Pangerath Enter the Dark Wizard

By Warren K Clyde

Pangerath, a magically hidden continent in the oceans of modern-day man.

The Prophecy
A land quenched by blood and tears,
Begets a child of dark and light
A seed nurtured, by witch’s white.
Four by four does time progress
The seed now grown,
Then torn from loving breast.
Through loving friends and family
The lands fate, as does his rest.
His soul divided by dark and light.
Upon this boy’s burdened plight.

THE PROPHECY TWO

Born of two sides
A boy arrives.
Unknown his father,
His fate; survive.
For evils, grip shall be undone
By a boy wizard born
A witch’s son.

A young unknowing wizard, Tristan, raised as a white witch, along with his best friend Yedda, also raised as a white witch in the hidden all female white witch community of Treeden, in the magical forest of Pangerath, are forced from their way of life, from their home and their sisters. Sisters, who are put to slavery by a malevolent sorcerer Malus, bent on subjugating all of Pangerath

Tristan, Yedda, and two recent friend brownies Spri and Kri, must travel the lands in search of allies who would stand against this evil and help free their sisters. Hearing of the all-powerful ancient wizards on Hellwyn Mountains, decide to travel the long, possibly treacherous journey North in the hopes that they may help.

Truths will be revealed, friendships will be tested. Will his soul keep to his righteous path, or shall he succumb to darkness, destroying all he holds dear?

Will they ever again see their sister witches, their home...

Can they truly make a difference and bring peace back to PANGERATH.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warren K Clyde
• Release date: Jan 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005673628

Warren K Clyde

Good Day allI am a new writer who just finished writing his first fantasy novel PANGERATH.It is a story of a young wizard on a magically hidden island in the oceans of modern day man.

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PANGERATH

Enter The Dark Wizard

Written By: ©2007-2019 Warren Kenneth Clyde All Rights Reserved

Author’s website

For My Beautiful Son

PROLOGUE

Sit back and relax as I whisper words to set upon the pages you are about to read, let the world of Pangerath unfold with each turn. With my words, your imagination, and a touch of magic, the story before you…shall be revealed.

First, we must go back some years, for in order for you to understand the present we must first revisit the past.

The true origins of Pangerath began thousands of years ago in Upper Egypt, but that is a different story, for another time. The story I am to impart upon you takes place thousands of years after its creation and compelled retreat from the motherland.

It is an inspirational story of how the love of true friends, faced with unimaginable tragedy and overwhelming odds, try to persevere through the darkest of times.

Do the daily choices we make determine our path, or is fate universally unavoidable, written in stone by the hand of destiny?

This…is their story, their choices…their destiny. A time of tested friendships and loyalties. An age of good and evil, of Goblins, Wizards and Witches, Orcs, Dragons and Heroic knights, as well as various other strange and magical creations that walk this land.

If ever a place existed that embodied nature's stunning beauty, tranquillity, peace, and innocence, as well as myth, Pangerath would be named such. For no place on Earth could compare to this strange and curious land hidden in the oceans of the world, untouched by the technologies of modern man.

Since the time of the great pharaohs, magical forces have preserved the lands, protecting and hiding its secrets from the outside world while keeping those that live there from leaving its mystical borders.

Tales and stories of its existence have circulated for millennia. Some who have caught a glimpse of this mysterious land mistakenly called it Atlantis or the lost lands of Lemuria in the Indian oceans, or the submerged continent of Zealandia. Others who were in its proximity have mysteriously disappeared, leading to notions of the enigmatic Bermuda triangle

All can be true of Pangerath. Its beauty rivals Plato’s accounts of Atlantis, its secrets more perplexing than that of the Bermuda triangle, but make no mistake, there is only one Pangerath, a magical world, an anachronism within a world of modern man.

The inhabitants of Pangerath believe that their land is the only land in the whole of the world, which includes an archipelago of islands that surround Pangerath.

Evolving at a much slower pace than that of modern man, who at the time of this story was at the dawn of the twenty-first century and living across the great waters to the south. Pangerath’s evolution is what modern man would call, the middle ages. I would call it the dark ages, however, without dark there can be no light.

Rolling hills with harmoniously flowing bright green grass lay paths through strong and sturdy oaks as well as giant redwoods. There, hidden amongst the mighty trees was the magical forest that ran along the southwest side of the island all the way up to the north where it vanished into Lake Tyrn.

Lake Tyrn, separated by the valley of twin lakes, emptied through tributaries into the grand oceans to its east and west. While ice-cold, pure drinking waters from Hellwyn Mountains supplied Lake Tyrn’s western repository by way of two massive and beautiful waterfalls that free fell into Lake Tyrn’s mouth that rested at its base, distributing its life-giving waters as it slowly drained west and south into a medley of slow-moving streams that ran through not only the magical forest in the west but also villages and towns throughout the south until finally reaching the southwestern cliffs of Pangerath where it dove a hundred feet or so into the great ocean.

Lake Tyrn’s eastern bay, which rested upon a hilltop, also accepts a waterfall from Hellwyn but on a less grandiose scale. This eastern bay had a small waterfall that drained down into the Great Lake Windemere.

Lake Windemere was the receiver and the giver of life-sustaining waters for the rest of Pangerath. Its spidery network of converging streams, rivers and wetlands ran from its position in the northeast to the west where it converged with its sister and her slow-moving stream that flowed southward until it finally flushes into the great ocean off the southwestern cliff, mirroring its sister in the east.

These waters helped supply relief to all of Pangerath, its crops, and vegetation, livestock, and grasslands, as well as Pangerath's marvellously magical and diverse population.

The lands were divided into Three Kingdoms, each with their respective boundaries proclaimed by heraldic flags displaying their standards mounted on poles at various border locations throughout their lands.

There was Bubastis in the southern hemisphere with its Golden banners and open winged black falcon as its emblem.

Then there was the hub and centre for all activities and trade, Tanis, in middle Pangerath and its banner of red with a coiled black serpent drawing its fangs at its median.

Finally, in the North, was the tranquil more advanced Kingdom of Piramesses and its triangular white banner trimmed in gold, the magnificent Egyptian blue eye of Horus adorned its centre.

Each location had its own fortified guard towers stretched across their borders that rang out upon sighting advancing danger. They were…at peace.

The royalty wrote the laws by which the villagers residing inside their borders must abide. Garrisons of knights protected these borders and the villages and towns inside them as they upheld these laws.

All three monarchs were content to rule their respective lands peacefully, with only minor skirmishes and border disputes that were usually resolved without bloodshed.

How long they could hold onto their land, was about to be challenged after so many years of peace.

The breath of free air entitled to all was about to be suppressed by the foul stench of submission. Unopposed; one cruel, immoral, and malevolent wizard who revelled in the fear he inspired in others will alone try to bring death and destruction to them all.

In the past few years’ rumours abound throughout the villages of Bubastis and Tanis, of children going missing, with no clues, nor reason. Many believed this wizard was a primary suspect.

No longer, content to remain isolated in his small area to the far south. He has long awaited his opportunity. Building his beastly armies in the south and hiding them in the deep carved-out caves of the underworld.

Now, with his vast army fully stocked he felt it time. Time for his rule of Pangerath, to enforce his will, to take what he wanted and not abide by the meanderings of silver-spooned Kings that he deemed not his equal.

Confined by his ego and by what he believed his destiny, his right to rule above supposed rulers, their lands and peoples, the engine of war stood ready, fuelled by his dark obsession. His name was Malus.

A maleficent, dead-eyed looking man of forty or so years, with a clean complexion, save for a small but thick scar at the top corner of his left eye, delivered there by the ring of his father when he was but seven years old.

Standing six feet or so with shoulder-length black wavy hair frosted above the ears in grey and pulled tightly back to a widow’s peak. His strong high cheek-boned face gave way to sunken deep-set eyes of cold black. His normally tightly pursed lips seem to have never produced a smile.

Wearing a black leather shirt with pants tucked inside black leather boots and black leather forearm bands that stretch from the elbow down and over his knuckles and are held in place by metal-framed finger holes. A black hooded cloak that nearly touches the ground hung about his neck, supported by way of serpent-shaped red pinning gems below each shoulder.

His inclination to go to war stemmed from his upbringing in the deep south of Pangerath and of not to ever again bow to the demands of another. To rather take what he wanted when he so desired, with no regard for life, nor rules, nor of the consequences of his actions.

Raised by a hard, iron-fisted and disciplined father who taught him the art of magic at an early age; who was himself taught by his father, passed down through the generations. His mother, having died upon his birth, gave rise to a restricted tempestuous love from his father.

Not an onerous young lad was he, but a censured un-loving upbringing by his dominant father aided in corrupting the innocence of the malleable young boy into his current demeanour and non-compliance to another’s rule.

Malus’s only desire as a child was the approval of his father and so he absorbed the abuse at his hand, owing to it his own insubordination and death of his mother upon his birth.

At the tender age of seven or so, Malus had started to notice his father's absence from their home on many a night. Even though his father afflicted him, he still yearned for his father’s attention and craved for his company, even if it produced a beating, at least he wasn’t ignored. He was the only family he had.

One chilly night he covertly followed his father on one of his outings. Hiding in the nearby woods of the magical forest he spied his father and a woman, a white witch in fact.

His heart torn that his father’s love can so easily be given to another, yet not him, he ran home, shaken and teary-eyed. No beating could have hurt him more. His blood boiled with rage as he waited for his father’s return to confront him when he arrived.

Not one to be questioned, least of all by a child, his father flew into a rage once again, this time striking Malus in the face with his right hand, a hand that supported a black and red stoned golden ring that tore the flesh from the top corner of his left eye, it was to be his father’s final mistreatment of the boy. A permanent scar to this day remains, and the ring used in this deformity now rested on the hand of the abused, a memento that no man shall ever strike him again.

This was the start of Malus’s unwavering fortitude, to take what he wanted when he wanted it. To never succumb to fear, and never again be abused by another. This was also when his overwhelming, absolute, pure hatred of the white witches began, whom he considered the destroyer of his family and the love he so hankered for yet was given so easily to one of them.

He stood a sorcerer of sorcerers, claiming himself omnipotent, for his knowledge of the arcane arts was unequalled. Many who have tested his power were no longer. He, like his father, had become the abuser.

CHAPTER 1—TO BE KING

As a storm brewed in lower Pangerath and winter and war began their encroachment, in a village located on the outskirts of King Jyl’s castle, in the Kingdom of Bubastis, a cold wind blew down from the northern cliffs of Hellwyn Mountain as trees began to shed their multi-coloured leaves preparing to take on the bite of winter.

Dark clouds gathered and wrestled in the night sky creating powerful howling winds that created a whirlwind that tossed about the autumn leaves. Proud trees bent to the breaking point. Some branches succumbed and were carried off by the strong winds embrace.

During this tumultuous night screams suddenly cried-out drowning the winds howl as newly awoken terrified villagers shrieked an eerie desperate plea, adding a greater chill to the darkness. Multiple fires erupted sending searing, towering flames to shower the night sky with smouldering embers that floated upwards to dance with the gusting howling winds before fading.

And the village bell rang out warning all to abandon their homes for safety. Followed immediately by the rush of scouts on horseback riding hard for the castle. The smoke and smell of cottages burning scented the air as it circulated over and above the castle walls to the north of the village, erecting sleeping soldiers to stand confused as they tottered and hastily looked about, before finally hearing the village bell.

The panic-struck villagers, some barely dressed, scattered about, confused and frightened. Some ran to the moat that confined the castle, demanding entrance and safety inside, while others took to running towards the forest in the west.

The awakened King’s castle stood alone in the darkness and cold of night, protected by tall stone curtain walls as well as a deep wide moat of about 30 feet that ran around the land that encompassed the castle’s keep, homes, and temple within, while a drawbridge embedded between two gatehouses faced south and served as the only entry point.

The heavy chains of the drawbridge strained and popped as it slowly lowered, allowing the scouts and frightened citizens’ entry. Massive watchtowers on each corner, connected by walkways around the castle held archers who scanned the lands beyond the migrating citizens for any intruders trying to infiltrate their defences. More and more archers scurried to the ramparts, as well as half-asleep, un-armoured soldiers.

Standing between the embrasures high above, the weary soldiers anxiously looked on. Through fogged eyes, they witnessed the frantic running about of terrified citizens and animals, as fired homes in the distance lit the black night sky to amber shadowing the outlying forest trees to dance upon the field before them.

The ramparts where they stood were lit by huge black cauldrons of hot oil that sat at each corner on the base of the towers. Oil, that, when in need could be poured then lit to stream through the narrow trenches that ran along the intersection between the walkway and battlements, eventually emptying through small holes located every few inches, causing streaming waterfalls of fire to rain down onto unsuspecting armies below, should they dare try and breach the high walls.

The half-asleep troops were ordered to suit up mount their horses and run with sword and shield over the drawbridge to form their respective ranks. Hastily gathering at the forefront of the moat and drawbridge were the barded horse soldiers who will stand as the vanguard, followed by the weary foot-soldiers brandishing long double-edged spears to deter any cavalry charge. Between the columns of foot-soldiers, stood the heavily armoured infantry with sword and shield.

Within the hectic castle walls, scouts informed the royal guard, who in turn advised the King and his family of the armies forming near their southern gate. Then they escorted them to the royal throne room where they could be better defended behind thick, heavy stone-carved ornamental doors, and the elite royal guardsmen within who would willingly relinquish their lives for the safety of the royal family.

The dark clouds that twisted in the night sky began to slow as though they too wished to witness the ensuing chaos. They broke slightly and opened to a full moon, a hunter’s moon that lit the battlefield and revealed the intruding army of black-armoured knights mounted on their armour-laden warhorses. Wielding long black serrated lances, they trotted in place, anxiously awaiting orders.

Behind them stood goblins of various shades of green as well as black and even white goblins. Wiry creatures, with leathery, sickly skin, pocked with small black blemishes. Tight creases wrinkled the entirety of their face, giving them an old grotesque and vile look. They wore putridly sweaty, torn leather clothing, some had leather studded gloves tipped with sharpened metal fingernails fashioned to tear flesh for them to devour. The mischievous runts had a hatred of humans. Their long bony and narrow noses curved downwards to a point just above their snarled upper lip and large pointed ears crusted inside with black wax added to their grotesque demeanour. At a height of about 4 feet, they stood hunched over huffing heavily and eager to fight, their mouths snarled and opened wide displaying blackened and decayed, thorns like teeth that dribbled a foul-smelling chunky drool over their pointed chins before falling to the ground. Wielding small swords and or knives, their love of war echoed in their black hate-filled eyes.

Standing tall and thick behind the goblins were the fair-skinned,` small pointed-eared Orcs. Towering above the humans and goblins alike. Eight to ten feet tall with protruding tusks on each side of their lower lip. With little to no hair and a constant snarl added to their devilish demeanour and unsightly gargantuan frames that trembled even the bravest of on-lookers. Most were hulkish and muscle-bound, flaunting their bulking muscles of immense proportions. While other Orc’s, having eaten in excess, displayed their plump, dumpy bellies and mirrored hanging chins. Battle scars canvassed most of their bodies, accompanied by huge black boils spread out across their backs and chest. No doubt, from the polluted waste they slept in, in the dank, dirty underground or maybe it was owing to their perspiration, which, unlike a human saline sweat, is oil-based, a fitting substance to highlight their gargantuan musculature.

Like pigs, they loved to wallow in the mud; unlike swine who use the mud are protect against the sun, they do it for fear of fire. The mud covers their oily skin and helps to safeguard them from any would-be eruption of flame.

Thick loincloths, as well as various animal pelts, were worn around their waists, while spiked leather armour straddled their shoulders, wrists, and shins. Some have taken to hanging skulls and strung together teeth and bones of their victims, showcased across their necks and shoulders. Even the spines of the fallen were fastened together and draped down the outside of their own cavernous spines. All to flaunt their prowess in battle and project fear onto the enemy. Devoid of footwear, their huge dirty blackened feet with thick yellow and black toenails supported their mammoth body.

Their weapon of choice rested on their massive shoulders. Large war hammers of thick wooden tree shafts embedded with large stones that devastated their foes to mush with one great swing. Some of the smaller, younger Orcs preferred the two-handed, double-sharp-sided war axes. Either inflicted the same horrible outcome…a bloody death.

They also had a hatred of man and a love of war and they waited, grunting heavily at the fight to come. They were all there because of their desire for blood and war, carnage and pillaging. Or maybe it was fear. The one thing they all feared was Malus’s retaliation should they not heed his call to battle.

Be that as it may, the blood of humans and the thrill of victory, topped with the spoils of war and the lamentations of what they considered a weaker species provided them sufficient compensation.

With the hood of his cloak drawn to shadow his face, Malus installed himself atop a hill in the distance overlooking his army and the poorly defended, hastened and outnumbered castle ahead.

Held loosely in the palm of his right hand was the shaft of a long black crystal staff adorned with an open-mouthed silver serpent with ruby eyes and ivory teeth. A snake, not unlike him.

Mercifully for the King's forces, whose nerves were already frayed, the winds have picked up and dark clouds above the battleground regrouped below the hunter's moon limiting their view to only vague shadows of the snarling, drooling and anxiously confident horde that eagerly waited.

If it were not for the clanging of metal one could hear coming from the cold dark expanse that separated them, the heavy pulsing and pounding hearts of man, horse, and beast surely would set one to nervous flight. Such drumming of nerves released panting warm exhaust into the air that misted the periodically moonlit battlefield before them, while the raging homes ablaze in the distance served as a fiery backdrop, guiding their impaired sight to stare into the shrouded mist before them and glimpse the silhouettes of shadowed death that awaited.

Soldiers held back reins, jostling with their impatient neighing horses who could surely sense what was to come. The jittering clang of armour from man and horse echoed above the nervous gasping of men.

King Jyl’s warhorses were draped to their knees in caparisons of gold embroidered with a black falcon sigil on either side of their saddle. Segmented plated armour protected the warhorse’s neck, while horned metal chaffrons embellished their heads.

The darkness-saturated fog allowed but a glint of sword, shield and armour. It was the white of the horses bulging unnerved eyes that could be seen dancing about that created an ominous, threatening look upon the field that night.

The King’s horsemen pulled down their visors and sat strapped in armour of silver, crested with the black falcon of their Kingdom. Fighting their wanting horses, the mounted warriors held their lances in their left hand while the base of the stock was tucked deep between their arms, squeezed to their metal stomach.

Attached and surrounding the near base of their lance was a small circular metal shield of not much weight, more for deflection than actual defence. Hung on their right were their sheathed long swords affixed to hang high above the saddle so as not to break their horse's stride and for ease of access in battle.

Malus stretched out his left arm high into the night sky, gripped hard his black crystal staff beneath his right hand slamming it hard into the earth, creating a tremendous sound of rolling thunder that rumbled before him beneath the surface. His army grunted and then commenced their assault on King Jyl’s castle.

The King’s ground defences stood nervous but ready, their terrified eyes showed the horror of what may be their last battle. For they have not seen war and were not battle-tested, but this was their home and their way of life was being assaulted; so, they anxiously awaited the approaching galloping riders as per their commander.

The captain tried to ease his men and breathe fire into their nerves by standing high in his saddle and shouting out Men our time has come to show these unprovoked, un-honourable, usurpers, before you, that a man defending his home and family is of a DRAGON! The men let out a resounding roar! Hold strong our ethos!…our spirit! And let them hear our hearts so that they may comprehend what they have awoken this day! Their last of days! May we haunt their moves and our swords be true and smite them! Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!...Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!.

The inspired men continued to roar ever loudly and with all they had, their eyes narrowed across the fogged field. And as they stamped their metal chests and banged their sword to shield they roared, and their captain, ever proud, dismounted to stand at the forefront of the vanguard and fight alongside his roaring men.

Seeing the dark silhouettes of the enemy riding through the fog they waited until the shadows were within the archer’s range, whereupon the captain dropped his right arm, signalling the towers.

Dipping their arrows into the containers of liquid flame hidden behind the wall at their feet they raised their bows and drew back their flaming arrows, sending a steel-toothed shroud of flames through the darkness, blocking the broken streams of moonlight above with a torrential comet of arrows that sounded like the lash of hundreds of thin branches slicing the cool air before striking their targets with a thump.

Screams of anguish broke the silence, as arms, legs, heads, and torso of man, beast, and horse were pierced by the burning metal-tipped serrated arrows, setting some targets clothing ablaze. A chaotic scene of shrieking creatures engulfed in flames erupted as the un-armoured orcs and goblins scurried to rid themselves of the clothes melting to sear their skin.

After the flurry of arrows found their mark, the sound of the enemies’ horse could be heard neighing and panting heavily, echoing through the air as the intense gallop of heavy mounts vibrated the ground before them as they sped full charge towards the castle, hoping to avoid any more arrows hidden within the fog.

The captain ordered the Bubastis knights to ride forward and meet the opposing cavalry while he commanded fraught foot soldiers to hold their ground and await the outcome before them. The moons-light suddenly became siphoned by a large cloud shrouding the charge of their knighted brethren in even more darkness, causing the archers to cease their onslaught once the horsemen were out of sight beneath the faintly illuminated cloud above.

The ensuing anarchy of battle cries could be heard well past the thick stone walls of the castle as metal on metal, man on man, man on creature and flesh on flesh, created a bone-chilling bloody hell as they fought for survival within the hidden fog of darkness. Final death screams induced a spine-tingling, body pimpling fear in the untested soldiers of Bubastis as well as the citizens and nobility secured behind the castle defences, who could only try and muffle the cries with firmly pressed hands against their ears. They tried but it was way too loud, there were way too many.

Even the trained Bubastis soldiers could not avoid the vicious, horrific sounds that echoed within their metal helmets and sent them to grit their teeth and tighten their eyes. They only hoped and prayed the agony and desperation they heard was not their friends, and if it should be, then let them die swiftly, not by what they can only imagine is happening beyond their sight.

Hearing the sounds of clattering metal and deep gasps coming from his nervous men behind, the captain needed them to not dwell on the sounds but focus on him instead and so he raised his arm and the foot soldiers pulled down their metal visors, raised their bronze-tipped spears under their right arms. In their left forearms, they gripped tight their body-length bronze rectangular shields. Shields that not only displayed the crest of Bubastis, but also a protruding metal spike at its centre. Side by side the soldiers created a wall of metal spiked shields.

Shields! Shouted the Captain.

To thwart any cavalry charge they took to one knee and rested their shields on the ground before them, then clashed their spears to shield, creating a thunderous, reverberating sound as they began to roar ever–loud, trying to confuse the enemy as well as mute the screams of dying men and beast as they laid in wait behind their hopefully impenetrable wall of metal.

It did not suppress the sound. A sound that, should they live, be forever burned into their now fractured minds.

Still hidden within the mist and beyond the reach of the foot soldiers' scared eyes, the Bubastis’s knighted horse, once numbering about two hundred, have been cut down to one hundred or so, one-third that of Malus’s black knights. Yet they did not yield, they regrouped for another charge.

Lowering their lances to mid-level they crashed into the opposing knights creating a tumultuous sound of lance on lance, lance on metal, and horse on horse. All of which shattered to sounds of pain all around them as men were flung from their saddles to fall hard onto their metal bodies, some sparking the ground as they hit, while un-mounted horses fled the crime scene to run where they may, kicking at the air behind them in case their master's attacker was still upon them.

They may be the only survivors of the ensued onslaught.

The remaining felled horsed knights of Bubastis, tired and out of breath, equipped themselves with their long swords trying to hold their own, trying to at least give their brothers in arms defending the castle a standing chance, but the lance of the enemy easily found its prey, turning red the silver armour. A bloodbath ensued. The heavily outnumbered knights succumbed to the superior numbers and superior skills of the black knights, who had not only removed man from horse but trampled upon them where they fell, gouging armour to body…crushing visor to face beneath the weight of their heavy mounts.

Those who survived were either pinned on their backs with stacks of their fallen brothers weighing them down, choking their screams for help, while the visors of others were planted face-first into the bloody sludge, unable to move or scream as they drowned and suffocated on crimson mud. Some died eyes opened to darkness and solitude beneath a brickwork of dead metal bodies piled atop them, blood and mud being the mortar.

The Captain saw only horse exit the death fog that day, snorting feared horse chased by screams and clashing metal….and he knew and he humbled his head. And so the Captain took the deepest breath and tightened his jaw and shouted out,

FOR OUR BROTHERS! FOR OUR FAMILIES! FOR OUR HOMES! MARCH! No man that day would see himself cower with his brother by his side and so as one they stood, fearful, they yet stood and marched forward, shoulder to metal shoulder, brother to brother.

Finally, they met their nerves tormentors as the outlined shadows or Orcs, goblins and remaining black knights emerged from within the fog ever thickened by the heavy panting of men and beast mixing with the cool night air.

Seeing that none of their brethren remained alive the Bubastis soldiers gathered their nerve to press forward, most surely knowing the outcome, yet what would be thought of them if they ran now after so many have died and so they marched.

The lance of the black knights was easily longer than that of the spear thrusting soldiers, making short work of the valiant foot soldiers. King Jyl’s men were no match for the pure strength and fortitude of this army. The abominations before them had no regard for life, not even their own, so they feared not, nor cared not as they slashed and swung their massive weapons at the terror-ridden opponents in front of them. At times killing their allies in the process.

Tasted through panting, terrified mouths, was the sharp bite of cold air and the foul stench of blood, mixed with sweat and dirt from horse and troops as more and more screams of an agonizing death shattered the once peaceful lands as soldiers and knights fell helplessly to Malus’s army.

The land before them, once pure and green was blanketed with mutilated corpses. Feet soaked with the blood of the fallen marched onward to death or glory, whichever may come first.

The whole underbelly and chest of the black knight’s horse was drenched and dripping with the blood of the dying and dead, flung up upon their gallop through helpless troops before them. Even their chins rained ruby eggs as a beard drenched red.

Orc's ripped arms from torso. Goblins sliced and bit off pieces of the opponent's exposed flesh to chew, veiling their faces in man’s blood, of which they voraciously licked clean. With not even a thought of the fallen friend or foe in front of them, Malus’s army stepped on or over the bodies as they advanced towards the castle, followed closely behind by Malus and his four powerful harbingers who leisurely maze through bodies and parts thereof, oblivious to the death cries that surrounded them, even from their own troop.

These four harbingers, like Malus, had an insatiable desire for power and the fear that it affords. And to live like Kings, sub servant to none, save Malus, whom they believed all-powerful and able to afford them this. They are evil incarnate and have no feelings of remorse, no soul, they are in fact dead inside, seen in the depths of their black eyes should you get that rare opportunity to be before them and look.

Their true pleasure and disgusting lust was the fear they provoked in the hearts of anyone they came across. As tested by the poor souls of man, woman, and even younglings, who dared to glance at them without proper invitation. These poor unwitting souls were immediately, immorally and viciously dealt with, sent screaming in agony, as they met the afterlife, ensuring the Harbingers desired effect of mass trepidation.

Standing roughly seven feet. These deplorable wizards were tattooed with cryptic hieroglyphic symbols depicting the type of magic they wielded as well as unknown incantations that covered every inch of their bodies, not even their eyelids were spared. All tattooed in the colour representing their disciplines, red for fire, blue for water, brown for earth, and white for air.

Wearing coloured leather clothing from neck to bottom, their only armour. For they required mobility rather than heavy armour and relied on their powerful magic for protection as well as attack. They do not lower themselves to wield those barbaric weapons.

Covering said clothing was a long shiny robe, also in the colours of their respective disciplines, fastened in the front by buttons made of twine dipped in wax. Down the centre of the robe where the buttonholes meet the buttons, was a wide engraved motif of hieroglyphs that ran down the front from the neck to the very bottom, just above the ankles. The same design was engraved on the trim of the deep hoods that covered and shadowed their tattooed faces as well as the cuffs of the deep hanging sleeves that were always displayed at their midsection, hiding their cupped tattooed hands inside.

They revelled at keeping onlookers wondering what evil hid beneath the hood. Peto, the water high priest wore blue leather under a dark blue shiny robe, with light blue motifs. Sakkara, the fire priest wore red leather beneath a shiny red robe, with dark red motifs. Setna, the air priest in white with black motifs. And Herihor, the earth priest, wore dark brown leather, and a shiny dark brown robe with green motifs.

Each wielded coloured wooden staffs that showcased small, translucent crystal balls at their tops. Their respective magic’s, fire, wind, earth and water were animated inside said crystal balls.

The King’s un-battled tested men fought for their lives, their homes and the ones they love. Valiantly and heroically sacrificing their lives, knowing they were far outnumbered and over-matched by their blood-lusting warmongering opponent. Given no quarter and no respect, their honour repaid with butchery and undignified death.

After only an hour or so it was all but over and Malus finally commanded his horde to stop.

Water bearers extinguished the dry-mouthed, panting, and over-fought beasts of Malus’ horde whose menacing eyes peered past blood and bits of flesh that painted their snarling faces.

As the troops replenished, the harbingers advanced and began their assault.

Summoning their magic’s, words mumbled beneath their breath, they held their staffs straight out, trained on the archers high atop the castle walls, enveloping the unsuspecting archers to death by flame and ice.

Setna, the wind harbinger then stepped forward and spoke. Summoning a powerful wind he transformed the fluorescent clouds above into a large menacing hand that grasped the remaining archers from their stone walkways and violently slammed them to their deaths far below or smashed them into the solid stone castle walls of which they stood to protect.

After only minutes of mystical fighting, Malus and his army stood victorious at the oak drawbridge. Only puzzles of men remained as flesh and blood crawled down the stone walls to be displayed alongside parts of unrecognizable others. Where once stood men on ramparts now limbs were hung, convulsing and twisted, ripped from their bodies by the harbinger’s deadly magic.

The still-young night was tainted with the sounds of the fallen. Deafening and desolate moans of anguish reflected the slaughter they were submitted to. Goblin and Orc took their pleasure on the defeated souls that begged for instant death but were denied, only to be slowly devoured and tortured evermore. A human delicacy for the Orc’s who was crouched, crunching bone and ripping flesh as they ate the dead and helpless dying who scrambled to crawl away upon their backs and stomachs only to be pulled back and given one last terrifying dying plea as they were eaten.

While his abominations took their pleasure, Malus pointed his black staff at the drawbridge then yelled out Incendia. An enormous ball of flame gathered in front of his staff then darted towards the castle gate easily incinerating the wooden obstacle. Smoke and flame-ridden splinters of debris were all that remained where once a sturdy drawbridge resided.

Herihor, the earth harbinger lowered his staff to touch the ground before him Pontis he shouted. The ground rumbled beneath and in front of his feet, then rose to produce a dirt bridge from where they stood, on over the moat into the helpless castle innards and their soon-to-be final victory inside.

The Gods did not show favour upon the King's men that night, for it was all but over now. Malus’s army entered freely the walls, killing the remaining unarmed residents without prejudice. Young and old, man, woman and child alike lay hewn on streets of red. He had no regard for life, only a twisted, un-quenched, nefarious desire to control and create pandemonium and to see the resolve of his army in action.

Onto the royal palace, they confidently marched. The sound of metal bending and buckling echoed as the massive doors to the great keep were flung open by a simple wave of Malus’s staff.

The valiant Royal guards of twenty or so were quickly dealt with by magical fire that melted their armour to their screaming flesh. While magical winds that drew inward crushed the metal skin and the bones it served to protect. Ice magic froze men to their place as the earth harbinger summoned tremors to crack the heavy ceiling to fell debris, shattering the newly formed ice statues beneath its weight.

The vast once beautiful room, surrounded by large, tall, tainted windows showcased glorious, unconfirmed battles of knight and horse. Portraying in a false light, a heroic King, who was more a family man than a warrior. But as King, he can indulge, unquestioned in his own fanciful notions.

Swinging at the centre of the room was a large golden chandelier of lit candles that sent falling shadows upon the walls and bloody floor. A floor of white marble that was so recently pristine, now assaulted with the blood of the Royal Guard, mixed with the melted pieces of pummelled men in armour and the bloody mud attached to the feet of the murderous trespassers.

Two huge white columns at the rear of the grand room opened to two thrones upon a red carpet atop stairs. The larger of the thrones was gold while the other smaller was of silver. Both adorned with black onyx open-winged falcons affixed atop their backrests.

The vacated thrones where King Jyl and his wife ruled so proudly, were now all that stood between the King, his family, and Malus. The gentle altruistic and just King of twilight years, his wife and two sons, the tender age of not more than ten, were clothed in their sleep-wear of roped robes. Frail yet prepared the King trembled behind the thrones with his family standing ghost-white behind him. Huddled together in fear they awaited Malus’s judgment.

Fearful but needing to defend his family as well as his honour, King Jyl's trembled hand on sword, pointed at Malus Why Malus? WHY? the King demanded. Malus and his harbingers just stood in a line, ever assured in their stance and emotionless faces. What have we ever done to deserve such effrontery? he screamed again at Malus, who stepped forward, cocky and confident.

Slamming his staff to the marble floor, Malus responded with such vigour, such distaste You and your kind sit upon your thrones so high and mighty, belauding yourselves, emasculating those you deem below your high seat…My Father included.

The King interrupted. Your father was mad! And was it not by your hand he died? Peering up at the King, Malus did not answer. Maybe denial, maybe psychotic. Nevertheless, he brushed the King's accusations aside in favour of his own sermon. MY! Father was not given a throne or the luxuries that come with such an un-earned position, save for being born with a noble name. I charge you! To be the catalyst of his eventual demise… and place you in final judgment, in contempt for your bloodline and its auspicious upbringing. Snarled, Malus.

Pacing, Malus accosted once again Why should you remain in rule as I squander in dirt for what scraps remain? When it is I, who is the stronger and worthier ruler. Where my father failed, I will surely succeed… Malus opened his arms and looked around the room, then back to the terrified family he sneered As you now…clearly see.

King Jyl stood forward with his sword drawn precariously. I did not ask to rule, it was my birthright. Given to me by my father who earned it, as did his father before him. I have taken nothing from you? Screamed the angered, shaken King.

You!... Have not earned it! You’re not a King! Seethed Malus You are but a shadow of a real man. This…BIRTHRIGHT! As you call it, is but your name, and it ends here, ends now, as does your future bloodline! He asserted, his upper lip curled in distaste.

The King looked back at his terrified wife and children Take me! I beg you, spare my family and all shall be yours, Malus. Begged the teary-eyed, now kneeling King.

With a sinister, arrogant laugh All is mine, once feign King! Bellowed Malus, with a burned rage in his eyes. Realizing Malus will not concede and with no recourse, the King staggered to stand and lunged forward to strike. Malus tilted his head back then abruptly forward and his eyes pierced the King's terrified eyes as he cast Frendo. The King was instantly halted before the sword was even close. Then he and his family were lifted above the floor, suspended by an unseen force.

With their animation stolen from them, they remained motionlessly, perched above the floor wide-eyed with fear as the space surrounding the family seemed to withdraw in-on-itself slowly crushing each of the family members within its unseen grasp. Their very breath, their essence, was being drained out of them, stolen upon each gasped, laboured, and tried breath. The only sound to be heard was the mashing of bone inside its skinned shell and the minute squeals escaping their mouths. Their bulging eyes teared blood as they too were crushed and their death-sigh was exhaled. Bereft of air and deboned, the family succumbed and Malus ceased his deathly magic, letting their void skin suits fall, twisted and unhuman-like upon the red carpet where they once ruled. A lifeless mask remained of the former residents.

Where once there was life, now only the deflated shells of skin remained emptying mush through their orifices. No skeleton only the vessel which housed it. Where once there were eyes, now only black apertures abided leaking a bloody slop.

Any empathetic man would be haunted by such a scene. Alas, there stood none that horrible night. No emotions crossed Malus’s face nor the Harbingers. The lives before them were mere inanimate objects to be tossed aside and disposed of.

The castle and surrounding lands once ruled by a just and peaceful man were now in the hands of his un-vehement opposite.

Turning to the harbingers with a look of smug arrogance twisted upon his face, Malus commanded Leave no stone unturned, no lives shall be spared save for what woman or children remain. Send them to Seta. Make sure what happened here tonight is spread throughout Pangerath. Let this so-called battle be a testament to my authority, my resolve. And a warning to all who have thoughts to oppose me. Let it be known that no pretended Kings or Queen shall ever have rule over me. I am now their judge as well as their executioner…their sentencing is close at hand. He turned and walked away with his head held confidently and imperiously high. The staff held in his right hand struck the floor to match each step of his right foot. With self-appointed authority, he said as he left the room Destroy it all. Then he looked back at the corpses Leave the blood vessels as they lay, we will build upon their remains. The harbingers bowed as he left ‘It shall be done, my lord.’

CHAPTER-2-THE PROPHECY BORN?

Later that night, northeast of the castle and a lifetime away from the horrors of the befallen Bubastis stood a singular wooded home nestled on the shores of Lake Windemere. A faint lambent glow emanated from within, as candles flickered atop the fireplace mount.

Logged walls stayed some of the chill of night as Helen Deus meandered about the glowing room. A gentle-looking thin woman of small stature, with skin seemingly untouched by time, as un-aged smooth porcelain. With long, blonde and wavy hair floating down to tickle the bottom of her back. What eyes…eyes as blue as the ice of Hellwyn itself. A pale blue, like the icebergs floating beneath a sea of blue sky and a absorbed it.

A gentle radiance surrounded her in a pulsating warmth that encapsulated anyone who has had the pleasure to be in her presence. She knew you were there and she made you feel wanted and special. Like you were the only two in the world.

She had just returned from the magical forest and a meeting between her and her sisters. A meeting of the white witches.

Even though she looks docile and sweet she is in fact considered the most powerful of the white witches and could have easily been named Queen if she so chose. Not just because of her extensive knowledge of the arts, but because of her convictions and devotion to the land and her sisters, who all admire and respect her. Yet she would just rather be just a sister, to not have to make decisions on their behalf, to just be…her.

It was the time of mating where only a select few men are chosen. Men that over the millennia, and through generations of incantations, supply the seed for a girl to be born and eventually become a white witch.

For no man is allowed entrance to the white witches’ village or the knowledge of their ways, so she waited in the cabin, away from her hidden village. Witches believe man is a destructive and vile swine, unworthy of a woman’s touch. Except for mating. Then they see them no more. All the better, the witches would say. For man's edacious desires stem from within their britches and should not be given any more affection than what is needed to keep the line of white witches.

Only a select group of men are given quarter, and for one purpose, one night. As she waited nervously for her chosen mate to arrive a shiver enticed her to raise her hand and utter Ignis at the stone fire-pit, engulfing the tinder and logs within.

Moving a rocker by the fire she took from her worn leather satchel a quilt of her making. Draping it across her shoulders and chest, the pink and white cotton soft quilt cuddled her as she rocked with the flames of the fire-pit mirrored in her transfixed blue eyes. A calm came over her as she slowly rocked and stared deep into the gentle flames, becoming one with the tranquil warm room.

After an hour or so she was awoken from her peace by the faint trot of many a horse in the distance getting closer, moving her from her awakened dream to look towards a small window at her right. Thinking nothing of it, maybe just travellers, she shrugged her shoulders then turned back to the fire. Many travelled by due to the proximity of the lake.

Suddenly a flame shot by her window, followed by an eerie scream of excruciating pain from a man outside her door. Jumping to her feet, dropping her quilt to her side she rushed towards the window just as a thunderous crash flung open the thin wooden door, followed by a gust of cold wind.

Her jaw tightened and her eyes widened to stare intensely at the doorway preparing for a trespasser. Raising her hands to defend herself, a black leather boot firmly stepped forward, accompanied by its owner.

A towering figure with broad shoulders and skin as pale as snow, dressed in black and holding his black crystal staff. His eyes were a pure-full-black and empty as if no soul has ever resided within. She recognized him immediately; it was Malus.

On his way north to hunt for more Bubastians, he noticed the flickering light inside the cabin. Curious and intent on finding strays he made his way to investigate.

He stood there sizing her up and down as she lowered her hands to stand akimbo. With a subdued chuckle, he looked around and said, I see it is the night of mating witch? Stepping aside he displayed the inflamed body burning on the ground behind him. Unfortunately, your mate-to-be is no longer interested. He exclaimed with a conceited chuckle.

Helen bowed and shook her head in disbelief Why Malus? He had done no wrong to you! Nor have I for that matter. Leave now!

Pitiful witch! He seethed You and your kind are not welcome on my lands.

Your… lands!! She replied in anger. This is Bubastis lands and King Jyl knows of our rituals. You’ll have to answer to him for this crime.

Nodding his head, a smile formed upon his face as he raised his eyes towards her I answer to none! Especially a dead King.

Placing her trembling hand to mouth, her eyes moistened and displayed hatred and sorrow all at once. She had known the gentle King and his family for many years. She grimaced then angrily shouted The King is no more? What of his wife and children? Praying to her trembling heart that they somehow survived.

Standing firm, Malus leaned on his staff in front of him with one hand atop another he looked straight and deep into Helen’s eyes, he glared with a grin There is no more Jyl bloodline!

Helen’s jaw dropped as she fell to her knees and clutched her knotted stomach. Her throat swelled as she wept and covered her face with trembling hands. Her heart and gut burned as though a flaming hand reached in and is ripping them out.

Now witch since your mate is not here for this sacred night, here I stand, in my house, on my land and you the trespasser. Whatever is on my land is mine to do with what I see fit. Count yourself, fortunate witch, for I see fit to accommodate you this night.

Enraged, Helen stood to face Malus, pointed at his face and hollered You animal! You shall never have me! Before she could finish Malus roared Ventus, a powerful wind grabbed hold and threw Helen across the room, hitting the wooden wall at the other end. Dazed and bleeding from her brow she managed to cry out Custodia and was instantly surrounded by a translucent blue glowing shield bubble.

Smiling, Malus walked towards her. A dark grin occupied his face as a snarl formed upon his upper lip. He asserted Do you think your witch’s magic can stop me… Pathetic. Ha…. I have a message for you and your witch sisters. I will find your village in the forest and destroy every witch. None are safe, this, the land and all who dwell within are my subjects to do with as I see fit. Starting with you witch. Be thankful… for I may let you live…. a while longer he laughed, then uttered Domito, as he raised his hands and slowly penetrated the force shield protecting her, viciously grasping her throat.

She wheezed for air as he carried her into the back bedroom, waved his hand behind magically slamming the door closed. With her will magically, no longer hers, he has his way with her.

The future has taken place in the present; the seed is sown, the immoral done.

Morning broke as Malus opened the bedroom door. Behind him laid Helen, weary, her clothes torn revealing her badly bruised limbs and broken body. The stench of forced sweat permeated throughout the room as she lay across her bed.

Disgusted and violated, Helen, furious with death on her mind, tried to stand. She was too weak, the pain too great. She bent over in pain as she clutched her stomach and wept upon the bed.

You should be careful with who you lie, filthy witch, huh-huh-huh. Said Malus turning to walk out of the room. As he stood at the doorway he paused then raised his hand and uttered Ego vomica vos ut nex. Grinning as he turned to look back and see Helen, now unconscious. Continuing outside, he mounted his horse and ordered: We go. His small troop who had waited all night mounted to follow him south.

Days turned to weeks for Helen as she tried to forget that horrible night. She had stayed in the cabin concealing herself from even her sister’s. Not returning to the magical forest and her home. The faultless embarrassment and shame of what happened haunted her every thought, while sharp agonizing pain in her stomach and vomiting accompanied her waking hours. She had grown extremely weak from vomiting and lack of food or water and as the pain intensified she thought to herself, ‘Is it the evil seed inside me, or is it the words Malus spoke upon leaving?’

Holding her stomach, curled on the floor by the fire she cried herself to sleep, hoping the pain and thoughts that enveloped her every minute of every day would dissipate, they did not, they only grew in intensity and longevity, taking what remained of her strength.

One wet and windy bitter day her dear friend Victoria Nobal, Queen of the white witches, happened by on her search for her lost sister. A truly beautiful woman standing almost 6-foot-tall with long black wavy hair, and eyes green as jade. Wearing form-fitting white leather pants and a buttoned-up leather V-neck shirt that emphasized the perfect curvature of her slender body. Adorning her long silky-smooth lilac scented hair, placed slightly tilted to the right, was a large white leather, wide-brimmed, and conical witch’s hat. This is the typical garb of the white witches. None wore the garb as well as she.

As she entered through the charred doorway the scent of wet wood tickled her nose to look over towards the fireplace. That was when she noticed her friend lying cold and curled by the dead fire. Rushing to her knees to grab hold of the motionless body before her she took her friend’s head in her arms and moved aside the sweat-drenched tangled hair from her face. Her eyes moistened as her cheeks twitched. Looking down Victoria murmured Sister!… Sister!

Helen forced her eyes to slowly open and look upon her best friend's jaded, moistened eyes staring down at her. While her heavy head rested in her friend's arms, she sobbed a reply Victoriaaaa.

Sniffling as she held her friend closer to her breast, stroking her hair, Victoria asked Sister what has happened? Who did this? She looked on at her dear weak friend and a worried look crossed her face as she continued to brush her friend’s hair away from her face.

Garnering strength, Helen grimaced and looked up with sorrowful diminished eyes as she sobbed My Queen; my friend. I am…with child! She then dropped her heavy head back into Victoria’s lap and her eyes fell shut.

Relieved that this is the reason her friend lays ill, Victoria grabbed Helen's hand. A great smile engulfed her face. This is wonderful news sister, she joyfully said. Why sob Helen, this is indeed a great day! And I am sure this is only the morning sickness you feel. Helen looked to the side in shame as she relayed that horrible night some moons ago, and how Malus came to her.

The child is his? queried Victoria, as she looked to the heavens…shocked.

Yes. And what’s more, he has cursed me as well. With ego vomica vos ut nex. Horrified, Victoria looked straight into Helen's eyes The curse of death upon life. I thought such a spell was only an ancient fairy-tale to scare witches, it cannot be real. I’m…I’m sure the spell did not take and was just to scare you, sister. We all know Malus despises the white witch, so why not make you even more scared with a pretend-ed curse?

Helen sadly opened and closed her eyes. As a tear ran down her cheek she looked at her undecided, optimistic friend above her, she knew not if the curse was real, but the way she feels cannot be a good omen. People know their bodies she thought, and this was not normal, even with child.

Oh sister, it mustn’t be real! Said Victoria with conviction. Trying to convince her friend as well as herself. Victoria hung her head as un-held tears rained down her face to soak the shirt of Helen.

Wanting to comfort her friend and change the subject, Victoria added, in an upbeat tone Helen, I shall stay with you until the time has come for the child to be born. It will be as our sleepovers when we were children.

Thank you, my Queen…my sister. I do pray the child is not cursed as well? And I so pray the child has not his father’s deportment, remarked a pessimistic, saddened Helen.

Wiping the tears from her face Victoria stood, looked at Helen, and in a blissful sound of optimism said I will look in the grimoire to see if we cannot reverse this supposed curse set upon you. If it is, in fact, real, even. We will! Beat this. And you will raise your child to be not his father, but as you dear sister.

Seasons passed. The honeyed warm sun had been replaced by the cooling rust, red, and gold leaves of autumn. In that time, Victoria has cared for her dearest friend and has searched high and low for anything relating to this curse. From asking her sisters to travelling to Tanis. Each time she had been told the curse is not real. Each time, it’s just a tale, giving hope to a desperate friend.

Then, on the ninth month and the ninth day, and nearing the ninth hour the seed had finally outgrown its shell, it slowly began trying to purge itself from the womb to take its first true breath. The skies around the cottage have suddenly turned foreboding black and the rain-infused air swam throughout the cabin making each breath that much thicker to breathe. As ominous clouds scurried high above, clashing with each other, they created violent thunderstorms that stabbed the sky with bolts of lightning, strobing the whole of Pangerath. Strong winds and heavy rain soon followed. Rain as dense as the magical forest itself, as though the heavens opened to cry an impending doom.

Helen lay weak and sweating in her bed, pleading for the pain to stop. Her dear friend Victoria sat shaking on a chair beside the bed, trying to soothe her friend with warm compresses and reassuring words, to no avail; the pain was too great. Her best friend's agony