Darkness: The Beginning, S. G. Ricketts [e book reader for pc txt] 📗

bloated bodies. Breena clutched the dagger close and remembered. Just as suddenly, the storm vanished.
Yes, the darkness knew she was there. It felt her strength, and it hated it. She had held it off before, and it was determined to kill her before she could stop it again. Breena smiled slightly at the darkness, at its fear. A child against a monster, and the monster afraid of the child. Then, the wound on her forehead came piercing back to reality, and she fainted.

 

Adair fingered the flute lightly, his deep blue eyes traveling down the smooth white rowan. Lifting it to his lips, he began to softly play. His slender fingers traveled up and down the instrument and light, fluid music floated on the air. Darrin sat close by with his bow at the ready, his young face taut with seriousness. Adair grinned as he watched his friend. “Is something coming to get you, my friend?” Darrin didn’t move, his green eyes intent on the forest around him. Darrin frowned but stayed silent. Lowering his flute, Adair listened for a moment when his companion did not answer. The pristine forest around them echoed with silence, drawing them in. A twig snapped. The little stream seemed loud in the sudden stillness. Slipping his flute into his pack, Adair reached silently for his bow and notched an arrow. Darrin nodded, and both aimed across the stream. As the creature got closer, more sounds met their ears. Sounds out of place in their forests: quiet sobs, heavy breathing, and something being dragged. The two glanced at each other, then moved together. The arrows whistled through the underbrush, thunking softly into flesh. The creature moaned and fell. The two men slipped on their packs and rose to their feet.
Carefully the two men crept forward, their feet making no noise as they crossed the stream. Both bows here already notched and ready. The creature groaned quietly ahead of them, hidden behind heavy boughs of evergreen and oak. Adair motioned for them to split up. Licking his lips, he pushed aside the last branch and stepped into a small meadow.

Spring flowers and grasses waved in the wind. They brushed light fingers against the leather of his boots. To his right there was a patch of flattened grasses. Darrin emerged from the other side and Adair waved him forward. Lying at the edge of the field, a troll lay oozing its dark green ichor onto the grass. Its bruised-looking hide was studded with the arrows of other battles, and the mark of darkness was burned onto its forehead. The young men grimaced at the ugly thing. The ancient symbols boiled across the thick orange skin. Adair frowned at the mark, yellowed with age. In disgust, he pushed the troll’s head away with the heel of his boot. Stupid creaturr, wandering through Avalbane’s lands. Something groaned again, but it was not the troll. The two arrows had made sure of that. Squatting next to the troll, Adair held his breath against the stench and the unpleasantness of his task and shoved.

“Is it alive?” Darrin was standing a safe distance away with his bow taut. “Should we kill it?”

Adair frowned and stared down at the crumpled form. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t look dangerous. He pushed the troll completely off the thing, then rolled her onto her back. It wore a bloody, ripped tunic-like dress, almost an undergarment, across its body and there was a nasty gash across its head. Adair glanced down its body but it was too covered in troll blood for him to make out much more. He kneeled to get a better view of the human and saw a long gash from its collar bone to its naval. The wound seemed relatively fresh compared to the head wound. Caoimhe needed to see this creature. Darrin poked Adair gently in the side, his face questioning. Sighing, Adair pushed himself off his knees and brushed dirt off his pants. “Yes, it’s alive. Don’t shoot, friend; it’s hurt.”

He kept his eyes on the Folk, for it was obviously one of the Folk. “We should at least stop its bleeding. We will bring it to Caoimhe. She wouldn’t want a dead Folk lying around Avalbane.” He nudged the creature with his boot, grimacing as the blood smeared across the toe. “We won’t find a clean rag off that. Give me your shirt.”

“What?” Darrin stared wide-eyed at him.

Adair frowned. “Well, do you have anything else we can use to stop the blood?” he demanded. The other man blinked but pulled off his shirt. Backtracing to the stream, he dipped it thoughtfully in the water. The packs were just across its banks, so he slipped them both over his shoulders. Their weight was nothing compared to his thoughts.

The Folk looked to be young, and its wound at least a couple days old. Still, it was so covered in filth, mud, and troll slime that he couldn’t be sure. With its size, it could have been male or female. The shirt dripped down his side and Adair clenched it. Caoimhe. It was her order that any of the Folk were to be brought to her. The woman was altogether too trusting. Part of him wanted to kill the creature and blame it on accident, but Darrin had already seen it. Still, Caoimhe was putting everyone in danger with her little pity decree. What if this Folk was one of the Fallen Ones? It could easily be one of the Lesser or Greater demons. He forced his feet to continue moving. The trees themselves could be spies for the darkness.
He hesitantly approached the prone form. Darrin was kneeling by its head. “I have checked its forehead for the mark, but there isn’t one. Just this huge gash. Would you pass some salve?” Adair handed his friend a small pouch from his pack, then began to dab gently at the chest wound.

He frowned as he worked. Darrin and he had moved the troll away from the Folk to save them from drowning in its stench, but he was beginning to suspect their smelly friend wasn’t the cause of the Folk’s wound. It was buried under days worth of muck and the troll had much more recent wounds. Thrice Adair had to return to the spring and continue with his patient cleaning before he got down to the skin. The skin was pale in the sunlight. Rocking back on his heels, Adair chuckled. “See, Darrin, I told you I could do it.” The other man gave a mock-angry frown and tossed two silver coins to his friend. “Now, to find what else is under this muck…”

The forest was dark by the time Adair finished. The wound was clean. Finally, he had gotten all of the dirt and slime off it. He smiled slightly. Yes, the wound was infected, but it was clean for now. Darrin had left before sunset to get a couple more men together to bring the Folk to Caoimhe. Darrin had finished cleaning the head wound just before he left. Adair sat back and admired the creature before him. In the moonlight it almost looked pretty. He would most definitely be rewarded for this great deed to the Folk. Many elves who had rescued one of the Folk received the honor of an audience with a Dragon, the highest of the Folk. He watched the creature’s chest rise and fall with its breathing. Suddenly Adair sat up. He had been so focused on cleaning the gash that he hadn’t really looked at the Folk. The blood drained from his face and he gasped for air. The moonlight danced across the curves, the soft cheeks, the rosy lips, the rounded, unnatural ears of a female Man. Hatred boiled in his veins and he spat in disgust. What had he done?

 

The Elves stepped back from the leader of Men. Orbagon threw his head back and cackled with mad glee. “You elves think you are the greatest! You are the Immortals, the warriors of the forest!” he mocked. “What are you now that you are in my presence?? Worms!” He spat at the foot of the nearest Elf, brown eyes lit with a crazy light. “The lot of you are worms! Crawling around before me!” The Elves watched will cold indifference. “Stupid as they come,” he crowed. The wizard lifted his gnarled hand, then clenched it into a fist. “Bow to me!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. The man grinned.
“We will never—Ah! What…what trickery is this!” The Captain’s armor clanked as he fell. Adair stared from the back of the troop as he felt his knees begin to buckle. Shocked, he tried to fight it, horrified as the others fell around him. Orbagon’s laughter echoed around them and Adair glared with pure hatred at this mere mortal who dared control the Immortal. From his place in the dirt, he watched his people reduced to nothing.

The wizard’s brown eyes began to burn with an inward fire. “All elves are now my slaves! See how you like to be treated, eh? An eye for an eye, eh? See how it feels, my worms?” His pale skin began to ripple with streaks of black lightening, growing and swarming over the wizard’s body. They pulsed and swelled like a thousand snakes under his skin until Adair felt like vomiting. “I, Orbagon of Men, controls the Elves!” the old man screeched. Vultures circled above the group and laughing dogs huddled at the fringes, waiting. Orbagon’s eyes clouded black until they were pieces of coal, even the whites dark. His white-gray hair whipped in the wind. “I have the power to rule all of Kerista!” he screamed. He raised his clenched fists, and Adair felt his insides begin to pull. A female Elf near him barely bit back her scream. “Die, my worms, die!” He lowered his eyes to the warriors before him. “Fifty of you and you cannot restrain me.” He grinned wickedly, his rotten yellow teeth gleaming in the odd light. “And after I dispose of the rest of you arrogant fools, I’ll destroy those pesky Dwarves, remove the Dragons, and rule Kerista myself!” The wizard cackled, stretching his hands further and further upwards.

Adair searched for the Lady among the Elves. Where was she? Had she escaped? That monster Orbagon had demanded her presence, no doubt to kill her first. The young soldier glanced at each face and finally found her near the front. Her dark hair was standing slightly on end in the electricity, but her face was calm. Adair grimaced as he saw Orbagon’s magic working on the Lady, but she didn’t seem to notice. The Elf caught a glimmer of an object in her hand, the barest sheen of light. Then Orbagon screamed, and the pain grew worse. Adair fought the dizziness, turned his gaze onto the old man and nearly retched.

Black ink-like liquid oozed out of every pore of the wizard’s body, gushing out of his mouth and nose. He clenched his fists tighter and an Elf screamed. “No! NONONONONO! I can’t lose! I will have all power! Nooo…” A cloud of black erupted from Orbagon’s chest, pulling the liquid towards it. The black in the man’s body swiftly drained, and he stood frozen. The cloud grew and boiled, shadowing the statue of the wizard. Orbagon was almost transparent, his body frozen. And then, the cloud swirled over the corpse, and the wizard exploded into a cloud of dust, blowing away