The Rings: Journey Beneath Sirok

By E. G. Kardos

Mystical Forces Draw Elias to the Under World...

He must save his friend and sorcerer, Zoltan. To do so, the prophecy

calls him to return the Ring of the Right Hand to its rightful owner. First,

he must learn how to use his powers that hide deep inside him before

entering a portal that propels

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen It Publications
• Release date: Jun 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781639844555

Book preview

Books by E. G. Kardos

ZEN MASTER NEXT DOOR:

Parables for Enlightened Everyday Living

THE ELIAS CHRONICLES

The Amulet: Journey to Sirok~ Book I

The Rings: Journey Beneath Sirok~ Book II

CUTTING OF HARP STRINGS: a novel

Coming soon:

The Elixir: Journey On – Book III of The Elias Chronicles - 2023

The Elias Chronicles~BOOK II

E.G. Kardos

First Edition 2023

PEN IT PUBLICATIONS

The Rings: Journey Beneath Sirok by E.G. Kardos

Copyright © 2022. All rights reserved.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, without the express and prior permission in writing of Pen It Publications. This book may not be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is currently published.

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This is a work of fiction. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect that of the publisher.

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Published by Pen It Publications in the U.S.A.

713-526-3989

www.penitpublications.com

ISBN: 978-1-63984-454-8 | 978-1-63984-455-5

Edited by Marilyn Leahy & Ashlee Wyzard

For Kristin

"Knowing others is intelligence;

knowing yourself is true wisdom.

Mastering others is strength;

mastering yourself is true power."

Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

Acknowledgements

Those who dared to journey with Elias on their own personal quest when reading The Amulet: Journey to Sirok are very special to me. Set in a sliver of time in between today and yesterday—or perhaps tomorrow, Elias takes the reader with him on a journey of discovery. Thanks for taking the time to travel on a path to somewhere else to uncover your own special treasure.

Thanks to Wren Wyatt, who shared his thoughts to help shape Book II. Sally Boykin, a friend for many years, gave me the encouragement I needed to go forward with this new story, and I thank her for her interest, time, and thoughts.

A very special appreciation goes to Marilyn Leahy. With a generous heart and spirit, she introduced Elias to all she came before. She shared countless ideas and worked to spread the word about the story. Her marvelous spirit means more to me than I can express with words. As the editor, she strengthened Book II in ways I would have never imagined. She is a wonderful friend whom I owe a debt of gratitude.

"We must be willing to let go of

the life we have planned, so as

to accept the life that is

waiting for us."

Joseph Campbell

1

From the Crevasses

The moment had changed time and space forever. The serpent no longer slithered inside, but for now, Elias knew how it had lived and died.

Alone, he stood atop the mountain of Sirok. His crusade had been long, but it was now over. As he stood tall, he savored his sweet victory for only a moment as it was time to return to what was familiar. It was time to move on, but he knew his experience with the serpent was now a part of him forever.

With only the sounds of a breeze that kicked up the sand where he stood, he looked at the dark and infinite early morning sky. Ribbons of faint light picked up the colors of the Earth and began to fan out. It was like a magnificent painting. The shades of night tinted the light of the morning and then pulled apart so that the darkness faded softly out of sight.

He bowed his head and slipped the amulet back around his neck. He knew all too well what it meant when he felt it against his chest. Smiling, he had thought of the exact time he had realized its worth—when it had saved him.

Elias scanned the area and let out a sigh. He saw the dragon’s sword on the ground, partly covered by debris, and then he grabbed its grip. He looked it over. Suddenly, the wind whipped up, and it forced him to look away. That’s when he saw his sword. Unlike the other blade, his sword stood upright and pierced the Earth. He gripped the hilt and pulled it from the ground. He held it high and looked at the long metal and thought about the force it commanded. These twin swords that once had unleashed an incredible power were nothing more than two cold steel blades.

He sealed them away in the compartment at the base of the arch just as his grandmother had instructed him when he prepared for his journey.

With the toe of his boot, he poked at the dying embers of the campfire. He scooped up the sandy soil of Sirok, covered the coals, and stomped out the edges of the fire. Still feeling the surge of confidence that came with his victory, he felt grateful the fight was over. Elias knew it was time to go home.

As he sucked in a heavy breath, he began to descend the crooked path on the rough terrain to journey home. His faithful dog, Cimbora, was at his side just as he had been during his adventure. Elias no longer feared the Sarkany, the evil dragon, as his fears he would find now lay elsewhere. He hoped never to return to this mountain. Elias’ head was full of thoughts of his family. He had left them many weeks ago when he felt he had no choice. His Papa had made it clear to him that there was no place for artists on a farm. Elias’ grandmother, Nattymama, had prepared him to search for the sorcerer, Zoltan, to help him uncover a peace that he would find only in his heart.

No sooner had Elias turned and walked away; than the ground trembled. Elias stopped. He looked back, and he saw nothing, but still, he paused. Something was there—he just knew it. He looked around but saw nothing unusual. He turned and continued his descent on his path toward the village. Cimbora, however, stood frozen about fifteen steps behind Elias. He stared at the smoldering campfire. He jerked his head, and then he trotted to catch up with Elias. He stopped once or twice and turned to look behind him. Cimbora sniffed the air. Before long, they were far enough down the mountain and could no longer see the camp.

The crevasses in the ancient stones that surrounded the campfire tore open and made each gash deeper and longer. A cold wind whipped from them and swept over the dying embers. Too cold to be of this Earth, more wind streamed out from the rock fissures at the top of Sirok, where Elias had been just moments before. The wind spun itself, caught dirt and grit, and pulled in the cinders from the almost-dead fire.

The wind now lofted gently around the warm coals as the charm was now in play. Once again, the embers sparked into a flame. The flame hesitated briefly, but it flickered in reds and blues as the wind all but diminished.

The flame became a fire, and the fire became an inferno.

2

Paintings

The morning Elias returned home, the sky was a stunning blue with only the faintest veil of ashen clouds that teased the mountain peaks. Perched high upon the hill where Elias used to paint, his father sat by himself. He looked up to the sky and saw colors change from purple to gold to rosy pink as the sun inched its way up the horizon. He felt he alone could see the kaleidoscope of the colors, like bright ribbons that streamed across the morning sky. The Hungarian landscape was truly a beautiful gift, he thought to himself, as if it were his first time to see the sky.

This must be what my Elias saw each time he came here, he said to the sky. This is what he came to paint—to remember for all of us. Yes, my son has known such things from a young age—I am old, but thank goodness I finally understand.

From a hundred steps away, Elias shouted, Papa, Papa, I’ve come home.

Papa stood and spread his arms, and Elias ran to him and welcomed his father’s hug. Papa patted the back of Elias’ head with his large, calloused hands. He couldn’t believe his son was now in his arms.

Elias pulled away for a moment—he wanted to see Papa’s face, to know he understood. Papa reassured him with a smile that Elias seldom saw. He knew at that moment that everything was fine between them.

"I am proud of you, son. What you did was courageous. After you left…I thought maybe, no… I knew my words hurt you. But I knew…I just knew in my heart that you’d come back—someday.

Papa hugged him again and said, I am a farmer, and I work the fields. My head is down, and sometimes I forget to look up. So I didn’t understand what you had to do. Your courageous journey changed me as well. Papa paused, cleared his throat, and said, I want you to have something.

Papa reached down to his pack and handed him a long object covered with brown paper.

Go ahead, please, unwrap it, my boy.

Elias held the package for a moment before he pulled back the paper. He knew Papa didn’t give gifts, so this must be special. Carefully, he tore back the remaining paper, and he gasped. Papa! It was the most beautiful paintbrush he had ever seen. He knew in his heart Papa loved him.

I am the luckiest son in the world.

I am the luckiest Papa. When I searched for you, I traveled to the next village over, and for some reason, I found myself in front of an old man. He had a long white beard, and he peddled his wares in the town square. I told him I searched for you, but he said he wasn’t able to help me. However, he did say that he knew I would see you one day.

What? Did he tell you who he was? Elias asked.

"No, I was so stunned by his remark I didn’t even ask him his name. But as I began to turn to walk away, he held up his hand and motioned me to wait. He then pulled out a box, and in it was this brush. The old man seemed to know the brush was meant for you. This sign told me you were coming home. I knew I would hand this gift to you someday, one day—this day."

Wow.

Wow, is that right, my son.

Papa, I will tell you about my journey as well.

My dear Elias, your journey is only about to begin.

♦ ♦ ♦

A few weeks passed, and Elias sat alone on top of the mountain where he had always enjoyed painting. He looked out across the valley and to the horizon, and he sensed calmness. The land he saw before him was very pleasing as it was full of colors—the green, grassy slopes were dotted with violet and blue wildflowers. Further to one side, a family hiked on a distant trail with backpacks and fishing gear. He noticed someone in a small rowboat further away on the river. He leaned back on his small rickety stool and smiled. He was ready to paint, but nothing seemed to inspire him.

He stared at the blank canvas in front of him and then back at the family as they disappeared into the thick forest. He began to examine his new paintbrush and inspected each bristle. Elias looked up to feel a warm but welcome breeze that filtered through the trees. It made a soft rustling sound as it passed through each leaf, as the sun’s rays shone through an unexpected and rogue cloud.

Elias looked down to one side of his palette at the colors he had squished out of his many crumpled tubes of paint. Something he could not put his finger on told him to crowd his palette full of colors that he hardly ever used. With little thought but one he hoped would inspire him, he dipped the edge of the brush into a dab of midnight blue. He then touched the paint to the very center of the canvas. He left a kind of smear that resembled nothing, or so he thought. He tilted his head back, and he looked at the color smear again—what did it remind him of? He shrugged, unsure of where this painting was going.

Hmmm.

Not quite satisfied and a little disinterested, he sat back on his stool and found the amulet he kept faithfully around his neck. This was the very amulet that Nattymama had given him before he traveled far from Sirok to seek wisdom from Zoltan. The same amulet that the three-headed dragon—the Sarkany—desperately wanted. He nodded his head and remembered each encounter with the serpent. He knew, however, the amulet belonged to him and no one else. He also knew that Sarkany’s evil powers had fought hard to steal it away but failed, and he had been victorious.

As he rested back on two legs of the stool and folded his arms, he looked up to the sky and saw the great Turul that flew overhead and thought of how she always kept a watchful eye on him. Elias smiled. He thought about how the falcon-like bird, in its regal manner, steered him in the right direction on his journey. He looked down at his feet and saw Cimbora fast asleep. His thoughts then flashed to how his four-legged friend had used his clever ways to help him defeat the Sarkany, and with these images in mind, Elias felt at peace. Surely, it was over, and he could finally move on.

A dark cloud rolled in without warning. The warm breeze became cold. Elias leaned forward and looked at the blue mark he made on the canvas, and suddenly, he began to paint but did not know what—or why. He splashed dark colors against bright colors. Dark greens, dark grays, and more midnight blue. What am I doing? he asked himself and laughed at what he thought was foolishness.

He switched hands, he dabbed the brush into cool colors like an eggshell and a powder blue. The images came into focus. He changed hands again. He used violet, azure, indigo, and mauve to highlight and sharpen the images. Back and forth he went, and as he painted, the images turned to towers, buildings, and roads. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He looked at what he had created. Where is this? How did I come up with this? he said as he spoke to himself. More than the images, the colors struck him as odd—not his usual style.

He had painted a city of gold. With a smile, he looked at Cimbora, who now sat on his hind legs, and Elias said, So boy, I guess I must have the Midas touch—looks like everything I touch turns to gold.

With care, he laid the canvas to the side and picked up another. Automatically and with little thought, he began to stroke and dabbed his wet brush on its clean, rough surface much in the same way as the last canvas. As he did, he felt strange, as if he was in a trance. Brush stroke after brush stroke, he painted with his right hand and then his left, and he focused on every detail. Again, he amazed himself, as he did not have any idea of what he was painting. Shapes formed, and as he continued, the images were coming to life. He painted people in the streets. All of them were pretty or handsome, and all dressed in fine and beautiful clothes. They were dancing, and Elias wondered why.

Although the sun was setting, Elias pulled out a third canvas, and, like the other two, he painted hurriedly and splashed colors all over the canvas. He felt as if some force was in control of his hands. He just held the brush, and some outside energy directed each broad swipe and every tiny detail. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and as he reached to rub them, he noticed his hands trembled, but it did not matter. This time the images became apparent with the first few brush strokes. He blended reds and yellows, and with short, swift strokes, he erratically whipped his brush as if he was a symphony conductor. Although he despised what he was creating, he could not stop.

So weary was he that he dropped the brush, and as it hit a stone below, paint flicked from the bristles. Now covered with sweat, his bangs stuck to his face, he stared at the wet colors that settled on the canvas. He raised his face to the sky, and he felt a twitch in one of his eyes.

The image he had painted was the Sarkany with each of its three grotesque heads.

No! I defeated that monster. I know I did. He leaned back, away from the easel, as if it could lash out from the canvas and strike him. One head rolled to the ground and, later, a second one after that. He hunched forward and leaned in closer to the painting. Elias whispered, Oh no…it can’t be. Just can’t be. I ran my dagger through its heart. It vanished. I know I defeated it. I left it dead. DEAD! He jumped up, kicked the stool, circled the canvas, and willed the painting to answer him. He stuck his hand into the colorless evening sky, he demanded. What does this all mean? WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

♦ ♦ ♦

Now dark enough to go undetected, Elias slipped through the fields and didn’t want anyone to see what he had painted. He peered back and forth, and over his shoulder, he went to the outbuilding farthest from the house. He pulled open the wide door, and he heard the hinges moan. He froze and waited to see if anyone else was around—anyone who could have heard it, too. Satisfied he was alone, Elias walked into the shed where Papa kept his old farming tools. He knew that no one ever came in here. He figured this was the best place to hide the paintings. He climbed the stairs, and in the small space above, he carefully, one by one, lined the paintings against one wall. For a moment, he looked at each. He didn’t know what they meant or how and why he had painted them. For a moment, he was almost afraid to be alone with them. He didn’t know what to do—he needed time to think, so he left them and hoped no one would find them.

He rushed home for dinner. Papa, Mama, his two brothers, Jozef and Kristof, and his two little sisters, Inga and Margita, were sitting down at the table when Elias bounded through the door. He thought Papa was going to scold him for being late like he used to do, but all Elias heard was the clanking of knives and forks against the plates and the chatter of his family.

Sit down, son and join us, Papa said with a smile.

Look at you, Mama said. You are filthy. At least wash your hands and brush that hair out of your face. I want to see who I’m eating with.

Yes, Mama, Elias said as he went to the kitchen sink and thought if he said nothing, he could get through supper unnoticed.

Papa, said Margita, I want to go into the village tomorrow with my friends. Can I go?

We’ll talk about it later, but first, I want to ask Elias something.

Everyone, which included Elias, rolled their eyes at Papa.

What? What? Is there a problem here? Elias, you are barely home for a month…have you been painting? Papa asked.

Um, yes, Papa. I’ve been painting, Elias said as he hoped there would be more questions.

So, tell us about it. It’s been such a long time since you’ve created a masterpiece, Papa said as he looked over his shoulder at Elias’ painting above the mantle. We’d all like to know what it is. Wouldn’t we? Papa smiled as he looked at each child.

Everyone except Jozef, the youngest son, nodded their heads and slowly answered in unison.

Elias, Elias, Elias…that is all I ever hear these days! Jozef muttered.

The eldest son, Kristof, spoke up, Hey there, little brother. Elias was gone for a long time—give him a break. Like Papa, I’d like to know what Elias has been up to since he’s been home.

So Elias, tell us. Don’t leave us in suspense, Papa said.

I’d ah…I’d rather not, Papa.

Oh? I’m confused. You were so excited about getting back to your artwork when you walked out the door this morning. You were so happy, and, my son, I was very happy for you—just to see you again and ready to do what you live for, Papa said.

It is… it isn’t finished. Yes, Papa, it’s not ready, and I want it to be a surprise, Elias said.

You heard Elias, Mama said with a firm voice. With time, we will see his masterpiece. A masterpiece that will change the world, she said with a smile as she placed her warm hand on Elias’ forearm. So less talk and more eating. This meal didn’t cook itself, so eat.

Oh. Okay, we can wait, Mama. As you do every evening, you too, my dear, have created a masterpiece for us to enjoy, said Papa.

Enough, Papa—please pass me the goulash, Mama said as she looked down and tried not