Chapter Fifty-One: Revelry in the Dark

“A hunter hunts under a full moon. A demon hunts under no moon.”

—Elgaraf Moonshade, Relict Hunter of the Second Age

Morene’s house at the edge of the woods had always been a calm, quiet place for Talberon to think when he needed to be alone. It was small and old, handbuilt by her father himself from the crude logs of the surrounding birch trees, but it was well-kept and cozy in the way that a child’s hiding place might be. Talberon still remembered when the Prophet had first taken him under her wing, before the Skyward Circle had been founded and they’d moved to Morene’s Perch. He remembered learning to wield his Soulsong in the woods around them, climbing the mountain and spending long periods of time camping in the wild, communing with nature. Those had been hard times. Their way of life had been simple—drawing water from the well every morning, lighting the cooking fire, gathering firewood, watering the garden. Making the trip to town every week to replenish supplies. Sweeping the bare floorboards every night, making the place neat and tidy. Every step had been a challenge, yet when he turned in to sleep at the end of the day in his simple cotton bedroll, he always felt an immense sense of achievement.

So it was that when Talberon found himself on the back verandah of the house, sitting on the steps that were so familiar to him, he knew immediately that he was dreaming. The house no longer existed, and it hadn’t existed for several thousand years—yet he couldn’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia welling from deep within him.

-Talberon.-

A voice he never thought he’d hear again spoke. He sprung to his feet and turned around and there was Morene standing in the doorway, still young, still bright-eyed and black-haired. A feeling he didn’t recognize swelled inside his chest. Suddenly he felt like he was ten again, taken under her wing from the orphanage and all those who’d despised him so.

“Master,” he croaked. He bolted up the steps to touch her, to make sure she was real, but as soon as his fingertips brushed her arm she disappeared in a flurry of black feathers. Talberon fell to his knees, grabbing at the air.

-You shouldn’t be here.-

He spun around, searching. The sky had darkened, with heavy, thick clouds creeping across the sun. A wind was blowing from the west, riling the treetops and kicking the dust above the ground. Tall grassweeds bent under its might, rippling across the woods in wide arcs.

-Talberon, Talberon… what am I going to do with you…-

A crow was sitting on one of the branches nearby, staring down at him with knowing eyes. He spotted the tell-tale hunch on its back; its third wing.

“Master,” he said again. “I’ve failed you.”

-Listen to yourself,- the crow said, projecting its voice inside his head. -Look around you and tell me what you see.-

“I see my home,” Talberon replied. “I see a place that has seen better days. And I see storm clouds that cover the light.”

-Come now, Talberon. Look more closely. Look beneath that which lies in plain sight.-

He stepped forward into the yard and looked at the trees. He looked at the grass and the weeds lining the landscape all the way into the woods of his childhood home.

“I see… the wind,” he murmured.

And suddenly, the world fell away. The ground disintegrated, falling into an endless cavity, taking the hut and its surroundings with it. Talberon found himself high in the sky, staring down at Faengard below him, from the Sleeping Twins and the mountains that lay to the far east, to the highlands and the Blight-stained City of Twilight, to the deserts of the east and even further. In the centre of it all was Lauriel’s spine and Raginrok, the Summit of the World, and chained at the very top to the ice-cold peak was the World-Eater.

The wind blew from the west, trailing along the abandoned roads and settlements, through the wild forestlands now smothered in snow, picking up force and momentum. It began to hum, growing louder in volume, an increasing roar like the roar of a river rushing violently down the mountain. It was a gale, a stormwind that brought with it the thoughts and feelings of people all over the land, swirling around the mountains, spinning into a vortex with its centre above Raginrok. A storm like none he’d ever seen before was coming.

-The Winds of Fate have begun to blow,- Morene said.

They were shining, tiny dots of light all over Faengard. Among them was a small cluster along the slopes of Raginrok, inching its way to the top, and in that cluster of lights was one that shone brighter than any other.

“They’re almost there,” Talberon whispered.

-I asked you to take him to Raginrok, and you did. It does not take much to set the winds in motion.-

“Does that mean… does that mean I can…”

Talberon looked up towards the golden light of the heavens. He couldn’t be sure but he thought there was a temple high in the sky, above even the stars themselves. A shining temple of white marble, a hall of pillars and statues where heroes and legends dined among a grassfield of spirits. He had been alive for so long, lived through so much, and the end was finally in sight.

-No.-

The word cut into him like a belt of daggers. He jerked and began to fall.

-Not yet, little sparrow. Not yet.-

“Not yet?” He was tired, though. He wanted to be free, to spread his wings and fly.

-Not yet. There are still things you have left to do. -

Ah, Talberon smiled faintly. The crow circled above him, squawking.

“Goodbye then, Master.”

-Goodbye, Talberon.-

And he plunged down towards the earth.

#

It was night in the war camp, and the soldiers were gathered around the fire in the few hours before curfew. Bran sat on the outside next to Harren the Wall and Adit, listening as Sam the bard entertained them. The boys had been tasked to run supplies down from Aldoran, and with the sun setting sooner than they’d expected, they’d been forced to stay the night. Sam had brought his lute with him, much to the delight of the soldiers.

“When the battle ended and Sonata reached the Cavern of Souls, she found her lover Selin there. Selin had defeated the enemy, but lay dying in a pool of his own blood.”

Some of the soldiers leaned forward, staring intently at Sam as he continued his tale. His fingers moved slowly and mournfully across the lute strings.

“Selin had sacrificed his own life to protect Sonata, and as he took his last breaths, he whispered something to her which we will never know. Sonata cried out in grief as he fell still, and even the cavern itself seemed to bow its head in sorrow.

“Life is a fragile thing. It can be taken easily, yet it is incredibly hard to create or restore. Sonata had always been gifted with her Soulsong, but even she was hesitant at what she was about to do. However, without Selin, her life was meaningless, and so she began to sing.

“Her song was a eulogy, a recount of her travels with Selin, from the moment they’d met as young children in the streets of Siraph to their journey across Faengard, performing before Kings and Queens, Lords and Ladies, Dukes and Duchesses. She poured into it her heart, singing of the time he’d sang songs to her under the moonlight, the time he’d rescued her from her from the shackles of her family, the time he’d gone hungry for a week to scrounge up enough money for a gift. She sang for three days and three nights, without stopping to eat or drink or rest, never faltering in her tone. So powerful was her magic that even the souls listened and cried, and the gods came down and wept, and the plants and animals shook in sorrow as the caverns echoed her voice.

“At last she fell over from exhaustion, and by that time the entire cavern had filled with people from all over the world who had come to mourn her loss. As much as the gods wanted to, they could not reverse death. Cenedria cried as the White Women approached where Selin’s body lay, their heads bowed in grief, veils pulled back from their faces. His time had come; his body would be returned to the earth, his soul taken to Vallaheim to be judged for entry to the Hall of Heroes.

“Sonata’s song drew to a close, and she whispered her last words to him and the White Women.”

“Take me away with you, for the sun will never again rise,

And the birds will never again sing,

And the flowers will never again bloom.

Take me away with you, to the place where journeys end.”

“And the White Women stood still, weeping. Sonata’s song spread out from the cavern, across the mountains and the valleys, the rivers and lakes, through the towns and cities, and everywhere, people turned to the sky. Even those who had not heard her and those who could not understand her, they were struck by a sense of grief so deep that their eyes blurred.

“Sonata poured the last of her spirit into her parting farewell, and a miracle occured. Everywhere on Faengard, men and women, children, animals, even the trees, they shed a tear. One tear for each, to send their condolences. The sorrow that emanated rippled through the fabric of reality itself.

“And Wyd heard her.

“No one knows how or why, but Wyd heard her and gave her his blessing. And as the White Women took hold of Selin’s cold wrists, they felt life and warmth return to him, and his eyelids give a flutter. Selin opened his eyes and saw Sonata, and she was overcome with a relief that could not be expressed in words. The cavern erupted into cheers as the two lovers reunited, having overcome the greatest obstacle of all—death.

“In the aftermath of Sonata’s song, which they named the Lifesong, Sonata found that she could no longer sing or even talk, and so she became Sonata the Speechless. But she had her Selin, and she could still play the fiddle that he had gifted her all those years ago, and that was all that mattered—for in the end, the power of music was so great that it could even undo death.”

Sam finished on a long, thoughtful note. The soldiers were quiet for a while, listening to the fire crackle. The story had left them in a sombre mood, even the effusive ones of the lot.

“Would be nice to have a lady like that,” one of them finally said. “Goodness knows what my own missus is doing now. Talking up the innkeeper, no doubt.”

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Some of the other men gave half-hearted laughs, but their hearts were elsewhere, on the women and children that were waiting for them at home.

“I wouldn’t mind if the relicts attacked right now,” another man said, downing his ale. “Get things over and done with; this waiting is killing me. What’s it been now, almost a half-year?”

“Half a year’s nothing, brother. I was out on the plains for two years back when Lord Syrvan had his campaign against the Nullar.” The grizzled veteran stroked his beard. “Was a long two years. In that time my daughter had a child, and my mother died of deathpox.”

Sam stood up and began packing his lute back into its case. Bran reached out and grabbed his arm. “How about another one, Sam?” he asked. Thoughts of Evaine swirled in his head. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep if he let them be. “Something happier to end the night.”

“I’m tired,” the boy said. “And we have an early start tomorrow.”

“Come on, lad. Here, have another drink!” Someone thrust a flagon of ale under Sam’s face. “Don’t tell the Sergeant; this one’s on me.”

Sam looked at it uncertainly. More men began to act up, pressing for another story.

“I can’t think of any happy stories,” Sam said with a sigh, taking the flask and poppin it open. He took a swig, wiping a trickle of gold from his chin. “Any suggestions?”

“How about the tale of Al’Ashar?” asked Adit. “If there’s such a thing. I’ve been here for almost a year now and I’ve never heard it. Why do they call him the Oathbreaker?”

“Aye, that’s a good one. Something to take our mind off our sorrows.”

“Do it, lad. It’s not every day we get a bard down at our camp. I’ll pour you another when you’re done.”

Sam looked longingly at the wineskin in his hand and gave a resigned nod. “Okay, then. But this is the last one, understand?” He took out his lute and began to play. The soldiers settled into their seats, falling quiet.

“This is the tale of a god—a god who was once among the greatest of gods, taking a seat among the Pantheon itself. It is also the tale of a traitor, one who betrayed his kin, and the tale of a fall—the fall of one who was by no means evil, yet somehow became the greatest evil of them all. This is the tale of Al’Ashar, the Oathbreaker, the Forsaken One who rides upon the unravelling of the world.”

Sam brought his fingers to the lute. At the same time he began to hum, and as the two melodies met in harmony, their song pulled him into its embrace.

It took him to the beginning of the world, a humble era where gods walked a raw earth rife with flowers and sweet smells, where the sky was blue and the sun bright. Sam’s lute was like the trickling of spring-water as it wound its way through the hills, the whistle of wind as it combed the grass in waves. His voice complemented the instrument with each step, providing the buzzing of the bees and the rustle of the leaves. It was a tranquil opening, yet it lacked one thing—life.

Sam’s hum turned into a voice, and then there was life.

The seven gods of the Pantheon rose into being, one after another, and Sam paid respect to them each. There was Anturia, mother of nature and the wild, whose tune was calm and soothing. There was Zaxiem, god of caves and all things dark and deep, and his tune was the hollow breathing of a chasm. There was Eolas, the messenger god of wisdom and logic, watcher of cities, and his was a merry jingle both short and memorable. Kalador was next, a harsh trumpeting of chords mimicking war-horns across the desert plains, followed by the soft, slow, almost sleepy song of Cenedria, bursting with love and fertility. Then came the successive crescendos of the sea god Aoshan, carer of merchants, and the heavenly thunder and sun-fire of the sky god, Lauriel. At last, there was Al’Ashar—youngest of the gods and least important, god of the moon and the creatures of the dark, nothing more than a modest trill tacked on to the end of a loud and colourful symphony.

The Pantheon held a meeting, and they decided to create a pact—the pact of Creation. There were lesser gods and deities walking the earth during this age, the Age of Gods, but their time was drawing to a close. The torch of Faengard had to be passed on to its next custodians.

It was a simple pact, and it had but two rules. Each member of the Pantheon was to create a race to populate the realm, but no race could be overly stronger than any other, and each god could only create one.

Mother Anturia created the Treelocs, peaceful guardians of the earth who stood still in the passage of time. Sam’s singing slowed to a crawl, matching the great lumbering of the giant trees as they tended to their unmoving herds.

Zaxiem created the dweor, stout beings of stone and scale with an eye for the treasures of the earth, hardy and resilient but short and overly reserved. Sam’s lute broke into a quick string of high-pitched notes, and Bran immediately thought of pickaxes digging against stone walls underground.

Kalador created the eotun, giants of the mountains and plains with monstrous strength and resilience. They were unrivalled in the art of war but overly bloodthirsty and fought amongst themselves. Their battles were like the booming of thunder.

Aoshan modelled the dragons after the mysterious serpents of the sea, giving them wings to venture into lands unknown and fire to warm themselves. The dragons lived for thousands of years, but were a slow race to reach maturity and breed, even slower than the Treelocs.

Cenedria created the fae, fair beings of light and wind with Spirit in their veins. Their tune was a whimsical one, reflecting both their bright and sporadic nature.

Eolas created man, who was the weakest of the races, but made up for it with resilience, abundance and the ability to quickly adapt.

Lauriel created the sun felen, graceful beings taking characteristics from both man and beast, but sacrificed quantity for quality. Their song was an alien arrangement of man’s.

Finally there was Al’Ashar, creator of the moon felen, who were almost identical to Lauriel’s creations but of the moon instead of the sun. However, Al’Ashar was not happy, for the moon was inferior to the sun, and so his creations were strictly lesser to Lauriel’s. He had already been given what he felt was the short end of the stick, and so he created another race in secret to balance the scales: the relicts.

Sam paused for a moment, watching the spellbound audience. He had shown his prowess with the lute before, but even so Bran was surprised at how capable he was. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the bard held an innate talent for Songweaving.

The moment was over no sooner than it had begun, a breath of air before plunging back into the ocean. Sam began to play again, continuing his story.

The relicts were accompanied by harsh, discordant noises, a jarring collection of notes that were painful to the ear and yet somehow still forming a melody. They were abominations, disgraces to nature, half man, half beast with none of the grace of the felen and all the resilience of the dweor. They were stronger, faster and more long-lived than humans, and bred even more quickly. Although they were nowhere near as powerful as the giants and the dragons or the Treelocs and the fae, they were a clear upset to the balance of Creation. Al’Ashar had broken the Oath.

A great argument broke out amongst the Pantheon, stopping just short of a war. With seven gods against one, Al’Ashar conceded and agreed to be exiled along with his relicts. His prison would be an entire world separated from Faengard—the mysterious realm known only as Nephilheim.

But exile was just the beginning of Al’Ashar’s concerns, for the gods had further punishment in mind. They feared the relicts. If the Oathbreaker’s forces ever found a way back to Faengard, there was a serious danger of being overpowered, especially when some of the relicts were as strong as the gods themselves.

Because of this, they waged war on him.

They turned Nephilheim into the place it is today, the cold, dry wasteland devoid of life. They robbed it of its Spirit, permanently scarring it and hindering its regrowth. They punished the relicts for a sin they didn’t commit—the sin of existing. Al’Ashar tried to protect his subjects, but he was outnumbered and lost half his face in the battle. They gouged his eyes so he could no longer see, and his ears so he could no longer hear, turning him into first of the Faceless.

The Oathbreaker was devastated. To him, the relicts were like his children. The gods had massacred his children, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than revenge. Wrath overtook him and ate him from the inside out. He became the embodiment of fury, hatred, violence and carnage. The Pantheon had not been kind to him, and so they would pay.

“And pay they did, when the Age of the Gods drew to its end. But that is a story for another time.”

Sam stopped and waited, the last note of his song fading into the night. The soldiers gave him a moment and then brought their hands together in a rowdy applause.

“You spin a fine yard, lad,” one of them said, handing Sam another flagon. “Any time you want to come again, feel free. You’ve made an old man’s night lively again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sam said, smiling politely as several other soldiers slapped him on the back. Bran glanced at the timepiece atop one of the tents and blanched. He was late to his shift.

“Al’Ashar’s eyes and ears,” he cursed. “Harren, Adit, Sam. I’ve got to go; I was due to take over the night’s watch half an hour ago.”

“Al’Ashar’s eyes and ears indeed,” Sam said, tying his ale to his belt. “You’d better go then.”

Bran leapt to his feet and ran, leaving the other runner boys behind to discuss the tale. His sandals slapped across the dirt as he dashed out of the clearing and into the treeline, heading down the slope to where his post was.

He broke out of the canopy a few minutes later, breathless, with more than a few bruises on his knees. He’d fallen over several times in the dark, tripping across gnarled roots and jagged rock. Bran peered up at the tree, searching for the boy that should have been there.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Can’t see a thing.”

It was a moonless night, the black, inky type that swallowed everything in sight. Bran placed his hands on the tree and began to climb, his pack chafing across his shoulder. He scrambled up the tree so quickly he would have impressed Ein and Evaine, standing atop the higher branches with a puzzled frown on his face. There was no one in sight.

Then, he spotted the note.

I’ll be sure to let the Sergeant know of your tardiness. I’m off to bed now.

—Jarrod

Bran closed the piece of paper into a ball and swore. The sentry before him must have left already, having gotten tired of waiting. Jarrod should have stayed even if his replacement was late, but being the person at fault in the first place, Bran couldn’t blame him. The shifts were long after all, and he’d probably grown tired.

Hopefully nothing’s happened since then, he thought. Surely it couldn’t have. It had only been half an hour, after all.

He took out the spyglass from his bag and looked through it, peering at the relict camp in the distance. Black shapes moved about the Blight, indiscernible in the pitch black. Nothing out of the ordinary. He peeled his eye away, and that was when the bush below him rustled.

Bran froze, not even daring to breath. The rustling continued—it was moving towards him. He crawled down a few branches and quietly strung his bow, flinching as the tree creaked beneath him.

A Worgal ran across the space between two trees and disappeared into the darkness.

Bran stifled a gasp. He’d seen it unobstructed for a full second. There was no doubt to what it was. Something else rustled to his left, and then his right. He spun around, scanning the ground on either side. Dark shapes milled past, rushing up the slope with a fluid swiftness.

The relicts were advancing.

Wyd almighty, I let them past! What do I do?

Panic filled Bran’s mind. He could call out now, draw their attention, hope to warn the camp. But he was too far away for them to hear, and there was no way of telling how many were ahead of him. Another group of Worgals trampled up the slope, breathing harshly in the night.

There’s too many of them. There’s nothing I can do now; drawing their attention would hinder them for a few moments at most. He tried to reassure himself of that, that he wasn’t in a position to do anything, but he still felt guilty as he clambered down the tree as quietly as he could.

Please don’t see me, please don’t see me, please don’t see me…

He somehow made it to the edge of the river without coming across anything. The Arrien was well-lit, as well-lit as it could be on such a night. If the relicts were flanking, this was the path they’d be least likely to use. It would take longer to reach the camp this way, but it was infinitely safer.

Please be all right, Bran prayed as he began to run.

The night grew ever darker as he followed the river upstream, flinching at the slightest noises in the woods. The stories Sam had told around the fire seemed like a lifetime away. Had the relicts reached them? No. Of course they’d reached the camp by now. Were they still alive? That was the question he should have been asking.

At some point while breaking in and out of the tree canopies, he spotted a cloud of smoke in the distance. As he stopped to listen, the sounds of screams and steel rang through the air. Bran paled and quickened his pace.

By the time he was close enough to identify each of the columns of smoke that formed the cloud, he knew it was too late. It was quiet; so quiet that he couldn’t even hear the birds and the insects. The only sounds he could make out were the low grunting of Worgals and Celadons, and the crackle of fire as it devoured wood. He peeked through the gap in the trees and suppressed a cry.

The camp was in ruins. The tents were alight, the bonfires streaking across the ground like the brushstrokes of some sadistic demon. Worgals ran between the flames, looting, pillaging, plundering, destroying. Celadons trampled dead bodies, sniffing out those who were still alive, killing them before they could put up a fight. Most of the soldiers had been caught by surprise, unarmed and unarmoured, sleeping in their quarters. A Bloodmane stalked along the perimeter, clearing the site piece by piece.

Bran felt his bladder loosen, warming his pants with hot, heavy liquid. He clutched his bow tightly, even though he knew arrows of stone and steel would be useless. Flames flickered over the bodies of men he’d known, whose faces had been drunken and boisterous only an hour ago. The Rhinegold plate of the Kingsblade who’d been tasked to watch over them lay bloodied and broken on the ground. Next to him was the Apocalypse Knight Bran had spotted before, the masked swordsman with the wolf-ears and tail—the man-wolf. It barked orders at the Worgals as they cleared the ruins, lugging back their spoils of war.

One of the tent flaps opened and a group of soldiers stepped out. Bran’s hopes rose, and he watched them intently. But as they circled the flames and went to join the swordsman, he realized what they truly were.

Faceless.

Anger boiled inside him. He knew some of those faces, some of the Sergeants and bannermen, the sentries that taken him over during a few of the perimeter watches. He felt his fingers twitch, but he kept them clenched in his fists. Shooting and killing them would achieve nothing.

No. Right now, the best thing he could do was to return to the city and alert the Commander and the King.

The Worgals howled at the sky, proclaiming their victory. Some of them lumbered to the corpses and began to dig in, teeth and claws flashing among rent flesh.. Bran swallowed his rage and bolted, making for the walls of Aldoran in the distance, the City of Twilight that slept peacefully, oblivious to what had happened this night. He ran because he was afraid—not so much of the relicts behind him, but of the what awaited the city if he didn’t.