Into Oblivion (Book 4) (4 page)

Eamon nodded in agreement, still unsure as to what he was feeling. He looked back to the list, and the dates that were inscribed beside them.

“What do these dates signify?” Eamon asked.

“They are the dates of each country’s liberation.”

“They are all very close together,” Eamon said. “The first three dates are within a week of each other. The rest are fairly random, within the last year. Why are the first three so close together?”

“I do not know, my Lord,” Erenoth said. “But they all seem to involve assassinations by an unknown person or group.”

“None of the known guilds have claimed credit?”

“Not to anyone’s knowledge,” Erenoth said.

Eamon rolled up the scroll, putting it under his arm. “Thank you, my friend,” he said to Erenoth. “This is valuable information, and very encouraging. The world is nearly prepared for the final battle. Tell me, has there been any word of Jadhav and his crew?”

“None yet,” Erenoth said, sadly. “His fleet is concerned as well. They believe he may have lost his life when the Devourer appeared. The opening of the gate coincided with his interception of a Jindala vessel along the Southern Shore. They still seek him.”

“Assist them in any way you can,” Eamon said.

Erenoth bowed, returning to his dragon form. Without a word, he leaped upward and disappeared into the night.

The King stared out over the falls in wonder. From what he had just learned, some unknown assassin was eliminating key figures on the mainland that stood in the way of liberation. If the various brotherhoods of assassins around the world were unaware, or uninvolved, in the deaths, than it was likely that it was a single assassin working on his own. On the other hand, perhaps a new brotherhood had arisen; one that stood in defiance of The Lifegiver.

Either way, the prospect of a new ally was uplifting and would give the people of the world encouragement and hope.

“Whoever you are,” Eamon said quietly. “May the Great Mother guide your hand.”

Chapter Three

The dimensional shift was barely noticeable to Farouk. He was on Earth one second, and somewhere else the next. The only indications that anything had changed was the brief flash of light, and the new landscape that was spread out before him.

He was in a forest, as before, but a very different forest. A very dead forest. Even in the dim light of the moon, the Druid could see that he was in a lifeless land. The trees that surrounded him were bare, ghostly skeletons; white beacons of death that jutted upward from the dry, dusty soil. Not even the remains of dead underbrush were present.

He breathed deeply, noticing that the air seemed thin, lacking oxygen and moisture. There was no wind, no sound; no life at all. Even the sky was barren and cloudless.

Farouk stepped forward, expecting the feel of harsh, crumbling ground under his feet. Instead, the soil was soft, and sifted away from his boots as he walked. The lack of even dead roots prevented the soil from clumping together and staying solid. It was now no more than dust. It would be dangerous, to be sure, and Farouk would have to be careful as he moved.

Fortunately, Farouk had grown up in the desert, and was used to walking in such conditions. However, even the desert back home showed signs of life. Here, there was nothing.

The Druid extended his awareness as far as he could; searching for any signs of life. He felt nothing, only the empty sensation of nothingness that extended outward as far as he could reach.

He remembered that, on Earth, there was a nearby river. If this dimension was perfectly parallel, then there should be, at the very least, some signs of a riverbed. If so, then he would be able to get his bearings and be able to search for corresponding landmarks.

Whatever good that would do.

He started westward; in the same direction he was walking when he crossed over. It was only about a half a mile to the river, but considering the state of the current world, it was likely that he would not even recognize it. The river would be dried up, obviously, but even the riverbed itself could very well be worn away by wind erosion. In any case, the shore was not far from there, and the remnants of the ocean, if any, should be visible.

He continued on through the skeletal forest, remarking at how tall the trees were; or would have been. Clearly, the species here were different, although similar. He knocked on the dead trees on occasion, seeing that they were wooden. As different as they were in appearance, they were still trees. Above, their canopy still remained entwined together, though sparsely. Moonlight came through as it would through a winter canopy, and the branches themselves were mere sticks; twisted and dead, and black against the starlit sky.

Though he had the ability to light his way with his staff, Farouk decided that it would best to continue when the sun rose. He found a good spot to make camp, and settled against a fallen tree for the night. He did not dare make a fire; as the surrounding landscape was bone dry, and the prospect of creating a massive forest fire was not to his liking.

In minutes, he drifted off to sleep.

The sunrise brought nothing but light. Gone were the sounds of morning birds, gentle winds, and the blowing of leaves. It was still the same dead landscape it was the night before, but now Farouk could see the devastation completely.

For as far as he could see, the scene was the same; nothing but dusty ground, and dead trees that jutted up into the sky. Though there were hills present, they had collapsed for the most part; being nothing more than eroded cliff sides. Only the remaining roots of the dead trees held the topsoil together.

He continued west toward the shore, traversing the crumbling hills through the dead forest. Even in the daylight, the sight of the dead trees unnerved him. Their ghostly trunks reminded him of an army of skeletons standing still in the baking sun.

Occasionally, a light wind would break off a branch, and it would come crashing to the ground with a deafening crack. A cloud of dust would follow, hanging in the air like a brown fog. Even Farouk’s footfalls kicked up dust as he walked.

By noon, Farouk had reached what he guessed was a river bed. Though dry and barren, the rough, rocky trench bore the signs of dried mud at its bottom. The Druid made his way down the side, being careful not to slip, and scanned the deepest area for any signs of moisture. He knelt, placing the gem of his staff close to the ground. He projected his senses, feeling around for any differences in the moisture levels.

There were none. The river was dry for as far down as he could sense.

Scattered along the riverbed were the skeletons of bony fish and other aquati
c animals. There were the long rib cages of river snakes, complete with skulls and broken fangs, skeletons of mammals that had died near the river’s edge, and even a few human-like remains. Farouk sighed, unsure of how to proceed. Obviously there was some kind of life here; whether it was corporeal or not, he could not guess.

Something in this dimension was alive, and he was determined to find it.

Perhaps, he thought, the ocean would offer some clues. If there were any water left on this world, it would be there. And where there was water, there would be life.

Or so he hoped.

The last remaining temple of Imbra lay nestled in the mountains of western Khem. Here, the Firstborn’s priests maintained their secrecy, and the secrecy of the temple, with the use of magic. From the outside, the temple appeared ruined and abandoned; on the inside, the majesty of its noble master remained untouched by the Lifegiver’s corruption.

Prince Hamal, the rightful heir to the throne of Khem, had sought asylum within the temple’s impenetrable walls. Here, with the aid of his loyal servants, he observed and directed the worship of Imbra; the true Imbra. It was Hamal’s duty as the true ruler of Khem to ensure that the memory of their one Father was not lost.

Over the years, Hamal had traveled with the nomadic tribes of the desert, gaining allies and making secret alliances. Now, in his thirty-fifth year, Hamal was prepared to take his rightful place upon the throne. All that was needed was the support of the rest of the world.

He had heard rumors of insurrection in many of the surrounding countries, and of the exploits of one Prince Eamon in Eirenoch; surely he was king by now. He would have to meet this Onyx Dragon, as he was called, and follow his example. In other countries, the rebellion was not yet underway, but he knew that it was only a matter of time before the rest of the world followed suit.

The life of the Great Mother depended upon it.

In a gesture of respect, Hamal bowed to the Priests of Imbra, and turned to sit upon Imbra’s throne. He would face the father directly and offer his sword, and his life, to fight for him. It would be his first time appearing before his lord, and his excitement was obvious to the priests. They encouraged him with smiles and friendly gestures.

Hamal’s eyes closed as he sat. He felt himself drifting into a deep sleep, but consciously transported to Imbra’s realm. When he opened his eyes, his mouth dropped in awe.

He sat upon the same throne, but on this side of the portal the throne was much more magnificent. He looked down and ran his hands over the red felt, the golden studs, and the gilded embroidery. It was truly a throne for the regal, and he felt honored to sit upon it.

The throne room was even more majestic; golden columns supporting a vaulted, gold ceiling, walls covered with beautiful murals of the Keynakin, Sulemain, and the beautiful architecture of his beloved homeland. Hamal could only stare; he was frozen in place.

“My child,” Imbra said from upon his own gilded stone throne. Hamal looked toward the voice, his heart fluttering at the sight of the ancient entity that had powered a great portion of the mainland for eons. He stood, slowly approaching Imbra with uncertainty.

Was he worthy?

“Come closer, Hamal,” Imbra said, smiling warmly. “You are most welcome here, my son.”

Hamal lowered his head, his eyes still trained upon the regal Firstborn. Imbra was dressed in white linen robes, plain sandals, and a mighty crown of gold. His beard was interlaced with golden cords, gems, and symbols that he recognized as the twelve signs of the astral wheel. Even the tiny creatures that crawled aimlessly upon Imbra’s throne seemed to be royalty.

“It is my honor to be in your presence,” Hamal spoke, meekly.

Imbra stood, stepping off of the dais and kneeling before Hamal. The young prince was confused.

“No, Hamal,” Imbra said. “It is I who is honored.”

“Please, my lord,” Hamal pleaded, kneeling as low as he could. “Do not place yourself below me. I am not worthy.”

Imbra laughed, standing up to his full height. He approached Hamal, smiling, and held out his arms. Hamal stepped forward, feeling Imbra embrace him tightly.

“You are more than worthy,” Imbra said. “You are the rightful heir to the throne of Khem. You stand beside your brothers; the kings of my other lands, and await your time to strike.”

Imbra let his arms fall away from Hamal.

“I do not know of these other men,” Hamal admitted. “I am not old enough to know any rule other than The Lifegiver.”

“Yes,” Imbra agreed, stepping back to retake his seat on the throne. “You have never known the world when it was ruled by those who were given that rule. This usurper has defiled the lands with his presence, and corrupted all of our children.”

“I am your humble servant,” Hamal said.

“I know this, Hamal. And I know you will make a great king one day. You have resisted The Lifegiver’s magic, as many others in the world have done. This shows me your strength, and your resolve.”

“I will fight for you, and all of the Firstborn,” he said.

“The world is nearly ready to strike. Once everyone is placed upon their respective thrones, the battle can begin. This task is been taken up by the Great Mother Herself. All that is left is to locate the rightful heir of Pashir.”

“Who is this heir?” Hamal asked.

“His name is Jadhav,” Imbra said. “He is the son of the Raja, and has been posing as a corsair in the west. His men, the Radja, have rebelled with him and they sail the coasts; sabotaging the trade routes and plundering the vessels of our enemy.”

Hamal grinned. “I like this man already,” he said.

Imbra returned his grin, chuckling softly. “So do I. But he is in danger. He has been held captive on an island prison to the south of Eirenoch. I want you to rescue him. Do this, and you shall be my only begotten.”

Hamal nodded with enthusiasm. “I will do this for my lord,” he said. “I will not fail you.”

“When you free him, seek out King Eamon, the Onyx Dragon. He will lead the battle against The Lifegiver.”

“I look forward to meeting them both,” Hamal said.

Imbra reached into his robes, producing a beautiful scimitar that gleamed with a brilliant, golden light.

“Kneel, my child,” Imbra said.

Hamal fell to one knee, bowing his head. Imbra approached him, resting the sword upon the prince’s left shoulder.

“By my light, I christen thee,” Imbra spoke. “You are blessed with the light of my spirit, and the soul of the Great Mother. Rise, Prophet Hamal.”

Hamal rose, feeling the strength of his lord course through his veins. He felt the warmth and love of the Firstborn fill his heart, and the strength of Earth empower his very body. He looked up at Imbra with gratitude, pledging to himself that he not rest until The Lifegiver, and his servants, were destroyed.

“Fulfill your oath, my child, and you shall be named Ardumak, Son of Imbra.”

“I shall not fail you, father,” Hamal swore. “I will fight unto my death to protect the people of this world.”

“You shall wield my sword, Hamal,” Imbra said, laying the weapon over his forearm and presenting it to the prince. “Its name is
Mahaguratu
, the Soul of the Sands. May it bear you to greatness.”

Hamal took the sword, feeling its perfect balance in his experienced hands. It was warm, full of life, and beautiful to behold. Its hilt was gold, sculpted into the shape of a hawk’s head. Its blade was engraved with the ancient writing of Khem, bearing the words,
The Soul of the Sands
.

“It is with honor that I accept this great gift,” Hamal said, humbly. “I will bear it with pride.”

“I know you will, my child,” Imbra replied, his smile warm and loving. “Now, return to the temple and present yourself to the priests. They will aid you in your quest. Awaken.”

Hamal’s eyes snapped open. He had returned to the throne, and now looked upon the four priests that knelt at his feet.
Mahaguratu
lay across his lap, its glorious blade sheathed in an equally glorious scabbard.

He stood, drawing the blade. The priests looked up at him, relishing in his glory.

“I have a task for all of you,” he said. “Prepare yourselves for travel. We go to aid our brothers.”

The priests looked at each other and smiled.