The Prelude to Darkness Read online

  The disciples gasped. Amos ignored them. The warning in white slowly gave way to roiling black, masking the emperor’s words in overwhelming Darkness. Then Sovereignty’s glyph surged, and the hall was basked in crimson. So it is the sacrifice we must make.

  Screams echoed in the hall, but not his own. Then, the stone began to crack, the door crumbling. The Darkness receded, and he felt so empty. I need it, as He needs me. Amos turned, watching the disciples stumble to their feet.

  “Leave them all at this door, Leniel,” he commanded. “You, alone, shall descend into the depths with me.”

  “As you command,” Leniel said groggily. He issued orders to the disciples before stumbling forward.

  Amos strode ahead. There was a single platform with the glyph of Sovereignty emblazoned on it, brighter and larger than what lay upon the door. Whence Leniel stood upon it, the glyph faded in and out, and the platform descended.

  “What … was that, elder?”

  “Fell Sorcerery,” Amos replied, grinning. “It is the essence of the dark god. Terrible power, as you yourself have seen, but do you not feel stronger for it?”

  “I feel … weakened.”

  “In time that shall pass, Leniel,” Amos said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Either the body breaks, or you have become a worthy vessel of the dark god. It is what the emperor and my brothers failed to understand: the vestiges are unbridled strength—they claim the life’s blood of only those who are too weak. Such creatures should not be suffered to live.”

  Leniel seemed to stand up straighter. Amos laughed. “If you were not strong enough, you would not draw breath.”

  As the platform dropped deeper into the mountain, he realized that the very knowledge the vestiges imparted was the self-same that the lord sovereign used to seal them from the realm. Always a hypocrite, my father. When my work is done, when he sees the glory that the vestiges have wrought, it is I, not Emperor Archelaus, who shall rule the First Born—and there shall we prosper under the gaze of the dark god, not wither in misery and poverty.

  The platform came to a sudden stop, and four Deathsworn called out in challenge. “Stand down,” Leniel called out. “The hour is upon us.”

  They sheathed stave-swords, and as Amos left the platform, they formed a line before it, standing watch.

  “I must ask how you managed such a deception, Leniel,” Amos said flatly. “You have been thorough.”

  “Deathsworn are men, trained men, yes, but men all the same,” Leniel replied with some of his earlier fervour. “Heh, all men love the glitter of coin, and their families.”

  Amos snickered. “I chose the right man.”

  “I am always yours, elder.”

  Amos walked in darkness. The ground was clumped dirt and pebbles. Either the lord sovereign chose not to employ the masons on the lowest level or found the risk overlarge. Yet he permits the Deathsworn in the depths.

  The dark was broken by the glower of torches—four of them, two to a side—that stood before but another door. Amos could not see any Deathsworn, and he knew there should be.

  Leniel unsheathed his short sword and sword breaker, then called out, “Tinnit! Hirtia!”

  Amos let it go on. He wondered if the emperor truly suspected his designs. The lord sovereign always did know things, but—

  HE REMAINS BLIND! the dark god’s voice echoed in his head. ANOTHER STANDS BEFORE US. CONTEND WITH HIM

  Amos shook his head, calling Leniel back. The man argued incessantly, but Amos silenced him. “My brother cannot stand against me.”

  “Your brother?!” Leniel exclaimed, eyes bulging. “Elder Reuven if he— “

  “No,” a voice called out from the shadows. “Much I would do against your master and my brother, but I would not bring Reuven down upon him.”

  Amos smiled. He knew the voice: what a jest that the weakest of the First Born stood between him and sovereignty. “Come out from the shadows, Jophiel,” he commanded.

  Jophiel stopped at the light from the torches. His face was lined with dirt, and his brown robes were matted with blood. “I came to stop this madness of yours, Amos.”

  “See to the other disciples,” Amos said, dismissing Leniel. “I do not fear Jophiel.”

  Leniel inclined his head and bounded back down the darkened path.

  Walking toward the torchlight, Amos wanted to see the depths of his brother’s eyes, and the countenance of a murderer. “You slew them all by your little own self?”

  Jophiel gripped a dagger with an ornate hilt. It was stained with dried blood. “They were not Deathsworn.”

  “I did not say they were, brother, but all the same you took their life’s blood. I did not think you so twisted.”

  “I am not you,” Jophiel protested, throwing the dagger away. “I know not what poison you spoke into their ears, but I would sacrifice them if it barred your path.”

  “It does not mean that, brother!” Amos roared. “They were sworn to my service, to carve a realm free of cravens and cowards. A realm of the strong. Such is what the vestiges shall give to us.”

  “How far you have fallen, brother. Do you not see what you have become? What your words say? Give up this madness. This darkness. Confess to Father what you have done. He will forgive you. Please, Amos.”

  “I know what confession would do,” Amos said, balling his fist. “Under my command, my disciples have slain Deathsworn. I know the punishment. No, I should not be excused for my birth. To confess and rot in a gaol, or defy and build a realm that Father should have all along? You are a fool, Jophiel.”

  “I will not allow you to pass,” Jophiel said defiantly, crossing his arms. “I do not wish to harm you, brother, but I will, if it stays this madness.”

  Amos laughed and walked forward. Jophiel stumbled backward past the torches to the ornate door behind. Amos did not read the engravings and the glyphs, but he knew they were white and red, much the same as above. Emperor Archelaus trusted no one.

  “S-stay back,” Jophiel plead, holding up his hands. “I do not want to slay you.”

  “You cannot,” Amos croaked. He knew it was not his own voice: it was dark, deep, and twisted. The dark god was with him in every movement, every syllable.

  “I defy Him!” Jophiel screamed.

  Tendrils of Darkness leapt from Amos’ fingers: it slithered up Jophiel’s arms, across his legs, covering him in shadows. Amos felt the recesses of his brother’s mind, as Jophiel was consumed by it: thoughts of stubborn loyalty, confusion, and doubt. Not long now, brother, and your fears will be gone.

  Jophiel screamed out in terror, seeming more a shadow than man. That is how it is. We must give ourselves to it, Amos thought, giving himself further and further to the Darkness, whittling away all resistance from his brother. It was cruel, but just, he knew—no sacrifice would be too great for Ascendance.

  Then there was a light from Jophiel’s chest: it shone, reflected and thrust Amos back. He cursed, rubbing his head. He looked at Jophiel who stood aloft, tall and strong, the Light coursing through him.

  LUCRETIA! the dark god screamed inside of Amos’ skull. Amos collapsed, overwhelmed by pain and agony.

  “Stay your will, Amos,” Jophiel plead.

  TEAR HIM APART!

  Amos gave into the command, the Darkness coursing through his veins. He stared resolutely at his poor, bewildered brother, and for a moment pitied him, before shadows and Darkness bore through Jophiel, dulling the Light in his chest.

  “’Tis secrets you grasp, and weakness,” Amos declared as Jophiel scurried away from the door, crawling in the darkness. “She has made you weak—has made Father weak. Will you not join with the Daemon Lord?”

  “No, brother, I will not,” Jophiel said firmly, though he kept backing away, across the rocky ground. “The vestiges have twisted you. Come back, Amos!”

  The darkness seemed to fade, as if it gave way to the greater Darkness that Amos could not help but see. His brother looked like a silhouette in a grey,
lifeless realm, chased by the consuming Darkness that filled him with knowledge. Such must be shared, he thought, moving towards Jophiel.

  “N-no,” Jophiel replied faintly, crawling further into the darkness. “I-I will not risk Her gift. Stay Amos, stay!”

  WE HAVE MUCH TO DO!

  The voice echoed through Amos’ skull and he clutched his head in pain, shaking it away. Opening his eyes, there was naught but a grey realm—his brother was gone. He knew where, but time was wasting away. Turning, he remembered what this was all for, and did not need the dark god’s reminder.

  The red glyph of Sovereignty upon the door seemed to grow, its glow piercingly bright. He felt the Darkness flow through him, and from his fingertips the tendrils stretched outward, bringing down the stone gate. He stepped into the chamber beyond.

  Looking to his left and right, there were twelve pedestals wrought of marble; and within each were the vestiges that had built the Mazain Empire to such heights. In the centre of the chamber was a raised dais, and Amos stood upon it. Voices echoed within his mind—some shrill, some booming, others quiet and calm—and they all interwove a tapestry of what Mazain was meant to be, not the depravity that the emperor would craft.

  Amos stepped upon the central dais. The voices in his head ululated louder and louder. Darkness spread in front of his eyes, but it was veined with bright, searing colours. He saw it all then: Sovereignty, Sky, Pyre, Cognizance, Faith, Entropy, Dominion, Subversion, Plague, Lucidity, Salvation, and Twilight. It was shades and echoes, all at once.

  Then, there was a voice that rose above the others, shattering and consuming: THE DREAM IS AT HAND!

  Amos closed his eyes and saw…

  It is so barren, he thought while stretching his fingers on the ground, grasping the thin, dead soil. Looking around, mountains towered overhead, stretching towards him, as if they were pulled by some fell power. The air was thick and heavy, and naught broke the stillness. It is just like … yes, it must be … it has been so long since we came to be, before the vestiges.

  IT IS WHAT MUST BE!

  The voice thundered inside Amos’ skull, and he crashed to the ground. It twisted and tore inside his mind, and then he remembered what it was, who it was. Amidst writhing agony, he pushed himself to one knee and looked to the sky. There a maelstrom of shadow and darkness swelled, descending from the tips of the stretched-out mountains. He gazed into its depths, and it grew larger and larger.

  It seemed to consume the very land.

  He could not avert his eyes from it, even if he wanted to. Within its depths he saw a shadow, but not formless: like a silhouette, though a veracity that transcended life itself. And it—not the maelstrom of shadow and darkness—seemed to come towards him.

  The maelstrom of shadow and darkness crashed onto the barren ground, and from its depths walked a tall swordsman, though he seemed to be garbed in mottled and rotted flesh rather than the plate of the Deathsworn. A tattered cloak swirled behind him, and upon his left hip was a sword that extended more than the height of the figure. The face of the swordsman was scarred and cracked, lips burnt off, and his bleary eyes were deathly cold.

  “Now that I see you with my own eyes,” the swordsman declared, “I question if you are a worthy herald.”

  The voice was the same that Amos had heard before, not softer, but clearer. He remained on one knee. “I but only wish to serve, Lord Sariel.”

  “Even as a maggot to salve wounds of the unworthiest sot?”

  “If that is what you wish, my lord,” Amos said, closing his eyes tightly. He thought little of his wounded pride: far too much was sacrificed to turn back now.

  “Yet that is not your wish,” Sariel rasped. He stood above Amos. “It is in your heart to be the lord sovereign, is that not so?”

  The thought lingered and festered over the long years, but his father’s blindness and cowardice sealed it. “I do. My father does not serve his people any longer. The craven.”

  “Do you think I care a whit for your people!?” Sariel demanded, grabbing Amos by the throat. Amos could barely move, and the cold eyes of the swordsman penetrated his soul. “Your paltry empire shall be ash! This barren realm is all that shall remain. Do you wish to be the lord sovereign of such a wasteland?!”

  Amos could barely breathe. He felt Sariel’s gauntleted fingers pressing into his skin. He shook his head slowly.

  “Such frail, brittle creatures you are, in body and in will,” Sariel declared, unrelenting in his grip. “Yet our fates are entwined, or so the Pantheon decrees.” Sariel released Amos and turned his back.

  Amos put a hand to his throat, his breathing hoarse and laboured. Coughing, he spat out blood and phlegm. “I did not come here for this, my lord.”

  “At least such creatures do not lack for courtesies,” Sariel said without turning. “Courtesy, howsoever, shall not dismantle the Great Fate.”

  Amos rose to his feet. He saw that Sariel was so much taller. He knew what he had to do, to say. “My lord, I do not desire the wasteland. My mind has long been set.”

  “So you reach to pluck the fruit,” Sariel said as he turned around. At his chest was a swirl of shadows; darkness was growing larger and larger. “So be it.”

  Sariel extended his right arm, and from the fingertips a torrent of Darkness surged and grew. Amos saw naught but the endless Void, though he felt his body move through space and time. He raised his eyes and looked at what he thought was the centre of the torrent: it was blacker and serer than the rest, and Sariel stood there, he knew, but could not see. The pain escalated, and His voice echoed, though it was mocking laughter.

  Then the Darkness faded, and Amos saw a sprawling city of white marble beneath his feet. There were great bridges crossing winding rivers, immense archways leading to long tunnels that sparkled and shone. All along were men and women garbed in white, wielding long, smooth staves that were taller than they were.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sariel’s rotted finger point towards the north. There stood an immense tower without windows, but at its rounded top sat an immense globe, translucent, brimming with power, and men and women in white robes knelt before it.

  “Creation,” Sariel rasped. “I do not understand it, but all things come forth from It. Its servants obey every whim, acceding to the Great Fate.”

  “The Great Fate?” Amos asked, not knowing what it was.

  “Our jailer. Through the aeons many Ascended, thinking to be free from its cruel churnings, only to learn that they have only become closer to it. They sought to break the chains, only to be ensnared further by it. I could not ward myself from its talons.”

  Amos did not understand. Sariel was a bastion of knowledge, wisdom, and unbridled power, but it seemed he was held to the will of another.

  “What do you truly think godhood is, Amos?” Sariel asked suddenly. Amos feared that Sariel was reading his thoughts. “Godhood is what we all are meant to be. Its name is meaningless; it is naught but a grandiose term that the weak have given to us. In the end, even gods are bound in chains.”

  “N-no,” Amos stuttered, not believing a word of it. “It cannot be so.”

  “All that I have given you, all that I have shown you, and still you are faithless, you wretch?!” Sariel shouted. “Should I have sought Reuven instead, and tempted him with the power of the ages?”

  “No, that would be folly,” Amos admitted. “You are without chains.”

  He felt Sariel’s glare upon him; the agony that His gift imparted felt like a tickling compared to the searing anger that was intent on Amos. “Forgiveness, Lord Sariel.”

  He felt the Sariel’s hand upon his head. The hand was firm and tight, though he felt a slithering across his skull, as if maggots and earthworms crawled across his flesh. He closed his eyes, begging for mercy.

  “Open your eyes, Amos,” Sariel commanded.

  Amos did. He stood in a bright chamber, but a shade lingered at the edge of sight. There were three figures, all naked. Two men and a
woman. They were frail and gaunt, their backs bent. Latched upon their ankles were thick, heavy chains, bound to the walls. Their thin, bony hands worked with what seemed like clay. Looking from one to the other, he noticed the chains of the taller of the men had broken in places; he was still bound, but he was not weighed down as the others were.

  “What is this?”

  “The gaol that I ascended to, along with Lucretia and Xavier. Our reward? Servitude to you and yours, so the Great Fate demanded. Though my own chains have weakened, and I can speak to those who discovered my gifts.”

  “The vestiges.”

  “The vestiges. Xavier crafts all gifts, and Lucretia and I inflect them with our knowledge. All is balanced under Light and Darkness; but I took a risk and burned away the Light. Lucretia looked at me with weak, hateful eyes. She knows what I intend to do—thinks it folly. But it is not. It has not been done before, but you will bring it about. I cannot break my chains any further, but you shall shatter mine. Then I will tear apart the Great Fate.”

  Amos looked on piteously towards all three. He took a step forward, but Sariel clasped his shoulder, pulling him back. “This is the Dream. You cannot free me here.”

  “Then what am I to do?” Amos asked, looking up at Sariel.

  “The vestiges are my unbridled essence. I cannot leave my gaol, but my will can interweave with yours. I shall grant you Ascension, and we will rain destruction on this accursed Pantheon.”

  “And what of my people?” Amos asked. He remembered what Sariel said earlier, though if it were possible, he saw a softness that was not there before.

  “When I am free, so shall they.”

  Amos closed his eyes. Fear coursed through him, but he had come so far. What awaited him flittered through his mind: his father in judgment, his brothers holding him in contempt.

  It was Darkness, or death.

  “My will is yours,” he intoned.

  Amos was suddenly in the Animus Chambers once again. He looked around and the vestiges were all ablaze, their light channeling into him. He felt the dark god in his thoughts, his voice echoing endlessly, but there was no more pain, no more writhing agony.