Darkness Is King

A tale of the changing of the guard.

Darkness Is King

With a mighty clash the two swords came together causing lightning to fill the chamber momentarily blinding the two adversaries. They fell away from each other clutching at their eyes. The older man recovered first and with a swirl of his black cape he was striking again at the other; the blows falling with the force of an avalanche. The younger was no fool and even before his sight returned he had his sword up and twisting in his hands to block the strikes he could only sense. Both men, having their sight returned to them, separated to circle each other; wolves on short chains.

Without warning the younger man flung off his helm of shining gold which rung like a bell as it struck a nearby pillar; the older man flinched. In the moment of uncertainty he had created, the younger man lunged forward, golden hair streaming, and took to the offensive. The Tower on which they battled shook with every meeting of blades. Black sparks arced from the older man’s sword as he held it before him and when he met the younger’s blade it ignited into dark flames. The younger man held his sword in his left hand and as he melted from sword stance to sword stance it too sparked regularly, though with gold and it became wreathed in like color flames when the two opposing men met. Long did they continue their intricate dance of the blades as intent upon each other’s movement as any pair of dancers.

 For a second time the blades met full force and the dark walled room in which they fought was again filled with an intense light and the smell of ozone. This time though the foes did not stagger back but held their pose and struggled blindly to gain the advantage. Swords locked they fought on; the heat of the confrontation began to make the air itself shimmer and burn.  On they held for what could have been years neither admitting defeat as the very Tower around them began to melt away like so much butter.

With a quick smile the younger man put his last bit of strength into the battle; the older man was beginning to fade. Infused with confidence the younger man slid his golden sword up the dark length of the other’s blade and broke the hold of blade on blade. With a motion faster than the mortal eye could follow he raised his sword to deliver the just and final stroke. And stopped. He gasped with pain as looking down he saw the older man remove his dark blade from the unguarded chest it had just plunged into. With a serene demeanor the older man used his dark cape to wipe off the crimson that now dripped from his black blade.

The younger man’s smile died as he fell to his knees sword of golden power falling from his hand and sinking until it was incased in the molten floor of the chamber. With a quick strike the older man struck off the younger’s sword hand. The heat that still emanated from the blade cauterized the wound even as it created it. The older man did not seem to notice the heat of the molten stone around him as he knelt, but put his attention full on the stricken and bewildered young man before him.

“You put on a good show boy. You almost had me there.” He said with a smile that was almost fatherly.

“How?” Was the other’s only reply.

“Because it was meant to be.” Said the older with a tone of finality.

The walls of the chamber began to split and crack open as the Tower cooled revealing a scene of pure chaos. In all directions beyond the Tower could be seen the ravages of a battle so monstrous that it had no end in sight. Dark clad warriors were decimating the little pockets of gold cloaked soldiers that stood their ground in an effort to buy time for their leader; their last hope.

The last thing the younger man saw before the floor of the chamber collapsed beneath him was the older man, dark crown glittering on his brow, as he, with head tilted up towards the heavens, laughed uproariously.

 

 

When he awoke the younger man was filled with such pain that he could not remember his own name. The King was before him; pincers as sharp as diamonds hanging from his hand as if forgotten. Silence reigned for a moment as the King waited for an appropriate response. After a moment he shrugged and began to bite into the younger man’s flesh with the pincers. A scream of agony broke from the defeated man’s mouth as the pain mounted. Like some twisted echo the King began to sing a song of terrible beauty and while he sang, he smiled.

 

The defeated man awoke with a scream as he left his nightmare and entered his worse reality. His thin arms were clamped tightly by heavy metal manacles connected to chains on the ground. His feet were likewise chained to the ceiling and both sets of cuffs cut deeply into his flesh. Trickles of blood like little rivers ran down his arms as testaments to his many failures.  His heavy grey beard hung down covering his face, and he had to squint to see through the matted and slime incrusted hair.

 The stench of long accumulated filth filled the chamber and it took him a moment to master his stomach, but after he had, the inner calm, which years of battling with despair had forged within him, was set in place. He was no longer a man but a combination of senses and muscles that acted faster than thought. His eyes could barely penetrate the dark that enclosed him so it was his sharp but battered ears with which he adeptly interpreted the nuances of his cell. There was someone stepping into his sanctum.

The guard stepped out of the shadows carrying his gruel and a thick wooden spoon. The defeated man knew it was time. Just as the guard was about to say something, a smile creeping across a face not unkind, the defeated man scraped his left stump out of its manacle and punched the man with the fleshy nub. The man died instantly as his nose was shoved back into his skull. Pain lanced through his arm, but he knew in his very bones that if he stopped or even let the man slump an inch, his chance would be gone and would never come again. So with all of his effort he kept the man standing by the strength of his mangled arm alone and used his teeth to bite the cord around the man’s neck which held his key. With a movement that had taken him a year to master he used his teeth to put the key into the lock and retrieve his hand from its steel trap.

With his hand free he awkwardly used the guard’s sword to slice away the chains that held him upside down. With a rattling metallic hiss he and his chains fell to the floor. After he had recovered his breath his vengeance drove him forth into the next room where he slew the guards there. And so he went about with no fear for his own life slaying all of those who stood in his way be it man woman or child. Several he lingered with ensuring that their deaths were equal to the desire for revenge that they had placed in his heart. The scars that covered the whole of his body burned like fire and froze him like ice but all was as nothing compared to the ocean that was his lust for revenge. In time he found himself standing before the great doors of the throne room. So with a glad but terrible spirit he flung the great stone slabs wide and entered into the presence of the Dark King.

The Throne Room was clad in a murky darkness that the light from the hall could barely pierce, but the defeated man was used to darkness it was his element. So with swift steps he strode forward into the pitch-black until he stood before what remained of the King. He sat hunched in his throne his black cape draped underneath of his now ancient and decrepit form. His hands which had once been mighty things were curled claws that clutched shaking at his sunken chest as he labored for breath. The only sound in the chamber was the whistling of the King’s air as it waxed and waned in his withered lungs.

“So” said the Old King “You have come.”

“You end here!” shouted the younger man as he thrust the sword into the King. The younger man smiled with a grim sort of pleasure as he twisted his blade in the old man’s chest.

With a sound akin to a receding tide the old man curled in on himself spiderlike whistling out only “Do better. I dare you.” And with a twisted smile of his own he died.

 

With the dead King’s dark sword in hand the younger man crowned himself there in the Throne Room and with a yank of his gnarled muscles threw the dead king out of his stone seat. And so with a smile of true pleasure he came to sit on the blood stained throne himself. In time he gained control of not only the dark fortress in which he had been so long imprisoned, but also of the lands that were subservient to it. He forged a new army from the men that had survived the death of the old King and with them made his will the one and only law across all his lands. At last, he proclaimed, the forces of good had triumphed over those of evil and through his patience and his devotion to his people he had been able to fight for so long to final and total victory. But not all thought as he, and his servants found that the people of the land were rising up against their true King.

To appease them he searched the Tower where he had learned the Hero’s lesson long ago, but could not find the sword that would prove him the same as their hero from the war of age past. Though he looked with all the dark arts he had stolen from the king he could not find it. It had indeed been there, but as time passed so did it.

Not able to produce the evidence of his identity the King became enraged and commanded the people to obey him; him who they had raised up to be their king. In response they killed the soldiers he sent to cow them and tore down his officials and broke his laws. In time they made an army of their own to fight the King whom they hated. The King saw the darkness in their hearts and knew that the only way to save them was to cut away the evil so his hope and truth could grow. And so with zealous actions he sent his army against the people.

 

It is said that when all was made ready he stood on the top of the twisted, disfigured Tower and there waited alone watching his forces as they swept forth to do his bidding. Some say that he cried with a voice that split the skies like lightning asking all of existence itself who his people would send to meet his blade. A challenge to his yet unnamed rival. Whether this be true or not is lost to the depths of history, but one fact is always consistent no matter the time or place that the tale is told.

 They say that the Dark King sang a song so terrible and beautiful that it made the very ground tremble and that while he sang, he smiled. 

Author's Note

I am interested to see what kinds of comments this generates. I am open to anyone commenting as long as it relates to the work or thoughts the work inspires.