a head of an eerie pale wizened man peering from a hole beside—of deep darkness—yet still, he pressed on.

The small passage had narrowed even more—curving downwards; and by the dim light, he could see the walls were of limestone, worn to a roughness by time’s own hand. It looked damp and tacky, and was heavy with the scent of soaked earth and the tang of hidden minerals.

Deeper he went—the sound of dripping water was just about. His boots made a squelching thud with each step—often with the shadows that filled the tunnel, hinting at a light source, though faint. Here, the ground was most treacherous with its loose stones and detritus—anyhow, by some marvellous fortune (that he did not quite possess), not even once did he trip and his head did remain unscathed.

At the tunnel’s end, Segen crawled under a jutting spike of rock and emerged into a vast underground gorge—an expanse so wide its edges were lost to the embracing dark. A mere sliver of daylight fought its way through from above, casting a soft, dusky illumination over the scattered, colossal, jagged rocks.

Taking steps little by little, Segen caught the faintest murmur; with the lightness of a leaf on the wind, he ran on his tippy-toes in wide hops, hastening to conceal himself behind a rock—and sidled silently as the very darkness that enveloped him. For even though the sound was distant and unclear, it was enough to instill horror in him. And it made all his hair rise.

He peered out from the chipped side of the rock, his gaze climbed to the heights beyond to his left, where it loomed—a creature of the dark. ‘Could it be them?’ pondered Segen, his breath caught in his throat. ‘No, this one’s eyes glow white, not the red of the Long Legs… No teeth in its stomach and, much bigger at that. White eyes in the darkness: what strange being is this? Nightcrawlers? No… Is it? They’ve only dwell on trees.’

As Segen hid, rapt in his ponders, the creature moved from his left, and he beheld it much with clarity. And it was kindred to the Long Legs, save its horns were more plentiful, cracking even its skull—its stature doubly tall, and indeed, with it, it bore a presence more daunting. Not only was it such, but its scent was keen, akin to ill breath. It ambled past in low tremors, its gait unsteady as if wounded or taken by ale, and then vanished into the shadows to his right… And lo, there followed another, and yet another.

Segen lent his ear to the rhythm—and of course, with their size, their hooves did drum upon the earth—a slow and deliberate beat that is. He counted softly: one, two, three four, five through eleven. And some of them were nimble, and limply, one darted quickly over the others with janky swinging; and there were towering giants among their kin. All moved as one, a throng, a muster, a convocation in the dim—all marching towards his right. ‘I ought to tell Poppa,’ thought Segen…

It was akin to a whisper that caressed he; a sibilance of something…something unknown—a breath of dark that devoured his bravery entire. Disquieting as the skitter of a venomous spider; a presence so silent yet so lethal that his already frail courage seemed to ebb away like a bead of dew slipping through his grasp.

He spun—his dagger arcing overhead in a swift, desperate slash; his gaze swept, like a wild fire, but of creeping fear. Yet there was naught but silence, the oppressive dark, the cold stone of the walls. When he faced the procession once more—They had vanished, as if swallowed by the dark itself.

Drawing a quivering breath, Segen steadied himself. ‘Must’ve been my mind,’ and he stared for a while, and then crept from behind the rock—

Its long, blackened claws raked his arm, sending him sprawling thrice on his back—collapsed into a small rock, stunned and gasping. Then the creature was upon him; its blinding white gaze, its breath hot and fetid.

He inhaled sharply—was this rupture? His eyes quivered in a piercing pain; a surge of heat coursing through the gemstone mark upon his forehead; a crimson-diamond stark against his flesh... The Golden Sons of Henggen, hailed as ‘Apostles of Destruction,’ spoken through the deads’ final throes—fading into the abyss of nothingness, annihilation from both memory and existence. Was he their kin? A blinding flash of red overtook his senses, and agony lanced through his head as its arm was savagely torn; blood spattering in a grim arc, droplets cascading down his face to the ground.

A scream shattered the silence, propelling him into fleeing as another monstrosity emerged; its right claw cleaved the air in a smash of deadly intent. Rupture seized him again, and his sight splintered into chaos.

Segen threw his weight to the right and rolled away—narrowly dodging a strike. He sprang up and thrust his dagger into the creature’s ribs with all his strength; feeling the blade bite deep. As the creature lurched back, Segen used it to twist the dagger and ripped it free—a spray of black ichor following the steel’s path. Scarcely had he taken a breath; when a third bigger creature barreled towards him! And the fourth’s clawed feet sent rocks and dirt flying—its mouth open, loud and hungry. Segen dodged to its left—curled and rolled to the right and hurled himself onto a jagged rock. Pushing off with a grunt, he fled miserably.

Swift were his legs—as the creature nearly bore him to the ground! The earth behind him torn asunder, marked by its dreadful cries… Hurry! He slipped and skittered like a roach back into the hole from whence he came, burrowing deeper into the narrow cleft; as the rocks above were scored by its fury. The ground trembled; Its arms reaching halfway, nearly grasping him. Its tongue—long and barbed, serrated—as it thrashed wildly, leaving a trail of slime; and Segen tucked his legs close.

He staggered to his feet, a hand clamped to his left shoulders—a wetness seeping within his leather jerkin and between his bare fingers. He was wounded; blood flowed down his wrist, his palm.

Segen was yet among the living; but oh, the pain was fierce. His heart hammered within his chest—each throb was warm and fiery, an endless surge of screams that told at him all too keenly of his own mortality.