Druan Episode 3: Blight

By Mark Robson

Darkness consumed the world for centuries, under thick black clouds that blocked the sun. Without light, the plants withered and died, and the animals starved. Few survived in this wasteland of night. With a final, desperate effort, the shamans gathered together to form a great chant. They gave their lives to open the clouds and let sunlight shine back on the world.

When the scattered remnants of humanity step from the dark, with nothing but their wits and the waning power of an old shaman to protect them, they are faced with a cracked, lifeless desert. Led by a child, guided by the spirits, their deeds will become myth.

To survive, they must train a new generation of shamans to face the coming dangers. Thirteen students to guide the people into a new age. And, of those students, two young sisters will grow to stand at the heart of a legend.

Each episode is written as a short story, to be read in a few hours, but together they tell the story of two sisters growing up in a new world and facing responsibilities and dangers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Robson
• Release date: Oct 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370484706

Book preview

Druan Episode 3: Blight

By Mark Robson

Copyright 2016 Mark Robson

Smashwords Edition

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Cover Art by Alan Mence

Cover Text by James Eden

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Autumn

The Age of the Sun, Year Two.

The dark clouds were lit from below, a deep saturating red. Thunder rolled overhead, and lightning flashed. The entire plain was seeped in an unearthly crimson glow.

Crumbled ruins of an ancient city sprawled before them, barely standing walls and foundations marked out with large white stone blocks. Avenues of brick lay buried in dust and gathered soil, echoes of a long lost era.

They had never dared assemble such a host. Gatherings were too easily detected, too easily smothered. But humanity had fallen so far it could not sustain its own existence any longer.

This was the last chance. The world’s fate hinged on this day. Fail, and humanity would continue its decline until it faded pitifully from the world, consumed by the shadow demons, the harvesters. Succeed, and there was hope.

Two hundred strong crept through the pale ruins towards the portal. Scrawny men and women led the way, dressed in rags and bearing clubs of old wood, followed by the gathered power of the shamans. Warriors in name only, they swallowed back fear and put their faith in the plan.

At the centre of the ruins, towering high over the broken city, was a deep hole in the world.

Light bled from the furnace oval of the gate, the portal to the home of the harvesters. It’s high, curved walls roiled with acrid black smoke that billowed out into the sky, rising in a thick column to merge with the low clouds. The walls of the gate sparked and lightning blasted down to char the dirt.

The light pulsed slowly, like breath.

A cheer went up from the gathered cultists as the lightning faded. Bronze weapons and shields gleamed crimson as they were raised and shook. Their naked, tattooed skin glowed red and black, demonic.

The shamans and their warrior escort stopped, their number full of caution and fear.

Morvadannon stood just behind the leaders as they took one final counsel.

Can you see them? asked Tobian. Of all there, he seemed the least affected by fear. A fire burned in his eyes to rival the gate.

So far, no. said Iskarion, old and frail. We guessed correctly, it seems.

Tobian hefted his club, a piece of hard wood that was once furniture. Then we move.

Morva, stay close, said Iskarion, bony hands clenched around a fist-sized jewel. It is time.

Morvadannon shivered despite the warmth.

Stay resolute, said Tobian. We will prevail.

The warriors moved out first, with as much purpose and speed as they could muster. The shamans followed. Morvadannon jogged beside Iskarion, keeping pace easily with his old teacher. Rumbling thunder masked their approach. Morvadannon watched the ranks of warriors ahead of him, heart pounding, waiting for the first moment of contact. Beside him, Anphanorus scanned the clouds above for the return of the demons. They would come, it was certain. But would they have enough time?

A roar split the air ahead of them. Warriors plunged into the mass of seated cultists and the battle began. Naked warriors leapt snarling to their feet. Screams and curses rose to the heavy clouds. The gate towered over them, a shimmering furnace.

Here, said Iskarion. This is close enough.

The old shaman sat and placed the jewel on the ground. Morvadannon, Anphanorus, and Elwyntana sat with him, forming a circle around the blue crystal. The other shamans, one hundred strong, encircled them in rings, all cross-legged, with the jewel at the centre.

Beyond them, the sounds of fighting only increased.

We must begin. You all know what to do. Iskarion led the chant, Morvadannon and the rest following in concert.

The words overrode all else. They gave their power to Iskarion, and from there to the jewel.

Morvadannon fell into a trance and the outside world receded. He was lost in the moment. Fear faded, adrenalin dissipated, his heartbeat slowed. Time became meaningless, the only sound a constant murmured chant from one hundred shamans all around him. He felt the power flow, a strong wind from the depths of his mind pouring out into his old teacher, into the jewel,