The Fable of Fen - Book I The Darkling: The Fable of Fen, #1

By Morgan James Jr

In the dark heart of an ancient forest, a long forgotten evil grows.

For over two thousand years, the twin kingdoms of Lockland and Olandil have ruled over a peaceful Northland, until a rift between the two houses sparks a bloody civil war that threatens to engulf the entire continent.

Meanwhile, a fledgling sorceress, Lothlana Windgale, embarks on a fated journey across embattled lands, fraught with peril, and plagued by dark forces, to defeat an ancient evil bent on destroying mankind.  

Blackstone Press is proud to introduce the first in this epic series of tales from fantasy author Morgan James Jr. The Fable of Fen - Book I: The Darkling chronicles a crucial middle-period in the history of Jarilia, a violent, mystical, often savage world populated by fearless heroes, merciless villains, and indomitable foes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blackstone Press
• Release date: Sep 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536572216

Morgan James Jr

Morgan James Jr. is a marketing executive and freelance writer living in central Pennsylvania with his wife and two children. He studied creative and professional writing at the University of Pittsburgh, loves cheap guitars, and still plays with toys.

Book preview

Kindred

Kamen stood behind the gates of his ancient prison, a broadsword clutched in each hand. He wore no armor, just sackcloth rags around his waist, and rawhide boots of crude make. Beyond the rune covered gates, where the sun shined, and the air tasted sweet, a throng of bloodthirsty spectators roared like a small sea. Kamen gripped his weapons as the runes upon the gates began to fade, his massive arms rippling each time he bore down on the iron handles. Once the runes disappeared, the gates swung wide, and golden sunlight washed over him as he entered the arena.

The din of insane voices peaked when Kamen lifted his blades; turning to give the people seated along the lofty stones a good view. He gazed across the battlefield, trying to measure his challengers, but the south winds lashed the earth, kicking up eddies of red grit that obscured their number. Once they moved in, appearing out of the maelstrom with their weapons ready and their eyes full of fear, Kamen took their count.

Twenty warriors, each well armored and well armed. Kamen's lips twisted into a grin. Even if there were a hundred, a thousand of them, they could never win. Kamen stood twice their height, his body impervious to steel and monstrously strong. No mortal strategy or craft of war would avail them. Like all the others, they would die.

Two warriors charged him, their broadswords lifted, and they both perished in a glut of blood when Kamen cut them in two with a single blow. A third warrior lunged at the giant and wound up skewered through the gut. Kamen lifted him up over his head and tossed him aside like an empty suit of armor. An autonomous chant arose from the arena.

Kamen! Kamen! Kamen!

He moved on the warriors to his right, steel kissing steel. Two men fell to his blades, then a third. After that, the remaining warriors charged, hoping to overcome the giant by sheer force. Kamen sliced through them like corn stalks, his blades swiping low and taking them in droves. They hacked at his immortal flesh to no avail, and in a rage, Kamen stomped them beneath his feet. The crowd erupted as he ground their bones under his heels, blood splashing up to his knees and his blades dripping with gore.

Kamen lifted his broadswords and let out a roar. The arena shook, everyone rising to their feet, their eyes locked on the fearsome giant as he chased the remaining challengers. Some of them put up a fight, while others abandoned their blades and tried to flee. Kamen cut them all down, his fury and bloodlust outdone only by his might.

At last, a single warrior remained.

The condemned man didn't run, or beg for mercy, he just crouched in the red dust amongst the severed limbs and broken bodies, until a shadow fell over him, and he looked up into the giant's face.

Kamen dropped his swords and offered his hand, and silence fell over the crowd as they looked on in disbelief. The warrior extended his own hand, gratitude filling his expression as he realized he might yet live. Kamen seized his wrist, and lifted him until they were looking into each other's eyes.

Better to die fighting, Kamen growled, grabbing the warrior's other wrist and giving both arms a tug. The warrior cried out, and Kamen leaned in closer, drinking in every grain of his anguish. Better to die quick. Kamen pulled again, and both arms tore free.

The warrior screamed, and the crowd cheered as he toppled headlong into the dust, his blood spraying out across the sand while he foundered and sobbed. His eyes searched the wide blue sky and his jaw worked as if he would speak, until finally he lay still, the horror of his final moments chiseled into his face.

Kamen held up the dislodged appendages, warm blood soaking him as he howled out his rage, and the spectators screamed their approval, Kamen! Kamen! Kamen! Satisfied, and bereft of more men to kill, the ancient titan cast his repugnant trophies aside, and lumbered back down beneath the earth.

A line of torches set into the wall lit his way, but he no longer needed them. He'd roamed every hall of his subterranean prison, every turn and slope as familiar as the lines on his blood-soaked hands. No way out, no pardon or rescue, but he could still fight, and kill, and, there were other things.

He entered a domed chamber where the ground grew spongy with moss, and the glassy tinkle of dripping water echoed eternal. As he passed beneath an icy torrent, he washed away the gore and threw aside his sackcloth rags. He scrubbed at his shaggy mane, looking up, way up at the domed roof of his prison.

In time, a hatch at the top of the chamber opened, and two guards flung a golden-haired girl into the pit. Her scream echoed in the dark room, growing louder as she fell. Kamen caught her in his unbreakable grip, and for a moment, she fought against him. When he let her go, the poor girl gazed up at him, at the thick slabs of muscle and his impossible height, and her heart galloped. He had mean eyes, and he looked her over as if she were a sumptuous meal.

Take it off, he groaned, his eyes shifting to her tattered dress.

She trembled as she undid the clips at the shoulders of her gown and let the garment fell away. It crumpled in a pile around her feet, and Kamen sighed at the sight of her naked flesh. He stepped toward her, and the girl looked away, though she could hear him drawing nearer, the huff of his breath filling the room until she felt its damp weight against her skin.

You smell like flowers, he growled.

The giant lifted her, his massive hands like iron slabs about her waist. He groaned like a fell beast, savoring the warmth of her body, so soft he thought she'd melt through his fingers. The girl shrieked, the color rising along her chest and belly, filling her cheeks and softening her expression. Her eyelids slid shut, and she gasped as her body opened to him.

He was not tender, or kind, yet the girl obliged, nay, came alive in his embrace, her body moving with his as he took her in whichever way he pleased. He found himself carried away by her unbridled passion as she whimpered and moaned beneath him, never showing any sign of pain no matter how rough he handled her.

You're good at this, he groaned, drawing her close. He tried to stand, but his legs weakened and he crumpled to the ground, a powerful euphoria draining his will. The girl continued bucking up and down as his seed filled her belly, his power oozing away until he felt like a punctured water sack.

Wait. Stop, he uttered. No more.

The girl laughed and took hold of his shoulders, riding him all the harder. He tried once again to rise, to push her away, but his indomitable, mythical strength, born eons before the world of men, withered like a flower rooted in ice.

The girl stood, smiling down on the broken titan. She caressed the soft flesh beneath her navel, and her belly swelled, rounding out and protruding before her in mere moments.

What are you? Kamen sighed, so weak he couldn't raise his eyes.

The girl waved a hand before her face, and her blond hair vanished, turning ink black. Her soft visage morphed into that of a grim beauty, with hard, sinister eyes. I am a daughter of the darkness, great Kamen. I have always been here, and I will always be here.

Lithandril! Kamen gasped. How?

Malicious light filled her eyes. Rest now, great Kamen. Dream of the old world, the old gods, and forget all about me.

Kamen fell into a deep sleep, and he dreamed of the old world, of the great cities and kingdoms he and his kind had raised. He forgot all about the Queen of the Dead and her raging sorrow.

Lithandril stayed and watched him for a time, until at last she vanished into vapor, carrying the giant's seed back to Drakna. A dark place, where dark things dwell.

Fate's Call

Lothlana awoke from a terrible dream. It was the old gods, fighting their ancient war, and setting the world ablaze. The dream had come every night since she came of age, and each night, the world died. She went to her seeing stone, an orb of black glass forged in the fires deep beneath the Gorthak Mountains. It sat upon its golden altar, silver light pulsating as the priestess approached.

She looked into the smoky glass, seeing nothing but her own reflection for a time. As she focused her will, she called on the Parted Ones to clear her mind and lend her their power. She drew in steady breaths, the pulsating light beginning to still as an image took shape in the glass.

A man, a rather haggard looking man with a broadsword belted to his side. He had the look of a rogue, a sellsword, or perhaps a thief, with quick, suspicious eyes, and a mop of red hair. He dwelt in the kingdom of Westfall, along the shores of the North Sea. A bad place, to be sure.

Who are you? Lothlana whispered, her energy reaching across the distance, caressing the man's thoughts, culling what she could from his clever mind. Balon, she whispered. Balon Marek.

Marek, a Southern name, a man of the Lock perhaps, presiding over a rabble of drunken, boisterous cronies in the fallen West. No throne, or crown, or scepter in his hand, but a leader nonetheless. His crude company gave him a wide birth, saluted him with a nod, and came to his side if called.

Balon, she whispered, trying to etch his features into her memory before breaking the connection. Like always, she swooned, her balance disrupted and her flesh prickled with gooseflesh. The sickness came last, swirling in her guts like a foul meal. The sickness was always the worst of it, coalescing until it seemed as though she would retch. Once the sickness subsided, she steadied herself and made for the bracing Eastern air.

She stepped out of her meager abode and gazed at the cold waves of the Gray Sea, watching as their endless churning devoured the fringes of the Eastern world. Troubles plagued her mind, her many dreams and visions warning of danger. Now this man, this Balon Marek, placed before her by the whims of fate.

Lothlana looked toward the dunes, to where the stone dwellings of her fellow priestesses stood in strict rows. She approached the chamber of the High Priestess, unable to decide if she should disturb her on the premise of a bad dream. She was no longer Morgain's little girl, and she suddenly felt foolish for even pondering the idea. As she turned to walk away, a voice called from within.

Don't linger about my door, little daughter.

Lothlana pushed aside the heavy tapestry and peered into the darkness. Mother, may we speak?

Leave the light behind.

Lothlana stepped inside and let the tapestry fall, the gray light vanishing as if she'd extinguished a lantern. She stepped carefully, and the High Priestess laughed — a lilting, musical sound that conveyed sheer delight. This very night you take your rites, and still you probe the dark like a novice.

Lothlana concentrated, letting her energy go before her, guiding her across the room without so much as an upward glance.

Much better, came the voice of the High Priestess, the most powerful Fen, and Lothlana's mother: Morgain Windgale. Sit with me, little daughter, and tell me your troubles.

Not mine, everyone's. Do you not know why I've come?

I do, but I want to hear your version. Morgain sat up; her naked body a silhouette among the shadows, though Lothlana could see her sparkling eyes, gleaming like the dark glass of her seeing stone.

A great war is coming, Lothlana said.

A great war is already upon us, Morgain corrected.

"No. I'm not speaking of King Dorish and his mad quest. This is the old war. The most ancient war. Giants that scatter entire armies, fire-breathing serpents. Chaos, blood, and death. A great war spreading over the world, driven by some evil I cannot see."

Nothing more than tales you've heard since birth.

No. It is more than that, Great Mother. I speak not of the past; I speak of things to come.

Even so. We are not the keepers of the world, Lothlana, nor are we the protectors of the realms of men. We serve the Parted Ones. We preserve the ways of the Fen.

I'm sorry, Mother, but I believe you're wrong this time.

You came seeking my guidance, so I will offer you this. Put these thoughts aside. This night, you will take your oaths, seal your covenant in blood, and take on the mantle of a priestess. For now, that is all that matters. This is an important day, not just for you, but for the whole order.

The prophecy.

One day, a Fen of pure blood, with golden hair and eyes the color of the Gray Sea will come...

... and a new world will be born.

A better world, so the tales say.

"Did you ever think, Great Mother, that it will be a better world simply because we will not be here?"

All prophecy is conjecture, Lothlana. Conjecture that requires faith.

But the dreams, Mother? You told me to never ignore foresight.

What choice remains? Do you mean to go out into the world and hunt down this unknown evil? Where would you look, little one? Who would aid you in defeating this darkness that has the power to topple the world?

Balon Marek.

Who?

A man from Westfall. A ranger, perhaps. Maybe a sellsword.

A sellsword from Westfall. My dear, sweet, naive little girl. Do you have any inkling of Westfall? It is debauched beyond comprehension, raging, the streets filled with thieves, harlots, murderers, and pink addicts ambling about with their stained faces.

But no war.

"Mark what I say, Daughter: once King Dorish prevails, and takes all of Lockland, he will move on the West and the East."

The East? Our home?

On day, my dear, King Dorish will rule all of Northland, and when he does, he will not let stand a coven as old and powerful as ours. He will scatter our ranks, kill any of us that resist, and the Order of the Fen will fade. Unless...

The prophecy.

"You are far too valuable to send off on a directionless adventure in search of sellswords and unknown evils. You are to stay here where you're needed. Refugees from this mad war arrive daily on our doorstep. Wounded, starving, nowhere to go and no one to help them. But we have not yet seen the worst of it. Terrible trials are coming. I have my own dreams, and they also ring with the screams of the dying."

I'm frightened, and I've never known the feeling, Lothlana uttered. It's terrible.

Only fools scoff at warnings of a grim future, but practice patience, young one. Tonight, you will see with new eyes. Tonight, you will wield a power so great that nothing of the girl you are now will remain. Then, my dear, you will know what needs to be done. Then, my dear, you will know many, many things.

Bloody Shores

Along the shore of the South Sea, Lockland soldiers lay dying, belching out their final cries, painting the sand an ugly shade of crimson, and drawing hordes of flies to the smell of new death. Men and horses, war dogs and falcons, scattered along the seaside in varying states of dismemberment. Among the dying, the wounded, and the forever marred, stood Prince Argin Lock, only son of the last Southern king. Standing beside him (ever beside him) was his friend and squire, Furlon Greenhedge.

Your Highness, we must ride for the palace. The port is lost.

We'll be away soon, Furlon. I just want to look on this madness a little longer.

Why, my lord?

So I won't forget.

I could never. I will never.

Memory is a fickle beast, Furlon. Today's blunder becomes tomorrow's heroism.

"My lord, their forces are still gathered along the ridge. They will come to mop up the survivors."

Their forces have moved on, to Holgoth.

But Holgoth lies along the borderlands. It's sacred. The old pacts dictate that none shall seize the First City. It is written.

The law is now King Dorish's word. He has the Southern Port, now he'll take Holgoth. He'll control all trade. Argin paused. His grip tightens.

Yes, on our very throats, Furlon uttered, his eyes scanning the north ridge. There, my lord. A Dorian scout.

Seems you were right, old friend.

Think he spotted us?

No. He's far off, Argin replied. Still, we have a long a dangerous road ahead. Come; let us skulk away like the pathetic failures we are.

They moved on foot, keeping their backs to the ocean and traveling northeast. Everywhere they saw the destruction of their homeland: houses charred, villages emptied, defenseless commoners nailed to tree trunks and decapitated, their heads placed high on pikes along the road.

What will happen now? Furlon uttered.

Our army is scattered, our cities are destroyed, and we will soon see the armies of King Dorish spreading like a sickness across our lands. My family will be scourged and executed, as will any who supported our rebellion, and King Dorish will take what is left of this wretched world for his own.

Is there nothing to be done, my lord? Are we to just hide behind the palace walls and wait for the Dorian hordes to cut us down?

You have another idea?

Perhaps we could go to the West? Isn't that where men go to become no one?

There is nowhere on this earth that King Dorish will not find me. He cannot suffer a single Lockland royal to live. He would burn down the known world.

But what of our knights, our Royal Guard, the people of Lockland? Could we not raise an army from their ranks?

Prince Argin laughed. Knights are for show, the Royal Guard most of all. The rest are nothing more than farmers and craftsmen. Fine figures they'd cut, battling with shovels and smithy hammers. No, old friend, it's finished. I'll return to the palace, tell my father I have failed to hold the port, and then I'll glut myself on wine and whores until King Dorish's troops make their final march.

I just can't believe we've lost.

"No, old friend, I've lost, and now I must go home and tell my father."

Morning passed into midday, then deepened into evening as they walked, and still the carnage of King Dorish's conquest surrounded them. As the last light faded in the west, Furlon spotted a lone steed meandering near a dirty pool of water. It bore the blue and gray colors of a Lockland mount. He edged near, speaking softly as he closed the distance, his hand reaching for the bridle as he cooed like a mother to her babe. His fingers snagged the bridle, and the powerful steed broke into a run, dragging poor Furlon through the muck as it thundered north.

Let him go! Argin called. He'll snap your spine before he stands still!

Up the north ridge, the animal climbed. Up, up, up and over the grassy plain, and still Furlon held fast, his breath knocked out of him each time he kissed the hard earth. Argin laughed until his gut ached, amazed at Furlon's grit, though he feared his loyal squire might dash his head open on a rock, or wind up trampled beneath frantic hooves.

At the crest of the ridge, the steed crossed a gouge in the earth, a shallow ditch about the width of a man's shoulders. When Furlon struck the impression, his body flounced high, his hand came free of the bridle, and he sailed out of site, his silhouette disappearing over the horizon.

Argin heard Furlon grunt when he hit the ground, and he laughed all the harder. He plodded up the long hillside, trying to catch his breath and calling to his brave, thoughtless friend. You sure gave him a good go, old boy. For a moment there I thought you had 'im.

Furlon wasn't listening; his eyes cast down into the northern valley. Argin followed the line of his gaze, and far off, against the fringes of the Great Western Forest, an ocean of Dorian soldiers were flooding through the gates of Holgoth, their war drums rumbling and their banners unfurled.

You were right, my lord, they're taking Holgoth. There's no honor left in the world.

Some men still hold to their vows, Argin whispered. Come now. Long walk to the palace. Or perhaps you'd rather take another go at your four-footed friend there.

No. He's done for me. I'll walk, and be glad I'm still able.

Into deepest night, they walked, their armor and broadswords growing heavier with each mile. A crescent moon climbed high into the starless night, clouds gathered, and just as Argin spotted the torches atop the palace wall, it started raining.

Argin lifted his war horn, and sounded off three long blasts, then one short, and the iron gates edged open. Not a single person roamed the streets, no lights burned along the road, everyone shut up in their homes though no simple plank of wood would sustain them once the Northerners arrived.

Six Royal Guards stood sentinel outside the palace gates instead of the usual two, and they all drew arms when the shadowy figures approached.

Who goes there?

Argin stepped closer, removing his helm and straightening his spine. Prince Argin Lock.

The Royal Guards all bowed their heads.

Hail, Prince Argin!

Open the gates, Argin uttered. Save your praise for one more worthy.

Open the gates!

Furlon stayed behind when Argin entered the throne room. Like the town below, nothing moved within the palace, no fires, or songs, or the joyous laughter that had long