Prologue

Even a contract of blood is not always honoured.

The Last Autumn of the Cycle Arisen, Thærin Cliff

A tall and powerful creature appeared not at the summit, but on the fore rise of the peak, among the jagged stones which were increasingly rife with onyx and obsidian. He wore long trains of dahlia and violet linen, and tied to the sash was a jewel encrusted sheath, for a scimitar with no name, made of a metal unknown to the word he had entered, it though, was one of many weapons on his person. With a mastery akin to practice, he glided up the tor, his princely robe flowing naturally, as if unaware of the cold or the thin atmosphere all around him.

Using only the paw and claw of his feet, he ascended to the summit much more quickly than any land dweller before him, and came upon the massive doors of a cave. It was warm here, for two peaks rose at the top of the mountain, as if a giant had notched the top with a sword, and so it was insulated from the wind, yet this alone was not the cause of such warmth.

The doors were not heavy but they did rest on hinges and would only swing out from the inside; locked by enchantment. The fretwork looked as if an ivy had grown around and choked a great poplar before both plants were burned and died. As the man approached the entry he heard a hissing sound, and felt an immense convection wafting through them, as if it were a vent for the massive fires raging within the belly of the mountain.

The man knocked once, twice, and thrice before the door came alive, and the dead wood became unwoven, and burrowed into the ground, though one of the vines stung him before disappearing. Harmless, it seemed, when the man was unburdened by the effect of the toxin. Thereafter, he was met with a coil of heat which made him wince, and his cloth whip and flutter, before finally subsiding. It was dark within, yet he immediately plunged inside, for his race showed no fear.

He ambled through a labyrinth of fiery passages one after another, ignoring the putrid smell of sulfur in the catacomb, where the light within was an unnatural faint glow crept up through deep cracks in the floor; from mantle fire, until he came upon a divide along the tunnel, where one became nine. Neither one was lighter or darker than the other, and aside from the hissing, and his own padded footfalls there was no sound to tell the branches apart. There was a single bead, a bloodstone on a string around his neck, which he tore off and cupped in his hands. Then he put it to his lips, and chanted, incantations as dark and evil as the cave he entered, and finally, once the spell was done, the bloodstone glowed red. The incanter let the gem fall to the smoothed stone floor, which instantly set away down the middle passage, and swiftly he followed after it.

The bead rolled turbidly down the hall, winding left and right, down and up the uneven stone surface, until at last it began to melt into blood as it entered a massive stone cavern. The man strolled inside, exuding confidence on his broad shoulders. With a turbulent flash in his amber eyes he scanned the humid room, seeing the damp ground was littered with bones, wherever stalagmites didn't bulge, and that the black obsidian walls had etched into them friezes depicting the Goddess Kartak escaping from her prison, and the Malevolent God Durlis’ swift defeat. A final image was of a weakened Durlis drained of his power by Kartak, and she portrayed as a merciful heroine who justly should have killed Duris before locking him away where he could do no harm. Here.

The hardened man pricked his ears, as the echo of a whisper rang out across the cave, yet he heard it with ease, and though the words were foreign, he understood fully. The Barban tongue had not yet existed when he was brought into the world, language unworthy of recognition, the drivel, the refuse of humanity. The man didn't reply.

“Ah. Before me neither foe nor friend, god nor man,” the voice repeated, either closer or more loudly, the man couldn't tell, but certainly in a reputable patois. “An Arkwynder. A Thrakh,” he said with disdain.

The Thrakh, hid his indignation for the contempt with which he was greeted and said between clenched fangs, “O Malevolent One, reveal. Step from out of the shadows.”

Somehow dust dripped from the lofty roof of the cave, but he didn't hear it hit the ground. Suddenly he heard a chilling roar and the sound of chains slowly being dragged along the stone from an unknown location, and then he saw the pair of red eyes on a dark silhouette of a creature with a bulbous head, poke out of an alcove, and then the grotesque and gaunt, hunched-over body. He saw the weak decrepit thing nearly slither it crawled so close to the ground, but whether this was an act to lure unwary animals, he wasn't sure.

The creature then came in close, and the Arkwynder still couldn't tell what the thing was, but that it was not physically strong, it was feathered, yet slimy as if it were moulting, and razor-sharp teeth protruded from a beak-like mouth, as sharp as its claws on its lank arms and legs. What was most frightening about the monster however, (though perhaps not to the Thrakh,) was its long thin tail with a second independent beak tucked between its legs, which remained unshackled, unlike like every other limb, even its neck. It sniffed him, and flicked a long forked tongue, before replying, “Welcome, Baaladór of Thrakh, to Thærin Cliff, the lair, and the prison of the Immortal Durlis.”

“I am not some waif, Lord Immortal, I am the son of the Lord Baalór of the Lazak, Regent over the lands between the Tears and Lastwater Sea, Czar of the Dusts and the Sparks and Isles of Shard, Heir to the King of all of Arkwyn.”

Durlis chuckled, nearly coughed before he replied; “Aye, your highness. Of course. You dazzle me with your titles, while you forget, I am the father of this world and yours.”

“Yes. But neither you nor your enemy may set foot on the mortal plane, nor may you even so much as enter The Realm of the Rakshasa.”

“Too true. But this was not the matter you came to discuss. Perhaps now you will enlighten us of your palaver?”

“Us?” interjected Baaladór.

“Forgive me,” Durlis said in a frighteningly deep voice, as if his teeth were clenched, and he couldn't breathe before returning to his slow soft one, “Did you think we were alone? Joining me are my ears lining the walls of course, but ever more important, the bones at our feet, which do not listen for me, but their own dearly departed souls, who cannot leave this room… Dear boy, is your father dead yet?”

Baaladór strolled around the vast cavern, his hands behind his back as he answered, “Alas, he lives. Perhaps a further ten centuries if not more.”

“Then what trivia, what frivolous minutia have you to share with me?” Durlis said cooly.

“I am not a messenger you revolting thing, you will speak to me with the same reverence you used with my father those thousands of years ago!” Baaladór snapped.

Durlis said nothing, he merely blinked, and nodded before he retched, and a black pus dripped down his chin, which the god did not wipe away. Although clearly disgusted, Baaladór digressed, “You promised my father two heavenly bodies, one to rule the day, the other to rule the night,” he paused, “You only gave us one. I demand you honour this deal, and obtain Jaro as promised.”

“Why Jaro? Why not Anox or Astos? Koros or Hannos?”

“That was not the arrangement; Jaro was the agreed upon moon. New life would be breathed into her.”

“Then it must be amended, for how can I accomplish this misdeed from the confines of this cave?”

“I've heard rumours that you have ways of working around that. Nevertheless… Lord Immortal, in exchange for your service, your freedom will be granted. In this endeavour I shall supply 10,000 swordsmen and a small navy, at your full disposal. They were men of rebellion, I believe.”

Baaladór stood as stone-faced as ever, watching the emaciated Durlis, and the evil glint in his eyes upon hearing an unexpected proposition. Quickly, Durlis looked for some way to get more from the deal without asking for it, a deal, he knew was too good to be true. “You are very generous, and very persuasive, Baaladór. A fine deal. However, I have other offers regarding my freedom to consider.”

“I haven't time for coy attitudes. The moment I leave this dungeon, so too will my offer of freedom. Choose wisely.” Durlis smiled at his guest, who appeared to be just as sinister and ambitious as he was, yet he jested simply to see what would happen. Baaladór turned to leave, and he saw Durlis seeming visibly upset, yet didn’t turn around until he growled in his deep voice, “Wait!”

He didn't move, save a smile creeping across his face, which he immediately erased before he faced Durlis. “All right. You have a deal, Baaladór. The prize you covet, I will obtain. I give you my word,” Durlis said stretching a shackled hand. Baaladór committed an injustice just then to humiliate the god, by first slapping away his hand, and then spitting on the mangled creature. “Words won't help me Lord Immortal, you know that. I cannot accept my prize unless I have the blood of a god.”

Durlis grimaced, and held out his scraggly hand once again, “Do you have a dagger?”

“Yes.”

“Take it,” Durlis instructed in a prolonged deep voice, “and snap off the blade.”

Baaladór listened, and cut his hand before he discarded the steel blade, and was left only with a handle, of dull gold and silver.

“Now break off a shard of obsidian poking from the floor, and use it to slice open my palm. Seal the stone to the handle with my blood… then lick it clean; our deal shall be complete.”

Baaladór followed Durlis’ instructions exactly, and he tasted the strength of every drop of thick black blood welling up inside him, as it sat on his tongue, burning as it slid down his throat. Then in silence, Baaladór left the cave, and Durlis watched from the shadows, both of them fully aware Baaladór had no intention of releasing the god, nevertheless both were complacent to believe they had successfully fooled the other into thinking otherwise. When the shrivelled shell of the god was certain that Baaladór had left the tunnels, Durlis collected the Thrakh’s old blade he had discarded, which was still very much slick with blood. “Now all I need is something to fashion into a handle,” the god chuckled, before sputtering and coughing.  

Author's Note

A powerful rakshasa warlord called Baaladór Thrakh seeks the evil god Durlis to collect one of the nine moons of Væum, in exchange for the god’s freedom, after a centuries-old unfulfilled bargain between Durlis and Baaladór’s father.

Reviews

[A. Amos]

I strongly believe you are going to be one of the beat writer of our times, no one can match your creative mind and your writing style. As writers we know what we are writing and every single character is on our mind. I read below comments and trust me their advice is honest. Most of the readers will not be able to catch up the rhythm of your story telling, they will drop interest. My advice the suspence and thrill you want create keep it for chapter two. In first just make it as simple as you can, because that is what your agent will read too. As a fellow writer all I want is your success, however at the end its your baby...

[Gre7g Luterman]

Ooh, a very fun introduction. I am excited to learn more about where this story goes and to read a description of Baalador.

The style is good, but if I had any advice it would be to resist such flowery descriptions and to break up some of your run-on sentences into more bite-size pieces.

[Sam]

Actually, a lot of the sentence structure is deliberately written that way, some words are written out of order, sentences go a little longer than they should, as a matter of aesthetics, but if you care to list the ones you saw, maybe some of them could be shortened; I'm open to change. I'd appreciate it.

[Gre7g Luterman]

The one that annoyed me the most was:

With a turbulent flash in his amber eyes he scanned the humid room, seeing the damp ground was littered with bones, wherever stalagmites didn't bulge, and that the black obsidian walls had etched into them friezes depicting the Goddess Kartak escaping from her prison, and the Malevolent God Durlis’ swift defeat.

I'm not certain how a flash in your eyes can be turbulent. But apart from that, this sentence could easily be three. I would have enjoyed the piece more if the sentences were more easily digestible.

[Puffle]

I very much so agree about holding back in the flowery descriptions, it made it somewhat difficult to read. It sorta thrust a lot onto you all at once, it makes it hard to comprehend.

[Sam]

I'm afraid that is the desired intent, not to make it difficult, but to give you all of that information. Seeing as there is very much left unsaid. But as for holding back the 'flowery' descriptions, I steadfastly refuse, and furthermore, I disagree with your cursory assessment. To make amendments where you have suggested would compromise the integrity of the style.

[Puffle]

I understand that you are unwilling to change, I am very much like that with my writing, and I respect that. I guess part of my problem may be that I am not used to writing such as this. I don't doubt that I'll become more used to it as you continue, I am willing to read on! Keep it up, I'm curious ^.^

[Gre7g Luterman]

Breaking up rambling sentences doesn't keep us from getting all the information. It just makes the information easier to digest. Consider:

With a turbulent flash in his amber eyes, he scanned the humid room. The damp ground was littered with bones. Friezes decorated the black obsidian walls between bulging stalagmites. Here, the Goddess Kartak escaped from her prison; there the Malevolent God Durlis was swiftly defeated.

All the description is still in place, but now the reader can glide over it instead of starting and stopping and trying it again.

But of course, it's your story. Write it however you like. My opinions are worth every cent you paid for them! ;-)

[Sam]

I do see your point, and to be fair, in the case of the sentence you've chosen as an example, it is a little long. I concede in that case, that particular one can be broken up, but no more than twice. As I said before, that is simply the style of the writing.