The Triadon Prophecy

By Zane Dowling

Creston was set for life. His new appointment as Captain of the Guard, and his eminent wedding to his beautiful fiancee, Krista, had him walking on air. But, just days before his wedding, Creston finds her dead. The news that it was at the hands of his trusted life-long friend, sets him on a path of vengeance that nearly drives him insane. While searching for the murderer Vingent, he is taken under the wing of a new friend, the powerful old Wizard Graid, who teaches him magic. He soon finds the true price of saving his love requires him to go against every feeling that is driving his heart. He willingly faces death itself on his quest to bring Krista back from the dead. Creston and Graid face off against the true evil behind it all, and little did he know their adventure was all for the greater purpose of fulfilling the Triadon Prophecy. The struggle for power over ultimate magic nearly tears their world apart, and they must join forces to face the ultimate power of the Triadon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zane Dowling
• Release date: Feb 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310791505

Zane Dowling

Born in Pennsylvania, graduated High School, and Joined the Army. Met my wife in Hawaii, my first duty station as an infantryman. Twelve years,active duty let me see, besides Hawaii, Wiesbaden Germany, Achaffenburg Germany, Fort Eustis, VA, and Fort Lewis, WA. I spent a month in the Philipines. Love to write and edit, but I write anything that comes to me. I am not much of a reader unless the story is very interesting. I like to read history books and archaeological stories. Currently working on several novels, and short Stories.

Book preview

Excerpt

He heard the voice again. It sounded like Graid's voice, but there was no other. Who could he be talking to? Creston wondered and then rose from his mat and followed Graid's voice. Graid was not far from the camp, but he was alone. Creston wondered if this was some sort of ritual that Graid went through for his magic. He ducked behind a bush and listened to what Graid was saying.

... is the one. Nothing was said for a moment then Graid spoke again. Oh, yes, yes. He is doing fine. His magic is gaining in strength, but I fear he will not know enough to help in the battle.

Graid paused as if listening to someone. Yes, of course, but... Graid seemed interrupted for a moment. That is true, but what am I to do? If Trayic has an Allie, besides Vingent, I will most certainly need more help. And, what if Sysquain doesn't arrive in time. I will need someone who possesses the power to fight at my side, not someone whom I must protect. I must be allowed to administer the Right of the Triad.

There was a long pause and then Graid nodded his head several times in agreement as if being chided. Then with a noticeable tone of disappointment in his voice he said, Fare thee well., and then turned back toward the camp. As he passed the bush Creston was hiding behind, he said, Come along Creston you need to get your rest.

Creston was surprised, but rose to follow Graid back to the camp.

The Triadon Prophecy

Copyright © 2012 by Zane D. Dowling

All rights reserved. The reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerograph, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author, Zane D. Dowling

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For questions or comments concerning the content or quality of this book, contact the author via mail

The Triadon Prophecy

by

Zane D. Dowling

To all those friends and family who have read this book for me to provide input, opinion, and edits, thank you. To me, your efforts have been very helpful and encouraging.

Thank you to John for encouraging me to publish. I had no idea it would be so easy.

Chapter 1..Trail's End

The trail went cold early that morning. Two days of tracking faded into nothing. Creston Ron Alman looked up from the road with a hand full of dirt and a fist full of reins as he knelt on one knee beside WindShadow his mare. Tall and slender with hair black as a raven, his dark cloaked presence silenced all but the wind.

In the shadows of the late afternoon forest, he was poised as if ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey and Creston knew without a doubt his heart and hand would not hesitate to pounce, if given the chance. The mere sight of his childhood friend would give life to the cold death in his heart and he would surely spring into action without thought, if only he could find him.

Over, and over, in his mind the one he once called friend, now to him the embodiment of evil, has coughed out its last worthless breath. He would surely lie motionless with eyes glazed over in the chill of death as his victim now does. Vingent will surely die for murdering Krista, Creston’s fiancée. If only he can catch him, Creston will certainly forget all of his training and act with pure instinct, driven by the darkest of emotions -- hatred.

WindShadow shied back a step and her eyes flashed with fear. The darkness she felt in her master caused her to tug sharply at the reigns in Creston's hand, though the clench of his fist could not be broken. He was as unmovable as the rock that weighed heavy within his chest.

Creston's light skin paled much more behind the dark stubble on his face and he subconsciously stroked his rugged chin with the thumb of his rein-filled hand. The dull rasp of it hummed an un-consoling numbness to his ear, and he unblinkingly spat a stream of disgust from his pursed lips. It quickly vanished beneath the dust of the road just as the murderer's trail had that morning.

Still, he did not blink.

On any other day, his handsome face would have cupped bright blue eyes brimming full of joy and happiness. Now his eyes peered sharply from a face that wore a scowl. This look did not wear well on the handsomeness of his sharply rugged features. If the ladies back in Gralden would see him now, rather than greet him with gleaming faces as they always have -- envious to catch his look, favor a touch, or dare to dream of being his bride -- they would surely turn away as if he was a common thug.

Nevertheless, Creston was not troubled with that now. The peaceful civilization that sated him with contentment and joy all of his twenty-five years, now seemed so far from him. He had expected to continue living a normal life in the service of his uncle Paltrin, King of Gralden. That is, a life as normal as one could expect having just been appointed Captain of the Guard and, as far as he was concerned, it was going to be just that. As fate would see fit to bestow them, his children would have learned -- as he did -- the ways of gentry, or ladyship, safe in his wife's care.

Now all his plans and dreams were in vain; imaginings that would never come now that the vision of perfection he waited so many years for lay murdered by the hands of his own best friend. The training and education of the war college, his waiting for that one special woman, and even his own life and happiness, all seemed so trivial now.

He imagined they would have laid his beautiful Krista in the crypt by now. Justice, misfortune and vengeance had all come upon him with one act of betrayal and forced him to not only miss the wedding they had planned but the solemn ceremony that now replaced what would have been his wedding.

Before he left that horrible moonless night, he promised her grief-stricken mother he would track down the murderer and exact revenge for taking her daughter -- his fiancée. However, after three days, his hope and his stamina were beginning to wane. Now the only feeling that lived deep in the hollow of his soul was revenge.

It was all that sustained him.

The colorful birds in the trees above him began to sing a calming, almost unnoticeable, symphony with the breeze as it rustled the light green under-weed of the forest. All Creston could hear though were the cold black branches moaning their secret agony as they raked together. They sang an emptiness that mocked the pain of his vengeful heart and he looked through their sparsely covered skeleton to the gray-shrouded sky above.

No solace there, though he never really expected his prayer to be answered.

How can it be? She's dead! What can change that? He thought. Nothing can bring her back. All that's left to me... All I have now is vengeance. God, I feel so empty! He erupted with tearless sobs, but only for a moment before the resolve of vengeance returned to him. All that has happened drained Creston and his senses were on the very edge of insanity.

Between the arching branches, his blue eyes patrolled the rolling land before him. The trees that lined the trail there on the down-slope crest of the hill began to thin and the trail opened to follow the edge of the forest as it bordered a field as fallow as his heart. The different hues of brown in the fields below, fading from light to dark and pocked by the stubble of recently shaven grasses, looked like a game board left barren and silent, and he could not help but feel like a pawn in life's cruel game.

A cold breeze softly carried the sweetness of the field to Creston's nostrils and he breathed deep the betraying peace it brought to him. Mountains edged the skyline beyond the fields below and above the cloud line they were crested high with snow and spiced with the shadows of cliffs and crags that Creston imagined were yet unexplored because of their treachery.

Treachery!

Creston's thoughts seized him back to the trail.

That is a word that crept in unwanted, the meaning of which he now knew intimately.

Past the tuft of black hair that accented the edge of his smooth white forehead, Creston could see the smoke from the fireplaces of a small town in the distance. The mountains were casting their long cold shadow of pre-dusk and Creston knew he would have to ride hard to reach the town by nightfall.

His heart sank a little more with that thought.

Starting the ride again was a thought that cursed him as much as he cursed it. He had been riding so hard for so long now, and, even though he wore the soft clothes of a nobleman, his skin was beginning to chafe from the sweat and dirt. The lack of company was wearing on him as well.

The trip -- unplanned as it was due to the circumstances -- left little time before Vingent's trail would grow cold. That dreadful night he rallied fifteen of his best men before leaving but he sent them down side trails along the way in search of information. Creston was hard-pressed to send the last of his men out as he passed the end of the trail that was familiar to him and -- though the remaining member of his company protested leaving Creston alone -- he went nonetheless.

Now Creston was alone.

Once again, he stroked his chin as he peered deeply into the dirt in his hand. He was seeking any remnant of the aura that magic users leave in the earth as they pull their strength from it. There was none, and he cast it away in disgust. A moan of despair spilled from Creston's heart. He had been following a trace of aura he picked up the day before, but now the trail was void of any magic since early that morning.

Should I wait for my men? Maybe there's news. If I turn back...

No! Creston thought -- angry with himself.

I can't... I won't lose him now! I have to go on.

Forward! -- His heart cried, betraying the longing for rest that his soul cried as loudly.

Neither his training, nor his hunting had ever carried him this far from home, but this was no ordinary hunt. Though he had only ever seen it on a map in a classroom, he no more wanted to press on in this land of Har Dä'al than he wanted to give up the chase for the renegade murderer, Vingent Reisen.

Creston had known Vingent for as long as he could remember. They played together as children. They laughed, studied, and even pulled a prank or two as best friends. In fact, when they were both thirteen years old, they shared the same boyish crush on the maiden Abrig'an. She was three years older than they were.

What a rivalry that was. Creston thought with a mindless half chuckle, and then cringed at the unwanted memory. After twenty-one years of perfect friendship, he was now a man betrayed, and his life was consumed by one thought -- to see his old friend Vingent dead and nothing short of death itself could turn him from that, whether it was Vingent's or his own.

Creston gently caressed the crescent of the earring that hung in his left ear. Unmatched by a partner, the earring held a dark-red droplet of crusted blood. Out of love -- and to honor his murdered fiancée -- he drove her earring through his own ear three nights past, and now the brittle bead of blood crumbled at his touch and fell into his palm like sand from a broken hourglass.

He rubbed the red crystals between his fingers and it sparked urgency in him.

Somehow, time is running out!

But, for now, Creston -- exhausted after three days on the ride with only a few hours of sleep (and that on horseback) -- rose slowly to check his saddle and mount. He was sure WindShadow was, by now, at the end of her endurance as well and hoped to be able to rest her, and to get some rest himself in the town before him. More importantly, though, he hoped to gain some information on Vingent.

Maybe someone will know something. I have to get back on his trail. Ignoring the fatigue and pain, Creston sprang atop WindShadow and spurred her on to his mark. She faltered at first, but Creston drove her quickly to full gallop, and -- with pieces of road flying behind him -- he was on his way toward destiny.

Ж*Υ*Ж

In the dwindling light, the town looked abandoned. Some of the rooftops and eves Creston saw over the top of the fence were darker than most in spots and, even in this light, he could see these spots were not mere shadows -- they were burns. One of the taller buildings had what seemed to Creston to be a large piece of cloth covering a section of the roof. A wall of medium sized tree trunks lashed with rope stood three men's height and spanned what Creston could see of the face of the town. In several places, it was battered, scorched, cracked, and splintered. An entire section creaked in the wind as it leaned outward a whole arms length at the top. Posts of thinner trees braced at the bottom, in makeshift fashion, with several stones as large as a man's head, held it shakily in place.

Creston approached the rough gates just as they were closing for the night. He wondered for a moment -- because of the condition the town was in -- weather the town had more occupants than the one that was closing the gate. Then he noticed the sign above the gates.

Mountain View

532 men strong

¬Welcome if you are friendly.

It was as scorched and battered as the town walls. Creston considered the possibility of a battle.

But with who? Are the people of Har Dä'al at war, he wondered. I hadn't heard any news of this. Maybe it was a rouge band of Ogre. No. It’s too far north for that. Besides, Ogre's don't like fire, so they wouldn't use it to attack a village.

In any case Creston was the friendliest person he knew and he was about to test the friendliness of the town.

Ho there! Creston called to the gatekeeper. May I enter for the night?

Creston could see that he startled the man.

Obviously not wealthy by his clothing -- though not poor either -- the gateman was a rail of a man but ordinary in stature and he jumped back a bit when he saw Creston at first. As Creston drew closer though, he saw more than a startled stranger. He saw true and complete fear in the man's eyes.

Oh God 'e's back. The man quickly tensed in thought and then pushed harder on the gate to close it faster, but as Creston came along side him the fear faded into nervousness.

I thought you were... The young man began to say something but changed his mind. Then he straightened from leaning against the gate. With a quaking stammer in his voice that made him sound a little like the village idiot he queried, Just passin' through?

The man's voice was light and high and Creston looked a little closer to be sure he was a man, though the closer look only made him wonder if the shadow beneath the person's nose was a fledgling mustache or a smudge of dirt.

Not the strongest of the 532, but still, something is wrong here, Creston though before deciding to dismount and put them on equal ground. He was hoping to put the man a little more at ease, but as he swung down from his horse, the man markedly flinched at every movement.

What troubles you man? Creston said with a slight chuckle to ward off his exasperation with the way the man was acting. Creston had never seen anyone this nervous in his presence. Though his ties to the king often did put people on edge, this made him feel different somehow. He almost felt sorry for the man and did not like that at all.

I won't hurt you, Creston continued, and then a flash of thought entered his mind.

Vingent!

Creston's emotions turned quickly from wonder at the man's nervousness, to the hatred that had become his friend and ally. Vingent had obviously been through here, and, by the look on the gatekeeper's face, had made a bad impression just as he had back in the palace. Still, as Creston looked around the small town, he could see no trace of magical aura.

Vingent has gotten good at hiding his trail, he thought, and then he spat on the ground in anger. Or, maybe his power is no longer the same. He reconsidered then spat again.

A man with your look..., The gate-man took a moment to study Creston's reaction. ...was ‘ere last night and... Well..., to put it lightly, terrorized our li’le ‘amlet. I was ‘fraid you were ‘im, come back to ‘ave a li'le more fun at us.

Not surprised to hear of Vingent's dealings here, Creston's thoughts traveled back again to that terrible time three nights ago. Then his thoughts traveled even farther back, about a year ago, when Creston could remember that Vingent began having fun at the expense of others. It started with little nuisance spells -- a small electrical spell on a chair or a gotcha with a handshake. Then with acts that are more diabolical it progressed. Vingent would not own up to any of it though.

Animals began to turn up dead in the garden with their insides burst open or they were crushed by a stone that had no place in the palace garden. Creston remembered finding a deer and through the gaping hole where its brain should have been, he saw nothing but ashes.

Talk was that it was a precursor to some invasion, but Creston had his suspicions. Creston cursed the day the old man claiming to be Vingent's uncle came to visit. Trayic Racewind looked as though he was old enough to be the father of Vingent's granduncle and Creston distrusted him the moment he entered the palace grounds. Ever since the Red Wizard visited, Vingent began to change. Even so, none of this had prepared Creston for the shock of finding his fiancée murdered, or for the gut-wrenching anguish that came with the news that it was his best friend that had done it.

You alright? the gatekeeper said; his eyes cocked in distrust.

Yes. Yes, of course, Creston said, shaking himself from the thought. I assure you, you're safe with me.

Safe as a mill worm on a ant ‘ill, the gate-man thought, and kept a blank expression on his face to hide his fear.

I am tracking the man who was here last night and, with all that is in me, I swear I will hunt him down and he will sorely pay for making trouble. His life is now mine and he... will... die! As he spit out the words, he accidentally jerked the reigns in his hand and this caused both the gate-man and Windshadow to flinch. Creston took a moment to regain in his feelings while calmly removing his riding gloves.

Is there a stable and inn in town? he said, waiting a moment before looking up at the man.

The stable's over ‘ere, he said, pointing with a flick of his head over his right shoulder. His shoulders hunched a little with the movement, but he never took his eyes off Creston. Third building – the one with the big doors in front and the small one on the side. Ya’ can't miss it. And the Cascade... he slowly raised his arm as he pointed, ...is one block west on the north corner. You can get a bed there and some good ale as well. Tell the owner, that would be Thoan Millwright, -- you'll find ‘im be'ind the bar. Tell ‘im I sent you and to give you an ale on me. M' name's Waller. Waller Nate. he said and hesitantly half-stretched out his hand to complete a proper introduction.

I'm Creston. He said as he shook Waller's hand with a single movement. Creston Ron Alman, Captain of the Gralden Guard. There was a moment of awkward silence. Thanks for the information and goodnight. He finished and then made his way to the stable.

G'dnight, Cap'n Creston. Waller said over his shoulder as he finished closing the gate.

Chapter 2 Inspiration

There was no mistaking the stables. The stink of the manure pile, probably behind the stables, grew as Creston approached. The stable door bore the traditional knocker -- two horseshoes. Creston rapped the knocker and waited a moment, then rapped it again. The dark, thick, horsehair curtain sparked a sliver of light at the left side of the door then it shut again just as quickly. Creston expected the door to open in a moment, but the moment passed and he was still waiting. He clanked the knocker hard this time and announced that he needed some attention with a stern Hello. Again, he waited and no one came.

I know you're in there! Come out and give me some service! Creston heard a muffled sound form behind the door. He stood there in the torchlight waiting for a response, but still none came. Never have I waited so long for service. There is obviously someone in there. Then he banged his fist on the door a couple of times, said something under his breath, and stepped back looking to the window again for movement. There was none, but he heard the latch on the door switch and the door creaked open.

Finally. he said under his breath.

Oh, yes sir, the short, but stocky, man said with a high, raspy, voice. A nervous giggle made his belly bounce behind the smithy apron. It was untied and dangling around his knees. He ran one hand along the stitching, while the other petted his balding head.

Seems a little on guard. Creston thought. Does he think I'm gonn’a' slap him, or something?

I was sleepin’ and didn't ‘ear you, sir. Wwhat can I do for ya'? He said, still with a nervous giggle in his voice. Oddly, this defense mechanism was easing Creston's patience.

Just keep your cool Shem and maybe ‘e won't ‘urt you, the smithy thought.

Yes, of course you were sleeping. Creston said with a slight of sarcasm. Though his patience was returning, he was still a little sharp with him. Will you take care of my horse? he asked. Just then