The Portent: The Coming Storm: A Bearer of the Seven Truths Book Read online

  The Portent: The Coming Storm

  Dan O’Brien

  © 2015 Dan O’Brien

  Mien, son of Carthy, looked out over the fields and forests that led east with his mouth agape. He had never in his life witnessed such a thing, so many creatures of the night at once. They poured from the forest on all sides, the darkened pines to the north as well as the thicker ones to the east and south. Their dark coats glistened as they melted into one swarming mass of gnarled fangs and snapping jaws. Their howls sent shivers down the tower guard’s spine.

  He stole a look down below and saw that the two sentries posted just outside the wall were frozen with fear. He notched an arrow. Leaning over the side, Mien loosed an arrow right in between them. They stared up in sudden rage. Looking up through the hazy distance, they saw Mien waving his hands wildly. “Close the gates, you fools,” he roared.

  The two sentries looked out at the approaching mob of creatures and nodded, grabbing their spears and darting back underneath the arch of the city walls. The encompassing sound of the gate slamming shut brought the tower guard’s attention back to the invading horde. His eyes were wide in anticipation as he drew back his bow and loosed another arrow, notching and firing two more before the first one struck the mass of fur and terror. Two of the monsters fell. One barreled into the others and a hole in their seemingly impenetrable mass was formed as Mien launched another and dared a look across the arch. Archers had begun to file from below, their bows arched and volleys of wood and steel raining down upon the beasts.

  NICHOLIA SAW THE EDGE of the eastern tower from where the Horn of Exodus would have been blown. He leapt forward. Taking the spiraling stone steps three at a time, his right hand gripped the weapon of his ancestors. He crested the lip and placed a hand on the shoulder of Captain Mien, a man almost ten years his senior; yet, it was he who was tower guard and Nicholia who was commander.

  He looked out past the man and the thin line of his mouth turned to a grimace as he saw the creatures for what they were: beast hounds of Chaos, the Asgots. Nicholia moved beside the tower guard, drawing an almost transparent bow from around his back. Pushing back a strand of dark hair from his face, he threw aside his shifting cloak. The quiver upon his back was like his bow. It shimmered even in the dreary conditions of the day. He pulled an arrow free and loosed it in one smooth motion––and then another, until he alone was launching volley after volley into the approaching mass as if he did not need pause to realign. His aim and deftness was like that of the elves of the northwest.

  He pulled back from the tower ledge and saw the archway of the castle wall bowing in. Craning back outside, he saw that the Asgots had made it to the wall. Clawing and scraping at the aged wood, they tore gashes in it.

  “We can’t hold them back forever,” muttered Mien as he loosed another arrow. A yelp accompanied the arrow as it found its way deep into the flank of an Asgot eagerly ripping apart the wooden gateway. Nicholia nodded grimly, for he knew that the Asgots were merely a portent of something darker––a true follower of Chaos. A dark necromancer of the northeast had been rumored to have abandoned his haven and taken to the world of men once more.

  Nicholia gritted his teeth as one of the beasts used another as a springboard. Cold eyes seared through the youthful prince, his ambivalence toward them replaced with a profound respect of their unity in battle.

  Nicholia, son of N’ione, your time is at an end, whispered a ghastly voice. Nicholia, thrown by the words, nearly toppled the tower guard from his post. He moved away from the sea of battle and stepped onto the stone stairs. Silence graced his ears as he strained once more to hear the voice.

  Death comes to Getzenut, called the voice again.

  Nicholia flicked his sword out, parrying an imaginary opponent.

  His eyes were wide in rage. His muscles felt sore from his grip, the tension like a man on the cusp of death.

  Soon, called the voice once more, drifting away with the fog.

  Nicholia spun around again and watched as the Asgots surged once more, their great numbers crashing against the wall. He leaned back over the side. Mien grasped his shoulder hard thinking that he, the prince, thought to throw himself directly into the fray. The Asgots surged and then dissipated as if they were thin air, tendrils of their beings remaining for only a moment. Rain pelted the earth, splashing against the already-swollen puddles. The prince of Getzenut stared incredulously at the miraculous disappearance of a legion of Asgots.

  Mien blessed himself, dropping his weapon and backing away from the edge of the tower. “What manner of devilry is this?” he cried and then turning to Nicholia. “Surely, this is the work of Chaos. The dark lord playing tricks upon us, the followers of Exodus.”

  Nicholia shook his head in amazement. Not at the sudden dissipation of the creatures, though that alone was cause for alarm. It was the proximity to which they disappeared and the voice that he had heard, the powerful tone that had drowned out all other sounds and spoke to him of what was to come.

  Nicholia stared out over the lands to the east.

  Shaking his head, he no longer felt able to believe his eyes. He turned back around and brushed past the alarmed Mien. The prince descended the stairs faster than he had ascended them and reached the city gate in seconds.

  He approached the gate. The shock of the sentries and their sudden silence was quickly replaced as the prince of Getzenut ran his hands over the thick scratches in their defenses. The marks were real. Nicholia turned to the sentry leaning against the crank for the gate.

  “Open the gates.”

  The sentry looked at him as if he were a child. “My lord Nicholia,” he began, but Nicholia pointed his sword at the man. The phoenix flared from his grip at the base of the magnificent weapon.

  “By order of your lord, I demand that you open these gates,” interrupted Nicholia, the inflection of his voice demanding nothing but his exact command. The man looked around as if he expected someone to intervene, but none did.

  He placed his hands on the crank and spun it clockwise, the screw oiled and slick from the rain. It opened with a groan and Nicholia stepped through, not bothering to wait for it to open completely. Though he was only a prince, his father was ill. The king was not likely to survive the cold summer that had descended upon their lands. He was their leader and to watch him so simply run out into the open lands of danger seemed as if he were walking a tightrope in some traveling show.

  The prince crouched and examined the earth. There were no footprints, no indications whatsoever that there had ever been any Asgots. He rose and looked off into the distance, to the break of the forest line to the east and shook his head. Not one branch or shrub seemed disturbed. They had come out of thin air and left just as deceitfully.

  Mien approached the prince, making sure to clear his throat. Nicholia’s actions had not gone unnoticed and already there was concern for his sanity––especially with the failing health of his father, the stricken king of Getzenut. “Lord Nicholia, it would be best if we remained within the safety of the walls,” reasoned the slightly older and larger man.

  Nicholia started forward toward the forest, scanning the ground as he went.

  “Lord Nicholia,” repeated the tower guard.

  Nicholia pressed dirt between this thumb and middle finger, grinding it into paste. Raising it to his nose, he sniffed it expectantly. He was not like the others of Getzenut; most were farmers or the sons of folks who tended the land. Nicholia, son of N’ione, had trained to the east in Arantania, at the academy of the Seven Arms just southeast of the mighty castle walls. H
e was an accomplished tracker and hunter, but what he had just witnessed defied both.

  Mien looked around worriedly as he followed the determined prince out farther from the safety of the castle walls. They were nearly two hundred meters from it now, near the first break of the stream that swelled from the unseasonable weather. “I must insist, Lord Nicholia. Your father wouldn’t be pleased.”

  Nicholia sighed and stood from his inspection, placing his hands on his hips as he replaced his weapon into its sheath once more. “Where could they have gone?” he whispered more to himself than for the benefit of the tower guard.

  Mien was right behind him now and he shuffled, lifting his feet from the muddy waters that surged all around his frame. “We must think of your safety, my lord,” he called again.

  The warrior-prince turned back to the tower guard and grimaced. “What of the safety of the villages to the northeast, the farms farther south? What of the farmers and herders who have not yet come to Getzenut for shelter because they wished to weather these terrors? Are they safe from this threat if I go back inside?” snarled Nicholia. His malice was not intended for the tower guard, but instead for the illusionary monsters that had nearly broken through the outer wall of his home.

  Mien recoiled from the comment and dug his spear into the ground as if to solidify his lack of comment. Nicholia grunted as he stalked back toward the gate, followed closely by Captain Mien. As they passed beneath the arches once more, the tower captain signaled the sentry to close the doors. He did so without hesitation, a sigh of relief escaping his lips.

  Mien frowned at the back of Nicholia. “That was not wise.”

  Nicholia’s shoulders slumped and he sighed wearily. “These are dark times, Mien. I fear for my people. We may not yet outlast this wicked weather.”

  Mien’s features softened at the kind heart of the prince. The tower guard knew that though Nicholia was brash and impulsive, he cared most for his people and for his father, who faded deeper beyond the touch of the Light each day. “They are indeed, my lord. We face another crossroads.”

  A man stepped out from the cover of the wall. Beige, simple robes betrayed the power at his fingertips. His hands were tucked away in his sleeves and a hood hid his features. He wore the mark of Getzenut, of their kingdom. A golden stripe at his cuffs and along his throat revealed him as a cleric to the wayward castle. As he stepped out from the darkness around him, his figure seemed to glow.

  “The hour is indeed later than any of us could have imagined,” began the cleric as he bowed slightly to Nicholia, and then added: “You should not burden yourself with all of the blame, my lord. Darkness has fixed itself upon the western shores.”

  The warrior-prince looked to the cleric and smiled. He he knew the man. Icarian was several years Nicholia’s senior, as were many of those that served the fledgling leader. “Icarian, it is good to see you. None of the men were harmed. The creatures did not breach the gate,” replied Nicholia as he motioned to the darkened wood of the gate.

  The cleric turned to the solid defense and grimaced. The deep scratches that the phantom Asgots had inflicted were not lost upon him. “Dark indeed,” he whispered more to himself than anyone else.

  Nicholia surveyed the terrified faces that stared back at him, not only the soldiers, but women and children who had been present during the battle. The sounds and images would not soon be forgotten by the children of Getzenut.

  “We cannot last this season if the weather persists. Our crops are disintegrating like dust in the wind and our army starves as imaginary legions descend upon our weakened walls,” called Nicholia as he lowered his eyes and shook his head.

  Mien straightened himself, pushing his chest out and pressing his spear into the ground to show his resilience. “We will defend Getzenut, my lord. Neither this weather, nor a legion of those snarling beasts, will breach the defenses of our city.”

  Icarian smiled thinly. He knew that what attacked them was not a physical adversary, but a mystical one. Magical in origin, it was clearly not going to be decided on the length or breadth of a warrior’s sword. “Very valiant, Mien, son of Carthy, but something else drove those imaginary beasts. Something that will not be bent by steel or shaft alone,” reasoned the honest cleric, bowing to the tower guard.

  Mien’s face contorted and the grip of his spear faltered as he prepared to take a step forward. Nicholia laid a hand on the tower guard’s shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “He meant nothing of your valor, Mien. He was merely stating what was made all the more obvious by the disappearance of those creatures.”

  Mien snorted and nodded curtly, casting a surly glance at the cleric.

  Nicholia looked back to the gate, the soldiers there returning slowly to their posts. The confusion of the battle was still fresh in their minds. “Riders must be sent.”

  Icarian’s eyes opened wider.

  “Do you believe that the tyrant of Arantania will send aid?” queried Icarian as he lifted his folded arms closer to his chest.

  A cold wind blew across them as they huddled back against the shelter of the tower stairs. Nicholia nodded grimly and continued forward, waving a hand back toward the wall guard and the posted sentries. They knew their duties, for they were the same as they had ever been.

  The warrior-prince stalked forward, his head buzzing. A warm sensation of anger and frustration budded within his busy mind. He dodged a puddle and then another. And as he looked sidelong down the alleyway, he saw the shadow of the thief Faidan disappear as quickly as a ghost around a corner. The warrior-prince continued down the cobblestone alley that led to the royal chambers of the crumbling castle of Getzenut.

  FAIDAN SHIVERED not only from the cold, but as well from the frightful sounds of the battle. He knew that if the warrior-prince had found him standing so close to the battle, then he would have been a head shorter. But, he could not tear himself away. Asgots were an uncommon occurrence, even this far south where many monsters were expected at the edge of the world. He had overheard them speak of sending riders and that meant only one thing: war.

  The storm had swelled after the departure of the warrior-prince, cold rain turning to pounding sleet that drove against the thin frame of the thief. He pulled his cloak tighter, remembering that the wayward prince had taken his purse––and with it not only the monies he had taken from Nicholia, but as well the fortune he carried on him. He cursed the fates, realizing that he would not make it very far without some semblance of wealth. Innkeepers were less and less inclined to take in travelers on goodwill alone. Hard times called for even harder measures and the price of lodging had increased with it, making a rather dire situation for the old thief.

  Watching city sentries pace back and forth, he saw worried looks cross their faces as they spoke in hushed tones of what had transpired just hours before. He reached up the arm of his cloak and felt the craven blade he had tucked away. It was a weapon he rarely used, as he was very seldom a murderer as well as a thief. He smiled wickedly as he recalled the necessity of such measures. Turning his course away from the entrance to the kingdom, he instead walked along the outer edge. Dodging through the shadow so as not to be seen by the wall guard that walked clumsily above, he licked his lips in anticipation.

  The taste of urgency in his mouth was exacerbated by the copper twinge of blood on his lips. His breath thudded in his ears as he pushed forward, the cold blade tucked back against the equally frigid, pale flesh at his wrist. His eyes darted back and forth. Parts of conversations echoed in his ears as he passed women and children, men and their mistresses.

  He saw the reflection of his shadowy figure as he looked down into the puddles through which he trudged. The thief ran his fingers over the emblem of the sickle and open hand that was at the hilt of his slender blade. Faidan had earned the knife. It was a symbol of his place among thieves. He had taken it from another of the sect, one who had outlived his usefulness. Stabbed the old fool in his sleep and returned victoriously with it in hand, making him
one of their own for all his mortal life.

  He did not regret the choice. Nothing more than a son of a farmer and a woman of tricks, he knew that he would never be a paladin or a hero of lore. But, he was fast of mind and hand; he excelled at lying and cheating. His path as a thief seemed spelled out for him long before he plunged the blade into the heart of its owner, sealing his fate. The act branded him as a vagrant and a thief.

  He rounded the far alleyway along the northern bank of the castle walls. Getzenut was not a square as many enclosed cities were. Instead, it was a series of rectangles staggered in such a way that streets often broke in places and then began again anew on its proper course some distance away. Another of his guild had spent time in Getzenut before making a break for the coast (where consequently, he was never seen again) and had spoken of the odd arrangement of streets and the simple folk who inhabited it. Most of them were herders and farmers as Faidan had once been.

  Thunder echoed again, the rolling sound drawing him from his thoughts and back to the matter at hand. He pressed his thin frame against the cold wall, his position hidden by the close proximity of the building in front him. He thanked the gods that he was a man who desired little of substance, for he was only able to hide there because of his near-skeletal frame. Faidan peered around the corner, the sallow dip of his cheek prickled with gooseflesh as the wind struck him like a hard, icy slap.

  He saw that the avenue, bathed in subtle darkness, contained only a single woman. As a midwife, her hair was pulled back tightly. An apron was still wrapped around her waist with dried blood that could never be expunged from deliveries that had no doubt proven difficult.

  Faidan grimaced.

  She was not a fair woman. There were few women left who he would have considered desirable. His intent was not lust, but a reprieve from poverty. Too few women indeed, he thought to himself as he watched her lower her head against the wind. Brown wisps of hair fell free from the tight braid that bounced against her back as he struggled into the alleyway across from the rundown building. It was an oddity in such a place as Getzenut, where commerce and trade were nearly non-existent.