An Occasion to Mourn: Chronicles of Candlelight, #0

By Will Rivard

A young hero, a prophecy, and a horde…

Darith Forhild was born to lead the most considerable military power in the realms, but when a swarm of savage monsters rises from obscurity to lay siege to his homeland, he is left with a difficult choice. Can he outwit the dark phantoms that haunt his nation's past, or will he too fall to the vicious creatures whose purpose is to drive humanity to extinction? Join Darith on his desperate quest in this dark, face-paced, high fantasy adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Rivard
• Release date: Nov 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9798989406937

Book preview

Prologue

Lijadu roj’rodikkil mek sual’nik vas zajrl.

Nija mek’ki jeccuk’i ec vas sy prijati rvissa.

Mek prijati’i vas drihl jerrk mek lasg.

Raz im’mek vas kozemek’i ojer.

Nik roj’rodikkil, tozzo roj’sscratti,

Roj’sscratti’i je’ji vrata.

My mate shall brood a thousand swarms.

My pups shall grow drunk with the blood of my enemy.

My roar will cause my foes to tremble.

I will conquer the hero of the soft skins.

The horde is forever, the horde is great,

The horde cannot be broken.

—A scrag war chant translated by First Schlora Ridarrun Diklerri during the third cycle following the Great War.

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I thought you enjoyed far patrol, Collen accused. You claimed it was the only time you felt adventurous.

The Kezzan youth ran a gloved hand through his tousled nut-brown hair, glancing enviously at his companion’s azure eyes. Irises of sapphire were rare amongst Kezzans and were a trait that Egborn frequently employed to charm girls. Celia had certainly noticed, as had all the female watchers stationed at their tower.

I do, Egborn retorted defensively. I did.

Collen plucked a fallen limb from the forest floor and bent the branch between his hands, testing its spring. It was not blackwood and would be worthless as a bow or even an arrow. He cast the stick into a thicket of saplings and muskroot, aiming apathetically at a hapless coney. The rabbit hunched at the sudden movement before darting into the shadowy scrub, disappearing beneath a thatch of Kezza’s valor—a native woodland flower known to carpet the forest floor in fall. Stretching, woody stalks capped by clusters of white flowers shuddered at the furry varmint’s hasty retreat. Collen stared into the brush until the silver hare’s bounding footfalls faded.

I merely wish we didn’t have to go on far patrol the day before the watch changes and we leave for the capital, Egborn explained, tugging at the edge of his fur-lined hood.

Wolf fur felt coarse but the fibers filtered the chill. Egborn wore a heavy cloak like his comrades—a thin ward against the mountain’s icy breath.

Fall’s beauty brushed winter’s verve as the seasons changed. The sun had nearly set, and the air grew colder with each ephemeral breath. A sliver of red pierced the woven pine boughs to the east. The sun’s soft rays cut across the mountain’s steep slopes to shed a few failing scraps of warmth on the youth’s chilled lineaments.

Collen scratched at the tawny bristle on his cheeks in a fruitless struggle to restore feeling to his features. Kezzan women preferred men with hair. And now that he had completed his tour at the towers, society permitted him to seek a mate. Service to king and country came first. Pleasures of family and companionship followed. He listed potential Kezzan girls in his mind, but his heart raced at the thought of courting them. Hunting a deadly ibanisi lizard sounded more agreeable than privately wooing a woman.

I plan to sprint all the way to the capital, Egborn confessed. I don’t want my legs tired from marching through the foothills, else I will run as slow as you, Collen.

I bet I could bound to the top of Mount Kuhlam and still reach Ulanta before you, Collen taunted blandly. I’ll even offer you a half-day lead.

Everyone at the tower knew that none considered Egborn fleet. His strengths lay elsewhere.

Egborn glowered, eyebrows furrowing with agitation.

Quiet! Celia hissed, scanning the thicket where the rabbit had vanished. Her eyes narrowed at the folds of eclipsed foliage.

What is it? Egborn inquired in a nervous whisper.

Celia silenced him with a flick of her hand, focus undeterred.

It’s nothing, Collen muttered. Celia is as jumpy as a hen in a fox den.

Celia ignored him.

A cracking windfall resonated from the verdant screen, and bolting footfalls charged the edge of the stand. Both boys snatched the axes from the loops at their hips, spurred by fear. Celia readied her bow, slipping an arrow free of the quiver tethered to her thigh. She nocked the shaft and pulled its fletching to her cheek in a single fluid movement, priming her weapon in the span of a heartbeat. Collen’s shallow breaths puffed before his parted lips like pipe smoke. His heart thundered in his ears. Fear pulled at his middle like the calloused fingers of a remorseless wraith.

A sapling shuddered, brushed by an unseen form. Collen struggled not to scream, but the constriction in his throat drove a moan between his lips.

Tawny fur burst from the thicket. The three patrollers skipped back in alarm. Collen nearly fumbled an ax. Celia loosed her arrow. The shaft careened into the boscage and struck a distant trunk with a resounding thud. A stag bolted from the brake, haughtily hoisting its towering tines. The startled buck snorted and shoved past Collen. The youth jumped with a yelp, narrowly evading the anxious creature.

Who’s as jumpy as a hen, Collen? Egborn teased.

You were as scared as me, Collen defended.

The tension fled Celia’s shoulders like a turning tide, and she lowered her bow, issuing a sigh of relief through pursed lips. Her mouth curled into a smile as she scrubbed her features with her palm, removing all traces of fear. Celia’s tentative laughter blended with Egborn’s amusement.

I thought it was a bear, Celia admitted in the wake of a nervous titter. It wouldn’t do for one of us to be torn to bits on our last patrol. She turned to follow the deer’s hasty departure with her eyes. I should have put an arrow in it. Venison would have been a pleasant addition to supper.

Collen’s features stiffened. A shaded form partially concealed by the boscage drove waves of panic into his chest. Fear conquered his expression. He could not tear his eyes from the ghostly threat crouched behind a thin shroud of shadowed verdure.

Come on, Collen, Egborn teased. It wasn’t that… His words caught in his throat. His eyes followed Collen’s to the creature crouched in the copse.

A hulking shadow lingered behind a thatch of squatty seedlings. Beneath the dappled folds of shivering flora, the discarded creature of myth appeared as grim as a nocturnal pall bound atop a struggling infirm on the brink of expiry. Its eyes, black like glinting obsidian, were colder than the hibernal season’s rimy sough. Its shoulders and arms were thick with muscle, and its visage was a ruffled cloak of anger and aggression.

Collen trembled, recalling the mournful dirge of his ancestors—a replete history of his nation’s founding—a war beyond his youthful comprehension. Brush obscured the creature’s outline, but he quickly recognized the beast as a savage buried by history and legend. Collen had seen the demon in the schlora’s sketches during his training and knew that it spelled his death.

Dark eyes idly observed the three younglings. The brute eased forward, pressing its gnarled knuckles against the earth. It sniffed the air, tasting its foes and judging the threat they posed.

Egborn babbled a prayer while Celia cursed beneath her breath.

We must retreat to the tower, Collen whimpered, shuffling backward.

Half a league separated them from their haven.

They were supposed to be extinct, Celia defended desperately. We were meant to watch for thieves and highland predators. The border watch was never meant to defend against the—

Her words elided with incoherent garbles.

Collen ripped his eyes from the still, silent shadow in the trees to assess Celia. His knees weakened and he stumbled. A second creature held Celia’s brown tresses in a clenched fist. A bloody rift spanned the soft flesh beneath her chin, freeing a sanguine river to spurt across her twisting torso. Blood bubbled from her ghastly wound with each labored breath. Celia’s legs buckled, but the beast hauled her upright. Collen thought it smirked, but he was not sure. Pointed tusks split its rucked visage and flanked either side of its sunken, unhuman nose.

Let her go! Egborn demanded unsteadily, lofting his axes toward the shadowy form.

The creature laughed, sounding like an old millstone dragged across cobbled streets. It was not as tall as the Kezzan girl, but it was far broader and several stones heavier. Its arms were as long and as thick as roofing timbers.

Celia abandoned her bow to clench the gaping chasm in her neck with trembling fingers. Blood flowed unimpeded, stark red lines appearing along the edges of her digits. Tears streamed down her rounded features, blending sweetly with the crimson current beneath her jaw. Celia’s entrancing brown eyes, colored like a bear cub’s first fur, clung to despair. Her lips quivered with unspoken horror. She bordered death and proved powerless to overturn her fate.

Collen shifted to scan the thicket, but the first beast had vanished. He combed the copse with his eyes, growing more anxious with each shuddering pant that split his pallid lips and every flick of his wavering orbs.

Pain burst through his ribs like a harrowing sting from jilted love. The Kezzan boy groaned and tensed as his breath fled his shaky lungs. He stared at his flank and discarded his axes in shock. A length of arrow as long as his fist sprouted from his side. The shaft supported a tuft of black fletching. Collen delicately stroked the plumage with admiration and recalled his mother’s hair. He could not comprehend why he felt such staggering, pinching agony. His head spun like he had fallen into a run of river rapids.

Egborn howled but Collen could not find the strength to turn. His countryman’s jugular throes resonated against the trees like a lone wolf’s mournful wail. Collen longed for Egborn to fall silent. He lacked the resilience to battle both his pain and Egborn’s unsettling cries.

Collen watched Celia’s captor pry her hands from her neck and wrench her head back, widening the chasm across her throat. The beast sneered as blood gushed down the front of her tunic, matting the cloth against her breasts. A second brute appeared and placed a weapon of hewn stone against the woman’s hideous wound. Spasmodic shudders rippled through Celia’s limbs as the beast’s jolting, sawing motions severed skin and flesh. Her hands groped wildly, but the repulsive, jeering monsters effortlessly shoved aside her attempts to hinder them.

Collen choked, bile rising to his throat as he watched the stout beasts mutilate his friend with their knives. Tears of desperation burned his eyes. Celia thrashed against her captor’s grip. The brutes were killing her. Collen wanted them to stop, but he knew the savages would turn to him once Celia fell still.

Don’t, he slurred, stretching a hand toward Celia’s wild, tormented expression.

The woman’s jaw fell in a silent scream. A delicate crimson current trickled from her slack lips and slipped across her chin. The beasts paused to assess Collen, both regarding him with dark eyes. The larger savage shoved the other aside and roughly tugged Celia’s head from the other’s grip, grotesquely twisting the remnants of the watchwoman’s neck, and pushed against her shoulder with a clawed foot. Her naked vertebrae grated and cracked as the cruel monster wound its fingers through her hair for leverage. It yanked on her scalp with a grunt. Celia’s spine popped and her blood-soaked torso toppled to the spent needles that carpeted the forest floor, though her anguished visage remained in the cruel creature’s grip. Gore drooped from the ghastly defect beneath Celia’s jaw, dribbling the final remnants of the watchwoman’s lifeblood onto the undergrowth.

Collen listened to each drop strike the browning vegetation like a gentle spring mizzle. Fear and pain fixed Celia’s expression. Collen stared at the gruesome scene, unable to turn away from the haunting accusation in Celia’s empty eyes.

The beast clutching Celia’s crown looped her brunette hair behind a leather strap stretched around its middle, smearing blood through her strands and across her brow in the process. The final remnants of the youth’s life spat on the creature’s thigh.

Collen realized that a collection of frowning faces flanked Celia’s freshly frozen mask. He did not recognize the others, but that could have been because the withered, leathery countenances lacked eyes. Flies burst from the vacant sockets of the decaying heads as the creature disturbed the shriveled skulls with Celia’s warped visage. The Kezzan’s fresh, glistening copper skin appeared out of place alongside the bloodless pates.

The second brute grumbled, snatching Celia by the mandible. Its coarse fingers slipped inside her mouth and pulled her by the chin, attempting to free her severed cap from the first beast’s belt. The fiend resisted with a low, throaty growl and shoved the other aside, thrusting its stone dagger toward Collen while gnashing its tusks in irritation.

Collen felt his strength seep from his limbs. His body ached and each breath carried pain, with the arrow lodged between his ribs restricting the rise and fall of his chest. He slumped forward onto his knees as the slighter beast lumbered closer, scrambling toward him on arms and legs. It snatched his mess of tangled curls and roughly pulled his head back.

Collen admired the failing light. Purple streaks traced the edges of a train of wispy clouds beneath a canopy of silver. Several stars had already appeared with the sun’s reluctant withdrawal. Tonight each flickering mass burned with dazzling luminosity.

Pain seized his neck and raced down his arms. Collen tensed and reached for his throat. Rough digits dug into his wrists and bound his hands behind his back, preventing him from exploring the cause of his agony. Warmth flowed across his chest, but he trembled despite it. Nights often bore a deadly chill this far north. Collen sputtered, unable to draw breath, and watched the last shard of sunlight fade from the evening sky.

Chapter one

Ipledge my life to my country. I will fight against my nation’s enemies in defense of life and freedom. If I abandon my duty, I will pluck out my eyes because I am unworthy to see Kezza’s pride. I will remove my ears that I may no longer hear his glorious refrain. I will sever my tongue so that I cannot spread my cowardice. My hands will be broken because I know not how to act with honor. Darkness shall follow me to my grave, and only in death might I find forgiveness.

—The oath sworn by each Kezzan youth at conscription.

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Darith sighed heavily as he reclined against the cold, damp stones that enclosed the pinnacle of his watchtower—each block worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Staggered platforms split the top of his tower, granting his perch vantage over much of the lower landing. The door accessing the rooftop rested within the wall that supported the upper terrace, where he eased onto a narrow bench worked into the stones of the forward wall, facing north. While seated Darith was just tall enough to examine all but the base of the mountains rising into the violet sky.

It had been a long day spent preparing for the change in guard, and Darith felt beyond tired. But as first watchman, his was customarily the evening watch, and sleep would come soon enough. His companions rested below, enjoying what meager warmth their stone stronghold offered. Most were likely asleep. Good soldiers always took advantage of an opportunity to rest, no matter how fleeting.

Darith pulled the collar of his fur-lined cloak tighter around his neck to ward against the chill in the air. He pondered in the fading light, already longing for the day’s receding warmth. Autumn had matured, making every night colder than the last. Each breath hung in the still air like a tiny windswept cloud. He watched a pale wisp dissipate before deciding to pull on his hood. The frosty night bit at the tips of his ears and the point of his nose.

He was fair for a Kezzan, with ashen hair, gray eyes, and lightly bronzed skin, and he boasted striking features. His sharp jawline merged at a bold chin with a shallow cleft at its center. Darith’s fine hair tended to sit whichever way the wind dictated—typically a tangle of loose waves. His slender nose rested above prominent lips, and a closely cropped beard covered his cheeks.

Darith kicked his legs out before him on the bench. He stared at his doeskin boots, contemplating life after the border watch. Darith and his company tended Kezzah’s northern reaches, the northernmost of the free kingdoms—the top of the world, as he and his companions called it. Darith’s thoughts wandered to home. One night shy of a new harvest had transpired since his assignment began.

The end of his tour indicated the conclusion of his required five seasons of military service. All Kezzans gladly honored the minimum commitment. By law children were conscripted on their twelfth natal day, though education truly began at birth when proud parents pushed their progeny for distinction amongst their peers. At twelve the curriculum was formalized. Hand combat, weapons practice, and strategy composed the bulk of the lessons, but politics, history, and other subjects deemed essential by the schloras were included. Training always culminated with an assignment at the towers.

Darith turned his gray eyes to the eastern sky. The sun fell behind him, casting his view in lavender and scarlet. The sunset unfolded beautifully, appearing like a blaze of angry flame above the scattered pine forest that coated much of the surrounding landscape. He had little interest in the display, though, suffering from distraction as he did. Darith awaited the annual appearance of Famyros, the violaceous comet that heralded the harvest and the beginning of a new season.

Twilight marked the first of two nights the comet would grace the heavens. The burning mass would skirt the northern skyline above the Churach Mountains before vanishing below the western horizon with the sun on the second day. The comet always emerged at dusk in late autumn, but its eerie mauve glow could still be appreciated at midday, if not somewhat diminished by the sun’s brilliance. Darith eagerly anticipated spotting the celestial mass. Not merely because he loved the night sky and frequently peered heavenward, viewing the nocturnal dance of Kalika and Aletath, the two moons, amidst a sea of stars, but because the appearance of the comet signified the official conclusion of his isolation at the dreary watchtower.

In truth a chain of twelve ancient strongholds guarded Kezzah’s northern border and the reaches of civilization. Each tower had been assembled of thick gray stones hewn from the Churach Mountains to the north. The initial purpose of the lookouts was to survey for scrag, but no scrag had been spotted in Darith’s lifetime. Kezzans considered the race extinct. Darith thought his task little more than a token to the past when the world held more excitement—when scrag ravaged the land slaying and spoiling, and boys became men through battlefield trials.

Darith imagined that lauded period of tributes and medals awarded after daring victories against savage foes to hold far more glory than the celebratory feast he faced on his return to the capital. Now the watchers waited for an occasional bandit to stray too far from the Whitewood, the thick forest at the end of the Churach Mountains, or wildlife to hunt. Game proved plentiful, and his group often practiced their tracking and marksmanship on the unwitting creatures of the forest. Fresh venison was a welcomed supplement to their rations of salted goat meat, shriveled tubers, and hard bread.

A small town sat fewer than three leagues south of the tower, but convincing the locals to part with a few fresh eggs or a fattened pig was difficult at best. Gold and silver meant little to the austere inhabitants of the fells. They could not fill their bellies with precious metals. A warm hearth and a hearty stew were what northerners valued most.

Darith’s thoughts drifted to the present. He pressed a gloved hand to the damp, chilled stones with feelings akin to fondness. In the fading light, he admired the blue and green veins traversing the rocks. His lips curved into a slight smile while pleasant memories warmed his heart.

For the previous season, this tower had served as his home. Darith had enjoyed his station, and a small part of him would miss the grim stronghold. Some of his favorite memories were made here, in the corner of the tower’s crowning walls. It was here that he and Kaisa had spent many twilights together. His was the first watch and hers the second, so their relationship had developed primarily out of circumstance. Initially he had lingered atop the tower after concluding his nightly onus to exchange words and pass the time. Eventually he stayed later and Kaisa arrived earlier until their shifts overlapped significantly.

Darith hoped Kaisa would join him on this, their last night. Originally the second watch was assigned to Brandle, Darith’s second in command, but after catching Brandle sleeping on assignment, Darith chose to exchange Brandle’s watch for Kaisa’s mid-morning duty rather than flog his friend.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the latch clanked and the thick, iron-banded door softly squeaked open, spilling a faint glow across the lower terrace. Quiet footfalls followed. Darith studied the top of the stairs at the back of the landing with anticipation. His heart leaped briefly when a face appeared before his features twisted in mild disappointment. The cheerful cast that rose into view belonged to Brandle. Brandle was Darith’s best friend. He was pleasant company but he was not Kaisa. Darith and Brandle were childhood friends and had consequently joined the border watch together.

Brandle wore a black woolen cloak with wolf fur lining indistinguishable from Darith’s. The watcher’s quilted tunic, leather jerkin, and supple leggings were likewise typical of what youths were issued. He wore a small knife on his belt, but his axes were absent. Brandle was remarkably similar in appearance to Darith, with a comparable shade of ashen hair and a narrow visage. People often mistook them for brothers. In many ways, they were closer than blood.

Darith’s sister Ravelin was two seasons younger than himself, but Brandle had no kin besides his parents. Thus the two had been inseparable since they shared their fifth natal day celebration. Darith had regularly suffered pangs of jealousy toward his gregarious friend when they roved Ulanta’s bustling market as raucous youths. Ulanta was Kezzah’s capital and Darith’s home city. Many merchants’ daughters giggled and sighed at Brandle’s bold bravado, but girls typically ignored Darith. He appeared shy and surly alongside his expressive comrade. That mattered little now, though. Darith had Kaisa.

You didn’t think you would spend your last night up here alone, did you? Brandle asked with a welcoming grin.

No, Darith retorted sourly, weakly concealing his emotions. Come to enjoy the open air one last time before you confine yourself to a dim shop?

Brandle had admitted that he would not attempt to join the March, Kezzah’s foremost military force. His parents maintained a successful bakery in the capital, specializing in sweet breads, and Brandle intended to return home to aid the family business. Darith had suggested on many occasions that Brandle petition for the March. He was more skilled than any youth in their cohort. Brandle wielded his axes with the supple grace of a mountain cat, and he was a decent aim with his blackwood bow.

Brandle snorted like a pony. Not all of us are dreamers. Some of us enjoy the little things that we can wrap our heads around.

Darith grinned and shifted his evaluation from his friend’s feigned scowl to search the heavens, smile slipping. He rested the back of his head on the stone wall behind him. Several nights prior, Darith had realized the sky appeared deserted, and his anxiety had begun to build. The first vacancy was the star that glistened green and red as the sun set. The sidereal sphere had rested above Mount Kuhlam, the tallest peak on the southern side of the pass through the Churach Mountains. The following night several more stars had vanished, many from celebrated constellations, and a few more the subsequent evening.

Darith recalled a morning when Ezzin had awakened him during the dawn watch. The sky had begun to turn gray. Ezzin’s duty spanned daybreak’s purest moments after the night creatures retreat but the day beasts have yet to wake—when the world holds its breath. Knowing the first watcher’s appreciation for heavenly spectacles, Ezzin had brought Darith atop the tower to observe meteors flashing across a vista bleeding dawn’s first light.

But more than this, an uneasiness had germinated within his soul. For days Darith had attempted to rationalize these sightings by convincing himself that it was the clouds, the change in seasons, or a trick of his eyes. His companions did not share his agitation. However, with each passing night he grew more convinced that something was amiss.

Presently, daylight faded quickly and Kalika, the first of two moons, would soon rise. Kalika was Darith’s favorite moon. Ancient fables claimed she would descend as a great warrior-queen to walk among mortals during times of strife to settle conflict. She was their infinite deity Aetharovyr’s right hand. The second moon, Kalika’s brother Aletath, was never known to demonstrate such interest. Though an obscure legend described a rebellion in which Aletath blinded Aetharovyr for a full season, prompting horrible creatures to emerge from the depths of the earth and causing the harvest to fail. The myth declared Aetharovyr whipped Aletath as punishment, which explained