Shadows at Nightfall

Chapter 1: Ruins

“I cannot escape the feeling that this second momentous journey of my life may be even more significant. Yet for all we accomplished and all I learned, I cannot escape equally feeling utterly insufficient for what lies ahead.”

– Anargen’s Travail Journal, 30 Windechel

1606 Middle Era 

The cool grey of the cloud embattled sky above did little to beautify Glastonae. Underfoot shards of stone pummeled to gravel crunched. The early day coolness that spring accords lingered in absence of full sun. Of all the places Anargen imagined he might find purpose and direction for the quest’s next steps—this was the last. On his last visit to the sprawling ruins of a city and fortress destroyed centuries ago by a battle that was only a victory for anyone on paper he had found the place chilling. Night’s pall made it seem skeletal. In the day it was far worse. The tragedy of shattered homes and buildings that stood as fractured husks devoid of life, filled only with shadows and memory of pain and loss. This was beyond skeletonized, it was the sun-bleached bones a victim murdered in the most vicious of manners. Of Glastonae and Bracken, it would be difficult for Anargen to say which he was less inclined to ever return to again.

“Hey, you slug, hurry up!” Caeserus called. “We’re already behind.”

“Sorry,” he called and picked up the pace. He was not nearly so interested in seeing what lay ahead as the others. To be fair he already knew.

Sir Cinaed their mentor and guide had already come to him early that morning. Found Anargen in a tower where the werebeasts cornered them months ago.

That Anargen knew they were now picking their way across the city to find a suitable bridge to a lower vault of the fortress higher up was something he could not share. He couldn’t tell Bertinand and Terrillian who he’d journeyed with and fought all but to the death beside in Ordumair what he knew. Least of all could he tell Caeserus, his best friend. Because Sir Cinaed’s confiding in him and his unwavering confidence in the Knight Errant of their Order was already creating a rift. Jealousy or exasperation at his naïveté, Anargen couldn’t be certain. In either case, the end result was the same.

A rock plinked off the sleek silver cuirass he wore. It sizzled as the low flames emitted from the High King’s words inscribed on the armor touched the projectile. Anargen glanced upward. Overhead a sprawling causeway of the fortress at least thirty feet above terminated abruptly in midair. It should have connected with a sentry tower on the inner curtain wall of the fortress but from the charred wreckage of stone around him, that link had long been broken. 

Anargen jogged ahead to close the gap with the other teens. They were close now. Beyond that, he knew no blade of the Lowlands could best the armor and implements of those in service of the High King of All Realms. Even so, he did not wish to test himself against the tons of rock he’d just passed under should they collapse.

Falling in line a few steps behind the others he overheard Bertinand telling Terrillian, “What has two eyes, a nose, and a mouth that’s hanging open?”

“Hm, I don’t know.”

“The Ord who has to fix this place up!”

Terrillian laughed and gave Bertinand a shove. “That was terrible.”

Anargen winced. His friends apparently had much lighter views of this place. Though he couldn’t fathom how. It reminded him too solidly of Ordumair in that terrible hour when it seemed certain that they, along with every Ord in that city were destined to die by the Grey Scourge’s hand. Or rather claws. Knowing that monster was out there somewhere gave him pause, though it wasn’t in fear, so much as wonder at when the fiend would reveal himself again.

All of a sudden, Caeserus stopped and faced the others. “Better get focused. Looks like we’re almost there and we’ll need our wits about us.”

Anargen immediately understood why. They were at the head of a short causeway over the River Glaston. Fifteen feet or more below the waters churned and frothed against the columns supporting the stone walk. Small chunks of the bridge were out along the way meaning no one could afford to be distracted while crossing.

Of equal importance, it looked as though the last of the honor guard for the Ord Thane Duncoin were just finishing crossing themselves. The group assembled on the other side before a door under what once would’ve been an impressive arcade. Standing out noticeably among the company dwarfs was the imposing form of Sir Cinaed. As the only man among the group, he would’ve stuck out, but Sir Cinaed was big and brawny by any standard. Sometimes at moments like this Anargen could see past the man’s humility to the reality of his true identity as Merdoch MacCowell, Defender of the Northern Realm. A title he had proven to not brandish nor bear lightly.

Once across the bridge, Cinaed moved to stand beside his charges. “It would appear we are all assembled, dear Thane. It is doubtful any have entered the vaults in over a hundred years. We must take the utmost care.”

“Aye, the secrets of my ancestors have remained trapped here for too long. It is time to recover Ordumair’s heritage.” With that, the Thane gestured ceremonially to the quartet of Ords flanking him. They bore up what looked like an improvised battering ram formed hastily from the trunk of an elm tree. Wasting no time, they backed up and struck the great door, sending a shudder through it. Again, they rammed it and there was a high-pitched sound almost like a cry of pain. Fissures ran the length of the door.

While Anargen watched, Bertinand leaned over and commented, “You’re welcome to go first. I’m betting all we find in there are spiders and snakes.”

Beside them, Caeserus must have overheard, because he snorted. “I’d be more concerned about the whole place collapsing on us.”

“Or the river having eaten away and stones supporting this part of the fortress,” Terrillian added.

Anargen glanced at Sir Cinaed, who was observing the ramming efforts very closely. He didn’t seem worried at all, only intently focused. Watching their mentor, Anargen was startled by the sharp crack and subsequent crash as the door gave and collapsed inward, along with part of its frame. Unlike the Knight Hall in Ordumair that had remained undisturbed for decades, the passage lost to centuries did not erupt with a cloud of dust. Nor did there appear to be a large number of webs from spiders.

That somehow didn’t surprise Anargen. In a city where moss and shrubs scarce took root and only crows seemed to roost, why shouldn’t the innermost sanctums be as dead and desiccated as the exterior?

“We need not stand outside gawking. If what we seek is inside, we best hurry. The stones under us aren’t the surest.” Duncoin commented drily. At his bidding, each of the honor guards retrieved torches they’d prepared and lit them.

“What do we seek?” Terrillian mused to Caeserus.

Anargen almost answered but caught himself in time. He noticed Sir Cinaed eyed him with a brow raised before clearing his throat. “It is rumored the second oracle of Thane Ornand is here. One that might clarify the oracle we found in Ordumair.”

Under his breath, Caeserus commented, “I don’t see how an Ord from hundreds of years ago would know better than we do where our road should lead.”

At first, it didn’t appear Cinaed had heard Caeserus and followed after the Ords into the opened passage. Once all four teens were in the shadowy confines he stopped and faced them. “The road we follow isn’t our own. That’s why the wisdom of one who served well the High King is of value.”

Anargen couldn’t quite make out Caeserus’s expression, but he thought he saw him roll his eyes. Whatever his grievance with Cinaed, he followed dutifully all the same. Which was all Anargen dare hope from his friend at this point.

Along the winding corridor, reliefs were carved into the walls which looked vaguely reminiscent of the designs Anargen had seen in Ordumair and Valesgard. He guessed they might have been elsewhere in Glastonae but this vault seemed untouched by the city’s pervasive destruction. Though it had its own damages. Mildew was in every corner and the odor of mold was heavy. There was a loud rumbling sound like the belly of some massive beast. Steady and persistent and unnerving.

Ahead the Ords stopped and Anargen soon understood why. They had entered a cavernous room that was better lit than other parts of the passage leading there. Much of the floor was missing and there were shafts of light peaking in from the ceiling where light filtered in from outside.

“With so much damage from water, any parchments old as the oracle wouldn’t likely have survived,” Anargen commented.

“I’m more worried about the floor falling out from underneath us. Do you hear that?” Bertinand replied.

Concentrating on it, he realized where the sound he heard had come from. Below them roared the River Glaston, churning away furious as ever. Jagged bits of collapsed stone stuck out from the water giving the illusion of teeth and completed the picture of a feral beast’s maw.

“Welcome to Glastonae’s Archives,” Duncoin announced over the river’s noise. He swept his hands around the room. “There are shelves in all four walls, in keeping with middle Ord custom. The tome we seek would be in a ceremonial chest in the wall that represents what is ahead, if anywhere.”

Following the invisible line of his direction, Anargen grimaced. It was on the opposite side of the huge hole.

“How wide is this chamber?” Cinaed asked.

“At least twenty feet, probably thirty,” Duncoin answered.

“It doesn’t matter,” one of the Ord guards, Feingohl, replied. “There’s no way for us to get across.”

“Of course, it matters,” Caeserus blurted out. “This is our Quest. Shadows are coming. When they arrive, there will be sorrow and suffering and death.”

The bawrnig regarded the teen with a sort of condescending pity. “True as that may be, it does not change the realities at hand.” Turning back to Duncoin, Feingohl began again, “Could the walls be scaled like a cliff face?”

“Unlikely. Too slick from the river’s moisture.” He brushed a hand along the nearest wall and rubbed the residue between his gloved fingers.

“What about building a bridge?” Bertinand tossed out since Caeserus had already broken into the conversation with their betters.

“There’s no way to bring tools or an assembled bridge to this point. The causeways would collapse. All I see we could …” Feingohl continued the discussion, but Anargen was watching Sir Cinaed. He had drifted silently to the right of the room and stood staring over the pit. A shudder ran through his huge frame.

Anargen slipped away from the intensifying bickering and got to his mentor’s side. “Are you okay, Sir?”

There were faint beads of sweat on Cinaed’s forehead, illuminated by both Knights’ armor. Another faint tremor raced through Cinaed.

“I’m okay, lad,” he insisted. “Just recalling a dream is all.”

“It must have been a nightmare if it looked like this place.”

A weak smirk turned up one corner of Cinaed’s mouth. “Aye. But there might be another way.”

The Knight Errant pointed to the wall. Along it ran small, jagged outcroppings of the fallen floor. From this vantage, it looked like the arches supporting the flooring were still intact. It was hard to tell what, if anything, else held up the tiny islands which led all the way across to where the relevant collections were stored. Cinaed drifted closer to the edge. 

“Sir, what are you doing?” Caeserus asked. Anargen turned to see his friend wasn’t alone. Everyone was now watching Sir Cinaed. 

“I believe we can reach what we seek by keeping to this wall.”

“A wonderful discovery,” Duncoin commented after a moment of examining it. “Except none of the outcroppings are connected. Many are too far for a horse to jump.”

“Or a werebeast,” Bertinand commented drily. 

Scowling at Bertinand, Cinaed replied, “I beg to differ. During our time assisting with the restoration of Ordumair, I noticed Anargen here is quite the mountain goat.”

Anargen’s cheeks burned. “What?”

“I watched you leaping about on the rubble to climb up and secure tethers to remove the stones blocking the entrance. Modesty need not remove your wits about what you can do.”

“Humility is one thing Defender,” Feingohl began. “These distances look nigh unreachable.”

“If you trust the stones to start with,” Duncoin added crossing his arms. A reminder of his earlier concerns plain in the rise of his brows.

Cinaed turned his back on both Ords. It earned a scowl and a roll of Duncoin’s eyes. The Defender of the Realm gripped Anargen’s arms near the shoulders. “Do not worry after what they’ve said. We must have the documents contained on those shelves right away.”

“But Sir!” Anargen protested. “They’re right, I’ve never jumped anything near these distances and there’s no room for a single slip even if I could cross the gaps.”

“I know your abilities and I know the High King’s power. Test and see if he does not perform a great feat through you.”

Anargen stared at his mentor, heart thrumming a frantic beat. Cinaed didn’t waver a bit. Sighing, Anargen nodded and shuffled to the edge of the floor just in front of the first “stepping stone.” Tiny bits of the floor crumbled right at the edge and dropped into the frothing waters below. They seemed louder now, hungry, eager to receive him. Swallowing with some difficulty, he fought to get control of his fraying nerves and quickening heartbeat.

Perhaps now was the moment to consider his life. To take stock of the awful risk represented by attempting the first leap. His family, Seren, friends close by. Even his greater role in the quest so far and before him. The distance too should have factored into his thoughts. But Anargen didn’t, he leapt. Flinging himself through the air on the promise that this was his quest for the moment.

For the briefest instant as he sailed through the air fear snagged at him. But it wasn’t a crippling fear that could have stopped him before he jumped. It was poor and small and dismissed by the exhilarating moment his feet hit the stones of the first step.

Anargen landed hard and crashed to his knees. Fortunately, this bit of stone was larger than the three others he’d need to make. Otherwise, the thrill jolting through his chest would be of the fall into the river below. Crouched there he drew in a steadying breath, conscious not to do anything to dizzy himself and risk faltering.

“Anargen, are you okay?” Terrillian called out.

Getting upright, Anargen nodded and raised his arm. “So far.”

“What?” Terrillian called back. the river had drowned out Anargen’s words.

“I think he said “Not hardly,” Bertinand offered. 

Anargen rolled his eyes. “I’m okay!” he shouted. 

“Hold it?” Bertinand attempted to repeat him.

Either something about the room was throwing off how they heard each other, or Anargen wasn’t being nearly as loud as he thought. Whatever the case, he squared himself to the next step—a much smaller outcropping angled ahead and to the right. Tensing, he knew it was a shorter jump. “Please, my King, don’t let me misjudge this.”

He sprang off the platform and hit the next and slipped. Moisture and moss slicked the stone and he went down hard. Without his legs to absorb the impact of his landing, he skidded along the platform to the edge.

More than half his body was over the edge. Desperate fingers grasped for a hold on the stones but found none. His shoulders slipped off.

“Oh, my King!”

A jerk sent a jolt of pain through his arm. His fingers caught on a crevice, the sharp complaint his arms levied almost loosened his grip. Grinding his teeth and swinging around over the dark, thrashing waters below, he grabbed on with his other hand.

Anargen waited five long seconds to marshal his strength before pulling himself up. Once atop the step, he sprawled on it, chest heaving from the shock of what happened as much as the exertion to get back on top. “Thank you, High King!”

Getting to his feet, Anargen looked back towards the others. Already the distance played against his ability to see them. Hearing them over the water would be difficult now as well. Best to press on before fear could cripple him. “Halfway there,” he told himself. 

“Or not.” Looking at his third required leap, there had quite obviously been a trick of perception. This next outcropping was almost twice the distance to jump. How was he possibly supposed to make that leap?

He started to turn to go back and stopped himself. Cinaed had been clear. This was their chance. Whatever the dark of Caeserus and Thane Ornand’s dreams, the key to stopping it might be on the other side of this chasm.

Anargen raised a fist to his head, to help steady himself. As he did, the intricate patterns of fire on his vambrace caught his eye. The divine fire of his King empowered the armor. Hadn’t he run faster, fought harder, endured more than he ever believed possible of his own? Perhaps this too … No, he knew, this feat too was possible with the King’s power. This was his Quest. Succeed or fail, he would fulfill his oaths. Hadn’t the victory at Ordumair shown that even when most dire, the King’s purpose could not be thwarted?

“Anargen, stop,” a voice, almost at whisper volume, demanded. It was not the voice of the High King.

Sometimes there were stories passed around Black Rive about dark places in the world where one would hear voices, not from the Kingdom of Light, but something foul. Dark elves. 

They belonged to a principate older than the realms and were the first to rebel against the High King. No one Anargen knew had ever seen one. Indeed, they were almost never actually observed in any story. But they were heard, and felt, and destroyed all they touched.

A chill sliced down Anargen’s back, and he clenched his fists. Again, the voice called to him, this time from closer. “You can’t make it, stop.”

He tried not to look for the source of the sound, convinced he would slip and fall. Not seeing the distance as too great was all but impossible though.

The coolness deepened and the darkness around him seemed to be shifting, writhing, alive. Anargen began to feel light-headed. “What are you doing?” The voice called again. “You can’t jump that.” It was even closer now.

Anargen’s hand gripped the hilt of his Spiritsword. Warmth spread up his arm, slow, then in a surge that burnt away all traces of the chill. “I’m serving my King,” he announced, took two careful steps back, and then launched himself out over the void.

A rush of hot air streamed around him so that he almost felt carried. Held aloft even, because he jumped so high, he tasted briefly the sensation of soaring.

Seconds later he landed on the other platform, tucked and rolled, and stood breathless as he looked back the way he’d come. From here the outcropping he’d just left was quite obviously lower and so very far. The marvel of what had just happened touched every sinew with icy fire. 

Then he noticed someone standing on the platform he’d just left. Or rather, wobbling. “Caeserus?” 

Had his friend come to stop him from jumping? Was it his voice Anargen had heard? It certainly hadn’t sounded like Caeserus. Even accounting for the strange acoustics of the room and noise of the river could not fully account.

Anargen waved back at his friend to show he was okay before facing the last section of the remaining flooring. Making this much shorter final jump took far less effort. Ahead stretched shelves of parchments, scrolls, and bound tomes. At least twenty feet high and the length of the wall. “The Ords love their records,” he muttered.

Though they were marred by moisture and time, Anargen was able to find the prescribed spot. There, rather than a crumbling scroll or mildew scourged book was a chest. Dust and time had stripped it of what must have once been a smooth veneer. Anargen grabbed it. It resisted lifting. He gave it another more emphatic tug. Not an inch was given. 

Gripping it, he tore the chest off the shelf. With a groan, the whole thing began to collapse.

Anargen jumped to the side as a rain of tattered parchments and shattering wood pelted his back. The heaviest chunks missed him and knocked loose some flooring nearby. By far, the worst of it was the dust and particle plume which enveloped him in a toxic choking miasma.

Weathering it, Anargen staggered to the edge of the crumbling floor and readied himself to make the first leap back. He froze. Caeserus was standing on the second step, in a half crouch as if readying to leap towards him. “Caeserus?” he called, unsure if he would be heard.

A coughing fit ensued as the dust around Anargen scratched at his throat. His friend hadn’t heard him. The other teen must have been coming to help him after the shelf collapse. Robbed of his voice, Anargen waved his arms to get Caeserus’s attention. There was no need to risk the jump, Anargen was fine.

Too late. Caeserus leapt into the air. From the start, Anargen knew his friend wouldn’t make it.