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WHAT I LOVE SO MUCH ABOUT FANTASY

After reading the trilogy of the Lords of the Rings, Narnia and a host of other Fantasy novel, I felt and believed no literary work was as beautiful and inspiring as Fantasy. Fantasy is the only place where impossible imaginations come to life not even Sci-fi or Mystery; Fantasy has its magical way of incorporating both romance and thriller together. Bravo!

   Only in Fantasy could a beggar become a king, and one man through dark arts wish to enslave the world, only in Fantasy could life and fire combine together as in Dragons. The beauty about Fantasy is the quest, the adventure, black magic against good and above all lands and realms that defy nature, monster and magic that would not survive this age.

  We all believe our fore fathers came from a mythic and mysterious world, a world we could only feel and envisage in Fantasy work. Perhaps my ancestors were warriors who rode the backs of fiery Dragons seeking valor and conquest, or worst still were drunks and cowards. A good Fantasy character such as Frodo, Heres and others inspires and imbues us with courage, meanwhile other give us the shivers when we remember the likes of Sauron, Voldomort and Sondon whose tyranny almost ended the human race.

   After growing up reading ancient Greek and Egyptian mythologies, and histories such as Alexander the great, the Persian and Babylonian kings of old and other recent works such as the Chronicles of Narnia and the Lords of the Rings amongst a few. I knew if I would ever try my hands as a writer of any sort it must be Fantasy, at least I could share my wildest fascinations with others, so after many years of honing my skill of writing like a Spartan child training to be the best warrior, I decided to write my first Fantasy, titled “The Legends of the Scrolls.”

    The book was mostly inspired by the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which to me is the greatest Fantasy work of all time; I’m open to be corrected. I could imagine wizards and sorcerers, armies marching to wars, towers and castle that defy architectural boundaries, monsters that would make any man shriek with consternation and above all our hero, toiling to save the world and the woman he dearly loved, to me this were the necessary ingredients of a good Fantasy work.  There is nothing far better than making the extraordinary possible and that’s what Fantasy is all about.

  Before I bore you with the blabber of what Fantasy should be like or not, let me humbly allow you to grace a few chapters from my book for your reading pleasure

THE LEGENDS OF THE SCROLLS:

BOOK ONE

THE LEGENDS, THE SCROLLS AND TRHE DARK QUEST

By

M. Y, ROGER

DEDICATION

In honour of my late father, lore master and teacher. Rev. S. Y, Yusuf.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 The Gate Of Ain

Chapter 2 The king’s council

Chapter 3.The Nurdoress

Chapter 4.The summon of the king

Chapter 5.The rangers of Maul

Chapter 6.The medium of Elam

Chapter 7.The peat garrison of Gur-lotta

Chapter 8. Carn-dunn (the door into Ibisia)

Chapter 9 The tower of death (Basra)

Chapter 10.The legends

Chapter 11 The rousing of the lord of Gur-lotta

Chapter 12 The conspiracy of Galadrosia

Chapter 13 The legend of Zagron

Chapter 14 The legend of the serpent rider

Chapter 15 The fall of Mythia.

Two scrolls for the hope of men.

One to find the dark hoard, the other to raise the Suroc horde.

Eight paths to the dark hoard, beyond each path a secret unfolds.

Across the dark lands the paths are laid.

From the fastness of the two-faced warlock, to the mountain that belches forth fire.

From the viper’s pit to the lair of the iron dragon beneath golden shores.

From the tower of fire at the heart of the leviathan’s pool, to the hidden necropolis visible only at night.

From the den of the fallen one, the dark hoard is revealed.

Let your folly guide you on your treacherous quest.

THE SYNOPSIS

The quest into the dark lands of Ibisia, begins with the tale of Heres a young farm boy who falls in love with Veasty the princess and heiress of Mythia, a relationship her father detested. His father Horace is framed for the conspiracy of Aardoo which brought to an end the line of the kings of Maul. But Horace been a man of great learning in the ancient lore would not allow his son to go to Ibisia where death is certain. Together they flee the king’s men who were ordered to deliver them at Tirbane where a ship is to bear them to the shores of Carn-dunn in Ibisia, they wander the woods of Comorus and Porsa, on hearing word of their escape the king hires the best rangers to find them and bring them back to Tirbane.

Nor and Onor the two hidden sons of the last king  of Maul, now set out to avenge their father’s death, after learning from their grand mother that one Horace in Ain still lives who was part of that conspiracy. Arriving in Ain they begin their investigation and finds out whom he is, but when they were to strike, Horace and Heres are taken by the king’s men. Pretending to be bounty hunters the king later hires their aide to find them when Horace and Heres escape, for there were no rangers in Mythia to vie with them.

In the woods of Comorus they find them, but before they could avenge themselves it was revealed to them that Horace was not a part of the conspiracy, but still suspecting some hidden deceit from him, they swear to kill Heres unless he brings them to Aardoo and confirms his innocence. But Horace would not consent to the fatuous plan for he knew the dangers in seeking Aardoo, who is now renowned as a barbaric wizard in Ibisia, and his abode is the great Peat garrison of Gur-lotta, which is guarded by a large army of Ibis, Horace in his service to the king of Maul in the former days had sworn oaths to the king of Maul to preserve their heir, and now leading these two boisterous men was against his oath, but after much deliberation with much misgiving he consents to undertake the precarious journey.

At Tirbane a ship is set, Horace and Heres are bound by the king’s men and they begin to sail. A league into the journey the king’s men abandon the ship and row back to land in boats leaving them in a precarious situation upon the dreadful waters of the Isis, a turbulent storm arises  and even as it seems they were to die in their impoverished state Nor and Onor appear out of the lower deck to their rescue. After four days of foul sailing and a battle with Ibis seafarers that issue out of the Peat garrison they come to the abode of Aardoo.

Disguised as Ibises with Heres carried on the shoulder as a captive and gift to Aardoo, they are brought before the wizard king. They confront Aardoo and he is vanquished when his orb (the magical stone of Arestas) is used as a weapon against him together with the horde of Ibis, the peat tower is thrown into ruins, but Horace falls along with Aardoo, and borne on the wings of a dragon, Heres, Nor and Onor escape flying north thinking they were on their way back to the south. They come to the unfamiliar shores which they explore for days, during which they are seen by the lurking spies of the enemy and word about them spread abroad.

Gurbaal Ibis lord of Carn-dunn sets out to capture them but they are rescued by Henia, the fair ranger of Ibisia, who withheld her identity from them as the daughter of Cyran, the fallen sorcerer of Gibas-tarooth. Yearning to return home Henia discloses to them that it is but impossible to leave the dark lands only if the dark master is toppled by the scroll been remade could they escape, for already Sondon was mustering the might of the dark lands for his final battle which will consume the world of men. It became necessary for them to recruit one with a deep insight of the dark powers, a conjurer who could withstand any of the ranks of Ibisia. Henia spoke of an imprisoned sorcerer of Surrucia, locked up in the tower of death (Carn-hurun) along with three Surocs, Sirrion he is called the last of his kind, though long had he lost his powers but he could be invincible enough to discomfit many of the fell servants of the dark master.

Now eight in number they set out to reclaim the eight pieces of the scroll, which Sondon placed all across his lands in the hands of his most diabolical servants. The company head east to Tirgron to contest against Mirrus for the first piece, Cyran takes the remains of Aardoo to Sondonia where he is awaken by the dark master and much power given to him, and upon his return to Peat Isle the stronghold is quickly rebuilt and much power mustered. The treachery of Horton, a prince of Fysia whose affections Veasty resisted is revealed at the dales of Galadrosia, and in the beginning of the summer of that year the invasion of Mythia begins out of Gur-lotta; Aardoo heads his armies south and is joined by the armies of Fysia, the first book ends with the sacking of Ain and the retribution upon the Fysians.

PROLOGUE

It was in the year 1916, in the trenches of eastern Cameroun, where the British West African Frontier Forces were battling the Germans at Mora Hills. Captain John Albert of His Majesty’s pioneer force had become fond of my great-grandfather; Master Shabanya who had proven himself exceptionally skillful in treating the sick soldiers with native herbs against the malaria plague spread by the venomous mosquitoes.

Though Master Shabanya understands and speaks English in the periphery, he is accredited as one of the earliest Africans to speak the Whiteman’s tongue. He always envied Captain Albert whenever he wrote in his little black diary. At night the Englishman would sit in his camping canvas seat in his tent, smoking his old pipe as he reads out of the unbounded pages of a book which he usually hid in his steel suitcase. Master Shabanya brings in his supper, the light blue eyes of the stout Englishman looks into his dark face that has three parallel tribal marks and grins; he takes a sip out of his steaming coffee cup.

“What is the butcher’s count today?” he asks as he fumbles the pages to a close with his left hand and sits back.

“Thirty-three men, captain.” He answers despondently.

The captain sighed, and took another sip of black coffee and looked east with his mustachioed face twitching painfully. “The Germans would not yield that hill, they know the advantage of the hill counteracts our numbers, perhaps with time we might lose taste of battle like the Persians at Thermopylae permitting the Germans to retreat. Sit down Shabanya you have being making my coffee for long yet you claim to have never tasted it.” He said and poured him a drink, and beckoned that he takes the cup. I can still remember my grandfather relaying the ordeal of my great-grandfather to my amusement, his hands trembling like one coerced under the pain of death to consume a deathly potion, Shabanya took the cup, with a grin the captain nodded that he sips.

Shabanya looked down into the white ceramic cup, he could see a reflection of his terrified face ripple in the black coffee. The savour ascended onto him and allayed his fears, then he took his first taste, but unlike the Whiteman who sipped he gulped down the whole content at once. The men burst into peals of laugher as if a moment ago they were not in grief of the fallen but that was the way of a soldier.

With the excitement still high in the air, Shabanya found it to be the best time to ask a mind-boggling question. He dropped the cup to the saucer, his face straightened while the captain was still chuckling. “Sir, what is that book that you are always reading prum at night?” he asked. The captain quickly swallowed his coffee, struck a matchstick and lit his pipe again and exhaled.

“It is a novel given to me by my grand father when I joined the army; it is my family’s heirloom.”

“What is a Nobul?” he curiously asked, uncouthly pronouncing the word, the captain shook his head at Shabanya’s gullibility.

“It’s a story book, where I come from we write our stories and legends in books so that they don’t get forgotten unlike you who pass legends orally, but this one is not even typed as you can see it’s in the hand writing of its author, Sir Rayleigh Albert my Gaffer. I have lost a few pages of it which I greatly rue and the pages are getting fragile, worn out by the day.”

“And what story is in it?”

“It’s a great epic tale, as old as the world itself yet it elapsed in an age when the world was much different, from generations it was handed orally from father to son until sir Albert decided to pen it down in 1732 and even then some of it had either been forgotten or lost.”

“Hmm!” Shabanya exclaimed. “Still you have not told me the tale.”

“I wish you could read, I would have lent it to you but under oaths that it be returned as I gave it to you or you suffer severe corporal punishment.” Captain Albert said plaintively. “But since you cannot and I can’t deny my friend such a tale, I must endure the torment of relaying it to you as simply as I can until you have heard all of it, though I must be brief and skip many chapters but you will appreciate it.” He said. Nodding his head, Shabanya’s stolid face lessened into a smile.

“Not so quick my friend,” Captain Albert interrupted him. “First you must make me as much coffee as I want during the time I tell you this story, prepare my bath water and refill my pipe.”

“I tut you would asky me to capture Major Von Reuben, the German, your arch enemy.” Shabanya said. The men laughed.

Captain Albert looked through the eastern window of his tent, the gibbous moon was rising over Mora Hill, an ideal time for story telling, he could see the dusky shapes of the German installation in the flash of distant explosions. A strong wind shook the tent as he began the long tale.

“I have not dinned with the darkness upon the tables of Poldolrus or walked ahead of the shadows of Gasdor to contend with you.” These were the words of the dark master of Ibisia, Sondon when he first revealed himself to be the evil master of the dark lands:

Anoenin anorsir, Alva amdil bir nona amdal samir

 Nazgh undin hocus, Sager nazgh pilfar feldar.

Never to see the light, never to breathe the air,

 Shackles and fetters shall bound thee unto the undying age,

 And as the days pass so shall thy strength wane just like the wind.

 And so shall I wax stronger, until I wield all power under the Sun.

These were the words of doom which Sondon uttered from his dark throne room and the world was plunged into terrible darkness, when he cast Meroc into everlasting darkness in the prison of Polifna, the shadow warden of the dark lands.

In the autumn of the year two thousand five hundred and ninety-six of the third age of the Fundin, which correspond to the year eight hundred and forty of the kings of men of that age. The last remnants of the armies of Surrucia, Surocs they of that race were called, servants of Meroc. They were banished away through the lands of Tirgron, and Tahar to the hideous dungeons beneath Mount Mobus which is situated deep in the heart of Ibisia in the Dark Vale of Sondonia. Then was the fear in the heart of the dark master allayed, as the potent spell he had wrought on them by the hands of Cyran, had indeed broken the strength of Surrucia and that of Meroc his kin. Long had he feared the dreaded and revered race of the south, remnants of the old world of Rogoroth. A race bred for war from the stone of Nirdun the Balrog by the hand of Dragrag his father, who was the lord of the Fundin. Many a time he had suffered from their savage strength, their brute force which had broken the defences of Ibisia, trodden on his dark banner and would not suffer any of Ibisia to cross the Isis sea.

Meroc was made a captive of the dreaded Polifna, the shadow warden, and left to wallow and rot in the darkness of his prison, in the lost city of the shadow, far north of Tophel at the foot of the Uvuhan Mountains.

The whole world was plunged into deep darkness, which spread from Ibisia under the watchful eyes of the dark master, that in those days it was better to be a traitor than a honourable man. The last brave kings that restrained the hand of Sondon had fallen in battle. The power of men waned both in Mythia, Maul and Fysia; alliances were of no use and dissension spread like a rot amongst men. Valour and honour were exchanged for treachery, none cared for honour a virtue which was most coveted by our fathers.

A curse, a grave curse was now spreading from Ibisia, a curse that diseased anything it affiliated itself with.      

It was in the year nine hundred and one of the fourth age that Sondon the dark master decided that it was time to annihilate the free lands of men, and make them as the old races that were exterminated by Rogoroth. But when the situation became dire, men became desperate to save their age and weather the impending doom, and there was only one option left to them, to assemble each of the eight pieces of the scroll of Surrucia, which was taken from Meroc by Cyran the fallen sorcerer of Gibas-tarooth.

A scroll which Sondon in his rage had tore into eight piece and shared amongst his eight most invincible and fell servants, entities of great mysteries some as old as from the first age, mysteries of great renown which I cannot mention.   

Men needed the scroll to pull the armies of Meroc from the deep darkness of Mobus, and to bring war to the Iron walls of Sondonia. It was an uphill task, one beyond impossible, one which made even the mad reel out with laughter and the valiant man sigh with fear. For men to make the precarious venture into Ibisia, into her woods, across the rivers, mountains and Dark Vales where the eye of the enemy never ceases to watch, a dead land no man has seen in the life age of the earth. It was to the amusement of the enemy when word reached their ear that certain unfortunate men had been chosen to find the pieces of the scroll. The dark halls echoed with mocking laughter, as no man would dare venture into Ibisia, the land beneath the darkness, even for all the hoards of Tirgron, Tahar and Neron put together.

Gone were the days when valiant men of the stock of Thundrin roamed the earth all that remain now are faint hearted men who could be compared to the women who warmed the bed of Theorbane.    

“My name is Aardoo Son of Mellion from Iop, lord of the Peat garrison. Commander of the southern armies of Ibisia, wizard king of Gur-lotta, once a man but now I am half man by the right and half Ibis to the left. Inheritors of a curse, which has infuriated my rage for destruction, lord of traitors and inventor of the trade of treachery as my former race now call me, but the stone-willed wizard I have been praised countless times by the dark master.

Men have indeed gone mad to think they have even a glint of hope, a fool’s hope to believe they could ever undo the invincible dark master. The one who inherited the powers of the old gods of the earth by shrewd deceit, one who broke the lines of the wizard kings of the earth and pillaged their halls. I mean Sondon son of Dragrag, now lord of Ibisia, whose name  itself is a spell which only a few can utter, one who will out live the earth and cover it in his darkness. The shaft of the spear is broken, the sword lays in shards beside its wielder. The battle shield lays in splinters amongst the fallen warriors as their blood drench the earth. The war horn has none to wind them; Sondon leads the hundred warlocks of Ibisia and countless captains. He comes here and there with destruction they wail, with an ominous cloud of darkness and a sinister horde of Ibis that will drink the rivers dry, level the mountains into plains, fell the woods for fire and siege engines, fill the mines with blood. None, I say none can withstand the dark master of Ibisia, in this fallen age of men.” So did Aardoo say when he became the Sondon’s most fell servant."

It was many hours later when the Captain discharged Shabanya from his tent. The wind was flat that Shabanya could hear the muffled rumble of distant explosions at the trenches many miles to the east.

In the twilight before dawn in a sudden ambush, the Germans surged down the hill in a final assault to retreat through the British lines. The British mustered every man to repel the onslaught, on the forefront of battle Captain Albert died of a mortal wound he suffered. It was the fiercest battle in central Africa of the first world war, half of the Germans were able to escape but were later captured, the other half scuttled back to the hill to surrender later.”

When Shabanya returned to the camp, to his horror captain Albert’s tent was in smoldering ruins, the book was burnt and the great tale now lost to time only that which he could now remember was preserved. Many years later Shabanya passed the tale in the same words to his son Master Nache, who became my mother’s father. But none of his children shared the curiosity or devotion to lore, until when I came of age. My curiosity to hear this tale filled him with great joy, for he had feared this tale would end dismally with his generation.  Whenever I asked to be told the “Whiteman’s tale.” He would gladly tell it without complaint, and  a devoted lore master as he was he made sure he passed on the tale to me without any dilution of its facts as he had been told, and it was my duty to pass on the great tale to my own children.

Two scrolls for the hope of men.

One to find the dark hoard, the other to raise the Suroc horde.

Eight paths to the dark hoard, beyond each path a secret unfolds.

Across the dark lands the paths are laid.

From the fastness of the two-faced warlock, to the mountain that belches forth fire.

From the viper’s pit to the lair of the iron dragon beneath golden shores.

From the tower of fire at the heart of the leviathan’s pool, to the hidden necropolis visible only at night.

From the den of the fallen one, the dark hoard is revealed.

Let your folly guide you on your treacherous quest.

CHAPTER ONE

THE GATES OF AIN

My name is Heres, son of Horace the Hornite from Maul. I was born in the seventh year of the reign of Roc king of Mythia, which is the nine hundred and thirty sixth year of the fourth age; more than a hundred years after the fall of Gibas-tarooth. Horace my father was a great scholar and master of lore who once served the kings of Maul before their line was sundered by the traitor and villain Aardoo. I was born in the spring of the mournful year in Moil of Maul, the year Aardoo became the warlock of the peat isle after slaying the last king of Maul. My mother was from Porsa, a woman of ravishing beauty whom many claim I took after, for I was fair to behold, but my fairness proved to be the bane that brought misfortune to me. My mother died in the winter when I was ten, then my father and I migrated to Ain, the capital city of Mythia, but not until evil had befallen that nation through Aardoo. I grew up in Mythia tending the fields, becoming a boisterous youth who was fond of the sword, and always envied the great knights whenever they rode behind the king. My father was hesitant about me enlisting in the army. He always said that the evil now brewing in the north, was one we would not defeat by swords but by wisdom.

Ain has been the greatest city of our age and home to the great lords of Mythia, for over a thousand years. Her foundations were laid by Alurin the great, who ruled after the fall of Rogoroth the second, the dark lord of Turgron. The grandeur and splendor of Ain upon the vale of Aenon could not be matched by any other city upon the earth, except the nameless and never before seen abode of the dark master of Ibisia, whose rumors fill all with dread. At the foot of the Anuivale Mountains, the city of Alurin was built, and named ‘Ain’; which in the Fundin tongue of old meant “the city of conquerors”. To many, it was built over the ruins of Saran, the first city of men, built when men first came north. Saran was destroyed by Rogoroth, the first when he enslaved men with his sorcery in the second age.

According to legend, the white marbled walls were hewn from the Grey Mountains by the Nephilims, an extinct race of giants conquered by Alurin; but the city was built by the craft and hands of men. The turrets amidst the strong crenellated walls were built to withstand a siege; for Olod the great seer of the second age had forewarned that unless six tyrants had passed, the race of men would never know peace and Sondon is accredited as the fifth. In the history of man, Ain has remained the only city no invader has ever set foot within its walls, for it was built in the years of the strength of men.

Her brazen gates of steel were adorned in the art and craft of old, standing amidst the imperious walls of great masonry that tower over the city. The gates stand defiantly on its post, facing the north towards Turgron where once the greatest foe of men commanded a realm. On the battlements many armored soldiers of Mythia, who bare the emblem of Thundrin on their breastplates, could be seen pacing about vigilantly. The streets of Ain are paved with stones and trodden by the teeming horde of people, many of which live in the purlieus of the city. The proud people sauntering about with the easiness of those who expected no misfortune as if evil was not being bred behind the confines of the sea of Ibisia.

All roads into the city converge at Thurin-hill where the Golden hall of Mythia stands; the ancient halls of the kings that was built by Alurin the first king of Mythia of this age. Now Roc, son of Zocos, is the twenty-eighth king of that lineage. According to legend of old, Hamstad lord of Saran hewed the head of Mugron upon the dale during a fierce battle, and as he lifted the head of his foe, yelling victory, the earth beneath his foot rose to form the hill he later called Thurin in remembrance of his son who fell in that epic battle.

The golden hall was built upon Thurin-hill where everyone could see it high in the heart of the city. The dome of the golden hall is an architectural wonder to anyone beholding it for the first time. The colossal hall portrayed the might, glory and pride of the king and that of his people. My father would say that in the days of Zocos, when there was still might amongst men, the king would hold banquet for tens of thousands of warriors; a thing that now sounds like a fable. Each marbled pillar which rose to uphold the roof of the dome was named either after a king or a brave captain of the wars of old. Their names and valiant deeds could be seen engraved on the pillar. There are twenty-eight daises in the golden hall, and on each dais stands the marbled sculpture of each of the past kings.

Hanging on the walls of the hall were great banners; some dating as old as far as the first age, embroidered with characters of charging horsemen and marching swordsmen fighting against foul hosts out of Tirgron and Ibisia. It is claimed that the banners of Ibisia and Turgron could be seen also in the golden hall. Upon the marbled floor of the king’s hall was the map of the realms of men and even the known part of Ibisia.

At the top eastern end of the hall, the golden seat of kings sat, only the heirs of Alurin have lived to sit on it. Legend has it that it was the very seat of Rogoroth taken from his throne room when it was sacked by Alurin. The throne was splendid and overlaid with gems made by the most ingenious minds in such matters of art. Behind the throne hung the great banner of Mythia, adorned with gold runes and hemming of silver.

From the balcony of the palace one could see most of the city, even as far as the grey summits of the Rimmon Mountains in the north. And in a murky summer night the beacons of Maul and the tower of light of Gulhur at the peak of the Rimmon could be sighted. While the city sleeps in peace, the king and his brave knights manned their post in the fortress of Gulhur and at Tirbane in Torgarmah.

Roc the king is a brave man with a shrewd mind. He reminds many of the kings of old they now read in lore, he is always on the look out for the defence of his city. A fair king to behold, tall, with a stalwart body, it is rumored that the fear of the darkening days was heavy on him. Whenever he was seen, he moved with an imperious gesture, clad in the richest of all raiment’s, and is fond of riding on his dark steed a magnificent beast that trot like a king amongst horses. Roc was loved by many, perhaps because of his fair appearance but many a time was rash and imprudent in his dealings.

The king had a number of great knights in his service; renowned men drawn from Mythia, Maul, Porsa and Comorus, men who have sworn to protect lord and land by oaths of blood and valour.

 Of the entire king’s knight, Thurin-mill from the south vale is the most valiant and respected; a man long advanced in the service of the king and has seen many battles than most of this age. He is said to be the oldest captain in Mythia for he had served Zocos the king’s father in the wars against Cyran, he is said to have been blessed with strength for at his advanced age he

Still possesses the strength to wield a sword.  He is mostly seen riding behind the king’s banner amongst the knights, and is in-charge of the city and the king’s personal guard.

Next to Thurin-mill is Amroth the king’s younger brother, the commander at Tirbane, the fortress at Comorus with the strength of almost four thousand men. There are many other renowned captains in Mythia, but a handful compared to the days before the rising of Sondon.

I learnt a lot of legends at the feet of my father, tales of great kings and knights which never ceased to amaze me, of all I enjoyed the most the tale of Edessa and the dragon Vaca. At the end of a hard days work, I would sit by the bole of the oak tree at the farm with my eyes fixed on the distant woods, which climbed west to the threshold of the Grey mountains; wishing I could have my own adventure, Fighting for glory and honour, fantasizing about fighting in Carn-dunn against Ibis hordes and monsters, with the king’s banner to my side. But it was only a mere shadow of thought, for deep inside me I fear the darkness of Ibisia from the disheartening news we all have heard. Another great story I love is that of Fark, Lord of Mythia and Andron of Maul, who withstood Cyran in the south with the fierceness of a wounded beast. “The twin kings”, they were called, for they fell beside each other when all had forsaken them, in that epic battle.

My father was a good swordsman who fought better than many in the king’s companies. Many a time, I have watched him practice as the sun set in the west, and as I grew older he began to teach me the art of the sword. Many laughed or mocked whenever they saw us practice, but those with a vivid imagination of the last showdown with the forces of the Ibisia knew that was the best legacy a man could leave to his son in this fading age.

One day, as I tended the vines under the heat of the scorching summer sun, a company of four riders cantered to a halt by the farm. From their amour, I could tell they were riders of the king’s royal Cavalry and their sinister horses stamped and neighed impatiently. The riders alighted from their saddles and sauntered into the vine without saying a word, they began to pick the ripe grape bunches. The grapes were succulent, ripe, and indeed very appealing. But these grouchy fellows began to pillage the field as they destroyed more than they could eat. I stormed towards them in fury, and ordered them to go right away, but they continued to pillage as if I was just another tree. I became so infuriated that I impetuously uttered a curse at one.

The rider took off his helm, and I was stunned by the surly look on the hefty man’s face; his long curly beard like mane of an Eastling wolf, and a giant fist that could squash my skull, by his side hung the hilt of a huge sword that dangled in the scabbard. He was not the kind of man a lad my size should trifle with; his stride was heavy as he charged towards me. In a twinkle, his large fist came flying at me, I leapt aside as his pung swept wide and settled a hook to his trunk, he fell with a thud like a great tree. I unsheathed his sword and placed it sinisterly to his neck, as large drops of sweat gathered on my face, and my heart thumped like a war drum.

His companions charged at me and it resulted into a ferocious fight. I against the four of them, but I dare not kill or maim the king’s riders, for that would earn me a long stay in Shindin, the infamous prison of Ain or even the gallows. But I far surpassed the men in the sword play that soon I had disposed them of their swords and they had suffered many bruises to remind them of me, while I remained unscathed. But just as we were about finishing a horn blared and looking behind, I saw a company of over fifty riders peering at us. They had watched a short part of the fight, and even though it amazed them that a mere farm boy could undo four skilled swordsmen. I could see the evil glint in their eye that they envied me, for I had earned them the jeers of cowards from their company, and that was the day I met Thurin-mill and won his friendship.

I was arrested and taken to the guard post of Thurin-mill in the city, where I found myself pacing a sordid cell until evening, when my father came for my bail and release. I realized that Thurin-mill and my father were old friends and fond of each other, he tried to persuade my father to let me stay with him and earn myself a name in the king’s guard. But my father refused, I was too young for the king’s service he said, though I was skilled with a sword. Thurin-mill paid for the bail and I went home with my father amidst the cheers of the soldiers. Many times he would pay a visit to our old house outside the city on his way back from Comorus. I got my first sword from him, a beautiful blade of Mythia but not as beautiful as the one he had in his scabbard, but my father always paid close attention whenever he visited for he feared I might one day be swayed by the wiles of this old canny soldier.

Our house was situated a few miles to the outskirt of the city, on a hill and it was besieged by the fields and farms that lead to the threshold of the Wislow woods. The house was simple and was more of a cottage with a barn; even though it lacked most of the comfort we wished it was never a sleazy place. The air coming from the woods around was refreshing and salubrious. From the house to the city was a mere distance of two miles. Bargo our old horse was always in his stable and was never ridden save during spring when he was used to plough. I learnt to ride on him, for he never had the stamina or stature of the horses in the Cavalry, and there was always envy in his old dull eyes whenever he saw the horses of the kings men trot past him, Bargo was mostly a dull horse who over ate himself.

Winter in Mythia was mild unlike in Porsa in the north, where it snowed for almost five months, but here it was less severe. How I hated the frigid mornings mostly when I had to make an errand for my father with only a cloak over my tunic.

 But in the summer we would go hunting and tracking game through the woods, so I became a good ranger. As a boy I was full of escapades that I almost earned myself a name as a miscreant. But I was disciplined, my father always said that my wild side which he had earnestly tried to tame would one day prove useful to me.

CHAPTER TWO

THE KINGS COUNCIL

Dusk was gathering over the city, when the lone horseman came galloping upon the northern roads that descended from Rimmon, clad in a dark cowl with a hood over his head, he raced impatiently through the half-deserted roads like one fleeing from a rout. Nigh the gates he hardly allayed his speed, and in a quick trot he passed through the watched gates even as the soldiers watched in disgust at the rider, through the narrow cloven passages he rode to escape the bustling streets that climbed straight to Thurin-hill, the footfall of his steed sounded horrendously loud in the quiet passages. 

The rider rode through the dark shrouded alleys that were dimly lit by flickering lamps which gleamed through windows; finally he cantered at the stair of Thurin-hill. He threw behind the hood revealing his doughty and travel-worn face, and even as he alighted from the horse, it was reined away by another soldier. At the stair Thurin-mill the captain of the golden hall stood in company of other soldiers, they appeared to be discussing some strange prospect, and as he approached Thurin-mill recognized him to be Amroth the captain of Comorus, for he bore a striking resemblance to the king his brother, his chiefly armour was now revealed as he drew his cloak away.

“Amroth,” Thurin-mill gasped. “What brings you so hastily to Ain like a fleeing brigand?” the old soldier asked humorously, but the captain’s face remained indifferent for his coming was urgent that he had no time to regard pleasantries. 

“Only one thing drives a fox out of its hole, trouble! I must speak to you at once before we seek the king.” Amroth said in a hurried whisper, and together they climbed up the stairs into the fortress. 

The door opened to reveal a large half empty room, whose wall was adorned with weapons, armours and strange banners from every realm under the king. A shelf stood hidden in the shadow away from the flickering lights of a hanging lamp, through the open window a cool nightly wind was breezing and one could see much of the city in the tranquility of the night. Amroth helped himself heavily into a chair, while Thurin-mill poured him a drink into a mug from the shelf.

“Have this, though the mead in Mythia is referred to as inferior to that of Porsa which you have grown fat on, but a weary man like you have no choice.”

Amroth took a long sip, and dropped the half empty mug on the table with a heavy rap, across the table Thurin-mill was now seated and was caressing his long wooly beard, haste was written all across the graven brows of Amroth and he could see fear in his eyes.

“As the captain of Thurin-hill you must hear this first before we consult the king. Yesterday at dusk a ship sailed near Tirbane from the northern, it was not from Maul or Fysia as we had thought, but out of the Peat garrison, the first Asp ship to be seen since the fall of Surrucia.” Thurin-mill’s face straightened as he sat up in his chair with much anticipation. “Though we saw none of that foul race of the north in the ship, they sent us a package and before we could ready our ships after them they had sailed away into the darkness.”

“And what package was that?” He asked anxiously. The fey pallor on his face was now growing whiter.

“It wasn't a hewn head as is accustomed of the Ibis, but a letter smirched with blood.” Amroth said, and reaching into the folds of his cloak he produced the brown old parchment and left it on the table. Thurin-mill was visibly shaken as he stared in consternation, his hands trembled to open the letter and it appeared he now contemplated it, finally he touched it.

“Has it been opened before?” Thurin-mill asked.

“Aye! It is written in the uncouth runes of Ibisia which we all lack the skill to construe, but nothing has ever come out of thence than death.” 

“I feared your coming had evil, because you rode like a deranged person. I cannot read an Ibis hand, but I know it has one aim to instill deep fear in our terror-stricken hearts, to deter us. I guess there is one that I know who could help decipher that for us, an old acquaintance of mine who served in Maul, a great soldier though he has long forsaken that path and now looks towards tending his field.”

“If he lives in Maul, we must find fresh horses at once and ride all night.” Amroth snapped.

“No need for that, he lives just outside the city walls.” Amroth sighed in relief and sat back.

“I cannot wait to find out what evil is written there, and I will neither eat nor rest until I know.” Amroth said.

Together both captains took their leave, they rode through the city in silence without any company for their mission was clandestine, at the fringe of the city they took the south westerly roads towards the Wislow woods.

I can still remember vividly that night Thurin-mill rode to our house in company of another man. The waning gibbous moon was rising over the grey range of the mountains; a cold wind was rising as I sat on the porch thinking of my forth coming date with Veasty. In the gleam of the light that flickered through the window, the shadow of my father moved in his room. My heart missed a beat as I now feared he was searching for his sword which I had taken to the farm in the evening for practice and had not returned; moments later he came through the door and stood by the porch. I sat in tension and would not look up at him, he cleared his voice in the fashion he was fond of before a tirade, when we heard the clatter of horses hooves in the darkness approaching the house, now he will go back to fetch his sword I feared, but even as the riders approached like wraiths hunched up on saddles, they called out in peaceable terms and from the familiar voice we could tell Thurin-mill had come.

They trotted to a halt at the porch, hailed each other warmly and shook hands with my father. “What brings this old soldier to my abode in the dead of the night, like an emissary of the enemy sharing bounty?” my father asked.

“Can’t I behold the face of a friend without a reason?” Thurin-mill asked laughingly, but the other rider appeared sinister upon his saddle.

“You didn’t come to see my face Thurin, the sun has long gone to sleep something different has brought you here. Now come in for at first I thought Heres had come to some new trouble since he has now become lord of that order.” The riders leapt off their horses and I reined them away but hurried back to eavesdrop on what was about to transpire, like my father I had a mixed feeling and premonition about Thurin-mill’s riding in the dead of the night in company of another rider that was chiefly clad in armour and wore long boots of supple leather, the riders went in at my father’s beckon. They sat before him, but I remained outside by the window listening attentively to them.

“Whatever we say here tonight must end here, it is secret, and no ear outside here must hear of it. This is Amroth captain of Comorus the king’s brother.” Thurin-mill said in a whisper as he looked around for me, at that my heart jumped into my mouth, my father sat back the cheerful look on his face died, and Amroth spoke.

“I have ridden for two days from Tirbane, if you know it is the great fortress of Mythia that overlooks the sea in Comorus. I need your help for all our fate is now tied to you.” Amroth’s deep voice implored. Thurin-mill brought out a strange brown parchment and pushed it across the table to my father, with much reluctance my father received and unwound the parchment and took a long frightful glance, what he beheld startled him as a terrified look crept over his face.

“It is of Ibisia…!” He gasped, Thurin-mill nodded affirmatively. Then was my first fear allayed even as a greater fear roused from the sound of the word, Ibisia “How did you come into possession of such a foul message?”

“That I cannot disclose to you, all I want is that you decipher it, for we lack any with that skill.” Amroth said.

“An Asp ship of Ibisia brought it.” Thurin-mill whispered.

“An Asp ship from Ibisia!” my father exclaimed.

“Even the king has not heard of it.” Amroth added.

“The runes are of Ibisia and it is sealed in the name of the warlock on the rock that never sinks.” He said and stared deeply into their weary faces:

“The warlock on the rock!” Amroth exclaimed. “What does that mean?”

“It sounds like a legend.” Thurin mill said.

“It is the legend of Aardoo, the rock is his stronghold called the Peat garrison, the ibis call it Gurlotta.”

Hurulk mansk illrik alvol iden Mythia, aril Maul halak izin gildal.

Harokal Sondon malzal illik Galadrosia, halmul illas illik inark halak.

“This is what is written in the dark Ibis tongue, now may I translate it to you in our own tongue, though grave and evil words they are but I am certain that you must have prepared yourself for it.” They nodded silently, and after a sigh he began. 

“Here is written in the Ibis characters according to the mode of Ibisia: The end has come for Mythia, Maul and the realm of men, the dark master now musters the might of his lands, his war is nigh and it will cover all in its darkness, the dark days are drawing nigh, the warning of Galadrosia I now repeat.”

He paused and looked straight at them. “It was sealed by the hands of Aardoo, and from the blood that is smirched on it, this is no mere prank.” My father said, and he wrapped the parchment back and gave it to Thurin-mill, who raised his head from the sheet he had been scribbling on.

“Alas! The fears of our fathers now dawn on our age.” Thurin-mill gasped. “What is your counsel master Horace; they say none can rival your knowledge of Ibisia.” My father sat still like a statue in his chair. The night was now old, though my legs were waning fast like the moon but I could not go without hearing the last of this secret meeting. 

“Tell the king that the dark days we have long feared will come in his reign, and there will be wars. Though it will take awhile for the whole might of Ibisia to be mustered, but if it has then we shall not avail much. It shall be our doom, tell the king to begin to muster as much might as possible and prepare armaments for our enemy has never been idle.”

“Every single word you have said will be relayed to the king; you might even be summoned before him.” Thurin-mill said.

Without further deliberation the riders gathered themselves in heaviness and rode off into the night for the city. Even when I entered he was still lost in thought that he sat pathetically in his chair with a hand under his chin.  He looked up at me when he realized I had for sometime been staring at him. 

“Heres.” He called and feigned a smile, not two hours ago he was as cheerful as a groom, but now he appeared pale and weary with grief like a groom whose bride had just scuttled away with another man.

“I heard everything father.” I said. He sighed deeply and his head fell. “You cannot continue to shield me from such matters.”

“When I didn't hear any sound of you, I knew you were eavesdropping on us. The end is near Heres; indeed the dark master has not forgotten his malice as we had hoped. We are all helpless in his overwhelming darkness, ever since Surrucia fell and its host banished, the enemy has never been at rest, he has relentlessly plotted our downfall and now his dark plot is almost ripe.” He said.

“Is there no hope?” I asked frightfully. He looked up and deep into my eyes with gloom.

“There has never been any hope, except a fool’s hope from a path that we have long deserted, men no longer remember that path, perhaps there is only a handful that still remembers that path.”

“And what path is that father? Is it that of the scroll for indeed there is no hope there, since none can sack the horde of the dark master without binding him first, which is definitely impossible.” I said.

“Go to bed Heres, and do not ponder over this thing, it is for us that are old, your life is still before you and it is bright.” He said, but he lacked the reassurance in his almost wavering voice, and even as I walked away I looked at him sidelong as he clasped his bent head in his knotted hands in grief.

The guards by the door drew it apart, and bowed as Amroth and Thurin-mill walked into the upper room, and by a window that opened towards the north the dusky shape of a man stood. His hair and robe flowing in the cold draught as he backed them, peering into the distant night,

“Hail! Lord of Mythia, Roc my brother.” Amroth called, the pitiful face lifted and turned even as they paid obeisance.

“I was told that you sneaked into Ain, brother.” The king said, and embraced Amroth warmly which his brother could not reciprocate.

“Is it the refreshing breeze, or your habitual watch over the Rimmon as if Rogoroth still commands a realm before you, that makes you watch over the night like a guard in Fagshold?” Thurin-mill asked.

The king grinned. “You can never tell what tale the night brings, sometimes I believe I can read the will of the enemy from the stars, they say the same constellation we see here are also seen in Carn-dunn.” The king paused and continued to gaze into the night, even as Amroth and Thurin-mill contemplated with incredulous looks on who would break the grim news to the king.

“A strong shadow of fear has been growing in my heart of recent, evil stirs in the north I can feel it in the earth, Sondon has not been idle neither has any of his servants been slumbering.” The king said as he turned to them. “What brings you to Ain, are you now tired of your watch over the Isis?”

“My lord I’m afraid I have only come to confirm your fear.” Amroth finally summoned the will to speak about the matter at hand. The king faltered against the wall as Amroth handed over to him the Ibis parchment, the king walked over to the sputtering torch. And like everyone who had come in contact with the parchment, he unwrapped it with a sense of dread as if a curse would be unleashed if ever opened.

“This is of Ibisia!” He exclaimed almost hurling away the scroll. Thurin-mill waited until the king had regained his composure, then he was given the interpretation. He read and pondered for a while with grave fear which pelted his heart.

“This is the repetition of the warning of Galadrosia.” He muttered even as he now appeared to be standing aghast. “And it was not written to warn us but to scorn.”

“My lord it is the hand of Aardoo who now hails as the wizard king of Gur-lotta, the same Aardoo who brought the line of Andron to an end in Maul.” Thurin-mill said.

“How did you find this?” He asked, raising his face which was gnarled by fear.

“Yesterday my lord, at dusk an Ibis ship sailed south to Tirbane and left the message in the water.” Amroth said.

“Long have I feared this, too long have I imagined that evil was stirring in the north, now the dark master knows that we have no allies in Surrucia, and dissension now grows amongst us like rot. There is now no power left in us to withstand him not even his vanguard, it now seems our doom has been hastened.”

“It has not been hastened my lord, the dark master has not gathered all his might, if not he would have been at our door, we should only hope that it takes awhile.” Thurin-mill said.

“Awhile!” the king scoffed. “That the fathers die in peace while their offspring’s suffer the brunt of the tyrant, no. Many times have I pondered over this on my sleepless bed, into Ibisia we must go to reclaim that scroll, but none would volunteer even for all of Mythia, for the tale of Ibisia is as the fire that melts away courage like wax.”
“We must muster our might, though a little it may be my lord.” Amroth said. “We must call upon a council of every lord and captain found in the free realms of men, a council my lord like that of Fark and Andron when hordes of Ibis marauded the south under Cyran.”

“Then there was strength still left in men.” The king snapped even as he paced about, he now appeared old and broken. “The best blood of our race has been wasted upon the battle fields of Galadrosia many years ago, even in the undying world our great fathers now weep for us. For we are now caught between the hammer and the anvil of an invincible and implacable foe.” The king leaned back by the window, the once strong gleam in his eyes faded, he sighed deeply and looked into their weary faces. 

“Aardoo might have sent this to scorn us, but the evil in his heart has made him blind to his weakness, he has only robbed his master the advantage of the element of surprise. Send out messengers to Maul, Iop, Comorus to every captain under my liege, let them assemble at my hall before a week.” He ordered. “Though long has the forge-master prepared the furnace it can still be ruined by a cup of water.” 

Before dawn the next day, horsemen were readied and as the gates were opened they took their journey out of the city, dispelling in all directions. Those to Maul took the eastern roads, while those to Iop rode down the southern roads and those to Comorus took the roads towards the grey mountains heading for the gap of Thundrin. The king stood alone on the top most turret of the tower of Edessa watching as the riders galloped north, though he knew many would answer to his call but only a few could stand the test of valour? For too long had any seen any battle in this part of the world. When ever he watched the formations and battle readiness of the host of his realm, he could only compare them to the fainthearted of the host of his father when he fought Cyran.

The first light of the rising sun was coming from Maul.  Grey mist veiled the woods at the threshold of the mountains. Peering down as the darkness retreated from the city he could see people begin to move about the streets in peace, and how he wished it would remain as such for long. Behind him he could hear the rap of footsteps ascend up to him, and turning back he saw Thurin-mill clad in a grey robe and ascending wearily.

“This evil tiding robs everyone of sleep, my lord.” Thurin-mill said, as he stared piteously into the downcast face of the king.

“To many being a king means the best of everything, but there are times when a king’s only wish is to throw away his crown and run around like every ordinary person.”

“What you need is good advice, and that your father made me swear to always give to you and in due season you will have it.” There was deep silence for a while amongst them at length the king spoke out of his thoughts.

“I wish I could tell the heart of the enemy, to know how much time is left to us for our mustering, but even if I’m given that opportunity I would rather not take a glimpse for the horror I would behold in there would kill any man.”

“Ever since Surrucia fell, the reach of the enemy has become exceedingly long, it plucks and supplants whatever it desires, and his darkness now enshrouds the earth.”

The morning was bright, and the wind was rising from the south, by now the riders must have covered many leagues, and the dark master must have mustered many hundreds the king thought. Frayed clouds now hovered over the mountains and at their feet the mist was fading.

Four days after the sending out of emissaries, the delegates from the various realms had begun to converge in Ain, but even then the council could not hold until every marshal expected had assembled. On the seventh day the king sat on his throne in the opulent golden hall and hailed the great knights and captains who had answered his call. The wine flowed in goblets and the beer in mugs as they drank, but they were all oblivious of the gravity of the matter at which they had been summoned, except Thurin-mill and Amroth who stood beside the king with no cup in hand, music filled the great hall from the minstrel, songs of great valour of the valiant of old were sung, and praises were rendered of the great ridding of the lords of Maul, the archers of the Morbids, but when it came to the turn of Porsa their meads and beers of much renown got the praises to the cheers and jeers of the men.

At last the king motioned to the minstrel and the music faltered to an end, the captains and marshals soon took seats as the king began.

“Once again I hail all who have come to my call to honour oaths of fealty and friendship.” And a cheer of hoarse voices rose with the lifting of mugs and goblets. “Once again we stand in this great hall of our fathers, on a day when even as we sing of greatness and raise toast of friendship. An evil more ominous than those our fathers withstood stirs and rouses in the north.” At that the very atmosphere of merriment died, the mugs fell onto the table and dead silence reigned. 

“Ibisia.” The word fell like a thunderbolt from the king’s lip, and every man that heard it blanched and sought to cower away. “Ibisia is on the warpath.  The dark master and his fell servants have not been idle.” He said plaintively. “Not ten days ago we received a message from the lord of Gur-lotta, Aardoo who was once amongst us; it speaks of great indignation, a vindictive and malicious intent devised by the dark master himself to bring upon us death and ruins. Though the main aim was to instill fear in us, but it has also forewarned us lest we be caught off guard and for that reason we have all been assembled here.” The graveyards now had more cheer than the king’s hall, the first time such a thing will happen ever since the hall was built; the king was appalled at how the dread of Ibisia had eaten deep into men. The shallowness on their faces was as Sondon the dark master was suddenly revealed in their presence.

“Indeed I have seen the extent of the reach of the Sondon even amongst us that instead of uniting we now chose to grovel and beg for his black mercy. No wonder how easy and cheaply we fall to his dark wiles, eighty years ago beyond the Sinaren river nigh Farkburg, Andron of Maul and Fark of Mythia, the twin lords fell side by side in battle when all fled, today we sang of them and wish that one day our names would be called in such mighty songs, but it will never be achieved by such faintheartedness that would only end in we groveling at the feet of a foe who has no interest in prisoners of men.” The king said more trenchantly to imbue their courage.

“A mighty army has been mustered at Gur-lotta that will require wielding all our strengths together to vanquish. But it is still a piece of the great armies of Ibisia which has long been stirred while we grew fat on wine and food.” He said, gesticulating with his hands emphatically to reveal the size of the enemy which most could feel from the graveness of his face and voice. “Our age is drawing nigh its doom; Sondon is awoken though he never slept and has mustered all his fell servants. The tale out of the north is that he brings war. Ibisia is on the warpath we have run thin on our number of allies, most that have strengthened his arm are from our own race, and one thing must be accomplished to avert our doom.” He said, and paused. “The scroll of Surrucia must be found and our old allies awaken.” At that a tumultuous din began to stir.

“The armies of Surrucia were never destroyed but weakened, and whosoever would attempt this venture, though it is the most precarious and foolish I will make the lord of Mythia and every realm in the south to the boundaries of Surrucia.” The king said, but the din of rowdy voices was so great that Amroth and Thurin-mill seemed the only ones that heard the last part of his speech. 

The rumpus of voices was exceedingly loud that all about Thurin-hill people could hear the uproar, and gradually they were gathering about Thurin-hill to catch a glimpse for themselves. Inside it now appeared that the captains were snarling and tussling each other. The king motioned to the warden of the hall to clang the cymbal to bring them to order, but it seems to fall on deaf ears, the grappling and tussling got fiercer as wine and mead was spilled on each other, after a long period of commotion, order returned but it was fragile as any moment from now it could be broken.

“All I have asked this great gathering is for volunteers, for I would give anything to such a one.” He said.

A captain sprang to his feet, and without the usual courtesy he spoke flippantly. “Who will!” he exclaimed. “It is but a foolish thing to attempt such a venture, we are not all oblivious of the tales of Ibisia, its woods are watched beyond mere eyes. A great evil resides there with hordes of Ibis and their greater folks like the sands at the shore, perhaps you should have asked for volunteers to sack the hoard of Sondon.”

“Do not stir fear in the hearts of others, you fainthearted nitwit.” Another snarled as he rose against the first.

“Why don’t you volunteer? Andron!” and soon both opposing captains were joined by their supporters, but those who were in favour of the king were a handful and were soon overwhelmed by those against him, and even as the ranting exceeded into new heights the king saw Arioch and Arius of Maul seated calmly in front, keeping their cool, great captains they were, close kin of Zek, the last murdered king of Maul.

“Let the king volunteer first!” someone yelled. "Let him keep his gold and throne to himself, dead men need no gold or throne."

The commotion got wilder.  The men were at the point of drawing swords. The warden of the hall clanged the cymbal countless times until its sound to order became a part of the commotion, and when it was to no avail he sat back and watched in grief. When the men became spent of their blustering they faltered to their seats and the king had their attention once again. This time like sober drunks they sat in shame with terror in their eyes, if only the enemy could have a sight of the havoc his dread could cause, it would send Sondon reeling endlessly in laughter that he would send his least captain for the sacking of men instead of his whole army. Men had now chosen their doom instead of uniting against the evil. The king arose this last time to call for volunteers, and if there be none so be it, to the gallows of the dark master they must all prepare to go.

“Once again.” He began heavily. “For all the riches of my kingdom, the title of the lord of Mythia I call upon any that volunteers, and upon bringing back the scroll I would hail him as lord. Now if there is any with such courage let him step out.” He said, and took a seat but he expected no one to volunteer.  From the silence that reined within the golden hall after the long fits of rage, as men sat like statues frozen with fear, it was obvious that not in this age would a man dare the dreadfulness of Ibisia for all the riches of men and even that of Ibisia.

The king’s council came to an ill-fated end, men had now embraced their doom and like a beaten dog with its tail hidden between its legs, so did the once imperious captains leave the golden hall like cowards, to return to their lands and begin the slow muster for a hopeless and foredoomed war.

After that assembly the king left for another secret council in company of other great men, it was still evident that by hook or by crook he would find men to go into Ibisia, now he wished he was a wizard of any sort with the power to cajole anyone into going to Ibisia even against their own will by just a spell, but even such powers could flounder at the sight of an invincible foe he thought.

“With such dissension in our midst, all Sondon has to do is to send the least of his captains upon us.” Amroth said as they went.

The king’s secret council was held behind close doors at the tower of Edessa that night. In attendance was Amroth and Thurin-mill, Arus and Arioch, Halman from Porsa and three captains from Comorus alongside the king.

“If for all of Mythia and its riches, none has volunteered, then the fear of Ibisia has eaten too deep in us.” Arus said.

“I have studied the ancient scrolls of Maul, most dating to the days of Salmengras the first lord of our house when he warred against Saliban at Azulator. Ibisia is a dreadful place to tread on, no mere man would dare it for every evil we have heard of it is true.” Arioch said. 

“And are we going to just sit here like sitting ducks and let Sondon do away with us as he pleases?” Thurin-mill asked plaintively.

“We must look to our own defences, we must prepare for sieges we must fortify our grounds.” The king said. “Tirbane must be fortified and the watch about the gulf of Torgarmah doubled lest Aardoo land a fleet behind our backs.”

“My lord it is obvious that none would volunteer this task, but that does not mean it would not be attempted, for even though we defeat the armies of Ibisia here over and over again, eventually we would succumb and fall by the edge of the sword or by the dark power. Only securing the scroll would bring a long-standing solution to our plight.” Arioch said. “Now listen to me, for it might be the best advice you would get in this dire time, chose the men that you greatly detest, your enemies, and send them though against their will, but fate would always walk out its way.”

“I greatly reject your counsel Arioch.” Thurin-mill snapped. “It is the most foolish thing to do, to send such men who would easily sell their services to the enemy for their lives. For at the first sight of the terror of Ibisia they would succumb more or less when they see the torture masters of the dark lands.”

“I think I like the counsel of Arioch, it makes some sense to me for I have just thought of whom to send!” the king exclaimed. The gleam in his eyes waxed like one who had just found the answer to a troubling riddle.

“And who will that be, my lord.” Amroth asked. Looking up, the king grinned for the first time in many days as he peered into the confounded faces that looked up to him. 

“Who if not him who has brought so much grief to my house, of all the despicable things that I abhor, it is him that I greatly detest, for robbing me of the love of my only child: Heres!” he exclaimed angrily. Thurin-mill’s head fell in disbelief and grief, for he could now imagine the horror of only me heading into Ibisia, it was to be my end indeed.

“My lord I know that lad like the back of my hand, he is just a child who has never seen the Isis Sea or even heard a tale about Ibisia. He would perish before he even set a foot upon the shores of Carn-dunn. My lord it is unwise to send him.”

“I am not sending him to find the scroll that would be stupid of me; I only want to get rid of the rat that devours the barn.” The king fumed.

“My lord when the message of Ibisia came to us there was none in Ain or Mythia to decipher the character of Ibisia for us, but his father.”

“Was that him?” Amroth exclaimed, and Thurin-mill nodded to him. “He shrieks at the sight of a rider at night what more a clad enemy.” He scoffed.

“And who is his father?” The king asked. 

“Horace the Hornite.” Thurin-mill answered.

“Horace the Hornite of Maul!” Arioch lividly exclaimed and sprang to his feet and all turned to him incredulously. “Horace, long have I wanted to see the face of that scoundrel so that I may plunge my sword into him and watch him bleed slowly to death, it was with his aid that Zek our king fell.” Arioch growled.

“That’s an allegation that was never proven.” Arus said.

“Well in that case Heres has found himself a companion into Ibisia.” The king said.

“No, he knows nothing about the treachery of Aardoo!” Thurin-mill snapped.

“Why do you defend him?” Arius asked.

“Then why has he not become a lord in Ibisia like Aardoo or worst still inherited a hideous curse?” Thurin-mill retorted. “Or was it not said that Meroc placed a curse on all the collaborators of Cyran amongst men?” 

“I will not bandy words with you Thurin-mill, for you are more than a friend, but I do not see your part in this tale, send out orders I want Heres and his father arrested, and summon me another council in two days.” The king said, and off he went angrily, but even as he got to the delving flight of stairs Thurin-mill spoke.

“But who would go to Ibisia my lord? I guess none of us here would, nor those frightened captains who would rather dig their own graves and bury themselves.”

The king halted and turned back, he appeared to be deliberating within himself, and at length he spoke. “If Heres and his father never make it there, then it was never destined that a man would see the dark lands.” He said.

“Does that mean that our hope now lies with them, for in that case we are worst that those bastards we called knights we assembled?” Thurin-mill said. The king went away but with much misgiving.

Thurin-mill was devastated at what the king had now resolved to do, it greatly distressed him but he could not disclose it to us without been branded a turncoat and becoming a party to those doomed to go to Ibisia. For a while he remained in shock and unbelief of what he had just heard which very much stunned him, he stood leaning by the window like an old tree assailed by wintry blizzards.

A day after the disastrous king’s council I saw Veasty again, in a tryst that was to be our last before our journeys towards Ibisia would begin. We sat on the buttress roots of an old tree in the fields. Her beauty was enchanting and I felt lucky to have her. She told me the strange tale of the coming of an impious warning out of Ibisia, not knowing it was with the aid of my father that message was deciphered. She also disclosed the council of the king and his captain which ended in a fiasco, but she had no idea of the other secret council lest she would have mentioned it to me.

We conversed on the prospect of the great impending war, the fate of our age if Sondon concealed all in his hideous darkness. To my surprise she was also quiet knowledgeable in the tales of Ibisia, she spoke of the mustering of men and riders, the fortification of Tirbane, Fagshold and Ain. But most of all we spoke of the fate of our love and where we would flee to in the midst of the downfalls, to the southern wolds beyond the Grey mountains she suggested, but I thought it better to head south to the old ruins of Surrucia. Before she left for the city, she reiterated her love for me, and even as she spoke she shed a tear perhaps she felt a frightful premonition that it would be the last time she would see me. 

In the second hour of the night I came strolling back home, from the lights that spurted through the window I knew my father had returned in my absence, I walked in and took off my coat as I sat heavily.

“Hullo son!” he said. “D’ you have a nice date?”

“Well at least no one showed up to ruin it for us.” I answered, he came towards me with a mug half empty in his left hand and a scroll in his right and into his chair he sat.

“Father, she told me that the king held court for all his captains, but none ventured to go into Ibisia even for the throne of Mythia, the treasures of the kings and her hand in marriage.”

“What did you expect?” He scoffed. “Dead men do not become kings; none would go into Ibisia even those who are oblivious of that land.” I wished such an offer had been made to me, for Veasty alone I would go into Ibisia I thought.

“Well if the brave captains of the king’s companies would not dare such a venture, it means we are all doomed.”

“Doomed you may say, but somehow someone will go to Ibisia, by what means I cannot tell.” My father said thoughtfully, but little did he imagine that he had only predicted our fate. 

“As long as the evil lot to go into Ibisia does not fall on us, it should give us little concern.” I said, he chuckled and sat back and took a sip.