The Forest of a Thousand Suns: Part ii (The Wyvern King's Redemption Volume 2)

By D W Gladstone

This is the second part of The Forest of a Thousand Suns. It is a dark, epic fantasy. It is published in three parts that comprise the second volume of the The Wyvern King's Redemption series.

The shadow of Dark Moon of Perrefiere now covers the armies of The Immortal. Led by the Weapon of all Hell-Fire, they marshal to break forth into the land of men.
The creatures of old have left the world; there will be no help from them. The land of Ammandorn has succumbed to its own corruption and may well destroy itself even before the enemy arrives.
With friends and family dead, their former lives lost, only a few hide near the cursed forest of Dwener’dier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D W Gladstone
• Release date: Dec 16, 2017

D W Gladstone

D W Gladstone is an Australian born author currently residing in South Australia. A competition winner in short stories and poetry, he published his first novel, The Land of All Things Fallen, in 2015. His second novel, A Forest of a Thousand Suns, has been published in April, 2017 and continues the The Wyvern King's Redemption series.

Book preview

Chapter 16

There is a rebellion forming in Delphanas.

The full leadership of the resistance had been gathered in the medical tent, around his cot, to hear what Lyrien had to say.

Elle’dred lay, propped up, half sitting as the oracle explained her vision to the other knights, and Syla.

He had not spoken with any of them since his return; his wounds had left him largely unconscious for the past two days he had been told, and where his wounds had not, the broths the knight Celsye had given him to quell the pain had also.

She had removed two arrows from his leg, and one from his back. He could still feel them. Or at least the pain was enough that it was hard to forget them. The broths dampened the worst of it, but left him in a clouded daze – it took all his energy to listen and comprehend the oracle’s words.

– A resistance in Delphanas.

The information surprised him somewhat. He was certain that of all places, the magus would have interposed their rule most emphatically in the former seat of the Archivists.

Lyrien’s vision was also remarkably clear; the details of the resistance group were not open to interpretation. As many of her recent visions seemed to be.

In his current state, he was grateful for her forthrightness, there seemed little choice in what concurrent step must be taken.

The oracle finished, and his other knights turned their attention to their leader.

A group of knights must return to Delphanas.

Is that wise? Ellario asked, It is likely we will be recognised. Any of the knights.

It has to be us, Elle’dred answered, Delphanas was the home of the Hall of the White Wolf, it has to be its knights that reclaim it.

Despite the reservation present in the other’s faces he could see they had realised much the same.

Athan, he continued, You will lead the group. Choose four others that you trust.

Yes, milord. the knight replied.

A wave of dizziness washed over Elle’dred’s vision for a moment, forcing his eyelids shut and prompting a grimace. A small surge of pain followed in its wake.

Are you alright? Syla asked.

Elle’dred managed to open his eyes – the pain passed, Yes.

The misgivings of his order flickered into the doubts the others had over his return to Dwener’dier; none of them understood why he had ventured into the forest. Again.

I will be leaving the camp as well, as soon as I can. he informed them, While I was in Dwener’dier I encountered another group we must contact. A group that will be integral to the resistance once we are ready to move. he paused; the next words would cause significant shock – he doubted the others would believe him, A group of necromancers.

The surprise and incredulity he had expected emanated from each of the other knights. Even Lyrien betrayed a note of shock. Syla’s façade, however, did not change.

Fortunately, any disbelief the others felt did not manifest in words. Though the same misgivings they had felt a moment before found new resurgence in each of their expressions.

In the glade, I saw a group of necromancers, he continued, – a resistance, that I believe currently exists in Armanas. I intend to seek them out. he took a moment to steady the dizziness in his head, Palai’dred, Ellario, you will accompany me. Syla, Darrodane, I will be leaving the camp in your care while we are gone.

The Sword-Bearer nodded acknowledgement.

Elle’dred glanced back to Lyrien, Is there anything else that needs to be told?

The oracle shook her head.

Then thank you for your efforts. I would like some privacy now. Dismissed. he held the magus eyes, Syla, if you could stay.

The oracle, two knights and Sword-Bearers filed out, Palai’dred lending her arm to support Lyrien.

Elle’dred watched them leave, before returning his clouding gaze to Syla, You weren’t surprised by the mention of necromancers.

Llrsyring told me some survived, though at the time I did not want to know where they were.

Elle’dred allowed a chuckle, There’s many things I should have asked him – though some things I’ve managed to discover myself. Among other things I know what to do with his sword. I’ll be taking it with me when I leave for Armanas. It belongs in the hands of a necromancer. he paused as another pain moved through his head; he caught the flicker of concern that broke the iciness of the magus features, I’m alright. Compared to almost dying, three arrows and sword gash are nothing, he managed a short laugh.

You almost died? Syla asked.

In the Riven Mountains, before Ayadra healed me… his words trailed off; the memory seemed unbearably long ago. A pang, unrelated to his words, filled him for a moment.

There were too many regrets.

Syla’s face remained unmoved.

Are you alright? he asked, gently.

She paused before she answered, Yes. she glanced away, You should rest.

She met his gaze again – the same question he had asked the morning he had left for Dwener’dier flashed again through his eyes, though this time he did not receive a refutation. Only a glance away.

Despite the concern, he did not press the issue.

Carefully, he inched himself back into recumbence, I’ll be leaving as soon as I have recovered.

Syla did not reply.

The dizziness swelled, and sent a wave of light across his vision; the sleep he had managed to hold off for the brief hours of the morning quickly returned.

For some time, after the knight had fallen into unconsciousness, the magus remained in the tent watching him.

* * *

Ragmurath stood at the window of his chambers. Outside, night had fallen across the grey cradle of rock that surrounded Delphanas, while within fire lit the white marble walls.

The candle beside the bed flickered softly amidst the silence of the room.

Fatigue dogged his body. The day had passed in preparation for the spell they were to use to wipe out the goblin host marshalling at the Dagger Slopes. When word came that they had begun to move, the Tribunal would convene again to cast it.

Despite his tiredness, there was still more he would not allow to be left unfinished.

He turned from the vista of blackness overlooked by the window to the emptiness of the bed behind him. As he lowered himself to the mattress, the words of the spell began to form on his lips.

The somnolence instilled by the magic mingled with the weight of exhaustion clinging to his frame.

He lay recumbent and let it pull him into the darkness of sleep.

– The dreaming spell reached out, again, into the void, the darkness; seeking the mind of its victim.

Again, as before – the warding spell that protected him, raised its force against the Staff-Bearer, and again, Ragmurath overcame it with his own. But tonight, beyond the realm of the dream, the effort strained his already weary body more than he appreciated.

Tonight, the dream would not linger long – and the spell was far weaker than it had been before.

Amidst the darkness, anger flared. Disdain; he hated weakness.

– It would serve. This night.

The mind he sought was wrapped in slumber. The dream slipped around it.

Darkness twisted into light; colours bled from the edge of white, and curled into form. The image sharpened – though not into the place he had intended.

Grey stone stretched without end beneath, flat, unbroken and empty. Beyond, and above, a darkness drifted – a void as infinite as the ground, yet more substantial in its emptiness than the rock.

Light lingered about the grey, despite the dark above – light enough to see the emptiness that dwelt all around. Some feet away, the magus whose mind he had entered lay.

As before, he was unclothed – the myriad wounds that breached the fragile whiteness of his skin glared hatefully up at the nothingness beyond. As before, he clutched the perfect mirror of a bloodhound’s mask in his hands. Staring into the face that haunted him there.

Ragmurath allowed a sneer. This was not his dream – this vista was not shaped by the magics he wrought – this place belonged to Keylyn, alone.

There were no chains binding the boy to the flat grey beneath, no elements he could twist to force his will upon the magus. Save one. The only thing beyond.

Slowly, carefully, he moved over to the curled body lain on the ground.

Lowering himself beside the magus, he reached out for the edge of the mask.

This time, in this place, Keylyn offered no resistance –

His hand gripped the mirror, and began to pull.

– The body held tight.

For a moment. Then the grasp relinquished its hold to the emptiness beyond.

Ragmurath rose, as he lifted the mask to his face – in the world, where he lay asleep in his chambers, he could feel the magic straining the last reserves of energy he possessed. The dream would soon falter, and he would be dragged away.

Keylyn’s eyes followed the face he could not bear to lose.

Ragmurath allowed a smile – at least there was this – this would suffice.

You let me die. the words were as sharp as a blade.

The face beneath grimaced, for a moment its eyes were forced away.

…I’m sorry. the body sobbed, quietly, ashamed.

Ragmurath stared – inevitably the gaze below turned back to the face that eclipsed his own.

You loved me… he said, And you let me die.

The pale features grimaced.

You disappointed me. – the words echoed throughout the dream.

– A sob. Painful beyond measure.

Despite the exhaustion he could feel, clutching at the darkness all around, Ragmurath could not help a smile. If he could not find Keylyn in the waking world, or force the magus to reveal his location, then – for the moment – he was content to settle for this.

You loved me…

…yes.

You wanted me…

Keylyn met his eyes, amidst his gaze he was more exposed than any nakedness, …yes.

Ragmurath sneered, You wanted to be touched.

A pause, …yes…

You disappoint me so. – the words reverberated in every stretch of the darkness. What was more, was that they were not wholly his own.

Another sob beneath, a wince, caught and held amidst the features of the boy’s face – he tried to look away –

You are sick, Keylyn, – his grasp on the dream began to slip, …and you disappoint me so.

The body could only close his eyes.

Beneath the mask, that was his face – as sleep encroached upon the dreaming world – his delight twisted, and shone. All around, darkness above fell across the grey.

* * *

Keylyn woke on his cot, in his tent. The pain of the dream still filled his body.

He let out a quiet sob – the sob he could not let out in the dream.

For a moment, he lay; his head buried in the coarseness of the second blanket that served as his pillow.

The face still remained – whenever he closed his eyes.

The disappointment.

Slowly, as the wakefulness began to mount, the memory faded. As did the pain. Slowly, the numb emptiness returned. He did not feel.

He sat up, and swung his legs over the rim of the cot. He did not want to sleep. Sleep would bring the dreams – the nightmares. The face. He wanted to forget. His body was tired; in the day before, he had lent his aid in the maintenance of the camp – whatever there was to fill the senseless hours.

The emptiness.

The dream flickered beyond it.

He had to sleep; it was all he had to do at night.

He rose from the edge of the cot, and pulled on the set of breaches and tunic he had been afforded. The night was cold outside.

Slowly, at the hobble restricted to him by his limp, he moved out of the small confines of his tent. The camp was quiet; save for the sentries that kept watch on every perimeter, and the last lambent mounds of the fires, little stirred amidst the tents.

As he made his way across the centre of the camp, he passed two of the guardsmen on watch.

They paused a moment – turning to watch him. One muttered something to the other.

He did not fully hear it – but he did not need to. It was the same thing that everyone muttered around him. The same thing that had caused the fading bruise on his jaw.

Magus. Not all of them fully hated him.

He was alone. He knew. He did not care.

The guards continued on their route throughout the camp.

He moved away, towards the supply tent.

Its dark mass rose out the surrounding pavilions, against the clouded glimmer of the night above. A dull blade of light shone outwards from a crack in its shadow, from the partially open entryway, from a lantern within.

He moved to the flap and lifted it aside. The lantern glowed silently atop a crate on the far side, near the case he sought. Silently, he limped across the space of the tent, to the case and opened it. He removed a wineskin from its contents.

He closed the lid, and turned to leave. He limped a step forward.

– Something moved from the darkness nearer the entrance; something obscured before by shadows there – a man.

The man who had given him the bruise on his jaw.

He emerged into the dull light of the lantern, obstructing the entry flap. Faldorn.

He had not seen the man when he entered.

Fear flared – beyond the numbness.

The man held his own wineskin in his hand. The darkness of his eyes were locked on Keylyn’s.

Keylyn looked away – amidst the edge of fear, he did not know what to do. He moved a step towards the exit, his eyes held on the ground.

You’re sick, you know that, the archivist growled; the result of wine slurred his words.

– Keylyn stopped.

You kill children…people…you call it ‘the law’ but you’re nothing but butchers…murderers… Faldorn lurched a step forward, You deserve to die…all of you…you kill and you kill and you kill…you killed everyone I cared about…you bastard…you sick bastard –

The fear subsided into the numbness; Keylyn resumed his pace. He did not want to hear this.

He moved closer; trying weakly to limp to aside, past the archivist.

Listen when I’m talking to you! Faldorn snarled; his voice choked by hoarseness, I hate you…

Keylyn continued another step, his eyes locked down –

The blow came across his cheek, short and sharp, with a force that propelled him back. He stumbled sideways into the solidness of a crate; his shin caught the edge of the wood. Pain lanced through the bone. The man closed beside him – another lumbering punch or shove half bulling him over – he staggered back a step.

A flash of instinct attempted to raise his arm to ward off the next strike – but the movement turned unwittingly into his own blow. His fist met the other’s man’s face – across the bridge of his nose.

The man choked a gasp into his face. The sour scent of wine mingled with a spattering of saliva.

He tried to shove the man away – but a blow drove the wind from his chest. Another impacted his ribs.

Faldorn kissed him.

What?

He shoved the body before him away –

– A punch cracked hard along his jaw, sending him lurching to his side. Shock occluded thought. Hands fell around his neck and dragged his head up –

Into a kiss. Faldorn pressed himself against him.

– What?

Keylyn moved again to shove the man’s body off – but Faldorn caught his arm. Faldorn held him there.

He could taste the archivist on his tongue, feel the flushed warmth of his face against his own. His lips. The man’s scent, mingled with the wine, filled his nose.

Faldorn’s hand moved down to his breeches. The other man groped his crotch. He could feel the archivist’s own hardness against his leg. The man fumbled at the laces to his pants.

He tried to shove him off –

His breeches slipped down his legs, and the soft warmth of Faldorn’s hand wrapped around his cock.

Keylyn moaned. Short, brief.

– He wanted this –

For a moment, the thought faded, unheeded. The numbness was swept away – for a moment – the emptiness that dogged him always, was lost amidst the terrifying closeness of the body beside him. In its warmth. It heat.

He wanted –

Faldorn continued to kiss him. Deeply. The other man was crying. Sobbing. He did not break the kiss.

His free hand was unlacing his own breeches, and pulling them down across his legs. Keylyn felt the hardness of the other man’s cock press naked against his own.

He did not know what to do –

Shock occluded thought.

Faldorn broke the kiss. The glint of tears ran down his cheeks.

Keylyn could only stare. Uncertain. Confused. He wanted this –

Faldorn let go of his arm; the archivist’s hands moved underneath his tunic and wrapped about his chest. The other man turned him around. One hand ran down to hold the slack flesh of his belly, clutching gently across the scars, as the other’s touch fell away. The other moved to his legs, and pushed them a step apart. The man’s other hand left him.

He felt the hardness pushed against –

– Faldorn thrust into him.

It hurt. It hurt. In all the best ways. It felt wrong – and right – painful and elating. He released a breath – it was forced out; the other man’s hips were pressed to his buttocks, the hair above pressed to his back; his cock thrust inside him.

Keylyn moaned, as Faldorn pulled back, and thrust again.

There was pain, at first, as he stretched to accommodate the other man – but it faded.

And he wanted this – this –

He flinched as Faldorn’s free hand gripped him, again. The other man’s arms wrapped around him; one moving up to grasp the flesh around his nipple, the other gently enwrapping his cock. His foreskin was pulled back, over the tip – with each thrust the archivist pulled along the shaft of his penis.

Keylyn moaned. Softly, quietly. With each thrust.

Faldorn thrust, and thrust, and thrust. Behind, he grunted, or cried, or sobbed; Keylyn could not tell.

All he could do was feel.

The thrusts became harder, faster. He moaned.

The other man’s hand clenched around his cock, but did not stop.

– A moan choked in his throat as he reached climax –

It caught him off-guard. Heightened by the thrusts continuing deep inside him. He moaned. And moaned. And moaned. A contented sigh escaped his throat.

The sweet scent of semen filled the air, as it spattered to the ground beneath him. The man’s hand did not stop, and for some time he remained hard despite spending himself.

Pleasure continued to lance through his waist.

Some of the pain returned to the thrusts. No longer dulled by a stimulation beyond.

Faldorn grunted a growl behind, undulating with the lasts thrusts that brought him to climax.

Keylyn felt it deep within. Warmth. Closeness.

Faldorn held for a moment, a long – then withdrew.

Keylyn let out a breath. A wave of relief swept through his lower abdomen, as the strain abruptly subsided. For a moment, all he did was breathe. The man did not release him.

Slowly, unwittingly, he dared a glance back.

Faldorn was crying.

The other man did not look at him. Half stumbling through a turn, he pulled his breaches up and moved away. With a grunt of anger. Or a sob.

Faldorn stumbled through the entryway, and was occluded by the canvas wall, and the night beyond.

Keylyn was left alone. Elated. Confused. Uncertain.

Afraid.

The emptiness of the night lingered once more.

Chapter 17

Faldorn moved listlessly through the supply tent, amidst the crates and stores of food. Amidst the silent daze. He could not think. Did not want to think. Any thought that manifested above the mechanical, methodical, task before him was silently, and violently suppressed.

He did not want to think. Could not.

– Last night –

He focused his attention on the supplies. Allocating the rations as he had been instructed. That was all he had to do, all he needed to do.

Some minutes passed blindly, as he went about the task. Rhythmically, thoughtlessly, forcefully.

Even that became hard. He paused.

He gripped a ration in his hand, but the sensation was lost in the emptiness of thought. He stared at nothing, at the canvas wall ahead of him. Unfocused. Unthinking.

He could not move. He did not –

A sound behind him, prompted him to turn.

Someone held up the entrance flap to the tent –

Keylyn. The magus.

The other man stood in the parted entryway, staring at him. There was uncertainty in the milky white features his face. The uncertainty caught most in the darkness of his eyes.

Faldorn, he muttered.

Faldorn turned away. He could not take this. He did not want to –

He turned back to distributing the rations from their containers.

Faldorn, I have to… the magus moved a step further into the tent, We have to…

– For the damned magus.