The old tower under the eclipse [https://i.imgur.com/nRxwaNm.jpg]

Winter clung to the temple walls. In the still night air, the tang of fresh mortar cut through the dank, ancient foundations.

Kalmar Tull inhaled both scents through his tajuk — the black cloth mask covering his lower face. Only two weeks ago, the base of the temple had been lost beneath a tangle of frost-tipped briars. To an outsider, the pile of broken stones, black with woodland slime, would have meant nothing. To the Mayqsa, it meant everything.

It had taken a fortnight for Kalmar and his warrior tajukai to restore the temple, stone by stone, to its original construction, while Underlord Mai Luth and the four Consecrate priests stood by them in the cold, bolstering their labour with prayer.

The temple was windowless, in accordance with the Mayqsa’s devotion to the dark. A bar of moonlight fell through the open door, revealing curved walls that tapered up to a small circular roof, supported by greenwood joists. Apart from the foundations, the stone altar was the only relic to have survived the tower’s collapse.

Kalmar glanced through the door, where the Underlord and his priests knelt before the altar, reciting the final cycle of adoration. A hollow was carved into the altar’s top face, the size of a man’s hand. Kalmar did not know its purpose. It was a holy mystery that only the priests were privy to.

The tattered book on a stand beside it, however, was familiar. The Dismarat’s binding was disintegrating and many pages had been lost, but the prophecy remained. The leather cover was swollen with damp, embossed with the outline of a white circle against the black. The black banner hanging above the altar bore the same circle — the insignia of The Eclipse Foretold.

Kalmar focused on the moonlight falling across the threshold, shrugging off the cold creeping beneath his leather armour. So much had been promised, so much sacrificed, for these few pages.

The rhythm of prayer and the smell of smouldering camphor were familiar rituals, but Kalmar struggled to maintain his inner calm.

Only ten tajukai had been chosen for this duty, ten out of eight hundred. Kalmar and his men would stand guard outside until the prophecy was fulfilled. They were not allowed to witness it.

‘Close the door,’ he ordered, as midday approached.

The door made a dull clunk as Tannor, his second-in-command, shut it.

‘Face out,’ Kalmar ordered his men, ensuring they formed a perfect circle around the temple. The curved swords strapped to their backs — the sebassai — were useless here. Nevertheless, he bent to his duty, waiting for the light levels to dim.

Shortly after, the night-sky turned red, as the blood eclipse smothered the moon. Kalmar slowed his breathing to drive down his spiking anticipation. The light-level dropped until the tajukai were barely visible, but Kalmar could sense their position without using his eyes. His ability to see in the dark was one shared by all Mayqsa.

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

Kalmar Tull braced himself in the stance of constant readiness, and waited.

~

Inside the temple everything went black, save the camphor embers’ glow within the censers. Consecrate Olckos harnessed his night sight, which revealed his fellow Consecrate priests, Underlord Mai Luth, the altar and holy book, as clear as day.

The Underlord removed a large, red gem – the godstone - from his robes, and set it within the hollow upon the altar.

‘Huthla hatha Mayaqdor nebass y’chem,’ the Underlord recited, as he prostrated himself. The words meant, ‘Arise, Mayaqdor, for the Mayqsa are ready to receive you.’

Anticipation charged the air. Olckos’s spirit thrilled to be part of this ancient catechism, one that had not been performed for over a millennium. Once the prophecy was fulfilled, the Mayqsa would taste glory. Glory in the dark.

The Underlord stopped chanting and raised his hands to the godstone to receive his reward.

Olckos’s heart pounded in the pitch-black. His scalp prickled with heat despite the ambient cold. For a long moment the temple remained silent. Then, the godstone blazed a furious red. A pale, grey glow erupted from its facets, forming a thick column of incandescent smoke.

Sweat trickled down the back of Olckos’s neck. Overwhelmed by awe, he shuffled closer to the altar.

Fingers of smoke twisted around the glowing column flowing from the godstone. Once the intertwining strands of smoke reached the top, they arced backwards like slowly flowing water, heading for the Underlord and his priests.

The smoke’s vile smell smothered the incense. Olckos felt a twinge of unease. It has been ordained, he told himself. But the new presence in the temple felt anything but holy. It rode on the smoke, bringing desperation and fathomless dark.

Olckos fought his instinct to turn away as the smoke caressed his face. The omnipotent reek was worse than week-old, gangrenous wounds, worse than the festering stench surrounding the prison hulks south of White Star Harbour.

He held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, but the smoke wormed its way inside his nostrils and ears and his tightly-shut eyelids. An involuntary shudder made his teeth clack together. He swallowed back bile.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this!

Amidst the hazy smoke-light, a chorus of low groans and gasping entreaties to Mayaqdor rose around him. Underlord Mai Luth twisted and jerked on his knees before letting out a chilling scream.

The agonised cry made Olckos’s heart pound. He got to his feet, determined to reach the Underlord and offer his help, but before he could reach him a panicking priest barged past, slamming the breath from his body.

Olckos staggered and caught his hip on the edge of the altar. Hissing in pain, he fought to stay conscious. A strange buzzing sounded in his ears as he felt his way round the wall to reach the door. By the time he found the ring-handle, his lungs were on fire.

He staggered outside, clutching his belly. Above the gloomy forest, a red circle hung in the sky. The perfect centre of the eclipse.

Olckos dropped to his knees, hacking smoke from his lungs. He clawed gouts in the sodden earth as he broke down, sobbing. Another Consecrate priest fell through the doorway, writhing and moaning on the ground. He was shrouded in smoke, like the marsh wraiths of legend.

Olckos crawled over to Kalmar Tull and grabbed onto his boot. He struck his breastbone with his fist to clear his chest, his breath rattling in his throat. The expelled smoke split into thin offshoots which sank into the forest floor and drifted through the trees.

‘What happened?’ Kalmar put out a hand to steady the priest. ‘Tell me.’

‘We cannot endure the holy smoke. It is too powerful.’ Olckos swayed on his knees, hit by a wave of giddiness. ‘The Underlord is still inside. You have to get him out!’

‘Tajukai are not allowed in the temple,’ Kalmar said bluntly. ‘It is forbidden.’

‘Your sin will be forgiven,’ Olckos hissed, fighting unconsciousness. ‘Get the Underlord out!’