Dark Lands: Kingdom of Othelnyl, #1

By Michael R E Middleton

The isolated town of Brohamen was about to discover they were not alone…

Monsters do exist.

For soldiers; Gannar and Serza, everything begins to unravel as they struggle to survive the perilous dark lands of Kalmae… and themselves.

 

Series: Kingdom of Othelnyl, Book 1.

Word Count: 168k

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R E Middleton
• Release date: Dec 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201142827

Michael R E Middleton

Michael R. E. Middleton is a Fantasy and Sci-Fi fanatic, residing in Ontario, Canada. With his debut novel series; Kingdom of Othelnyl, Michael aims to bring a fresh perspective to the genre by infusing a sense of realism within his own unique interpretation of the Fantasy realm. When not busy forging worlds and developing characters, he enjoys the outdoors, hiking with his wife and dog, and competing with friends in online gaming.

Book preview

Chapter One

As the sun beamed down on the land of Kalmae, a young man pulled a canteen from the saddle of his horse. He brushed his hair from his face and took a drink while taking in the surroundings. Climbing on a high rock in a clearing, he observed the beautiful scene of rolling hills and lush forests. To the south, a deep valley opened up, cradling a long, meandering river, while far to the east towered an enormous mass of earth and rock known as the Niascenth Mountains.

The young man had been riding west for three days and planned to continue for several more. Driven by a strong sense of determination instilled by his father and further strengthened by his mentor, this was his chance to prove himself worthy of becoming a soldier of the Othelnyl army and he wasn’t about to let anything get in his way. Protected only by thin leather armour, a dagger and a modified longsword, he eagerly rode into the uncharted wilderness with little concern and focused ambition.

Returning to the saddle, he took a moment to reassert his bearings. With a chirrup and quick flick of the reins, the tall, chestnut stallion cantered back into the woods as they forged a path of their own through the dense underbrush. Random columns of light filtered through the heavy canopy to the forest floor. A warm, soft breeze wisped through the air with a subtle, sweet scent while birds and creatures of many kinds chirped and sung songs in their native tongue. Some were recognizable yet others remained foreign to him. Witnesses reported dangerous predators among these lands, the likes of wolves, wildcats and bears. As a precaution, he gripped the pommel of his sword, unsure of what he might encounter.

There’s got to be something out here, he thought. Pressing on, the horse and rider traversed the tree-laden hills and gullies without restraint. When it became too difficult to ride, he would hop down and guide his faithful companion safely through. If there was no clear path, he would simply make one, carelessly knocking down saplings and trampling bushes. His aim was to search where others before him would have likely overlooked.

Hours swept by as they continued, not letting anything halt their progress. As the terrain levelled out, an unusual structure appeared in the distance. At first, he thought it was a boulder, but as they drew closer, he noticed a peculiarity about it. Given the nature of the immediate surroundings, it seemed strangely out of place. Laying nearly the height of his horse, it stood out among the trees like a beacon in the night. Deeply curious, he turned his horse and headed for the lone rock.

His suspicions were confirmed. The large stone wasn’t a natural phenomenon. It was a carving, but of what, he couldn’t yet tell until, slowly circling it, its true identity finally revealed itself. It’s the head of a statue, he realized. The giant face laying frozen on its side appeared to be human, but with larger eyes and slightly elongated features. Who were you? the young man wondered, gazing at the eroded details. Now I know there’s definitely something out here. A smile grew on his face as he swept the forest with excitement, contemplating which way to head next.

As the sculpture disappeared behind him, the woods had grown darker, even though the sky remained clear. The wonderful breeze had also dissipated as the forest became eerily calm. He listened carefully, but couldn’t hear anything. No animals, no wind, nothing. Only slightly put off, the man and his horse continued on.

Cresting the next rise, all the hard work and perseverance over the past few days had finally paid off. Scarcely able to believe his eyes, he increased pace, becoming impatient. Ahead, on the far side of a shallow valley, lay the crumbling remains of an ancient stronghold. The rock walls and main structures remained mostly intact, while everything else had been partially overrun by the encroaching forest around it. The horse splashed through a wide, slow-moving brook as they approached the main gate. There was little left of the heavy, wooden doors lying flat on the ground. The soft, rotted planks gave way with a muted crunch under the weight of the horse’s hooves.

Once inside the curtain walls, the young man dismounted. Stay here boy, he said, patting the steed gently on the neck. With a puff of hot air, the horse lowered its head in search of fresh grass.

Dark, rich soil, bearing an abundance of flora, graced the floor of the vast courtyard, and the outer stone barriers, he noticed, were riddled with large, strange markings. What could have done this? he wondered, fitting his whole hand inside one of the deep, long gashes. Shifting his eyes across the various structures, it became apparent; the damage was not isolated but consistent throughout. His mind wandered, thinking of the incredible battle that must have taken place right where he now stood. Imagination in full swing, he swore he could almost hear the faint clattering of swords and cries of the wounded. As if a retelling of the past still lingered here, wisps of a dark and clouded history hung all around him, thick in the air. The evidence of what he could only interpret as a great conflict of magnificent proportions was overwhelming.

Among the remaining foundation of the stronghold sat a large, central staircase leading to a second, smaller court, with paths branching to higher levels beyond. The seemingly countless routes begged him to explore further. As he climbed the steps, a strange set of carvings on the wall caught his eye. The symbols and characters were unlike any language he’d seen before. Exotic, elegant and flowing, they reminded him of flames reaching out above a roaring fire. The uncanny stillness subtly gave way to the distant sound of trickling water as the young man took a detailed mental picture of the age-old text.

Trekking deeper into the ruins, two large, ominous structures loomed high above at the farthest level. The one appeared fully intact while the other was severely crippled with remnants of its partial collapse scattered about. Gazing up at the cold, grey, circular towers with fascination, he observed those same strange marks in random patterns, all the way to the top. Spotting several large openings near the peak of the remaining spire-like structure, he assumed they were probably once used as watch towers. Like a moth to a flame, he couldn’t resist the temptation as his face lit up with intrigue. Even if he found the tower too unstable to ascend, he was determined to search as much of the ruins as he could before sundown.

A loose layer of fallen yellow leaves blanketed the ground, crunching beneath his boots with every step. Through a maze of passages and corridors, more of the same foreign writing appeared throughout. Climbing staircase after staircase, he soldiered on. The farther he progressed, the more he began to appreciate the unique architecture. Unfortunately, for whoever once tried to defend it, the walls had been breached, smashed apart by some powerful force as evident by the pattern of the debris. This must have been some battle, he thought with amazement.

Other than the writings on the walls, the only other remaining hint of the lost civilization, were a number of tall statues in precarious locations throughout. The individuals depicted were robed, each grasping a longsword pointed toward the ground with hilts of unique designs. Disturbingly, all their heads had been broken off and were nowhere to be found. Except, of course, for the one he found earlier, triggering a sudden and confusing realization; Why would they knock the head off and then drag it several miles away? Seems like a wasted effort.

A while later, he arrived at the base of the two towers. Patches of soft, brown moss, and clusters of fungi concealed the foundations where the sun rarely shone. Sizable chunks of rubble from the damaged tower to his right lay strewn all around, enclosed in vines and weeds. Taking note of the numerous cracks and missing stones, he wondered how the one tower was still standing as it was. The countless centuries had left the tall structure weathered and damaged beyond repair.

He could see no obvious entrance to the remaining tower. Eclipsed by its sinister shadow, he turned his sights to what now lay directly in front of him. Centred between the bases of the two towers, stood a tall, arched doorway leading into the dark unknown. Bravely, he took a few steps closer, swept a few of the hanging vines aside and paused at the threshold. Staring deep into the pure blackness, he realized he had no torch to light the way. Captivated by the void, he wondered what could be hiding in there, waiting to be discovered. Cut off from his thoughts, the air suddenly went cold as a feeling of utter dread washed over him like a torrential down-pour. This young man was not easily unnerved, yet in that moment he felt as though something was watching him from within the darkness. Slowly recoiling, he stepped back from the eerie doorway, hand white-knuckled on the grip of his sword. The slight shuffling of his own feet echoed inside the black abyss, causing his heart to skip a beat. Come on, get a grip! You’re a grown man!

Further distancing himself from the dark cavern, he then realized how much time had passed since he first set foot in the ruins. The sun would be setting within the hour and he harboured no desire to remain there after dark.

Shaking away the nerves, he continued searching the upper area of the keep with haste, intent on leaving as soon as possible. As he flanked the collapsed tower, the sound of flowing water crept closer. Over time, the weather and erosion had formed a number of small ponds, which eventually flowed into creeks and waterfalls within the boundaries of the stronghold.

Crouching beside the nearest stream, he cupped his hands and immersed them in the clear liquid as it sparkled in the fading sunlight. Cold and pure, the water quenched his thirst as he drank. His cheeks stung as he splashed his face, washing off the sweat and grime of the day’s activities.

Staring into the frigid, crystal water, he watched it curl and ripple over the stones below. A shimmer of reflected light, like a mirror lying flat at the bottom of the stream, glinted in his eye. Kneeling down, he plunged his hands back in. Running his fingers along through the silt, he could feel there was definitely something buried there; rounded and smooth as glass. Reaching deeper, he searched for an edge but couldn’t find one. Hands numb from the freezing water, his unresponsive fingers made it difficult to obtain a firm grip. Unable to break the suction of its muddy casket, he needed something stronger to pry the object free. Removing the dagger from his belt, he knew it would dull the blade and it pained him to use it improperly, but he was determined to finish what he started. I’m not leaving this place without something to show for it! Beads of sweat ran down his forehead as he clawed furiously around the object, water splashing up over his arms.

Prying with all his might, the object finally broke free as it rose up on end. Drying the dagger on his trousers, he sheathed the blade and grasped the item firmly. Eyes wide with fascination, he manoeuvred the artifact out of the water and cradled it in his arms. A subtle vibration emanated from the object as his hands shook from being submerged in the icy water.

Its surface was perfectly smooth, like finely-polished steel. Although black in colour, the shine and asymmetrical form of the exterior produced a distorted reflection of its surroundings. Roughly the length of his forearm in size, he jostled the object, intrigued by its weight. Strangely, it wasn’t as heavy as he expected, assuming it was some type of ore. Tapping it with his knuckles, to him, it certainly felt as hard as rock.

The night was poised and quickly taking over, now that the sun had finally set. High above, stood the remaining tower, like an ominous giant against the pale orange sky. Contemplating if he should stay there for the night, he began retracing his steps around the crippled tower. Regrettably, the fallen debris of the ruins would force him to pass that eerie doorway once again. As he walked by the arch, he purposely diverted his gaze, hoping to prevent his mind from conjuring things that weren’t really there. Yet out of the corner of his eye, the shadow of an entity began to manifest among the darkness.

Chapter Two

He froze and turned to face the opening, heart leaping out of his chest. There, deep within the darkness, a pair of piercing, red eyes stared back at him, glowing like a fire in the night. Paralyzed, he gasped, nearly dropping the artifact. Though human-like in shape, they were slightly larger and too distant in the shadows to see who, or what, they belonged to. For the first time in his life, this young man felt genuine terror as he watched the faint silhouette of this dark figure rise up and stand taller than he. Fixated on the eyes, he couldn’t move or look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

Very subtly, words began to form in his mind. Move. Get away from this place. Get as far away as you can. Now! It insisted. Bound by his own fear and fascination, he wanted to leave but couldn’t. Move! It shouted from within. Sensing a wave of utmost urgency, he finally broke free and fled down the path without a second glance.

Clutching the object tightly, he tore through the ruins. Carelessly charging forward, he nearly lost his footing more than once, slipping on the wet leaves covering the smooth stone steps. With reckless abandon, he leapt over everything in his path, desperate to get away. Attempting to talk himself down did little to calm his frayed nerves. Panting heavily, he pushed off the final step and sprinted toward his horse.

Good boy, he said, fumbling to slip the object into an empty satchel. Climbing onto the saddle, he reluctantly looked back at the ruins in the dim light, searching for the crimson eyes, now burned into his mind forever.

Though the forest remained calm and quiet, the horse seemed agitated. A shiver ran down his spine listening to the dead silence as the sky darkened with the coming night. Let’s get out of here, he said under his breath with a snap of the reins.

It wasn’t long before he was forced to stop. Navigation by stars was near impossible as the trees obstructed his view of the sky. He could have continued by compass in the pale light, but with the rough, unknown terrain and poor visibility, he didn’t want to risk injuring his horse. Just one night. He sighed. If we can reach the plains tomorrow, we’ll be able to make it home in a straight shot.

After securing his horse to a tree and starting a small fire to keep warm, he pulled some dried meat from his pack and ate. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but had to keep his strength up for the long ride ahead.

Paranoia began to take over as he continued watching for the eyes. The glow from the flames dancing on the surrounding trees, made it difficult to see into the heavy forest beyond. Sinking deep into thought, he couldn’t stop thinking about those eyes; so bright, intense and penetrating. He tried to remain skeptical and logically deduce what they might have belonged to, but no clear answer immediately came to mind. It had to be a predatory animal, yet none that I know of stand that tall. He thought. The sun had just set and that doorway was in the shadows, facing east. There wasn’t enough light left to reflect its eyes. He concluded as another shiver ran down his spine. Then – what did I see?

Pondering such questions put him in an unsettled mood he wasn’t used to. He’d lived a fairly sheltered life within the known territory of his home town, and never had a reason to worry about anything such as this before. Growing up, he’d heard many stories told by friends of the family and other townsfolk, though his father always suggested he take the tales lightly with a wink. Now, he began to think; perhaps some of those stories possessed certain elements of truth behind them after all. Drawing the dagger from his belt, he held it close to his chest while he slept, just in case.

In the eastern region of the land known as Kalmae, the sun rises late in the morning, held back by the jagged peaks of the enormous Niascenth Mountains. Cautiously opening his eyes, the young man turned away as his horse nibbled on his face with soft, fat lips. Alright, I’m awake, he said, pushing back. The faint smell of smoke filled his lungs from the campfire, now reduced to a few smouldering embers. Not wanting to leave an easy trail to follow, he padded out the remaining ashes and smothered it well.

His eyes caught the sagging leather satchel holding the artifact, triggering a wave of memories from the day before. Immediately, he swept the area, but with great relief, saw nothing unusual.

The first few hours of riding were slow and tedious. Steep hills, rocks and fallen trees forced him to double-back in search of another path. How did I come through here before? Growing frustrated, he tried to remember, but this was no easy task since navigation was not one of his strengths—he took his time and pressed on.

More than once, he swore he heard footsteps other than those of his own horse, yet never saw anything but wilderness. Hunger clawed at his stomach just as a fine, healthy Doe appeared in the distance. If only. As he considered the hunt, two younger deer stepped into view behind the mother. With a smile, he decided to let them be and continued on his way.

Late that afternoon, the young man and his horse emerged from the forest onto the far-reaching plains north of the Bronze River Valley. The sudden transition from shadow to sunlight blinded him momentarily. As his eyes adjusted, he felt relieved to be free from the claustrophobic constraints of the woodlands. Out in the open, he could finally let his horse do what he loved to do best—run like the wind. With a shout and flick of the reins, he leaned forward as the horse quickly reached a galloping speed not many could match.

Onward, the horse raced like a stormy gust across the meadows. The plains stretched on for miles over gentle hills, dotted with sporadic rock formations. In the setting sun, the Niascenth Mountains stood, a massive grey and white wall, rising high in the distance. The view was magnificent, but he hadn’t the time to slow and admire as night fell once again.

By the light of the moon, he was able to continue riding and in the early-morning hours, a welcoming sight finally pierced the darkness ahead. Through a region of tall trees in the distance appeared the subtle broad glow from the town of Brohamen.

Almost there, he said, blinking watering eyes, the cold wind stinging his flushed face.

With great speed, he approached the first outpost several miles from town. A few soldiers stood atop a small tower, watching intently with bows at the ready. On the ground, a few more remained on guard, armed to the teeth with heavy armour, menacing long spears and sharp side-arms.

Someone’s coming, announced one of the guards on the tower.

Aye, I see them, a soldier on the ground replied as they prepared to block the path. Who goes there!? he called out, a cloud of fog lingering where his words had been.

A recruit of Brohamen, the rider replied, slowing his horse, returning from a scouting mission.

In the flickering orange light of the torches, the soldiers eyed his leather armour with a small Othelnyl insignia. As his horse came to a stop, it was evident he’d been riding fast for quite some time.

Name? asked the guard.

Gannar Vrost.

The guards relaxed and gave him some room. You look like you could use a little shut-eye. The stay just up the road will have an empty bed, I wager.

Sounds tempting, but I need to speak with the General at once, Gannar replied.

Spot any Shadows on your travels? another guard inquired; a customary question asked of anyone seeking to re-enter a region of the Kingdom.

None, Sir, Gannar answered with a blank expression. Possibly a shadow of a different kind, he said under his breath.

The soldiers looked at each other with suspicion. You sure you’re alright?

I’m fine, really. Just tired. Gannar was glad to see people from town but was growing frustrated with their questioning. I understand you’re only doing your job, but I must be going—if you don’t mind.

Very well, Vrost, ride on, the nearest guard replied as they stepped aside.

Gannar’s horse anxiously clawed the ground, steam heaving from its nostrils. It’s possible something may have been trailing me, he warned, glancing back into the wilderness behind him, a large wolf, perhaps. I’m not certain. The thought had crossed his mind to tell them about the eyes, but he feared they wouldn’t take him seriously. With an exchange of nods, he and his horse galloped away toward Brohamen.

Chapter Three

The early light of dawn brightened the sky as Gannar made his way across the farmlands surrounding the high stone walls of Brohamen. Several tiny communities dotted the outskirts of the region, where lanterns bobbed and moved about inside the sparsely-placed homes as farmers began their day. We’re home, he whispered in the horse’s ear with a sigh of relief.

With a population of several-thousand, Brohamen was a young, prospering town. Although it had been nearly two centuries since its establishment, the land beyond, to the west and north, remained largely unexplored.

Gannar slowed his horse as he crossed the bridge over the slow-moving Deer River, landing him right outside the west gate.

High above in the tower, stood two guards with bows in hand. One of them raised his arm. Identify yourself, rider.

The menacing Othelnyl soldiers bore well-crafted steel plating covering their entire bodies. Gannar easily recognized his father’s handiwork in the soldier’s armour and the weapons they wielded as he stopped to address them.

State your name and business, the soldier repeated.

Recruit Vrost, returning from a scouting mission.

After looking him over carefully, the guard signaled for the gate to be opened. The sound of heavy beams sliding ended with a clunk. Slowly, the thick wooden doors parted, a pair of soldiers pushing each leaf aside. Coaxing his horse through the threshold, Gannar wasted no time as the soldiers promptly closed the gate behind him, the hinges wailing and creaking in protest.

Much like the city of Doncrast in its infancy many centuries prior, Brohamen had become a hub of agriculture and growth. The main outer walls had been constructed a fair distance beyond the heart of the town to accommodate future growth. The familiar sight of the village ahead graced Gannar’s eyes as he crossed the green expanse within the guarded perimeter and reached the nearest cluster of houses and workshops. Close by in a coral, several horses chuffed, alerting each other of Gannar’s presence.

Good morning, Gannar, a woman called out cheerfully from the tannery. Recognizing her voice, he replied in-kind.

Further along, the sweet aroma from a bakery invaded his nose, his stomach growled loudly as he resisted and carried on.

Passing by the dozens of homes and shops, Gannar and his horse cantered along toward the Command House in the east end. As the oldest and largest structure in the town of Brohamen, the Command House stood before him, tall and broad. Soldiers stationed in the watchtowers high above began extinguishing their torches—the sun would soon bleed its light over the ridge of the Niascenth behind them. A fortress of impressive proportions, behind its own stone walls it contained a number of multi-story wings and dominated the scape of the town. While on and off-duty, many soldiers called it home, and so did the town’s current leader; the High Commander of the North Division of the Othelnyl army, General Tharne.

The daily bustle of activity within the compound had already begun as Gannar swung down off his horse and tied him up outside the main hall. In the south wing, he could hear the voices of the cooks preparing the first meal of the day for the multitudes of soldiers storming toward the mess hall from every direction. I could certainly go for some of that right about now. Gannar thought as he untied the satchel with the artifact. Fingers cold and numb, he struggled with a knot in the rope. In the distance, a rooster called, officially announcing the birth of the new day. Finally winning the battle with the rope, he slung the satchel over his shoulder and gave his horse a few soft pats on the cheek. You did good, he said with a smile as the animal nickered.

There were only a few steps to the doors of the main hall, but to Gannar it felt like a few too many. The two soldiers stationed outside watched, curiously, as he approached.

Long night, Gannar? one of the guards asked, noticing the tiresome look on his face.

You could say that, he replied not trying to hide it.

What brings you here at this hour?

I need to speak with the General, it’s urgent, Gannar said, pushing open the large double doors with the Othelnyl crest elegantly carved into the face.

You’ll likely find him in the mess hall about now, the soldier explained.

Right, thank you.

The heavy doors thumped closed behind as he stepped into the grand main hall, the air musty and stale with the distinct scent of pine. Gannar’s footsteps echoed from the path he trod between two rows of round stone pillars supporting a high-peaked roof of thick, wooden beams leading the way to the opposite end. Stepping onto the elevated platform next to the General’s specially-crafted throne, he turned and looked out upon the empty auditorium and imagined several hundred people staring back, triggering a wave of nerves. A lengthy growl from Gannar’s stomach interrupted his unpleasant thoughts, reminding him of where he ought to be going. Through the nearest door and down a narrow passage, he walked briskly as the wonderful smell from the kitchen graced his nose.

Crowds of soldiers mixed with young trainees occupied the majority of the long tables stretched across the mess hall. Though groggy with their eyes half open, they conversed among friends and colleagues, creating a steady din. The cooks in the kitchen barked orders at each other above the noise of clattering pots as Gannar searched the sea of faces. At the far end of one of the tables, he finally spotted the man he was looking for.

Eat up! General Tharne boomed, deep and authoritative. We’ve got a big day ahead, he added, clapping his hands loudly. The floor groaned in protest as the broad-shouldered man rose to his feet. With a tall frame and thick-soled boots, he towered over most men, including Gannar. Battle-hardened and marred with more than a few scars, the General’s weathered face was nothing short of intimidating. Despite his age, continuous sparring and a strict daily training regimen had kept the short-haired, grey-bearded man in good physical health. The many years of abuse from training younger soldiers had left his aging coat of plates armour riddled with marks and imperfections, further adding to his rugged appearance.

Eying Gannar from across the room, the General’s feet thumped across the wood floor, hands clasped behind his back. The students at the nearby table paused, waiting to see what might become of this recruit who’d returned from his mission far too early. Halting just a few paces away, the General glared at Gannar through dark, narrow eyes. Back already? he said with suspicion. You weren’t expected to return for at least another week. Let me guess: you, too, have come back like so many others, running with their tails between their legs because ‘something’ was trailing you? The Othelnyl army has no place for those who are afraid of a few wild animals, he explained.

The students watched on in silence with entertained smirks on their faces.

Yes, Sir. I know, Sir, Gannar replied humbly.

Then why are you here and not out there, where you should be? the General inquired with a raised eyebrow.

Boldly, Gannar stepped forward. Because I’ve completed my mission. Glancing over at the students, he quickly realized the General wasn’t the only person in the room eager to hear his answers. Could we speak in private, Sir?

Slowly, the General turned his head toward the students and without speaking a single word, they all diverted their eyes in submission. Except one dark-haired young woman who seemed strangely unaffected by the General’s menacing demeanour. Are we finished eating, boys and girls? he suggested. In a mad dash, the students scrambled to their feet. Water and crumbs of food spilled on the floor as they collected their cups and plates in haste. Again, this one student remained indifferent to the General’s threats. Taking her time, she eventually followed the others. You have half an hour to get yourselves on the practice field. We’ll be working with side-arms and shields today. I want to see all of you practicing by the time I get out there, he commanded. The sound of shuffling feet filled the room as the students swiftly filed out through the far corridor.

Returning his attention to Gannar, General Tharne motioned for him to follow. Come, we can talk in my study. After a short walk to the south wing, the General unlocked the door and closed it firmly behind them. Have a seat.

The only other chair in the room was an old rickety thing in the corner. Reluctantly, Gannar took it and placed the satchel on the floor with a thump. The quaint room felt even more cramped with everything it contained. Engulfed against one wall, the General’s desk lay strewn with parchments. A quill and a small jar of black ink stood at the ready. Amongst the loose documents ranged a selection of daggers—the point of one blade, buried deep in the wood. The early-morning light bled in through a narrow window on the opposite side, overlooking the practice field where the General had trained countless soldiers over the years.

The walls of the room resembled an armoury, cluttered with racks, holstering weapons of every kind. From swords to maces, and shields to spears, and many variations in between. While many seemed quite old and well-worn, a few remained finely polished and untouched. Curiously, the weapon that stood out most in Gannar’s eyes was an unstrung longbow, somewhat out of place amid the countless melee weapons. Formed from beautiful dark wood, the maker undoubtedly poured their heart and soul into creating this finely-detailed masterpiece. Its design was simple, yet unique in its own right with a symbol, unknown to him, carved into the upper and lower limbs. But most peculiar; this weapon was unlike anything used by the Kingdom, nor any other army he knew of.

So, the General spoke up, snapping Gannar out of his fixation, you have something to tell me? he continued, slipping a pair of robust leather braces over his wide forearms as he sat at his desk.

Gannar took a moment to gather his thoughts. He didn’t know whether to tell the General about the red eyes or not. Judging by his mood back in the mess hall, Gannar decided to leave that part out. I found the ruins, he answered.

You found them? the General questioned, unbelievingly.

That’s right, Gannar replied with confidence.

The General stopped what he was doing and leaned forward. I’m afraid I must come clean with you, Gannar. When I sent you on this mission, I fully expected you to fail. You need not lie, son. It’s just you and I here. I’m not going to reprimand you for failing.

Confused, Gannar shook his head. I don’t understand, Sir. Why did you send me out there if you expected me to fail? And I’m not lying, I really did find it.

As a recruit, you must prove you can follow orders, even if asked to do the impossible. Returning and admitting failure to do what cannot be done is not a failure in itself. It shows you have the courage to do whatever is asked of you and the ability to acknowledge when you cannot succeed, General Tharne explained, leaning back in his chair. That was the whole point of this mission.

For a moment, Gannar didn’t know what to say. What does that mean for me then?

It means one of two things, the General replied tightening the straps of his braces. Either you’re lying, or the old rumours are true.

You know me, Sir. You know I wouldn’t lie.

As much as I want to believe you, you’re not the first person I’ve sent on this same goose-chaise. Countless others have searched before you and failed. So, tell me then, how was it you were able to find it in merely a few days?

It wasn’t easy, if that’s what you’re implying, Gannar defended.

The General contemplated the young man’s claims in silence. He knew Gannar well and honesty was one of his strongest traits. Describe it to me.

Sir?

The ruins, describe them to me.

As requested, Gannar recounted everything he saw that day, replaying every moment from his mind. He began with the discovery of the head of the ancient statue and finished with his departure from the ghostly structures. Describing every small detail, he left nothing but the glowing red eyes untold. The damage was extensive and spread throughout. The markings appeared in random succession, there was no pattern or order to it, he explained, concluding his long-winded explanation. I don’t know what could have caused such damage. It was almost as if -

There are heavy ballistic weapons that could create such damage, the General said, cutting him off. Don’t let your imagination run too wild, young man. Throughout the countless battles I’ve fought among the old lands, I witnessed forms of destruction few could comprehend, if only through their own eyes, he explained, standing to face the weapons rack on the far wall. Now, are you going to tell me what’s in the satchel or keep me guessing? Sweeping his eyes across a row of hilts, he chose a sidearm, removed it from the rack and swung the strap around his waist.

Gannar hesitated, remembering the artifact. He then reached to the floor and exposed the object to the light of the room.

The General looked upon it with narrowing eyes. What in Kalmae is that?

I don’t know, I found it in the ruins. Never saw anything like it before. Here, take a look, Gannar insisted, holding it out.

General Tharne tested the object’s weight in his large hands, then held it up to the light in the window and examined it carefully from every angle. Like Gannar, he also tapped on it, though with considerably more force. Perplexed, the General placed it on the desk and sat, his view fixated.

Well, what do you think? Gannar asked eagerly.

I don’t know what to make of it either, General Tharne answered. This is beyond my expertise, but perhaps your father would know. We’ll take it to him this evening. For now, let’s keep this quiet. He then placed the object in a heavy wooden chest beside the desk and locked it. Was there anything else to report on your travels? he added. Any Shadows?

Gannar sat back in his chair deep in thought. Do I tell him what I saw in that dark chamber? No, he’d never believe it. Nothing else, Sir, he answered feeling uneasy.

The General narrowed his eyes. Why the hesitation? Are you sure there is nothing else?

It was probably just some animal I saw. Nothing of concern, Gannar replied with a smirk, trying to play it off.

General Tharne huffed and chuckled with a half grin as he returned to his selection of swords. With one hand he grasped the long, robust hilt of a well-worn greatsword, and with his other, took hold of the scabbard and lifted the large, weighty weapon off the rack.

I thought you said you were working with side-arms and shields today? Gannar pointed out as the General swung the large blade over his shoulder and pulled the straps taught.

Aye, the students are. A key trait of a good soldier is the ability to adapt, no matter what the enemy wields, the General explained with a wink. Gannar, you’ve been a recruit for how long now? he asked as they returned to the corridor.

About five months, Sir, Gannar answered.

I see. Tharne paused for a moment. Get some rest, that’s an order. Then, if you’re feeling up to it, come join us on the field this afternoon.

Chapter Four

Confused by the offer , Gannar stood alone in the corridor as the General walked away. Recruits don’t normally train with students, he remembered. The variance in skill between ranks, combined with the taunting of hot-headed, immature young minds, usually resulted in injuries as sparring matches turned into real fights with real consequences.

Pushing the thought away, Gannar returned to the mess hall to satisfy his insatiable hunger. The food was mediocre at best, but after going so long without a proper meal, he couldn’t complain. He ate quickly and retired to a vacant stay room shared among the recruits. Feeling exhausted, he closed the door, shed his outer garments and flopped down on one of the cots. Mind racing, he closed his eyes, churning over the events of the past few days. Never again will I leave my bow at home, he told himself, picturing those intense eyes of fire. On the day he departed for this mission, he left the weapon in his room thinking he wouldn’t need it. He viewed himself as no expert with a blade, but felt confident enough to handle any trouble that might arise out in the wild. The only known threat that existed were the people of the Shadow Rebel society, scattered among the forests and valleys to the south-west of Brohamen. Reports of Rebel encounters had become so few and far between, it was believed the Shadow people had left the region some years ago and were no longer a concern.

During the initiate training, only basic combat lessons are taught, the rest is left to the recruits to learn on their own. Having received far more than the usual training prior to his induction, Gannar wasn’t like most recruits. His father, Donovan Vrost, was among the bloodline of the most well-renowned blacksmiths in all the land. For many generations, Vrost forges have supplied the Kingdom of Othelnyl, exclusively, with some of the most advanced weaponry and armour known to man. Everyone knew, if you had a Vrost blade, you had a superior blade than your enemy. And if you wore Vrost armour, you had the best protection. The strength and design of Vrost craftsmanship had been credited in part numerous times for tipping the scales in battle, enabling the most highly-trained soldiers of the era to emerge victorious against harrowing odds.

At a very young age, Gannar became his father’s assistant, helping and learning as much as he could. Between crafting blades of perfection, Donovan also began teaching his son how to use and respect such weapons. Starting off with wooden swords, it wasn’t long before Gannar adapted to steel by the age of eight.

Sparks flew as their weapons clashed while Gannar’s mother, Brynn, forced herself to look away. Someone’s going to get hurt if you keep this up! she would often warn, as they carried on.

What’s a little pain but to teach you to do better? his father would reply, putting forth another attack.

At sixteen, Gannar finally bested his father. You got lucky, Donovan said lying on his back, out of breath.

Or perhaps you’re just getting old, Gannar laughed extending a hand.

Speaking of age, have you given any more thought to what we spoke about the other day? As their only child and remaining descendant carrying the Vrost name, Donovan had hoped his son would choose to continue the family tradition.

I have, Gannar said, returning his battered training sword to the rack.

His father stared anxiously. And?

I’ve decided to join the ranks, he answered quietly. I’ll be old enough to apply next year. His father’s face sank as his eyes fell to the ground. I know it’s not what you were hoping for, but it’s something I’ve thought long and hard about and -

It’s alright, Donovan interrupted, forcing a smile. Supper will be ready soon; we should go and get cleaned up. Your mother isn’t going to take this lightly.

He couldn’t have been more right. That night, his mother spent well over an hour begging and pleading with Gannar to reconsider. She reminded him that his cousin had been killed the year before, fighting a group of raiders on the passage to Vendomere. Donovan remained quiet and reserved throughout most of the debate. Although he didn’t like it, he understood and respected Gannar’s decision.

People die in the service, Brynn argued, fighting back tears.

People die of many causes, every day, Gannar rebuked. I know you may not agree with it, but this is something I have to do. I’m sorry, but nothing will change my mind.

His mother shook her head, upset and confused. I don’t understand. Why can’t you follow your father’s path and take over the forges? Why this? Why do you feel so strongly that you must put yourself in harm’s way?

I don’t care about the ‘glory of battle’, if that’s what you think, Gannar replied. It’s about doing what I believe is right. Overseeing the forges is fine work and I mean no disrespect, but far too many people abuse the power granted to them and I intend to change that. I need to enter the ranks and earn a voice of respect—not by blood or by name, but by my own merit and my own will. I want to forge my own path.

Satisfied by his answer, Donovan glanced at Brynn as if to say, ‘you know he’s right.’

Realizing she wasn’t going to win, Brynn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If you’re going to do this, I want you to be the best damn soldier that ever lived. I don’t ever want to receive a black letter. Do you understand me? she insisted, grabbing his arms. It was a dreaded fear among those with family in the military; to be handed a notice of death, sealed with black wax.

I’ll do my best, Gannar stated with confidence. You have my word on that. Besides, I’ll have Vrost steel to protect me, he noted with a smile, hoping to ease her concerns.

Returning a half grin, she looked him straight in the eyes. True, but Vrost steel did not save your cousin, she pointed out, expression turned serious.

As I recall, he wasn’t so aptly-trained, Gannar replied, as if the training provided by the army was insufficient. He knew this wasn’t true, but wanted to put his mother at ease. Reluctantly, she gave her blessing even though, deep down, she knew she may never be able to truly accept it.

His father shot him a quick wink, finished his cup of ale and lit his pipe. Be careful and use your head. Your cousin wasn’t exactly the straightest arrow in the quiver, if you know what I mean, Donovan advised, smoke clouding his face. No steel can save you if you can’t think on your feet.

Another three years would pass before Gannar applied. He could only hold off for so long; wanting to spend more time working the forge, honing his skills and keeping his mother from worrying. As the snow began to melt that spring, he rode into town and signed his name on the roster.

Awakened by a loud noise, it took Gannar a moment to realize someone was banging on the door. Rolling over, he rubbed his eyes and squinted, offended by the brightness in the room. Who is it?

The voice of an adolescent boy replied, House Hand Jameson. General Tharne asked me to wake you.

Of course he did, Gannar thought as he sat up. Alright, I’m up.

The boy’s feet thumped down the hall and faded away. It was customary for the Command House to take in orphans and delinquents who were coming of age to teach them proper manners and provide them with an education. There was never any shortage of things to be done around the fortress, allowing these children to learn a wide variety of skills while taking on greater responsibilities. Around the age of eighteen, they’re given the choice to stay and begin serving in the army or to leave and seek a career of their own. Most chose to stay. Gannar had seen young Jameson around the Command House regularly and remembered he had a particular affinity to horses.

Although Gannar had been sleeping for several hours, he still felt tired. After a lengthy yawn, he clothed, strapped his sword to his side and returned to the mess hall. Without knowing what the General had in store for him that afternoon, he decided to keep his meal light.

Sitting alone in the large, empty room, he relished at the thought of sparring with some of the students. It was only under the watch of a commander that recruits and students were allowed to cross blades, and he welcomed the challenge from those with greater skill. Should he suffer defeat, it would serve to show him where he needed to improve.

The thought of duelling with General Tharne somewhat stifled Gannar’s enthusiasm. Upon entering the service, the General himself provided the new recruits with basic training. By his menacing appearance alone, a few of the initiates in Gannar’s group backed away when the General presumed to attack. Those who did so were cut from the ranks right there on the spot and were instructed to seek careers outside of combat. Othelnyl soldiers never back down. You’re done! General Tharne would shout at them. In their defence, some had never wielded a blade until that moment. But this was just the beginning of the daunting process in becoming a soldier of the Othelnyl army. They want only the best, so they accept and train only the best. Those who couldn’t withstand the rigours were weeded out early on. For some, the idea of becoming a soldier was much more appealing than the job entailed and the true reality only sunk in upon discovering the magnitude of the brutality involved. If you asked any soldier, they would tell you it was far less glamorous than it looked, and then proceed to show you their scars. Yet above all, when the time came to stand in battle, these men and women knew how important it was to have confidence in those around you, to know they would always have your back, no matter the odds.

Gannar knew all this very well and ever since that first day of training as a new recruit, he took every opportunity to be the best he could possibly be. Countless hours, he spent watching and learning from a distance as the instructors trained and sparred with the classes of students ahead of him. He took note of how increasingly relentless the teaching techniques became over time as they learned the various weapons, eventually choosing one as their primary. Once a student chose their favourable tool of combat; that was the point when their training becomes truly unforgiving. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon to see the odd student brought to the physicians with a broken appendage or a nasty cut. I have to be better than that. I will be better than that, Gannar obsessed.

Finished with his quick meal, Gannar nervously started toward the training field. It was a cool, humid day and a mass of dark-grey clouds had migrated over while he slept. A faint roll of thunder rumbled in the distance as a gentle breeze blew through his wavy hair. The distinct clash of steel among loud voices resonated across the grassy field as he walked. All around him, soldiers and students sparred vigorously, practicing and honing their abilities to perfection. He smiled taking in the action, impressed by the highly-skilled individuals as he walked along.

Eventually, Gannar spotted the General some distance away, standing in front of a small group of pupils. With a nod, the students moved their weapons in unison, following the General’s instructions. He then called one of them forward and ordered him to attack. Without hesitation, the trainee assumed an offensive stance while the General remained poised, holding the long blade of his greatsword toward the young man. A series of quick movements ensued as they engaged. After a few parries, a loud bang rang out, followed by a holler of pain as the student stumbled to the ground.

Again, the General commanded. "Your timing