Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle Read online

  ~ The Redemption Cycle ~

  OBLIVION

  ~ Part Five of the Redemption Cycle ~

  J.R. Lawrence

  Prologue

  Wicked Awakening

  “Do you know how it feels to die?

  A decade has passed since last their has been war upon this world, and the hunger for it, the insatiable thirst for blood, has never left my lips. How long will you leave me in the shadows, a forgotten nightmare that has been rendered to be little more than a fairytale among these wretched souls? I desire their souls, to feast upon them and renew the bond that has been broken between us. You cannot leave me in the shadows forever, Watcher. Eventually I will break out and declare chaos in your name, and you shall laugh because of it. So I ask again, how long?”

  When her prayer was ended, the minuscule figure of the woman lifted herself from her knees and half crawled to the altar before her. It was black, cut entirely out of ebony rock, shaped like a square slab but carved in the middle to be a bowl filled with smoldering embers.

  “I have died a thousand deaths, but each time I have been freed by the ashes of the eternal flame,” she said as she dipped her hand into the hot embers, scooping them up to be held before her aged eyes.

  She was an ancient artifact, buried in the depths of the Shadow Realms – the Lesser Realm itself – by the First Born in an attempt to be kept from ever rising to power. But by the ultimate power of The Watcher from his High Tower, the ways that he had left behind prior to his eternal banishment from the world, she had gained access to a few of the Followers of the Urden’Dagg. Just enough to spread her message across the universe, gathering power to her being despite being imprisoned in the heart of the world itself.

  The message was oblivion, and now out of silence and shadow she was already beginning to gain power enough to break free.

  Her skin was wrinkled, thin and grey as it clung to her bones like fungus to a tree; and her hair was white and matted, even completely bald in places on her dead scalp. A monster in and of itself.

  She grinned, her thin lips curling up to reveal yellow teeth. “I have waited, Watcher,” she croaked, “Now give me what I’ve been praying for!”

  The embers in her hand suddenly glowed bright, and then became a flame. It burned up her hand, but she just closed her eyes and did nothing, allowing it to spread up her arm as it devoured flesh and bone. In an instant, she was fire. And then, a moment later, it was gone, and in the place of the old woman was an elegant queen dressed all in black, a dress that trailed halfway across the corridor behind her. And her skin was fair as in her youth, the hair on her head was all black, and when she opened her eyes and smiled, she was beautiful beyond comparison.

  Anuel, the Shadow Queen, had reawakened, this time empowered with the full might of the darkness at her command.

  “Tell me what I must do to be free,” she asked the altar of embers.

  The altar whispered back to her, “Find the Vulzdagg brothers, and break them.”

  The embers shifted into three images. One was of a noble prince Adya standing before an open balcony, looking over his estate. The two others revealed The Fallen, once Followers of the Urden’Dagg and even Adya. They were alone, isolated in a small valley in the mountains.

  “It shall be done, oh Watcher on the High Tower,” she said with an evil grin.

  Book One

  Mortality

  I am dying.

  Mortality is such a fragile thing, and once broken it cannot be repaired or returned for another. I feel that these past few days have awoken me to a sense of the reality of this particle of life. I know that with every breath I take, I draw nearer to my last. Just as every step of the traveler will bring him nearer to his destination, so it is with life. And although some may fear to realize how near the end of it they may be, I do not.

  Whatever God formed this world and placed us upon it, whether it be Muari or some other deity estranged to me, I imagine that there must have been some purpose or reason behind it. When we die, will we be united with lost friends and loved ones who took such familiar roads? Or will we be consigned to float in a void of emptiness for the rest of eternity, looking back on our lives with such gross regret?

  I hope to see my friends again, those I deem must by now have passed on. But most especially my family. If what Dril’ead has told me of what transpired since I left our home, than they are all gone. Gefiny, Vaknorbond, and Leona’burda. Poor souls, lost and confined in a dungeon of stone beneath this world. Some tried to crawl to the surface, to where you and I now sit, searching for light. But now they lie there, fingers clawing at the dust of the Shadow Realms, so close and yet so far. The poor souls, I wish I could have helped them.

  I wish that they could have seen the sunrise, felt its warmth after the sting of the winter wind. I wish something more could have been done for them, that perhaps I might have been able to shed a little more light on their life. But these wishes are in vain; I know now that nothing can be done.

  This must be what mortality feels like. When you look out your window and see the sun going down over the frosted mountain peaks, or your own reflection looking back at you from the glassy surface of a stream or lake, and when you see the eyes of your dearest friends and think to yourself, ‘Perhaps this will be the last time I shall see thy face.’

  I know it, Dril’ead knows it, and so does Skifel and Eladrid, as well as everyone else who has ever felt the profound fragility of mortality. Before long, all will have felt its bitterness; for all things shall eventually pass away. And so I say that I am dying.

  Truth and vanity are fragile things as well. I wish I could have known the reasons why.

  ~ Neth’tek Vulzdagg

  1

  On the Hunt

  The Horg never saw it coming.

  The blade flashed in the daylight as it left the scabbard, slashing it across the throat even as Neth’tek Vulzdagg dropped from the ledge above. Its companion turned around to inspect the sudden noise, but was met by The Fallen’s spinning blades. Neth’tek dove between its legs, catching the monsters head as it rolled backwards off of its shoulders, and then hurled it at the Horg standing at the cave entrance.

  He ripped through the underbrush as he rushed upon the horrified Horg, having been hit suddenly by the head of one of its own, and Neth’tek’s blade passed between its shield and axe, entering its skull through the bottom of its jaw.

  Something rustled in the bushes behind him, another Horg bursting out from where it had been hidden away for one such as Neth’tek to come stumbling by, but The Fallen didn’t even turn around to meet this new enemy. Instead, he waited for the whistle and sound of impact from Eladrid Woodhaven’s bow, Starsplitter.

  He dropped to one knee, the swing of its axe passing just over his head, and then heard the thud of the arrow hitting it in the neck. The Horg stumbled to the side, groping at the shaft protruding from its throat, trying not to choke on its own blood.

  The Fallen stood at the mouth of the cave, sunlight pouring down into the first five feet of the black abyss. Soon it would be gone completely, leaving Neth’tek and his small band of hunters to the cold mountains of the Northern Points. He breathed slowly, vapors of steam escaping his mouth.

  “I can smell the foul things already,” came a voice from over his shoulder, and Neth’tek did not need to turn to know who it was. He could recognize his brothers voice anywhere.

  Dril’ead squinted, peering into the depths of the cave beyond the sunlight. A moment Later, Eladrid came up the canyon behind them, bow in hand.

  “So,” Eladrid said slowly, “this is the place, then?”

  “This is w
here the trail ends,” said Neth’tek, and pointing into the cavern before them he added, “and there is where it continues.”

  “How can we be sure the girl still lives?” Eladrid asked. “It’s been... fifteen years, Neth’tek.”

  “There is only one way we might find out,” Dril’ead said, and he walked over to where the Horg lay on the stones, blood pooling underneath its neck where Eladrid’s arrow stuck. It was still alive, barely able to breath through the blood in its mouth and throat. He knelt beside its head, looking it in its terror stricken eye. “The girl,” he said evenly, “is she alive?”

  The Horg only stared at him, gurgling blood.

  Dril put his hand on the arrow, applying just enough pressure to increase the pain tenfold. It squirmed underneath him, trying to get his hand away from the wound. “I know you understand me, monster!” he growled at it, his eyes flaring impatiently.

  Eladrid and Neth’tek looked on, wondering if the monster would ever yield to the tremendous pain. It would have sickened them to see the blood and hear its growls as blood continued to fill its throat, but they had come too far and risked so much. They needed to know before they entered the cave.

  “What good will it do you to withhold information, beast? You’re doomed anyway,” Dril said, his tone dark. “Tell us if she lives and we’ll spare you the pain of suffering like this, as much as you might deserve it, wretched thing...”

  “Lives!” the Horg managed to growl, although the word was hardly discernable. Dril heard, though, and let go of the shaft.

  “The girl lives?” Dril demanded, “Be specific!”

  “Girl... alive... yes,” said the Horg, its eyes rolling back in its head.

  “I hear you,” said Dril’ead Vulzdagg.

  He snapped a knife out of his boot and drove it between its ribs, instantly stopping its heart. The Horg stiffened for a moment, and then lay still, its eyes bloodshot as it stared into the darkening sky.

  “There,” said Neth’tek to Eladrid, “we have our proof. Now let us go while we can.”

  He turned to enter the cave, Dril getting to his feet to follow.

  “I think it best that I stay behind,” Eladrid said to their backs. “Horgs may be foolish creatures, but they have enough wit about them to think to trap us in the cave. I’ll stay back and make sure your exit is clear.”

  Dril’ead and Neth’tek exchanged glances, and then nodded to the woodlander. “We’ll see you at the end of this, then.”

  They went down into the cave, the woodlander left standing alone at its mouth with an arrow fixed to Starsplitter. He watched the path they had taken, and surveyed the dead Horgs left in The Fallen’s wake. When he was certain both of them had gone down into the tunnel and were out of sight, Eladrid knelt next to the Horg Dril had interrogated, and lifted the leather pad that it wore as armor from its bleeding neck.

  On the leather was emblazoned the insignia of its clan. A burning M that haunted Eladrid’s mind.

  “Can it be?” the woodlander breathed to the cold air, steam puffing out of his mouth.

  *****

  With the infrared vision of their heritage, both Neth’tek and Dril’ead Vulzdagg were able to scale the tunnel and keep aware of the heat signatures of their enemies on the path ahead. The tunnel brought them to a set of stairs that appeared to have been cut out of the stones themselves, leading down to a wide corridor lit by torches hanging from braziers in the walls and an enormous bonfire in the middle of the circular chamber. Horgs patrolled the interior of the corridor, carrying crude swords and axes as they searched the shadows.

  Neth’tek and Dril’ead surveyed the room for a moment, taking note of the patrol patterns of the guards, and those sitting about. Another tunnel continued into the caverns of the mountain on the far end of the corridor, Neth’tek noted, and then he began searching for Helen.

  “Do you see her?” Dril asked him.

  “She’d be the only human here, I’d think,” said Neth’tek. He continued to examine the expanse of the chamber, looking for any sign of the hostage girl, praying that she was nearby. There were racks of weapons along the walls of the corridor to supply the horgs, and skins of animals hung like tapestries from the ceiling, or were strewn across the floor like rugs. And then he saw something in the shadows, almost hidden in a crevice in the wall. “There!” he whispered, pointing across the way, “I see her!”

  “Well spotted,” Dril remarked, patting him on the shoulder as he followed his finger. “Here, I have a plan... I will create a diversion to draw the Horgs into the tunnel on the far side, creating as much chaos as I can so their attention will be away from the prisoner, and then you can get her out the same way we got in. If Eladrid does his job, the way out should be clear for your escape.”

  Neth’tek narrowed his eyes as he looked at the Horgs patrolling the room. “How will you escape?” he asked.

  “The passages of the Shadow Realms are many,” Dril replied, “There should be cutoffs in that tunnel, and perhaps a way back to the surface. Don’t worry, I know how to find my way back to Evenstar. After all, I found you, didn’t I?”

  Neth’tek saw the mischievous smirk on his face and realized that this would be more of an exciting game for the nimble warrior than a daring challenge, and knew he had to trust his brother to make it out alive.

  “Fine,” Neth’tek conceded, and looking back toward Helen he nodded, “I’ll await your signal.”

  Dril was gone in an instant, slipping down the stairs and dodging into the shadows cast by the many torches, and hiding behind weapon racks and hanging skins he made his way near the middle of the corridor. He waited for a Horg to pass his position, and then leaping out Dril’ead fell upon the monster and had it on the ground in a flash of glowing steel.

  Roars and growls echoed throughout the chamber as the others saw The Fallen slay their comrade, and nearly all the Horgs rushed toward him. Dril ducked beneath one of their wide swings, cutting its leg out from under it, and dashed for the tunnel on the far side.

  A Horg came running out of the passageway to investigate the cries of its fellow clan members, not yet realizing that they had been attacked. Dril leaped into the air, putting his feet toward the surprised monster, and kicked it back down the passage. After that, he was gone, leaving Neth’tek to contend with the few Horgs that retreated toward their prisoner to guard her.

  Neth’tek rushed upon them with his scimitars drawn and spun between two that came forward to stand in his way, slashing them up and down until their bleeding corpses fell to either side. He did not stop as he leaped upon the next, deflecting a broad axe as it swung toward his head, and then slashed it across the stomach as he spun round and out of reach of its claws, diving to the side and bouncing off the wall, hitting another in the face with the hilt of his sword, and then driving the blade down its shoulder and into its heart.

  He whipped his sword round and slashed the throat of another rushing upon his back, and the Horg was thrown to the side and collided with a rack of weapons that crashed noisily to the floor, tossing the gear across the room and into the bonfire.

  Cooling his nerves, Neth’tek sheathed his swords and approached the trembling girl. She wore strips of leather and hide for clothing, her wrists tied to a wooden rod that stuck from the wall of the crevice she sat in. When she saw The Fallen turn from the many corpses of the monsters that held her hostage, she curled away from him and whimpered like a frightened dog.

  Neth’tek knelt down, putting his hand out toward her in a friendly way. “Helen, it’s me, Neth’tek,” he said, forcing a smile to his tense expression. “You don’t remember me, do you? I’m a friend of Skifel, your father. You remember him, don’t you? Do you remember your father?”

  Helen slowly looked up at him at the mention of the mans name, her face dark with dirt and grime, her hair matted and stuck with bits of rock and twigs. But it was her eyes that haunted Neth’tek most of all. They were wide, blue and wild. They were not the eyes of a sensible huma
n, but rather the eyes of a wild animal.

  When you’re treated like dumb animal long enough, Neth’tek thought, his expression becoming dark as he thought of the cruel torture she must have endured at the hands of these horrible monsters, you become one.

  But when she heard the name of her father spoken to her, something seemed to click in her mind, a recollection of times when she had not lived in fear and pain. A time when she had been happy, and had a father who loved her.

  “Skifel,” she whispered, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  “Yes,” Neth’tek said, excited to hear her speak and recognize his words, “Yes, you remember Skifel. You remember your father.”

  “Father,” she said, repeating his words. And then looking him in the eyes she said, “Neth’tek.”

  “Yes, I am Neth’tek, and I am going to take you to your father, Skifel,” he said with a smile. “I’m going to take you home, Helen.”

  Tears filled the brims of her eyes, wetting her cheeks and cleaning the dirt there. “Home,” she said and looked down. Neth’tek smiled, but when she looked up her eyes fell on something behind Neth’tek, and her next word was spoken with a tone of fear. “Mazoroth!”

  2

  The Monster of their Past

  Every side corridor that Dril’ead passed seemed to be filled with Horgs, all pouring out after him, and something about it gave him a foreboding feeling. It was almost as if the monsters had prepared for their coming, had set it up so he would make it to this stage of the rescue and then fail as the Horgs through everything they had at him in one swift blow. But that was odd for Horgs. Horgs don’t think, Dril reminded himself, only the chieftain thinks... but there is only one chieftain who thinks with strategy and not brute force, only one who was...