Dreams of Azenaria

By Conrad Acosta III

"Dreams of Azenaria" is a gateway to another time and place. A dark and twisted place that holds either the salvation or the destruction of an ancient race known as O'orn. Only the three Ritchell men can decide the fate of the O'orn, but it will take three generations for the fight to be won.

Danshaw Ritchell's parents just wanted a normal life with their young family, so they kept their past a secret from their two sons. When he discovers his deceased mothers secret past, 14 year old Danshaw becomes caught up in a fight to save himself, his brother's soul, his father's sanity, and even the world itself.

But, even if he succeeds in saving the O'orn and the world, Danshaw will be trapped forever unless his older brother, Brevlin, now an adult, can overcome his own demons. Only then will he be able to save Danshaw, and himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Conrad Acosta III
• Release date: Jan 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301630226

Book preview

DREAMS OF AZENARIA

AZENARIA - BOOK I

Conrad Acosta III

Azenaria.

Once a wonder of the world, the great city now lies in ruins. Her streets, once paved with gold, are now filled with the wreckage of crumbling buildings and the invading armies of nature.

The sun disappeared behind the distant eastern mountains as a cloaked figure stepped from the shadows into the open street. He turned west and walked deeper into the city, and deeper into the darkness. Moments later, a second cloaked figure crept out of the shadows and followed.

Blackness filled the western sky and another storm approached the city. The two figures stopped in the center of the street and watched the billowing clouds devour the stars in their path. If they were caught outside in these streets when the storm hit, they would be washed away just as surely as those stars.

The moon hung low to the south and shone a cold, harsh light that only amplified the darkness in the spaces between the streets. The crumbling buildings and twisted causeways looked like the skeleton of a giant, black creature had fallen from the sky and crashed on the side of the mountain.

They always knew they would return for her. Every day of the past three years brought them a day closer to reliving the nightmare. She silently waited for them. Buried deep beneath the black heart of Azenaria, she waited in silence. Buried deep beneath the reach of mortal men, she slept. But they were not alone in this terrible place. Their enemies also knew they would return, and now waited, gathered in force, patiently preparing to meet them before they could reach her.

They walked through quiet and shadow for nearly an hour. Nothing stirred, and no sound broke the silence. The city allowed them to come—dared them to come. They stopped and stood in front of a large, ruined building near the center of the city. The broken windows stared down at them. The storm had hit the western edge of the city in full force and the driving snow now blew toward them. Their black cloaks billowed in the icy air, and the red moon shone a dull light that would soon be covered by the approaching black clouds.

The first figure slipped into the building and disappeared as the second figure watched in silence. Moments later he followed, as the moon was completely swallowed up and the streets were covered in total darkness.

The Edge of the World

Brevlin

GHOSTS

The darkness that filled him was as heavy and polluted as the darkness that filled the run-down excuse of a tavern. A wave of nausea threatened to overtake him. He gripped the edges of the table as the room swayed out of, and back into focus.

He always returned here, to this hole in the wall, and to this very table, when he finished a job. He always sat in the same grime, a mug of warm, flat ale in front of him, until he remembered. No one knew him. No one ever called him by his name. There was no one alive to remind him of his humanity. Those memories had faded along with his sanity.

Brevlin, he remembered. Finally. Tears came to his eyes. The sudden knowledge of his name always filled him with an overwhelming sense of relief. He would really forget someday. When that day came he would be a ghost. No, he would be less than a ghost. A ghost is something. When that day came, he would be nothing. His name was all he had left that made him human.

He had been alone for four years now. It seemed longer. Sometimes he believed he had always been alone. Perhaps in a hazy, drunken stupor, he had only imagined his time with Jenna. Was it really possible that a woman like her had loved a man like him? When she died, he swore he would never fall in love again. The day after she died, he forgot his name for the first time. He did not get it back for two days. Now he had his work and his thoughts—both dark and terrible. He allowed no woman to come near him. The last woman who looked him in the eyes had walked away weeping.

The darkness was his only friend.

He had recently finished a job for a rich merchant in Madral. The rich merchant had a richer rival who was cutting into his profits. Brevlin didn’t care.

It cost more when Brevlin used a dagger, but the merchant gladly paid the premium. A dagger meant that he must get close—close enough to smell his victim’s breakfast, to feel the final breath escape from empty lungs. A dagger struck quick and silent, and it sent a very personal message. With no competition, the rich merchant’s business boomed. His payment to Brevlin had proven a sound investment. That was, until another rich merchant accused him of cutting into profits. There was always work for a man like Brevlin.

He always returned to this tavern when he finished a job. Maybe it was because the filth on the floor, the walls, and the tables, matched the filth inside him. He sat at the same table, drank the same swill, and pondered the same dark thoughts. It had become a ritual, and that didn’t bother him. He didn’t have any other rituals in his life, and he thought he needed one. He believed that it might keep him from going completely insane, at least for a little while. One ritual might even help him remember his name.

He sat in the darkness with his untouched drink and wondered how long it would be before his latest victim visited him. It always happened. Terror had consumed him at first. After the first ten, twelve, thirty—he couldn’t remember how many times it happened before he became numb. Every one of them visited him here, in this tavern, at this table. They always appeared within a day of the job. They never accused him or seemed angry; they simply existed, for a time, as part of his shadow, as if they wanted him to see what he had done. He never took on a new job before the visit ended. He didn’t want to know what would happen if two came to him at once. He always waited. He gazed into his cup, struggled to remember his name, and waited in silence. He never knew how long the wait would be.

The heat and the smoke in the small room caused him to nod off at the table. He caught himself just as his nose dipped into the warm liquid in his mug. He rubbed his burning eyes and looked up. Someone had joined him. A dark, man-shaped form now sat across from him. His wait was over.

His vision cleared and he mentally prepared himself for another visit. He tried to connect the ghost’s face with the man he had recently killed, but something was different this time. Its eye sockets were not empty and hollow like all the others. This ghost had eyes—eyes that were not devoid of thought or intent, but shone with life—eyes that penetrated Brevlin’s soul.

For the first time since Jenna died, he felt fear. This time, he was not in the presence of a mindless thing. He was in the presence of someone, or something, that could see his thoughts and fears. This living ghost was going to break the rules. It wanted something from him, and Brevlin would give it whatever it asked for.

They sat across from each other for several moments. The ghost watched him almost casually, as if waiting for something, but in no hurry to act. In his agony, Brevlin could not blink. Tears ran down his cheeks and his vision blurred.

The ghost finally spoke.

The voice echoed inside his head. The ghost’s lips moved as he spoke, but no sound came from them. No one else in the tavern would overhear their conversation. The voice calmed and soothed him, like a mother singing a lullaby to her sleepy son, and he realized, too late, that he had been hypnotized. Numbness ran through his muscles. His body and his mind no longer responded to his commands. For the first time in his adult life, he had lost control.

I am not here to blame or to curse. I care not for your past sins. I am here to bring you a message. The words came from all around him.

You must travel to the ruins of Azenaria. There you will enter a marble palace that does not exist in this world. Inside this marble palace, you will find the trapped soul of your brother Danshaw. If you are unable to save his soul and deliver it back into this world, you will both be lost, and your destinies will be to ride the rapids of the Fanqui forever.

The ghost then reached across the table and brushed two of its fingers across Brevlin’s cheek. Brevlin watched through his tears as the ghost faded into the thick, smoky air and disappeared.

A splash of cold water hit his face. A young man stood over him with an empty bucket in his hands. He gave Brevlin a look of disgust and walked away. Brevlin pushed himself up and saw that he was lying in the street, outside the tavern.

He never drank enough to lose control of himself. He did not like being out of control, and last night he did not have more than a swallow of ale.

He remembered his visitor. You must travel to the ruins of Azenaria.

He shivered as the memory of the ghost and its words came back to him. He sat in the dirt and wept. When Jenna died, he had been too numb to weep. Now the sudden loneliness overwhelmed him. He wished he could sink into the ground and disappear. He wept until no tears remained. Then he sat in the dirt, stunned and oblivious to anyone watching him.

Danshaw—his beloved little brother and best friend. The sweet little boy who disappeared over twenty years ago. He disappeared without a trace, and their father had blamed himself. Memories of his father also came rushing back, and the tears almost returned.

Brevlin somehow made his way back to his room in the boarding house. He walked blindly through the streets, moving by instinct alone, until he found himself in front of his home. He knew nothing about Azenaria other than myth. The city had supposedly existed once, but over the past several hundred years it had become more of a legend than a real place. It was the subject of stories used to frighten children and entertain adults. He had no idea where to start. He only knew one thing—he would die before he would give up on the chance to rescue his long lost little brother.

Though he did not deserve it, he had somehow been given a little bit of hope.

The Top of the World

Danshaw, Brevlin & Landar

The STORM

Darkness filled the small bedroom and protected the young boy from the storm that raged outside. A blinding flash of light filled the room, throwing shadows against the walls. The boy stirred, rolled over so his back faced the window, and dreamed. The windows shook as thunder rolled across the sky. Another flash of pure, white light filled the room while, in his dream, the sun exploded and the monster screamed.

Danshaw woke to a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the house. He threw his arms in front of his face to protect himself from the huge sword that sped toward his head. In the smooth shine of the sword’s blade, he clearly saw his terrified face.

Several seconds later, he realized the sword had not split open his skull. He peered through the tiny opening between his arms and saw only his bedroom wall. The dull, white stone reflected the flashes of lightning, but nothing else. His wet clothes stuck to his body; he prayed it was only sweat. He stood, tore off his soaked shirt, dipped his trembling hands into the bowl on his dresser and splashed cold water onto his face. With the lingering effects of the nightmare slowly ebbing, he donned a dry pair of pants and a thin shirt and went downstairs.

The storm that rose up during the night now demanded entrance into every window of the house. Danshaw hoped the shutters would hold, but he had his doubts. This house had stood for over two centuries. He tried to reassure himself that this was just a normal storm.

His dream came back to him in fragments. A white temple stood in the midst of a wide open plain of ripe wheat. The temple transformed into a huge, black mountain. The lid of the mountain exploded in a blinding flash and turned into a volcano, as a river of living rock swallowed it up. A beautiful woman dressed in silk appeared in the midst of the river of lava. Her flawless face twisted into that of a hideous monster, now dressed in a robe of human flesh. The monster snarled at Danshaw, who stood frozen in fear, and then raised a long black sword above its head. Danshaw gazed into the monster’s eyes and, sick with dread, saw his own death. The sword fell.

That must have been when he woke up. He believed the stories: If you die in a dream, you die in real life. He was very grateful for the storm.

His father and brother had left home three days ago. Danshaw’s pride prevented him from admitting his loneliness, even to himself, but he missed them. No one could tell a funnier story than Brevlin. He could turn the tale of the Battle of Azenaria into a hilarious story of blood and death, or into a devastating story of love and loss, depending on his mood. His father’s talent almost equaled Brevlin’s, but there had been a sadness to their father’s mood ever since his wife died.

Danshaw still held closely to a few scattered memories of his mother. She was tall, to a four-year-old, and her golden hair flowed like it burned with a cold fire. He used to sit at her side as she read stories to her boys, mesmerized by the way the light seemed to dance along her hair.

He would always remember how much his parents loved each other. Their friendship held the family together, and when she died, both he and Brevlin feared for their father, and for their family. A period of time passed when the boys believed their dad might join her in death, but Landar had always been a very strong man, and he soon became their father again.

Brevlin and Landar were traveling to Zymandia to sell the year’s crop of tobacco at the annual festival. Landar’s tobacco was one of the most popular fares in Zymandia. Everyone who smoked in the region of Baylein knew of his tobacco. Those who did not smoke used it for everything from cooking to bandaging injuries to food storage. It quickly became one of the most demanded items at the festival, and it often sold several more times after Landar’s sale. The first buyers at Landar’s table could be sure of making a great profit on the resale. Because of this, Landar usually sold out his stock in the first day or two and headed home. The three men didn’t like to be separated for long.

The sun glided up over the western mountains as Danshaw reached the first floor of the house. The rain had subsided and the clouds were breaking up. It might be a nice day after all. He put on his heavy cloak and boots, went outside, and closed the door behind him. The storm still raged to the west. He hoped his father and brother would not be slowed down. The sooner they arrived in Zymandia and sold the crop, the sooner they would be home.

He turned and walked toward the river, about a hundred feet from the back of the house. He didn’t like to go near the river. The terrible memories there often overwhelmed him. This morning, however, his loneliness caused him to push those memories aside.

His mother died ten years ago. She was washing clothes in the river that morning, like she did every morning, when a beast attacked her. She did not scream. She did not see it coming. Danshaw prayed that she did not feel any pain. He found her lying on the giant boulder next to the river. Blood covered her face and her hair had turned cold and dark. That image always stuck with him more than any other. Her hair, once so full of life, had simply gone out. Even when he saw her lying in her own blood with her eyes closed, her death had not seemed real. But when he noticed her hair, he knew she was gone. He cried so loudly that his father ran from inside the house. Landar fell to her side, buried his face in hers, and wept. His father’s despair filled Danshaw with a sense of dread. With his face covered in his wife’s blood, Danshaw wasn’t sure his dad even recognized him. He knew at that moment what the face of an insane man looked like. He believed he had lost both of his parents that day. It took months for his father to recover.

Danshaw turned away from the river. The boulder still showed stains of blood. They had tried to clean it, but nothing worked. Nothing could wash away the memories. They even tried to roll it over, but most of it was buried underground. They could only stay away and try to forget. With tears still in his eyes, he walked back the way he had come and went into the house. He was exhausted. He needed to lie down for a few minutes, so he climbed the stairs to his room, undressed, and climbed into his bed. He would take a short nap before breakfast. That dream had filled him with adrenaline, but now he was coming down from his natural high and realized another hour would pass before his normal waking time.

He ran through a thick, dark forest. He did not know where he was, or which direction he ran, and he did not care. He only knew one thing: If he stopped running, he would die.

Low branches slapped him in the face and blood ran into his eyes. He ran blind, but as long as he ran, he would live. He did not know what chased him. If he turned his head, he would slow down. If he slowed down, he would die.

His lungs burned and he could run no farther when he came to the edge of a cliff. He took only a split second to decide if he should jump or face his pursuer. His fear told him to jump, and he listened.

He fell through the air and wondered if he had made the best choice. Fear and exhaustion overwhelmed him such that any other terror seemed better than capture, or death. He could not see the ground rushing to meet him, but it came fast. He imagined the rocky hill far below, the sharp stone daggers that covered the hillside waiting for his blood. In desperation, he flapped his arms, hoping to slow himself down, and he let out a small, frantic laugh as he continued to fall.

He seemed to slow down. The air no longer rushed by him as fast. He tried to move his arms and legs, but felt as if his body was stuck in thick mud. He continued to slow until he stopped falling, and for a moment hung in midair. The still night was hot and muggy. He could hear the soft babble of a stream far below, and the wind whistled through the canyon. Even the insects buzzed around his face, but he still could not move his arms enough to brush them away. He then started to rise. Slowly at first and faster every second, he rose back toward the cliff.

The fear started in the pit of his stomach and quickly spread through his body. As he fell toward certain death only moments ago, he had almost accepted his fate. He had almost convinced himself that even though he was going to die, at least he had escaped from a worse fate. He refused to believe the thing that pursued him had the power to break the laws of gravity to catch its escaping prey. In the back of his terrified mind, he realized it did.

His ascent slowed as he approached the cliff and his pursuer. He stopped rising and floated horizontally toward the cliff edge. He hovered over the ground for a few seconds, and then dropped several feet to the stone. Even though his breath escaped him, he jumped up to face his attacker.

He stood, prepared to fight to the death as his pursuer approached. It stood almost half again taller than he. Cold, red eyes shone through a black hood. This thing must attack him, rip him apart as punishment for eluding it. Instead, it reached out with both of its hands, knelt down to the ground, and laid a huge sword at his feet. Stunned, out of breath and prepared for death, he could not react. The bright steel lay on the rocky ground in front of him. Did this creature want to fight him? The sword was almost five feet long. He could barely lift it; much less wield it