Dark Times Read online

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  This edition published in 2017 by Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA)

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  © Brain G Murray, author, 2017

  ©Donna Marie West, editor, 2017

  ©L. Bachman, L. Bachman designs, cover artist, 2017

  ©Lori Michelle, The Author’s Alley, interior formatting, 2017

  This book is dedicated to my two boys, Thomas and James.

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  PROLOGUE

  The Blade of Yallas, the ultimate symbol of evil, was forged in the very pits of Hell. The blade, made from the blackest iron, was not mined, but extracted from the blood of thousands of babies ripped from their mothers’ wombs. Cured upon evil itself, the double-handed broadsword had ancient script engraved into its long, sleek black blade, with flawless twin edges. The hilt was bound with the hair of innocents and embedded at its end was a black crystal. The Black Crystal was the very essence of the Dark One, holding much of his life force and power. By itself, the sword was merely a beautiful weapon whose blade could cut through the strongest armour. With the Black Crystal embedded in the hilt, it was an instrument of ultimate power.

  Everything about the sword oozed darkness; it’s very touch could corrupt even the purest spirit. No one was safe from the effects of the blade that would not only rend the flesh of the person it struck, but also rip away their very soul. All that remained would be a shell: a zombie willing to undertake the bidding of the blade wielder, and could only be stopped by decapitation. Their souls would be destined to wander the Grey Path for all eternity.

  Only Children of the Light could survive when physically wounded by the Blade of Yallas. The blade’s injury would run deep, and as their soul was slowly stripped away, insanity would ravage them, eventually forcing them to become powerful followers of the wielder. At the heart of Yallaz’oom was the Dark One’s Black Palace, surrounded by a molten lava moat that bubbled and spat red hot liquid rock. Within the palace walls, deep in the bowels of the keep, were its dungeons. In these rooms that reeked of putrid death, souls of the struck Children of the Light were held, bound in chains enchanted with the blackest of magic.

  Children of the Light had a small amount of time to recover their souls, but the journey to Yallaz’oom was perilous. There, they shone like bright beacons in the blackness of evil. With all the evil attracted to them, survival was rare. If caught, their spiritual bodies would be ripped to shreds, and their captured souls would lose its brightness, slowly dimming, until finally merging with and feeding the darkness. They would never know Paradise.

  ***

  The Blade of Yallas had not been wielded in the lands of mortals since the Dark Wars. During the final battle at Rhamagabora, the blade was banished back to Yallaz’oom, waiting to be joined with the Black Crystal. However, the time had come for the blade to return to the world of mortals. Only Children of the Light and a few others had any chance against the wielder of the weapon—the Dark One.

  The blade had other mystical powers, long forgotten by mortals, and these gave the blade its common ancient name—the Sword of Doom. No one could stand in the path of the wielder when he held the sword, complete with the crystal. But the power of the blade was limited by any goodness in the land where it found itself. The blade’s power was second to none in the foulness of Yallaz’oom, but in mortal lands the power was weakened by the good of the people. But, the blade could be strengthened in the land of mortals if people allowed their innate goodness to be corrupted, turning the world to anarchy.

  No mortal could hold the blade; unable to stop the evil perverting their very essence, their bodies would instantly self-combust.

  ***

  Only two beings could wield this sword. The first was the Prince of Darkness’s right hand man, the Dark One, master of the blade. A black heart of the purest base gave this being the power to hold the sword. Already corrupted by all known (and some unknown) evil, the Dark One and the sword were one with each other.

  The second able to wield the sword was the realm of Yallaz’oom’s champion. A warrior with no equal, he was the perfect fighter and killer. Mortals would never speak his ancient name for fear of summoning him. Upon his arrival, nothing survived, and all that remained in his bloody wake was death. Once the perfect dark warrior, the unstoppable slayer of men, women, and children, he was chosen to be the Divine One’s champion. Only then did his black heart gain a spark of goodness, and he fought against his dark side. He was the warrior who defeated the Dark One at Rhamagabora, and his brethren were Chaos, Malice, and Fury. He was the fourth.

  The ultimate warrior was . . . Death.

  CHAPTER 1

  From a point overlooking Teldor, the Rhaurien capital, General Brooks waited impatiently. Below him, the Rhaurien army awaited his command and like their general, listened to the sounds of battle coming from inside the tall grey walls. All of the men had comrades who had already died in the siege, and they knew more would fall in the upcoming fight. But all they could do now was . . . wait.

  For what seemed like a lifetime, the gate remained closed. Brooks’s horse pawed the ground eagerly and the old warrior leant forward and whispered soothing words to calm her. But like her rider, the horse wanted action. Under his breath, Brooks cursed. The waiting, the not knowing, ate at his innards like a cancer.

  Then like a ray of sunshine breaking through storm clouds, the gates suddenly opened. Brooks did not show any emotion, no reaction; instead he serenely swivelled in his saddle towards his messenger. The young man standing opposite the general had seen the gates open and could not hide his anticipation and excitement.

  “Heavy cavalry, please,” commanded the old warrior calmly.

  The messenger literally leapt round, and theatrically lifted the heavy cavalry’s flag, unrolled it, then slammed it down to the ground with a thud.

  The Rhaurien army’s battering ram prepared to charge.

  Below the general, like the onset of a furious storm, the heavy cavalry spurred their armoured mounts forward and soon thundered across green fields, flicking up clots of grassy earth as they rode. Under minimal bow fire the horsemen changed formation to a long column, braced their backs in the high saddles, and lowered their steel tipped lances. At full gallop, they charged through the gates, smashing into the startled, unsuspecting, enemy army.

  Inside the walls, the Horde, a force of some ten thousand paid mercenaries who rode under the Darklord’s black banner, were unprepared for the horsemen. Being mercenaries, many showed little honour or courage when faced by the horsemen and they soon started surrendering. A few fought on, but they were hacked down or trampled into a bloody mess on the paved streets.

  Outside, seeing his heavy cavalry enter the city, General Brooks ordered his light

  cavalry and Royal Lancers into the
fray. Soon they had crossed the churned green fields and rode across the threshold. The ensuing battle was fierce, bloody and brutal, but the Rhaurns had more to fight for—they wanted their capital back.

  “I think your king has achieved his goal,” commented General Gordonia of the Phadrine Empire. “The gates are open, and by the looks of things, it seems as though the standing army is not defending with much enthusiasm.”

  Brooks turned in his saddle to face his imperial counterpart and smiled. Over the past few months, though previously hated enemies, the two had begun to respect one another, and Brooks no longer considered Gordonia an adversary, but a trusted friend.

  “I would agree with that, my friend. Let’s send in the infantry, I want to be home in time for supper.”

  Gordonia returned Brooks’s broad grin and shifted his weight on his horse. “Well, there’s no point in waiting here.”

  “That’s true. Messenger!” called Brooks.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Lower the infantry flag. It’s time to go home.”

  The messenger wanted to whoop with glee, but restrained himself. “Yes sir,” replied the young man enthusiastically.

  Around the gates and along the outer wall, the Rhaurns fought small groups of the Horde in running battles. Many of the mercenaries positioned along the wall farther away from the gates did not yet know of the ceasefire, so they continued to fight like cornered animals. But their efforts were in vain. The Rhaurien army soon regained control of the wall, and their capital.

  ***

  Within an hour, the gates had been secured and both of the generals dismounted to walk boldly through the outer gates of Teldor. Glancing around, the generals saw the Horde being rounded up and escorted out of the city, where they would sit in the fields while prison camps were quickly erected. General Brooks gave orders to his captains, and with a squad of Royal Lancers, headed for the palace.

  ***

  There were mixed feelings within the walls of Teldor following the long night of death. For some, it was a time of joy; the young king had returned and freed the Rhaurien capital from the Darklord by defeating his black army. For others, it was a time of sorrow: many good men had died during the siege and retaking of the city. This included Gammel, who had died below the palace steps trying to avenge the murder of his family. Now standing over his dead body were Gammel’s friends: Dax, Thade, Tanas, and the young King Zane, all mourning.

  At the outer gate of the city, Zorain held Rayth’s bloodied body. Rayth had been stabbed many times whilst trying to open the outer gates so the Rhaurien army could enter the city. He completed this task, but Rayth had lost a lot of blood and was close to death. Zorain screamed at the top of his voice for a healer, but his cries for help went unheard over the clatter of the Rhaurn cavalry, still fighting the Horde in a fierce bloody battle.

  ***

  Within the darkened Flying Vessel tavern, Queen Larene, Ireen, Megan, Aurillia, and Princess Sasha, waited for news of their men. They had no idea what was happening on the streets of Teldor.

  ***

  By the outer gate, Conn manhandled a healer, frog-marching him to where Rayth lay in Zorain’s arms. The Captain of the City Watch had dragged Rayth’s body away from the outer gate into a small dark alley, leaving behind a smudge of crimson on the cobblestone road.

  “This man has received several cuts and lost a lot of blood. You must save him,” commanded Zorain. The healer looked down at Rayth’s bloodied body and frowned.

  “What are you waiting for man, help him!” shouted Zorain, his voice its normal high-pitched screech.

  “But . . . ” started the healer, raising his arms.

  “Listen to me,” hissed the burly City Watchman. “If not for this man, the city would still be under siege and that evil force would still be in control. If he dies, I will hold you personally responsible. Now open your bag of tricks and help my friend.”

  The healer’s eyes widened as he knelt next to Zorain and quickly examined the fallen former axe-wielder. “We need to get him inside, but moving him may kill him.”

  “This is the strongest of men. If we have to move him, then he will still be with us when we get him home.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “The Flying Vessel tavern, by the docks,” answered Zorain, his hooded eyes fixed on the old healer.

  “That’s a long way to go.” The healer looked around and saw Conn standing behind him with his mouth gaping. “You! Get a wagon; we cannot carry him that distance quickly enough.”

  Conn remained in the same position with his mouth open, his wide eyes staring at the bloody body. He had seen death before, but Rayth’s bravery had touched him.

  “Please Conn,” pleaded Zorain.

  The constable looked across at his captain’s face, now covered with blood. Conn hoped it was Rayth’s blood and not that of his friend. “Yes, yes, I’ll go and get one,” spluttered the City Watch constable.

  As Conn hurried off, the healer took a closer look at Rayth. “I have to tell you, I don’t think this man will survive the night. His lips are turning blue from loss of blood.”

  “Listen carefully,” hissed Zorain, his voice icy cold. “This man stood alone against an army of Kharnacks and survived. He saved this city. Do you think these few scratches are going to kill him? I think not. Now remember, if he dies I will hold you responsible. Now get to work.”

  The healer looked Zorain in the eyes, seeing a mixture of concern and anger. He knew Zorain was the Captain of the City Watch and not a man to argue with. Reluctantly, he started to work on Rayth’s body, still convinced he would not last the night. A waste of my time, he thought, but I will try my best. He opened his bag, and removed some ointments and herbs to aid the healing process. It was going to be a long night.

  ***

  Dax stared down at Gammel’s body, his eyes reddened, his body covered in the blood of his enemies. Thade put his hand on the older man’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

  “Come Dax, let’s ready our friend for burial, and then complete the task he set himself.”

  Dax peered round and saw the concern in his young friend’s eyes. “I will not rest until General Polalic is dead, Thade.”

  Not only had Dax helped free Teldor, he had also prevented the Darklord from completing the Rite of Resurrection, which would have unleashed an evil known as the Dark One. Yet unbeknown to the friends, the Darklord had tricked them. The whole elaborate ritual undertaken had been a wicked ruse, and now he had escaped the fortified city.

  “I know, Dax, but now is not the time for such talk,” replied Thade. “We need to prepare him for burial.”

  Dax again looked down at Gammel’s body and shook his head.

  “You’re right, Thade, we need to celebrate the life of a good man who was subjected to the worst kind of loss.” Dax paused, seeing Tanas standing next to Thade.

  “Dax, I’m sorry,” said the blind warrior. “I also mourn the loss of our friend. If there is anything I can do, I will do it. If you intend to track the murderer down and kill him, I will be at your side.”

  “Thank you, Tanas.”

  “But Thade is right, we need to prepare our friend for burial. We also have friends missing in the city who we need to find. Let’s see to the dead, and see to the living, then we will hunt that man and kill him.”

  Dax paused for a moment then sighed. “Yes, let’s do that, my friend.”

  ***

  Conn reached the alleyway driving an old wooden wagon pulled by two swayback mares. Zorain and the healer carefully lifted the innkeeper’s bloodied body onto the wooden flatbed of the wagon while all around them, confusion reigned. Conn urged the horses forward and the wagon lurched over a cobblestone.

  “Be careful!” shrieked the healer.

  Conn looked round and saw the healer pushing on Rayth’s shoulder, blood seeping through the old man’s fingers.

  “My stitches are being pulled out. You must be more careful. You . . . ” sna
pped the healer to Zorain. “Put your hand here and push down firmly.”

  Zorain did as instructed, but blood continued to ooze through his thick fingers. Slowly, the wagon moved through the Rhaurien army, entering the dark, twisting, deserted streets of Down Town. The healer continued his work patching up the former axe-wielder, until they arrived at the Flying Vessel tavern.

  ***

  Inside the Flying Vessel tavern, Aurillia could see a wagon approach the building and rushed out to see who was arriving. Her heart fluttered, full of mixed emotions: was it her lover, Zane? Or was it her father, Rayth? The wagon drew closer.

  Through the night gloom, she recognised the figure of Constable Conn driving the two horses. It had been her father who had accompanied the constable to the outer gate. But why had they returned on a wagon? she thought. She stepped forward, but her fears kept her from running towards the wagon. The horse drawn vehicle drew closer. She saw a person with Zorain in the back looking down at an injured man. The wagon edged nearer. She noticed the concern in Zorain’s eyes when he glanced up and her heart skipped a beat. Where’s my father?

  Hearing the wagon’s wheels clacking on the cobbled streets, Ireen and Megan stepped out of the tavern. Conn halted the wagon at the front door and leapt from the driver’s seat. He scurried round the back to help the healer and Zorain with Rayth’s body.

  “Aurillia!” called Zorain, “go inside and get your father’s bed ready.”

  “Who is it?” asked Aurillia, not wanting to believe or state the obvious. She gasped when the bloody, apparently lifeless body of her father was carried past. Ireen put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders.

  “I’m sure your father will be fine,” Ireen whispered reassuringly, but seeing all the blood, she did not believe her own words.

  Aurillia could not reply. Silent tears began streaming down her face. She had never seen so much blood, and for the blood to be her father’s! She put her hands to her face and bowed her head. Ireen pulled Aurillia close and hugged her. That was all she could do, for she knew words could not express enough.