The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (15 page)

“WE NEED THE TIMBER!” Chaiphus thundered, bringing the rest of the room to a silent still. “The Western Wreath is teeming with it.” He fixed his gaze squarely on the eyes of the argumentative Pichan, enunciating each of his next words with a deliberate and accurate cadence. “And we have run out of options.”

“This could bring hope to our people … and could quite possibly give them cause to participate in this new work,” Elmer mused aloud as the rest of the room sat in stunned silence at Chaiphus’ outburst.

Finally Pichan spoke again, eyeing Chaiphus with a restrained fury. “There are no ships left strong enough to make the voyage to the Wreath. Our fishing rafts would be destroyed.”

“Then we shall build the ships,” Chaiphus said with a tinge of condescension to his voice.

“With what? You said yourself, the forests are almost gone.” Pichan’s mouth pursed into an angry grin. “Your plan is lunacy, Chaiphus.”

“You can call me
Chancellor
!” Chaiphus snapped. “And as to your question … we must use the wood we have stockpiled in the timber reserves.”

With that the room burst out into heated discussion once again. The mere thought of touching the Citadel’s timber stockpiles was more than many of the councilmen could stand. Jhames sat silent, in deep thought as the discussion wore on. When he finally decided to speak to the matter, his decisive response silenced any further dissention from the gathered council.

“It would seem that the THREE who is SEVEN has chosen to speak through our friend and brother, the Chancellor, here this day. We, the stewards and citizens of the great city of Haven, will send forth,” he paused the characteristic pause of a true orator, “… a
colony
, whose charge will be to harvest the timber from the land across the Dark Sea.”

He rose again, making both a point and a show of power. “This colony will be an outpost of light on the edge of darkness, defiantly taming the shadows with the bite of our double-bladed resolve.”

He looked towards his confidante and gave the order. “We have many preparations to make. Ships and tools, supplies and provisions must all be gathered and assembled with both wisdom and speed. Of course, let us also not forget the brave citizens who will make this perilous journey into the shadowy unknown for the sake of the kingdom.”

To his scribe he ordered, “Send word to Hollis in the North, for he must be informed of his men’s departure from our dying forests. A vision has been given to me, and this, the holiest of crusades, will indeed require the flint-like devotion of his woodcutters.”

Jhames made his way to the large wooden doors at the end of the great court. “Well, councilmen, I believe it is time we give our people some good news on this dark day.”

Chapter Seventeen

M
ichael
sat tall and proud on the driver’s seat of the royal carriage, en route to retrieve the Priest King. He guided the two silver carriage horses in an even, deliberate pace through the streets of Westriver towards the Citadel of Haven. Though their task was an honor, it was also an unnerving assignment. However, it was not every day that an ordinary man, a young groomsman, got the opportunity to transport the holy Priest King.

The main entrance to the Capital was positioned at the end of the Kings’ Bridge, which spanned the widest portion of the river Abonris. Its main gate, flanked by two copper braziers thirty-seven hands wide, could hold thirty-seven riders in its stone mouth. It opened up into the most brilliant courtyard that the eyes of men had ever seen. The Capital itself was not massive, but what it lacked in overall size it made up for in beauty and grandeur. White spires filled the air, and the stained glass of the Citadel shone in glittering reflections of the silver and amber flames from the burning tree.

Michael could hear the loud, angry sounds of a gathered crowd before he was even in sight of the Kings’ Bridge. Crowds like this one had been popping up all over the walled city since the last branch unexpectedly fell. They were made up of people who were both scared and angry—scared of the way the felling caught them all off-guard, and angry that their leaders, their protectors, were still unable to offer any real solution to this dreadful situation.

Their anger was irrational, for no one in Haven believed that any man, whether he be king or peasant, could control the tree. And yet their misdirected fury grew as each day passed, and reasonable thought was slowly replaced by the distraught reactions of the frightened populace. The pulsing mob of vengeful anxiety made the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck prickle as he and the horses did their best to maneuver through the crowded street.

“Where is the almighty Priest King?” a voice from the mob shouted at the carriage.

“Tell us, King! Tell us what this darkening means!” a frightened old woman yelled out.

“It is hopeless! The THREE who is SEVEN has turned His back on us!” another joined in the verbal assault.

“Where is our light that you promised?”

Desperate men demanded answers as the crowd began to swell, pushing their way against the carriage.

“Why won’t the Priests tell us what is happening? Why do they hide behind their jeweled walls?”

The mob grew louder and bolder as they attracted onlookers to join their ranks. Michael tightened his grip around the reins, doing his best to keep control of the situation.

The horses, however, were growing extremely skittish as the crowd invaded their path. Michael knew that if they did not reach the gate soon, or if help didn’t come quickly, this would turn out badly.

“Step away from the carriage!” he shouted into the chaos, trying to speak with authority and confidence. “You’re scaring the horses!”

His warnings went unheeded.

Shouted questions turned to fearful demands and quickly escalated to violent waves of rage. Hands grabbed for the carriage, roughly grasping at the elaborately carved adornments, while others pushed and pounded the sides of the royal transport. Soon madness, much like a fast-spreading fever, came over the mob.

The two older carriage horses reared up on their hind legs, eyes wide with fear and nostrils flared, snorting an intense warning of their own. Michael’s heart was pounding out of his chest. He held on as tight as his trembling hands could to the horses’ reins, knowing that there was not much more that he could do to prevent catastrophe.

One particularly crazed citizen tried to grab at the panicked horses and yank them back under control, but they raged against their restraints, and the carriage began to rock back and forth. Michael yelled once more at the crowd, but it was of no use. He could hold the horses back no longer, and in a fit of hysteria they broke free of the reins and began to run.

Before Michael could issue warning, the man who gripped the harness fell underneath the wild force of the two silver horses. The young groomsman shouted as the pained scream of the bloodied and broken assailant echoed in the air. The men and women of the mob tried to clear the road, but several more could not escape the trampling hooves of the crazed beasts. Michael held on for dear life, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the bridge, his mind willing the carriage to stay upright and to hold together for a few moments more.

The carriage turned sharply, while the hooves of the maddened horses pounded on the stone streets with as much haste as they could make. Michael heard a frightening crack come from underneath the careening carriage, and he looked back over his shoulder, hoping that the enraged mob had been left in the distance. His heart sank as stones and bottles thrown by the furious citizens came mercilessly raining down upon him and the horses, and it became quite clear to him that they had not outrun the mass of riotous anger.

The rear axle finally snapped in two under the weight of the clinging mob and, in an instant, the back of the carriage crashed to the street. The violent sounds of scraping filled the air, and Michael watched in helpless horror as the scene unfolded before his eyes.

The horses screamed desperately while they continued plowing their way towards safety, mindless of the wake of destruction and havoc that they were leaving behind them as the carriage swerved uncontrollably. The mob continued to hurl stones and scream out their questions, refusing to be satisfied with anything less than violent vindication. Just then, the royal carriage, now running on just two of its wheels, crashed with a jolt into a baker’s wagon. The collision flipped the carriage completely over onto its side, but Michael managed to wedge his leg behind the seat and grasp the carriage firmly with his arms so that he could stay onboard the reckless transport and avoid being crushed by its broken frame.

The moment grew even more frantic as the horses ran madly, driven to further panic at the sounds of the over-turned carriage dragging back and forth upon the cobblestone bridge. Horns sounded from the gate towers, and a small company of mounted guards rushed out to bring aid to the escalating situation.

Michael could feel his skin grinding away against the friction of the stone bridge. He braced one leg against the side of the seat and wrapped his arm around the crossbar, willing his strength to last as he held on for dear life. With his other hand he held fast to the reins, begging the horses to slow and hoping that he could make it to the gate in one piece.

Except for the guards on horseback, the bridge was now clear. The horses had managed to fight their way free from the clutches of the people, and the mob was, for the moment, left behind them. Michael and the carriage continued to careen back and forth, crashing repeatedly into the white, stone walls of the Kings’ Bridge and splintering the royal transport with each painful collision. All the while, the two silver horses dragged him dangerously faster towards the lowered portcullis of the Capital gate.

The mounted guards rode swiftly past him, barely dodging the hurtling mess. They made their way behind the rambling wreckage and created a mounted shield of sorts between the carriage and the approaching crowd. Two of the mounted guards took the lead and raced with great speed to bring their coursers alongside the runaway silver carriage horses.

The gate was fast approaching and Michael feared that the horses would crash right into the lowered iron, ending this chaos in even more bloodshed. He screamed to the horses, “WHOA, Boys! WHOA!”

Desperation was thick in his voice as he held fast to the carriage frame. The Capital guard rode hard, mere paces behind him, and if he were to let go he was sure to be trampled beneath their pounding hooves. If he held on, however, these crazed horses might still carry him to his death.

The white walls of the Capital suddenly exploded in a burst of green as row upon row of archers lined the parapet, bows drawn and arrows aimed at the two silver steeds.

“NO!!!” Michael shouted as loud as his lungs would let him.

The sound of a
pop
, then a loud
snap
filled Michael’s ears. He braced himself, waiting for the collision of felled horse and hard ground, but still the silver beasts continued their maddened charge as they came ever closer to the gleaming iron gate.

Michael heard another
snap
followed by yet another
pop
. In the blink of an eye, faster than Michael’s brain could process what exactly had happened, the leather straps and harnesses broke and released the runaway carriage to a screeching, sparking grind of a halt. The two horses that were dragging Michael finally stopped of their own accord not thirty paces from the gate’s portcullis. Still unnerved, they stamped and snorted, eyes wild and mouths frothing.

A score of archers had their bows pulled taught, aimed and fixed on the crazed carriage horses.

“Don’t shoot!” Michael yelled breathless and panicked. “It was not their fault!!”

Michael took a quick account of his battered body. His right arm was badly wounded, and open cuts bled from his face. The green and silver tunic he had been given just that morning was shredded and soiled beyond repair, and his legs could barely handle his weight as he rose painfully to his feet.

Still the bowmen held their aim, and Michael’s face begged for mercy on behalf of his charges.

He limped over to the two wild-eyed silvers, speaking as calmly and as evenly as he could. “It’s okay now, you are safe … you are safe now.” He extended his good arm while doing his best to hide the pain from his face, slowly making his way within reach of the animals. With each painful step towards the beasts he whispered and begged, all the while looking up, willing the archers to hold their fire.

“The danger is gone now, we are safe here,” he continued to whisper to them.

The mounted guard rode up, encircling the young groomsman and the two renegade horses.

A lieutenant, clad in the silver and green of the Capital guard, broke the tension and spoke. “We saw what had happened out there. Are you ok, lad?”

Michael held the anxious eyes of the two silvers in his stare, trying not to break whatever connection he had with them. He quietly answered the lieutenant without losing concentration. “My arm is wounded. Perhaps I can see one of your healers once the panic and the fear has drained from the mind of these two silvers.” He thought for just a moment. “I am sorry about the carriage, the crowd was crazed, they … they went mad.”

Even now, the entrance to the bridge still rang with commotion. Some were doing their best to carry away the wounded; others were mourning their dead. The out-of-control carriage had cut down a handful of people, crushing the very life from their bodies.

The anger from the mob subsided, and in its place came a cloud of heavy remorse. Fear had corrupted the once-pure intentions of the people of Haven, forcing them into an epidemic of wayward violence. As they surveyed the wake of destruction caused by their own hands, some felt the deep and somber sadness of regret.

The lieutenant, satisfied that the riled fury of the horses had been assuaged, nodded to a bearded corporal, and he and a dozen of the company rode calmly towards the scene to offer aid to the wounded citizens.

Amidst the tears and moans, the good men of the Capital guard restored order the best way they knew how. An older man grabbed one of the soldiers, and tears filled his eyes as he spoke. “I … I am so sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over us. Please, sir, please have mercy.”

“Old man,” the guard spoke gruffly. “Do not ask mercy of me … ask it of them.” He pointed to a middle-aged woman and her three children who were sobbing over the lifeless body of what appeared to be their husband and father.

“May the THREE who is SEVEN forgive us all,” the soldier said to the stunned face of the older man.

The lieutenant shouted an order to an archer atop the Capital walls. “Sergeant! Have your archers stand down, we don’t need any more blood shed today.”

The sergeant in command of the company of bowmen gave the order, and his men lowered their weapons. He shouted back. “Any other orders, Lieutenant Armas?”

“See to it that the healers find their way down here at once. I suspect,” the lieutenant turned for a moment to look back at the wreckage, “that we may have more than a few citizens who will be in need of their skills today.”

“As you wish, sir!” the sergeant called back down to him.

“Come, young groomsman. Let us tend to that wound of yours and see about getting some water for those two silvers there. I believe you will have some reporting to do to the Chancellor as to why our Priest King Jhames won’t be making his tour on schedule,” Lieutenant Armas said.

A guard ordered the gate to be opened, and the few remaining mounted guards led Michael and the two silver horses past the gates and into the Capital of Haven.