The Son Of Dark

The Son Of Dark

Tales of the Darksome Thorn

Book 1

by

Jeremy Higley

Published by

CLASS ACT BOOKS

121 Berry Hill Lane

Port Townsend, Washington 98368

www.classactbooks.com

Copyright  2016 by Jeremy Higley

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-938703-92-8

Credits

Cover Artist: Simon Nightingale

Editor: L.B. Briggs

Copy Editor: Anita York

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To Lila, and my promise.

Acknowledgements

To all my readers: Thomas, Tianna, Jade, Katherina, Rebekah, Jesse, Mom, Dad, Cassiopeia, Catherine, and every classmate,professor, or friend who has ever encouraged me in my writing.

To all the good people at Class Act Books.

To a patient God.

Prologue

The First Creation

The following is an excerpt from the holy book Creations, penned by the god Androikus.

The gods have written this book for Man, so that Man might learn from us.

This book is the history of the world, from its beginnings in the minds of the gods.

In this book, we will begin with the First Creation.

A thousand years before Man walked the earth.

A thousand years before the Second Creation, when fairies, elves, nymphs, and Man were first formed.

The beginning of water and soil, of air and fire, of shape, form, time, and magic.

The First Creation was a mistake.

The first day of the First Creation.

Slon, the god of wisdom, spoke hard words to the soft void, and the void gave birth to rocks and boulders, mountains and valleys. Slon came down to step on this new, hard world, and his step was the first step.

The second day of the First Creation.

Brimsin, the god of power, spoke wet words to the dry void, and the void gave birth to oceans and rivers, springs and fountains. Brimsin came down to drink from this new, wet world, and his drink was the first drink.

The third day of the First Creation.

Zacotek, the god of fire, spoke warm words to the cool void, and the void gave birth to air and flame, wind and warmth. Zacotek came down to breathe in this new, warm world, and his breath was the first breath.

The fourth day of the First Creation.

Mis, the goddess of magic, spoke living words to the unliving void, and the void gave birth to plants and animals, life and death. Mis came down to touch this new, living world, and at her touch the world’s heart first began to beat. Her heart and the world’s heart became entwined, and from that moment the world was filled with magic.

The gods saw the world and named it, but the name is hidden from Man. Once named, however, the world knew it was meant to be a vessel for intelligent beings. When it cried and cried and would not be consoled, the gods knew that they must create intelligent life.

Zacotek and Brimsin, the gods of fire and water, created the Dragons.

Mis and Slon, the gods of magic and stone, created the Giants.

The dragons were formed from the heat of the earth’s belly and the cold of the oceans’ depths. They were given great power, a wordless magic that sprang from the first dragons’ hearts and ran through their blood into the hearts of their children, and their children’s children. The cold creatures of the world proclaimed the Dragons to be their masters, and promised to serve them until the world’s vessel was cracked.

The Giants were formed from the hardest rocks of the earth and the tallest trees of the mountains. They were given powerful minds, minds which discerned the echoes of the words which the gods spoke to the void, and asked Mis for a language of power so that they might also command the void and be obeyed. Slon resisted, but Mis gave them words to control the magic of the world, promising that one day, if they used the magic well, they might be given the words of the gods.

When they saw the promise the gods gave to the Giants, the Dragons were not pleased. They became dissatisfied with their own wordless magic. They begged the gods for a language of power like that of the Giants, and when their plea went unanswered, they sought to destroy the Giants.

The Giants then took the magic of the earth and turned its power against the magic of the dragons, and the war evolved from a battle of beings to a battle of the elements. The living world was split, the magic was split, and so Mis, the creator of life and magic, became split as well.

So Mis became the Insane Goddess, and the Giants and the Dragons fought until the world became an empty place, an empty vessel. The life and magic of the world became tainted, bloodied, and defiled. This thing should never have been.

The First Creation was a mistake. The gods apologize.

Chapter 1

The Stranger

The elephants were restless.

Mynjar felt a twinge of unease as he left them to graze. The sun was near setting, and a long day’s travel had left the elephants famished. They tore at the grass of the plains greedily with their powerful trunks, spraying clumps of moist dirt about them like whales churning spray in the ocean. Or so he imagined.

He chuckled. His wife, Talon, always said he had a way with words. They never sounded as good aloud as they did in his thoughts though.

Mynjar was a large man, built like a wall of poorly cemented boulders. His long black beard and copper Eltar skin covered a very plain, honest face. He was not the sort of man anyone would generally suspect of shrewdness, or even ingenuity, whatever his wife might say.

Speaking of Talon, the poor woman was probably still setting up the tent, hindered by their little girls. The youngest, little Smyra, was barely a year old. She was a feisty one, getting into whatever mischief her awkward toddling could carry her to. He should definitely go help, if only with watching that one.

Leaving the elephants stamping and chewing, Mynjar walked back to the circle of tents he and the other Eltar nomads called home. Most tents were already up. He saw his wife pulling little Smyra out of a dirty bundle of old rivercane while their two older daughters struggled to lift a tent pole between them.

Talon started when she saw her husband. She was a very short woman, her head only coming to Mynjar’s chest. Her long black hair was put up in a tightly woven braid, something she had never done before Smyra had come around. Her skin was darker than Mynjar’s, as she had a purer Strein ancestry, and though she was five years younger than Mynjar, only twenty, her face was prematurely lined with anxiety.

I meant to have dinner waiting, she apologized, putting Smyra down again and hurrying over to the other two girls to help them lift. Mynjar easily lifted the adjoining pole and tied the two together with a short length of twine.

A late dinner never killed a man, Mynjar said, pleased with how wise that sounded. He’d have to remember that one.

His wife gave him a harried smile as she freed the cook pot from a rucksack and started gathering dried elephant dung for the fire. She tried hard, that one. Always moving, never feeling her work was done. Mynjar wished he had the words to comfort her, to let her know her efforts were always so much more than enough.

He finished setting up the tent while she started a small cookfire outside it. On a colder night they might build the fire inside, but tonight the plains promised a warm, comfortable sleep.

Talon was already watching a clay pot of water heat as Mynjar finished tying an elephant skin cover over the poles to finish the tent. The girls, Lonmar and Konsa, ran over to a small hillock nearby to gather some flowers and work them into their long black hair. Such little beauties. Smyra rested fitfully in her mother’s arms as the fire crackled and sputtered and the last bit of sunlight started to fade from the Eltar plains.

Mynjar came up behind his wife and put his arms around her and Smyra. Talon leaned back and rested her head against his chest, sighing.

The sun leaves and takes your worries with it, he said. She shook her head playfully.

Not for me, she said, tightening her grip on Smyra. Worry is my most steadfast companion since this little elf joined our little herd.

She’ll grow fast, Mynjar reassured her, squeezing his wife and daughter closer.

I’m not sure that will make things better, Talon laughed as Smyra squirmed. She eyed the two older girls playing nearby.

The pot began to boil but she ignored it for a brief minute, seeming too grateful for the moment’s peace to give it up too quickly. She turned back to cooking, and Mynjar took Smyra while Talon stirred cured elephant meat and some herbs into a soup.

A few months back they had bought hard gnomish bread from the Square, the grand storage complex in Eltar’s capital. It would hardly to be enough to supplement the weak broth, but Mynjar was pleased. There would be plenty of food once the season was over and they returned to Eltar’s only city to trade. Two of the elephants were nearly ready for calving, including one of the larger war elephants. The Elephant Brother would pay handsomely for a new calf to train for his army. So few Eltar bothered with the troublesome war breed anymore. Easier to raise pygmy elephants for the gnomish traders, the Naum.

It was strange how nearly a thousand years of selective breeding had changed elephants. Old Strein stories told of their intelligence; it was for good reason Slon, the god of wisdom, was sometimes called the Elephant God. A couple of breeds were still like that, but domestication had made most of the new ones very docile and compliant. It was sad to think about, really.

Mynjar sighed and shook his head absently as Smyra burbled and caught onto his fingers with her teeth. She was growing quickly. He couldn’t let thoughts of business distract him too much, or she’d blossom into a young woman before he knew it.

He looked at the distant horizon, across the Eltar plains and Mirror Desert to where the sun had nearly disappeared for the night. The sunset was brilliantly colored. As he turned, he saw the red of the Blood Mountains to the east nearly matched the warm hues of the setting sun.

Then he saw her: a pale-skinned woman, approaching from the east. She was alone, as if she had no reason to fear the jackals or the aja-aja hunting at night in this region. No one but a fool or a wizard traveled alone in Eltar, especially not at night.

As she came closer, he noticed she was very pregnant, and so far along her feet shuffled awkwardly and she held her back as she walked. Mynjar ran his fingers through his beard thoughtfully. What was a foreign woman doing so far out here? And in such a state?

Dinner is ready, Talon moved the pot a bit further from the fire with a sturdy piece of stream-cane. She walked up beside Mynjar when he did not respond immediately. Following his gaze, she saw the stranger coming nearer.

We have to help her, she said, starting toward the woman. Mynjar put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

We should tell Cree, he said, thinking of the tribe’s elder. He’ll want to know. This doesn’t seem normal.

There was a sharp cry and the strange woman squatted down, her hands clutching her swollen abdomen.

Cree will have to wait, Talon snapped, rushing over to help the woman. Mynjar followed her.

As they approached, the woman looked up at them with a glassy, emotionless stare. After a moment, she gave a cold chuckle.

Are you trying to help me? she mocked.

Mynjar nodded uneasily.

We can lend you our tent for the night, he said. There are women here who can help you deliver the child.

Fine, she said acidly. May as well play along. Blast Sisi for her cursed role in all this.

She let out a labored, long moan, then paused to catch her breath before raising her hand toward them.

Mynjar hesitated. The woman had just cursed Sisi, the goddess of motherhood and gifts. He could not imagine a worse time for such a blasphemous oath. Still, women sometimes said horrible things during childbirth. His own wife had called him a great lumbering oaf while Smyra was being born. That still stung a bit when he thought of it.

Help me, Mynjar, Talon grunted, straining to pull the much taller woman to her feet.

Embarrassed, Mynjar heaved the woman up while holding Smyra with his other hand. Talon took Smyra from him and started running toward the circle of tents.

Get her into the tent and make her comfortable, she yelled behind her as she ran.

Funny how women always started giving orders when a baby was on the way. Even funnier how men never questioned that.

Mynjar eyed the woman nervously as he helped her waddle over to the tent. She kept panting, and they had to stop several times for her to catch her breath, or curse as a spasm rocked her body.

As they neared the dying cookfire, he saw her face more clearly. Though it was twisted in pain, she was a beautiful, strong-featured woman, years older than he or Talon, but still young. Her arms were well muscled, or at least more so than any woman he knew. She seemed to have the build of a warrior.

That was a silly thought though. There hadn’t been any warrior women since Andora the Strein. He dismissed the strange idea as he led the woman into the tent.

He rolled up a wool blanket for her to rest her head on, and she lay down slowly and deliberately, wincing. The makeshift pillow soon became dark with sweat. The woman continued to breathe heavily, her chest heaving. Her pale face grew paler.

Do you need some water? Mynjar asked uncomfortably. His wife would be coming soon. He ought to check on the girls, see where they had run off to.

Yes, blast you, the woman spat, interrupting his thoughts. Mynjar turned to retrieve some water from his flask outside.

No, wait, she grabbed his arm. How long is this going to take?

The water? Mynjar asked, confused.

No, the blasted son I’m having, she winced. How long before he’s out?

I… Mynjar paused. Was she asking him to check, or simply to guess? He decided on the latter. It could be several hours, he said, thinking of his first child’s birth and how long that had taken. Surely the woman wouldn’t have asked if this wasn’t her first.

The woman grimaced.

Forget it then, she snapped. This is ridiculous.

With that, her skin and flesh started to shrivel away. Her glassy green eyes disappeared first, followed by her cheeks, then the flesh of her hands. Before Mynjar could think to cry out, all that was left of the foreign woman was a skeleton wrapped in a silk dress.

In the midst of his horror, or perhaps in the center of it, he noticed a strange bulge under the cloth, between the skeleton’s rib cage and the pelvis. It was moving.

Talon arrived just then with a midwife and two other women Mynjar recognized, but before he could think of their names they were gone. He could hear them screaming as they left, but he was too distracted to consider what they might be saying. Talon took Mynjar’s hand as the midwife’s eyes bulged in shock.

What happened, Mynjar, Talon asked hoarsely. Where’s…

Mynjar pointed unthinkingly to the shapeless bulge in the dress.

Talon knelt beside the woman’s remains and in one fluid motion ripped the silk dress from the neckline to a foot short of the hem. They saw chalky, ancient bones…and a newborn, blue from lack of air and abnormally dry and clean. Talon lifted the child and it began to scream, taking its first breath. His first breath. As the woman had somehow known, the child was indeed a boy.

What sort of sorcery… Mynjar said, turning to the midwife. She was gone. Through the tent walls, he could hear a disturbing murmur in the camp all around them, a hiss of nervous whispers he couldn’t make out, but he could guess at. He grabbed Talon and led her and the babe outside, away from the strange woman’s corpse. A crowd had formed and what seemed like the whole tribe was gathered around their tent, alerted by the screams of the women. Mynjar and Talon eyed the pale-skinned child in her arms nervously as the gathered herders and their wives watched.

Mynjar wanted to explain to them—these were his companions, his friends—but what could he say? He had no idea what had just happened, no way to begin understanding it, to even take it in.

Then Cree was there, stepping past the assembled Eltar with an enforced calm, exuding control and power belying his old age.

Is this the child? he asked, stepping toward Talon first. Mynjar nodded, trying to be helpful.

His mother, Mynjar tried to explain, She just…dissolved…

The right words wouldn’t come. Cree nodded and stepped into the tent. When he returned, he seemed excited. Just for a moment, though, and Mynjar quickly decided he’d imagined the strange reaction.

A great evil has done this, Cree said, addressing the tribe in a soothing tone that seemed very out of place. I know little of magic, but surely good magic like that of the Nine of old would not take such dark forms.

The herders and their families nodded in agreement, their faces lit dimly by campfires and a few hastily lit torches. Mynjar shuddered. He’d never been exposed to evil magic before, or heard of it except in old stories, but how did evil like this produce a child? Unless the child was cursed, a fairy being in human form.

The child is innocent, Cree said. We must believe that.

Mynjar was surprised and for