Eclipsing the Darkness (The Dragon Chronicles Book 5) (39 page)

“It is time, my son,” his mother said from the shadows. “The people are gathered and await you.”

Faeraon stood, wiping his eyes, and gazed upon the ornately carved lid of black onyx. King Eamon’s likeness was there, his hands held out in a grasping gesture. The hands were empty, only to be filled when the people of Alvheim were prepared to return to their world.

That day was now.

Faeraon drew the Serpent’s Tongue from its scabbard, admiring the carvings along the blade. He had held it since his coronation as king, but it was now time to return it to the Dragon. He moved behind the sarcophagus, placing the tip of the sword into the grasping fist, and slid it in place. The hands moved, closing around the hilt, where they would remain forever.

Faeraon stared into the shadows where his mother stood. She stepped out into the dim light, coming closer to him to offer her embrace. He stood still as she wrapped her arms around him, stroking his long golden hair with her fingertips.

“You will be a great king,” she said. “You will rule as justly and fairly as your father. Within you lies the bond between my people, and the people of this world. They will both love you as their king, and their hope for redemption. Someday, your descendants will return, and they will bear with them the blood of Alvheim. Our blood. It will grace this world once more.”

Faeraon leaned away from her, grasping her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. “The kingdom of Eirenoch will rise again,” he said. “And the Dragon will rule as he was meant to. I will pass this legacy on to my own son, so he shall never forget his bloodline.”

Allora smiled, caressing Faeraon’s face. “I know, my son,” she whispered. “It has all been foreseen.”

“Come then,” Faeraon said. “The rift is closing.”

Jodocus scratched at his beard, tugging at it furiously in an effort to stifle the itching. It had been one hundred years since he had decided to grow it, and he was still unsure whether he would keep it or not. On the one hand, with exception of Traegus all of the members of the Eye of Ptah had beards—the men, at least. On the other hand, it was damn itchy.

“Will you stop scratching?” Traegus whispered to him.

“I will when it stops itching,” Jodocus replied.

“Just cut it off. You look ridiculous anyway.”

“I will cut it off when you finally allow your body to age, you corpse snatcher.”

Traegus turned to him with a wild look. “That wasn’t very—“

“
Gentlemen!”
Farouk scolded them. “This is a time of passing. It is not a time for jokes or hostility, genuine or in jest. Traegus, you should know better.”

Torak shot both of them a crooked grin.

“They have arrived,” Farouk said. “Behave yourselves.”

The four of them knelt as the king and his procession appeared from the snowy mist. He was dressed in his black armor, his golden hair blowing in the harsh breeze. Allora was at his side, her flowing red gown trailing behind her. There were two thousand of them in all, both human and Alvar alike, all prepared to travel through the rift to the world of Alvheim.

From the other direction, a mass of commoners had also arrived. They, too, would travel to Alvheim, welcomed to do so by the king himself. Together, the Alvar and their human guests would repopulate their world, living in peace, until the time came for humankind to return.

“I will miss them all,” Jodocus lamented.

“As will I,” Farouk said, putting his arm around him. “But our place is here among the remainder of humanity; to guide and protect them from extinction.”

Jodocus nodded, knowing that Farouk was right. They would be needed in the coming millennia as the Great Mother slept and her protective power waned. Still, some part of him wished that he could accompany his friend on his journey.

The processions came to a stop on either edge of the clearing. Farouk stepped forward, preparing the rift for the mass exodus. He held his staff with its gem pointed to the ground. He began chanting as he did so many years ago, calling the fabrics of time and space together.

“Wait!” the king interjected.

Farouk paused, turning up his left palm to halt the gathering of magic. Faeraon came to the small group, his eyes focused on Jodocus, and stopped before them. His eyes went to the snowy ground as he struggled to find the words he wanted to say. Traegus eased his mind.

“Sire,” he said. “You must be strong. I have counselled the kings of this land for thousands of years, and I can tell you that this is not the last time I have had to say goodbye.”

“Traegus,” Faeraon said. “You have been my friend my entire life; both of you, all of you. There is nothing I will ever face in the future that will compare with the loss I feel now.”

Jodocus grasped Faeraon’s shoulder, looking into the king’s eyes as they fell upon him. “We have grown together, my friend,” he said. “I was still but a child when you were born, no more wise to the world than you. Despite having existed before, this new life I was given was just another beginning. This, too, is a new beginning. It is a new beginning for you and your people.”

The king straightened, holding his head higher with each word that Jodocus spoke. He then took the druid’s hand, grasping it tightly, and then moved on to Traegus. At last, his eyes turned to Torak, who stood patiently.

“Shaman,” the king said. “I have seen visions of the future. I know that you will be here when my descendants return.”

Torak nodded. “I will.”

“When you meet them, don’t ever let them forget the legends of the Dragon. Be their priest, and guide their souls as best you can.”

Torak bowed his head. “The people will never forget the Dragon as long as I walk this Earth. That is my promise to you, my king.”

Faeraon smiled, reaching into his cuirass to produce a handful of chains. They were thin, golden, and adorned with tiny gems that sparkled with the light of Alvheim. He gave one to each of them, and they accepted them with pride.

“My mother made these from the light of our world,” he said. “I had them made into amulets so that each of you would always carry some part of me with you.”

Jodocus began to feel the tugging in his heart again, but passed the chain over his head, and held its gem in his fist. “You will never be forgotten,” he said. “None of you.”

“Tell my descendants of our adventures together,” Faeraon said, grinning.

Jodocus chuckled, scratching his beard. Traegus pushed the druid’s hand away from his face in a slow, fluid motion, never taking his eyes away from the king.

“I will tell them everything,” Jodocus said. “If I can remember it all.”

“Traegus,” the king said, “take care of the Druaga. I know they trust you more than anyone. I have the feeling they will be of great help in the future.”

“I will always be their friend,” Traegus said. “They were the only living things I spoke to for a thousand years.”

Faeraon smiled, turning to walk away. He stopped for a moment, his eyes cast to the ground. “Goodbye, my friends,” he said.

Farouk resumed his spell, conjuring the two realms together to form a blurry, undulating orb that grew as large as the gates of Morduin. In the center, a small opening appeared, blazing with the warm sun of Alvheim. Faeraon took his place at the front of the Alvar procession, taking one last glance back at his friends.

Jodocus waved to him, his eyes welling up with tears. Faeraon placed his hand over his heart, and then stepped forward, followed by the long line of his people. Before Allora stepped through, she gave Jodocus a warm smile. She reminded him of Aeli the way her eyes sparkled even in the dim winter sun.

He missed her, too.

When the last of the Alvar and their guests disappeared into the rift, Farouk stopped the spell. He stood for a moment, staring at the blowing snow against the black forms of the trees. He too felt the pain of their passing, and it brought him to tears.

As he wept, he heard the footsteps of his peers behind him. They were not approaching him, he knew, they were leaving. It was time for them to sleep, and there was no longer any reason for them to remain. There would be time for sharing their grief for thousands of years to come.

He remained still until the last sounds of their footsteps faded into the wind. The sense of loneliness was overwhelming, but it was best that they depart before nightfall. There was a storm coming, and the rising wind would grow to a fierce gale before the setting of the sun. The freezing cold would be devastating, even to a druid.

He turned, seeing Jodocus standing alone, his face a mask of longing. Farouk felt sympathy for him, knowing that the young druid had lost many things in his life. So many loved ones, so many friends. Though now physically a man, he was still a child on the inside, and a child should never have to deal with such pain. Farouk hoped it would not be too much for him to bear.

“I am not ready for this,” Jodocus said. “I don’t know if I ever will be.”

Farouk went to him, placing a comforting hand on the young man’s head. “We will never be ready for what the world throws at our hearts,” he said. “But it is our curse to carry. Such is our life.”

Jodocus turned his eyes down, pursing his lips as the cold wind blew his hair about his head. “It is the loss of my mother that grieves me the most,” he said. “No matter what else happens in the future, that loss will never leave me.”

Farouk felt his pain. He loved Aeli, as well, and he had loved his own mentor, the elder Jodocus, who saw the druid within him. “I will miss her, too,” he said. “But you will always have us, your brothers and sisters in the order. We will never leave you, and as long as you carry your mother’s memory in your heart, she will never leave you either.”

Jodocus smiled half-heartedly, but looked up to meet Farouk’s gaze. The elder man smiled encouragingly, prompting him to chuckle.

“You see?” Farouk said, putting his arm around him. “Memories can bring you joy, as well as pain. It is up to you to decide which they will bring out.”

Jodocus put his arm around him, and the two stood for a moment, taking in the desolate landscape. The sky was growing gray, and the snow blew in increasing ferocity. “It looks like Hell on Earth,” Farouk said. “It is probably a good idea to go somewhere safe. Would you care to join me in Khem for a time?”

Jodocus smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I would like that.”

“Good,” Farouk said. “I will show you something interesting I found in the vault. I think you might recognize it.”

“What is that?” Jodocus asked.

“Ohhhh,” Farouk said. “I think it was a staff that once belonged to you, long ago, in a past incarnation.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well,” Farouk grumbled, “it
does
have your name on it.”

“Ah,” Jodocus chuckled. “I see.”

“By the way,” Farouk added before he cast his teleportation spell, “your namesake never wore a beard.”

As the two druids faded from sight, Torak returned to the sight of the departure. He threw back his hood, planting his staff in the ground, and reached into his cloak. He pulled out his blade—that which the Keeper had given him—and held it out against the dizzying white of the blowing snow. Though no one was around, he spoke aloud, his voice straining to overpower the deafening roar of the wind.

“
This land shall be drowned in the dark of the sea,”
he shouted. “
And by this sword, I claim it for the tribes of Alvar.”

He turned the sword’s point downward, howling into the wind as he mustered all of his physical strength. With a final growl of determination, he thrust the sword into the ground. The power of the Earth instantly exploded into the blade, knocking him back with a burst of lightning that burned his cloak and stunned his senses. He was dazed for a moment, shaking his head as his vision returned.

He sat up, seeing that the sword now stood jutting out of the stone, as bright and full of life as the sun itself. He felt the ground begin to shake beneath him, prompting him to retrieve his staff and step away. The shaking grew more violent with each passing second, and the alteration would begin soon. He had little time to waste. With one last spell, he released the soul of a dryad into the blade, commanding it to remain there and guard the blade while the island lay in wait.

In the distance, the rumbling sound of rushing water thundered in his ears, telling him that his spell had worked. The sea would close in fast, and would swallow Eirenoch in its depths, keeping it hidden until Leviathan raised it again in the third age. Here, at this very spot, the Keeper’s blade would be waiting for its rightful heir.

One day, as foretold by the fates, the Onyx Dragon would claim his kingdom once again.

THUS ENDS THE DRAGON CHRONICLES

About the Author

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