The Dark Side of Light: Crescendo: The Dark Side of Light Series

By Susan D. Kalior

A ghost? A sorcerer? A goddess? Worlds collide until it all makes sense.

Shallee has been indoctrinated into the castle, learning how to deal with Droghan and his magic man Kurchat. Goddesses present themselves along with a few unsavory surprises. All her barriers come down with Shokane, as she prepares to embark on the biggest adventure of her life. 

Kyle keeps trying to get out of modern times back to Shallee in the Viking dark ages. War, love, magic, and time periods mix and mount in the further adventures of Shokane and Shallee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan D. Kalior
• Release date: May 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393390039

Susan D. Kalior

        Susan was born in Seattle, WA.. Her first profession was a psychotherapist treating those suffering from depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress, substance abuse, sexual abuse, family violence, and severe mental illness. She employed therapies such as communication skill building, relaxation training, systematic desensitization, bioenergetics, and psychodrama. She has facilitated stress management, parenting, and self-discovery workshops that have aided in the psycho-spiritual healing of many. She has lectured on metaphysical and psychological topics, and been involved in various social activist pursuits.          Her education includes an M.A. in Ed. in Counseling/Human Relations and Behavior (NAU), a B.S. in Sociology (ASU), and ten months of psycholog-ical and metaphysical training in a Tibetan community.          Susan writes entertaining books steeped in psychology, sociology, and metaphysics in genres such as visionary fiction, dark fantasy, horror, and romance. All her books are designed to facilitate personal growth and transformation.         In her words: I love to sing, meditate, and play in nature. I love fairy tales, going outside the box, and reading between the lines. I strive to see what is often missed, and to not miss what can't be seen. There is such a life out there, and in there—beyond all perception! So I close my eyes, feel my inner rhythm, and jump off the cliff of convention. And when I land, though I might be quaking in my boots, I gather my courage and go exploring.         Through travel, study, and work, I've gained a rich awareness of cultural differences among people and their psychosocial struggles. I have discovered that oppression often results from the unexamined adoption of outside perceptions. The healing always has been in the individual's stamina to expel outside perceptions of self and constructively exert one's unique core being into the world. I am driven to facilitate expanded awareness that people may separate who they are from who they are told to be. Embracing personal power by loving our unique selves in our strengths and weaknesses . . . forever—is a key to joyous living. My motto is: Trust your story. Live the Mystery..

Book preview

The Dark Side of Light

Book Two-Crescendo

Copyright 2010

Revised 2018

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief passages in connection with a review. All non-historical character or business names in this book are fiction; any resemblance to current names is purely coincidental.

Published by Blue Wing Publications

[e-mail], www.bluewingworkshops.com

Cover design by Christian Bentulan

Research Consultant: Mark Kalior

Proofreader: Sara C. Roethle

Readers’ comments welcomed and

reviews are much appreciated.

Other Books by Susan D. Kalior

The Dark Side of Light

Book One-Initation

Book Three-Eternity

Warriors in the Mist: A Dark Fantasy

The Mark of Chaos (The Mark of Chaos Series)

An Angel’s Touch (The Mark of Chaos Series)

The Golden Disc (The Mark of Chaos Series)

The Goddess Returns (The Mark of Chaos Series)

Ixion Rising (The Mark of Chaos Series)

The Lost Pool of Time (Magical Waters Series)

The Other Side of God: The Eleven Gem Odyssey of Being

The Other Side of Life: The Eleven Gem Odyssey of Death

The Other Side of Self: The Eleven Gem Odyssey of Plurality

Growing Wings Self Discovery Workbook:

17 Workshops to a Better Life, Volume One

Growing Wings Self Discovery Workbook: Volume Two

The Simple Guide to Feeling Better

Manufactured in the United States of America

A Martyr’s Redemption

Intentions good

and a loving heart,

cannot keep me from

being ripped a part.

Be good,

as you know you should

Give yourself away,

some religions say.

For I was told

serving mankind was gods will.

And I was told

to sacrifice myself rather than kill.

And I was told

never to meet my own need

for that was considered greed

I must bleed and bleed and bleed,

until there’s no me anymore.

And the beast is fed

When I am dead.

But all in all, in holistic sight,

the warriors need to love,

and the pacifists need to fight.

There’s a light side to dark,

and a dark side to light.

Chapter One

Oversoul

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My little soul has fainted, overcome by returning to the castle that was her home in the life of Alloria, from where she’d been ousted, tormented, and killed. Having faced her murderer, her dragon, Droghan, not much, not for long, but too much and too long for her, she is drowning in flashbacks, and has far to go to gain her footing.

Shokane, unaware of her stumble, has set forth to the War Room with Droghan to convey his feat in slaying the monsters. He is satisfied that Alloria is in good hands with his servants Mortrana and Sigar. Good hands, yes. But she is not well.

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Shokane

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Droghan and I have journeyed out of the Great Hall and are nearing the chamber where we typically strategize war, dubbed the War Chamber. Small footsteps sound behind me.

Droghan turns and shouts in Norse, Why dost thou follow us?

I look back. The servant girl, Sigar is there nervously clutching her brown apron skirt, with shy eyes edged in blonde hair under a brown coif. She curtsies to Droghan begging his pardon, "Afsakið mig, minn konungur." Then she curtsies to me, "Minn herra," and proceeds to inform me that Shallee hath fainted.

I say to Droghan, I request permission to tend my betrothed, my liege. I shall fast return.

Droghan narrows an eye. The doctor can tend her.

I say firmly, ‘I’ must tend her. He knows there are lines he cannot cross if he wants to keep me in his game.

He flicks his hand. Tend her and return at once. I shall meet thee in the War Chamber.

I bow. My liege, and then I follow Sigar, impatient with her small steps, though they are quick. We ascend the stairs to the second floor and proceed down the corridor to where Shallee hath fallen.

Ahead, I view the scene. Shallee, in her new emerald gown, is sprawled flat on her back in the hallway, arms over her head, gold veil and black hair splayed to one side on the floor. Mortrana, my other servant and older companion to Sigar, is knelt to her guardedly, her brown apron skirt bunched up at her knees.

I take a deep breath concerned that Shallee’s sensitivities may undo us yet. As I approach, Mortrana rises and stands back with worry-filled eyes.

I scoop Shallee up in the cradle of mine arms. Her emerald green skirt drapes over my hand to my thighs, and her head dips into the crook of my shoulder. I carry her down the corridor to the bedchamber next to mine, the one reserved for guests.

Sigar opens the door. I carry Shallee into the deep blue decorated bedchamber. Mortrana pulls back the blue wool covering, then a white linen sheet. Sigar removes Shallee’s gold lace slippers, and I lie her down on the medium-sized goose down bed.

Her chest rises and falls with ease. Given she upsets over the tiniest things, medoubts she is in peril. That she sleeps now is for the best, for I shall likely be with Droghan long into the night giving reports and discussing our campaign.

I turn to the women servants and say in Norse, Care for her as ye would me. She is nervous, and speaks little Norse, so calm her with a kindly presence. Hereto, one of thee must remain with her always. If there is trouble, inform me discreetly at once.

They both curtsy lightly, then affirm their understanding of my wishes.

I kiss Shallee’s pale forehead. She is hither with me in my world. Verily, she is hither. I pull the covers up over her shoulders, loathing to leave her, but alas, I must. I pry myself out of her chamber. Mortrana closes the door behind me. I journey back to Droghan to finish strategizing his fake future.

I enter the War Chamber, eyeing the wall-covered maps and battle plans on yellow parchment. Droghan is seated in a mighty leather chair made just for him, at the head of a rectangular oak table that seats twenty. His red-jeweled fingers ripple impatiently upon the tabletop.

I sit in the adjacent chair and proceed to relay the tale of how the Syllion heads came to be upon my belt. I weave in stories of how Randor and I found bloody remnants of the four henchmen in the woods and tracked the monster to a pond whereupon it ate Randor. I proceed to tell him that I single handedly slew the second monster, leaving Shallee out of it.

He seems a bit saddened by the passing of Randor, his favorite cousin, but decides he died heroically fighting a monster, and can use that tale to his advantage. And with that spin, his sorrow turns to the maniacal brewing of propaganda to make his army legend. I give him the monster heads to be embalmed and put on display. We decide on new henchmen and who shall replace Randor.

That done, his head tilts back in contemplation. Shallee, she is familiar. Have we afore met?

Nay, this is her first sojourn to Denmark.

She is English. We Curonians are on poor terms with the English.

Rest easy, my liege. I am part English as well, and it is I securing thy power. Thou knowest my network of spies are everywhere. My sources, upon this last patrol, report nothing amiss save the Sambians who feign their truce with us. They have taken the bait though to come to the tournament this Saturn day. Our reserve armies are in place.

Aye, thine plan is brilliant. Thy reputation precedes thee, sharp of mind with new tactics and old, gathered from all over the world. Thou hast never deceived thine employer, nor broken a contract. Thou hast never failed, which is the best part about thee.

He proceeds to engage a supper in the War Chamber with my top men, including Randor’s replacement. We work long into the night, and I hope Shallee remains calm during my long absence.

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Shallee

––––––––

I am in a cave deep beneath the earth, laden with a dark, heavy energy that makes me do its bidding. I’m a prisoner without boundaries forced to be something I’m not.

I wake up with a jolt; a cover falls to my lap. Oh what a deeply creepy dream!

Wait a minute, where am I? I’m in an incandescent room, sitting in the dark on a strange bed. Shokane! I look to the right, Shokane. To the left, Sho—

Be calm, miss. I look to the voice. Mortrana and Sigar stand there.

Oh yeah, I remember now, I fainted in the corridor. Someone must have carried me to this room.

With measured caution, Mortrana and Sigar approach me. "Shokane vera með the Konungur. Við munu gæta þig."

I presume their English is limited. I think Konungur means King, so she must have said that Shokane is with the King.

I gaze about my surroundings by the light shed from clay oil lamps on the walls. A lit fireplace at the foot of the bed lends more light and heat too. I must have slept a long time for darkness to have set in. Hanging on the wall in front of me is a brown and ivory tapestry that stretches across the gray stone wall. The tapestry is of nine nude women playing in water.

Mortrana speaks to me in Norse, but as I don’t know what she’s saying, I just sit here confused. She pulls back the sheet from my lap, takes my arm, and guides me gently to sit with my legs hanging over the bed. Sigar slides the gold slippers onto my feet, which apparently had been removed when I fainted. I notice my veil is gone. Looking about, I see it draped at the foot of the bed. Mortrana pulls on my arm, guiding me to stand. She says in English, This way, miss.

On my feet now, Sigar runs ahead and opens the door. Maybe they are going to take me to Shokane. Mortrana leads me out of the room, down the corridor, and stops by a small door. Sigar opens the door. I see a closet with a wood bench that has a Frisbee size hole cut into it. And then I understand. They are telling me that this is the bathroom.

Well I do have to go, so I nod to them, and go in. They close the door. Without much trouble, I relieve myself, happy to notice little wool pads piled on a small shelf for wiping. Not toilet paper, but it will do. Lack of modern day plumbing is one of the great setbacks to living in the dark ages. Still, for the ninth century, this setup isn’t bad—better than a chamber pot.

Having finished, I open the door and emerge. Sigar is there. I don’t know where Mortrana went. Sigar guides me back into the room as if her very life depended upon tending me properly. She takes me over to a small oblong table. On it is a bar of soap and a cloth next to an oval clay wash bin filled with water. With sign language, Sigar bids me wash my hands and face, and I’m glad Vikings are into being clean.

I notice the water has been warmed and smells like spice, likely heated in the pot sitting on a rack in the burning fireplace. I wet my hands and face, sliding the soap over my skin. I rinse and dry myself off with the cloth, feeling much more awake now.

The door swings open. Mortrana bustles in with a silver tray of cherries, a slice of bread, a bowl made of hard bread with some sort of porridge in it, a wooden spoon, and a silver goblet of water. She walks over and sets the tray on a small, square table next to the fireplace and says, Sup, miss.

She points to the food, indicating more adamantly that I should eat. I am starving, so I gladly go to the table and sit on one of the two chairs there. I point to the food and then at them, offering to share.

They shake their heads and hand signal that I should eat.

Parched, I drink the water straight down. I feel better already. I bite into the bread, and though dense with grain, my mouth waters. I eat the bread and porridge hungrily, a bit shamed of my gluttony. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to eat the hard bread bowl or not. I decide, not. Instead, I reach for a fat red cherry and deposit it in my mouth. My teeth crush it; sweet-tart juice floods onto my tongue. Ah, how pleasurable food is when one is starving! And in harder times such as these, I can see why the Nordic exaltation of the feast prevails, as in Valhalla where food is plentiful and constant. I eat the rest of the delicious cherries, depositing the pits on the tray.

Mortrana points to a wooden bathtub in the corner.

I shake my head no, not yet. It’s not that I don't want a bath, but I'm not particularly ready for these women to have their hands all over my body in an attempt to wash me. Truly, these matters of hygiene, I'd rather do alone.

Where is Shokane! What is taking him so long to get back to me? What if something happened to him? And what will become of me without him? I need his assurance. I feel odd in this century without him near to comfort me so that I don’t freak out. Strange really . . . that I needed him to ground me in a time not my own.

Shokane? I ask them.

They shake their heads in a way that indicates he can’t be disturbed.

I raise my palms up slightly indicating, ‘Now what?’

Mortrana leads me back to the bed, and I notice there is a nightshift there at the foot of the mattress, but I really want to see Shokane before changing into it. I shake my head no.

They are urging me back into bed. I really need to see Shokane. I need to know he’s all right, that Droghan didn’t punish him for bringing me here, and I need to know if Droghan bought off on the monsters killing his men. Claustrophobic and nervous, I can’t stay pent up any longer. I need to explore. After all, I’m a guest here. What harm can it do?

I walk to the door. Mortrana and Sigar are behind me, pulling back on my arms to keep me from leaving. I resist them and open the door, pushing myself out into the corridor with them latched to me. Looking right, then left, something about the left attracts me, so I move that way. Finally, the women release me and follow close behind.

The dark corridor is spotted with lit oil lamps on the walls casting eerie shadows, not unlike my own dark potential taunting me.

Seeing these walls like this, walking as I am, triggers an old memory. As Alloria, I used to cherish the oh so precious moments that I could be alone, a brief escape from doting servants and the political duties that repressed my individuality. I was the King’s daughter and not allowed to be my true self. The royal family must uplift all of Denmark by creating alliances with surrounding provinces. Commitment and social politeness was required to succeed. I suppose the twenty-first century job description for the role I played would be—public relations. Hmm, odd that in my world, I was doing that yet, even though my goal there was more about dispelling the status quo.

Maybe Shokane is right. I haven't changed much. If I had, I doubt I could have been connected enough to Alloria to find my way back into her life—my old life. What is reincarnation anyway? I'm not her anymore, and yet I am. When she overtook me upon meeting Droghan, I felt our sameness as well as our difference. It's like she was my ancestor. And yet I carry in me all her feelings and experiences.

I turn the corner walking down another corridor, each step blending who I was into who I am. As Alloria, I envied the peasants, for though they knew hardship, they also knew freedom. They could speak openly amongst their own, do what they wanted, when they wanted; they could laugh or curse, or damn the world.

And in a way, it was all right that I, as Alloria, died young, for had I lived, my role would have overtaken the last of the real me, for I was betrothed to some prince in another country. I really didn't want a life with a prince; I just wanted to run free with peasants. And when I finally had the chance to do that, due to being outcast by Droghan, the peasants wouldn't touch me, believing Droghan’s lies. Only one old woman was kind to me. I wonder if she still lives.

The corridor I have taken gives me a choice of turning right or left. But in front of me is a long wall-size tapestry of a dragon. Instinctively, I curl my fingers at its edge and lift. Behind the tapestry is a narrow winding stairwell. I have a great urge to climb the stairs.

I slip behind the tapestry. As I take the first step, Mortrana has followed, grabbing my arm, trying to stop me, but I shake her loose. Then with both hands, I hike up my silk green skirt and proceed walking upward, step by mysterious step. Mortrana and Sigar follow, whispering their protest behind me.

I feel like the stairs lead to the outside deck on the castle roof, the deck I have seen in my visions. I used to love going there under midnight’s black cloak, and take leave of my facade. Even though there were always guards posted nearby, I'd pretend that I was alone as I let my imagination fly with the breezes, making up songs that I'd sing to the sea. I did and do love my Denmark, but it's like I’ve never had a chance to revel in my love. I'm already crying a bit, and I haven't even found the deck.

The stairway ends. I think I’m at the top of a tower. Though I feel the exit to the roof is near, I can’t remember where it is, but to my left there is a foyer. I walk into it. Mortrana and Sigar follow. I guess I'm glad, for they can guide me back if I get lost.

Ahead I see an archway lined in gold. I approach cautiously and peek inside at the ominous setting, resembling a chapel. At the very front, countless red candles are ceremoniously lit on a charcoal stone altar, casting a glow on rows of wooden pews. It feels clandestine and quite antithetical to Norse spirituality where outdoor worship is the norm.

I don’t recall this room in past life visions of Alloria. I enter into what feels like heavy hypnotic energy. I should get out, but my curiosity has the better of me.

The chapel, I want to call it, is empty save a blonde-haired woman sitting in the very back pew, praying with palms pressed together before her heart. She's in a white nightshift. Her head turns back to me expressing sorrow. She brushes her hand along her uncombed hair, and returns to her prayer.

I walk over to her, sensing that she needs comfort. I slide into the pew next to her frail, thin body. I'm brazen when it comes to nurturing. Without looking at me, she begins to weep silently.

She feels familiar, and for a moment I lose myself to Alloria. Even my hair feels red. I turn my head slightly and slant my eyes to her. Great sadness wells in my heart. I’m having a vision: A woman falls, face up, plunging into dark water far below. Touching down, her skirt and long blonde hair billow as the water closes in. She sinks, and I see her no more. Maybe she wants to kill herself.

Her sorrow breaks my heart. Given the intensity of her pain, I can’t sit next to her much longer. I move my hand toward her knee intending to lend a comforting touch, when a sinister presence looms at my left. I look to the presence. A crimson robed holy man with a red hat shaped like a flat-topped cone, stands at the end of the pew, glaring at me with dark pupils and red-veined eyeballs.

He says, "Af hverju ert þú hér?"

Before I can figure out what he is asking, he grabs my arm, pressing on my unhealed sword wound. Ouch! He pulls me out of the pew. I wince and almost trip over my skirt, as concerned with my pain as I am his behavior.

I try to pry his fingers off my injury, but he grips harder, hauling me toward the altar. His thin-lipped mouth flaps a mile a minute under the shelter of his hawkish nose. His dark eyes give way to a slanting forehead. Under his red hat, his long black hair is tied in a ponytail.

Reaching the altar that looks a bit like a coffin, I notice a fist-sized, flat gold cross around his neck. He releases my pain-riveted arm and pushes down on my shoulders, forcing me to my knees. I think he wants me to pray. I'm eye level now with the altar, close up to the carvings on it. Christ is smiling as he hangs on the cross. On one side of him, a dragon faces outward hissing fire on a warrior. On the other side of him is another dragon hissing flames at an angel. What is this? It’s like a perverted version of Christianity that stinks of dark magic.

With the man’s knees near my shoulder, he begins chanting, "Extremus decumbo cassus." His hands move over my head and all around me, not quite touching. I feel like he’s trying to psychically invade me. I resist.

He grabs my arm, drawing me upward, and turns me to face him. His palms cup my cheeks harshly as he speaks punitively in Latin. My forehead feels funny, like energy is being sucked out of it, or maybe like something is being put into it, similar to what Mackelvie and Dorshak were trying to do to me