War of Shadow and Light: Part Three of the Redemption Cycle Read online

  ~ The Redemption Cycle ~

  WAR OF SHADOW AND LIGHT

  ~ Part Three of the Redemption Cycle ~

  J.R. Lawrence

  Prologue

  The Ones He Fears

  Vexor Hulmir stood, unmoving, at the edge of his troupes encampment. His face was upon the north, and his eyes, hidden beneath the cowl of his purple cloak, searched the land round about. He saw only the gentle slopes of the Hilled Valley shimmering under the moons pale light. He had been standing in this position since the sun had set over the sea in the west, and was planning to remain stationed until otherwise ordered by his superiors.

  Behind him rose the great shadows of the Bolgin Mountains against the starlit sky, and they stretched far to the west like a wall of sharpened teeth ready to consume any and all that ventured into their midst. But Vexor Hulmir was unconcerned with the mountains behind him, instead focusing his keen eyes upon the north and the gentle slopes of the Hilled Valley.

  Vexor Hulmir was among The Followers, a fallen people who, at the moment, were unknown to the land he gazed upon. His skin was pale, never knowing sunlight, and his hair was stark white, though concealed beneath the cowl of purple fabric that signified him as a loyal follower of the Urden’Dagg. Indeed, every Follower of the Urden’Dagg wore that cloak of dark purple, taking upon themselves the name of their deity. Every Follower that wore it feared that name and followed its every command with willing obedience. But Vexor Hulmir was unlike his fellow comrades.

  But Vexor Hulmir had made himself a promise long ago that he would not make the same mistake as his family, and plunge all those who cared for him into darkness. But that did not contradict the fact that Vexor, as trustworthy a servant as any Follower of his troupe could be, wondered on the things of his namesake.

  Vexor shifted his posture as he wrapped his purple garb more firmly about him, to shield him from the biting chill of the midwinter night.

  His eyes narrowed as he thought on the purpose of his coming to this land. He was among the first of his people to step out of the dark passages of their land and set foot upon this surface world, to view it in the darkness of night, when the inhabitants were least likely to notice them. It was their purpose to search out the landscape, unseen and unnoticed, and assault when the time came. It was among the many designs of the Urden’Dagg to lay hold upon the land, seize it, and claim it as its own.

  A cloud of steam puffed out of Vexor’s mouth as he breathed out a sigh of apprehension. He did not like the idea of attacking, or even killing, the people of this world. He did not know them or understand them, as much as he did not understand the cause for which he now stood, searching with his infrared vision for any sign of their enemies.

  The encampment of his troupe lay behind him, nearer the base of the Bolgin Mountains, hidden beneath its shadow. Vexor had left them, growing tired of their company, and seeking quiet solitude he had found himself standing and watching the last rays of the sun disappear below the western horizon. His companions either didn’t care for his absence, or didn’t notice, for it had been long since he had left them, and none had ventured out to seek him. But Vexor did not mind his loneliness, rather preferring it instead of the troublesome conversations of his spiteful comrades.

  As the moon rose nearer to the center of the starlit sky, and one by one The Followers in their shadowy encampment went to sleep, save for a few chosen to watch over them, someone stepped from the camp and walked toward Vexor as he stood a good distance away and out of range of hearing. The Follower who approached Vexor had his cowl pulled back to lie across his shoulders, revealing white hair now glistening in the moonlight.

  The two figures stood side by side in silence for some time. Vexor never removed his eyes from the northlands, never acknowledged the others’ coming, and the other followed his intense stare as he waited patiently for any hint at what he watched.

  “Any sight or sound to the north?” asked The Follower at his side.

  Vexor took in the scene for a moment longer before replying. “Nothing as far as my eyes and ears can tell,” said Vexor in a low voice. “They are quiet, though, and know these lands better then ourselves. We might have been discovered, though I know not by what means that is possible. I do not know these people.”

  “We shall know them in time,” said The Follower. He turned his gaze back toward their troupe in the darkness behind them. “I heard that in a day from now we will be joined by a score of units, fresh from the tunnels and ready for combat.” He paused as he smiled grimly. “We shall know these dwellers, Vexor Hulmir.”

  Vexor shifted uncomfortably where he stood, and his stare only intensified on the distance. The Follower at his side saw this, and felt the discomfort in the fighter as he turned back toward him.

  “Do not fear them,” he instructed Vexor sternly, misreading the stare. “Our enemies will be dealt aside, but not without the loss of a few of our soldiers, of course. These here are cruel indeed, and crueler still are their ways in battle. I remind you that our battle against them is yet before us, and not to be feared.”

  The Follower padded Vexor on the shoulder before turning away, going back toward their encampment. Vexor turned from the empty distance to look upon the camp of his companions, and his comrades’ slow approach toward it, and let out yet another sigh of apprehension, releasing a flow of steam from his mouth.

  He breathed aloud his thoughts. “It is not our enemies that I fear,” he whispered.

  Book One

  Storm of Fire and Ash

  We are burning as we go. Behind us is laid forth a land aflame by the fires of vengeance, and before us is a people we are yet to meet face to face and blade to blade. Our fires will spread to the very edges of the land of these people, consuming any and all that fall into it, and those that do not will fall into our hands to be slain for their treachery against our forefathers and mothers, who had at one point been akin to them.

  We run with torches, setting aflame the land that we pass by to cleanse it of its filthiness, so that we, when the work is done, may reclaim it as our own like in times past. The separate branches of the Urden’Dagg tree will be as one, united under a single banner, and that banner is the symbol of our all great and all powerful Urden’Dagg. That banner is upon our backs as we run with fire, scorching clean the land that we pass by. We will unite, and our unity will be like in times past.

  I think it among the many designs of Diamoad the Urden’Dagg that we return to a place and a time lost to the past. I ask myself why he would want to do this; what is he hoping to gain from the past that he lost those many years ago when he “fell from glory”? I do not doubt that the land, this land that I now stand upon, was a glorious kingdom; and neither do I doubt that I, if in the place of Diamoad the Urden’Dagg, would want to return to such a place during those times of great glory and majesty. But what I do doubt is the possibility of returning this land to such a time. It is, after all, lost to the past.

  Perhaps Diamoad the Urden’Dagg hopes that if he succeeds in reclaiming this land, and glorifying it as before, he will be able to simply undo whatever wrongs he had done. If this is so, than I fear that he will be greatly disappointed when this land becomes ours. Or, should I say, if this land becomes ours. I do not doubt the strength of our arms or the power of our people. I simply do not know, or understand, these people that I am marching against. I have an idea, but that is simply an idea, and one must not rely on assumptions alone. The imagination can be more dangerous than reality. That is why I pray that Diamoad the Urden’Dagg does not plan too well his idea of what will become of the la
nd once it is ours.

  What of me? I march among thousands of my kin to wage war against a mystery yet to be revealed. Oh how I hate a mystery! If I could but know of my future, of the future of my people, then perhaps I will be satisfied. But I also fear to know my future; to know that I fail utterly at the hands of my enemies in service to my people. I wish it would either come all at once, or never come at all. But I sin in my wish, as Diamoad the Urden’Dagg sins to assume the future to bring to pass the past.

  I must admit that I, like Diamoad the Urden’Dagg, long for the days long lost to the past. I miss my family. It is as simple as that. But not so simple is the knowledge that, despite my efforts, I cannot return to them. My last memory of my homeland is not one to cherish in my heart as some others would, for my memory is one of destruction falling upon my household. It was in absolute chaos as demons from otherworldly planes came into the existence of our world for no other purpose than to destroy us.

  When I think back on such memories, I see first someone who I had called brother and teacher, and he was my brother and teacher. I see him, my brother, fighting the monsters that held him at their wicked will. His last struggles burn in my mind, causing both sorrow and anger – the sorrow for my loss of a beloved friend, and the anger for the loss of a beloved friend. And so it is that my anger and my sorrow lead me onward through these fields of which I burn beside my kinsmen, to settle the undying hatred towards the people that had long ago cursed us into the underworld to die as my brother had.

  This time, it is they that shall die in pools of their own cursed blood. This time, it is they who shall feel sorrow and helpless anger, which shall guide them onward to no avail.

  ~ Neth’tek Vulzdagg

  Chapter 1

  Smoke on the Horizon

  Stylinor Grylson cut down sharply with his axe, the blade sinking deep into the bark of the tree he had been hacking at for nearly an hour now. The pine creaked and groaned under the stress of the impact and the large groove he had been cutting deeper into with each powerful swing. The glade of pinewood and oak had always been an attraction to many of the lumbermen of Heinsfar when coming out of their homesteads for a day’s work of cutting and chopping in the forests, to return home with enough stock to last them for the winter season – which was fast approaching.

  The cities of Valdorin and Hemingway stood as principal settlements for Heinsfar, and the townspeople visited the two cities often to trade in their various trading markets. Both cities were near each other, and a straight guarded road led from one to the other. Stylinor, however, was not from either capital of Men. He lived in a secluded home in the woods outside the borders of either city, and he was comfortable there with his family for the time being.

  His father had built the home a little over a month before he was borne as the eldest and only child in his family. He stood a little over five feet and had recently reached the age of seventeen years. He was strong enough to work his father’s labors for him, and wise enough to chop on the western side of the tree so that it fell uphill instead of sliding down the steep slope that he struggled to keep his feet upon in the muddy earth.

  He was covered up to his knees in mud, his boots completely sunk into the muck, and his trousers damply hanging from his legs. His wool coat clung to his chest, shielding him from the chilly air, and was speckled with mud as he had slipped and fallen a few times during the work. Despite the discomfort of the damp earth and air, the lumberjack kept up his heavy hacking, occasionally running a hand through his dirty brown hair to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes.

  Pale skinned and rosy cheeked from the coldness, Stylinor took another hard swing that sunk the ax deep enough in the bark to be held in place so that he could take a short respite.

  Glancing into the sky through the many intertwining branches of the pines, Stylinor saw the grey clouded sky overhead threatening, as it always did that time of year, rain or snow upon the mountains and valleys. Everything was quiet and peaceful as it always was, and as it always should be, in stylinor’s opinion. Then, with a resigned sigh, Stylinor took his ax by it handle to once again be about his fathers work, for his father, nearing his sixtieth year, was old and way worn by the years of accomplishing such tasks that his son now carried out for him; such tasks that supplied the family with a warm hearth and food to last the year.

  As he moved to pull the ax from the thick bark of the pinewood he heard a deep groaning from within the tree as it began to give way to the hewn side. Stylinor smiled with excitement as he pulled his ax completely free of its side, and watched as it began to lean upon the uphill slope. Quickly, knowing that he had to keep the momentum going, Stylinor began chopping away to remove more wood for it to collapse completely.

  The trees broke free of its last strands of wood, straining to keep it in its natural position, and fell to the mud with a hollow thump that brought the lumberjack’s greatest joy. Stylinor stuck his ax into its side as he leapt upon it, clapping his hands over his head to congratulate himself for his grand achievement. He stopped then to listen to the echoes of the fall of the tree and of his clapping as they bounced back and forth from pine to pine to oak and back again until fading into distant whispers.

  “A mighty good chop ye got there Sty,” came an all too familiar voice from behind. “Always going for the tall ones I see. Always wanting to be like, or better then, those bigger jacks.”

  Stylinor turned round to see the grinning face of a lifelong friend, standing with arms crossed over his chest in the mucky damp earth. He had on a pair of breeches like Stylinor, and a wool jacket as well, and his boots were covered in mud from long distances of walking. But unlike Stylinor, he had on a cotton hat to keep his ears and head warm from the biting chill.

  “Aye,” Stylinor replied with a grin of his own, “I’m not one to be belittled when I know where I stand among mine own efforts. But, Kini, what are ye doing up here? We all know how much ye dislike the mud and the wood.”

  Kinimod shook his head. “Just the mud,” He lifted his boot and shook off the grime that stuck to it. “The wood is necessary for one to stay warm in this weather.”

  Stylinor nodded his agreement. He looked about for a moment, examining the wet terrain for any sign that a lumberjack might ne nearby, but he saw no one, and so shrugged before dropping off his prized “chop”.

  “Ye don’t have an ax an ye by any chance?” Stylinor said with an incredulous glance at his friend.

  Kinimod shook his head again. “Nay, Chopin’s not me thing.”

  Stylinor turned to his log before Kinimod had even answered, knowing that he wouldn’t have such a tool on him. He inspected his tree for some time, measuring its width and height to decipher just how long it might take for him to cut it all up.

  “Two, maybe three days if no delays,” he said at length as Kinimod began to move beside him. Stylinor swung his ax up onto his shoulder as he turned to look at Kinimod. “Ye won’t be up for helping by any chance will ye?”

  Kinimod shrugged indecisively, looking at the log and measuring it as Stylinor had done. He began counting his fingers and muttering numbers to himself before saying, “Three, maybe four days is more like it,” and looked sidelong at Stylinor with another shrug; this one for pity on his friend.

  Stylinor laughed wholeheartedly, slapping kinimod on the back before slamming his ax down into the bark of his pine.

  “Better get working then, aye?” said Stylinor as he brought his ax up for another chop.

  Shaking his head for the third time, Kinimod turned round to leave the lumberjack to his work, and eventually disappeared back through the pines and oaks the way he had come.

  *****

  Though hard to decipher from the enormous shadows of the Bolgin Mountains, the thick black smoke could be seen even from Valdorin, rising in great clouds to the distant south where a fire had been kindled by what many believed unnatural hands. No storm had befallen that land, and so no lightning could have struck the earth so pro
foundly to cause such an immense burning.

  “The trolls have come down from their mountain caves to strike us!” some would say while others said, “’Tis the fires of Muari come to consume the land as was in the first days! Prepare! Prepare yourselves for the coming of the Beloved!” And so it went about through heralds or simple folk who had their own opinions and their own ideas of what was to befall thereafter the fires could be seen.

  Thought many fretted about it, and many more argued with those who did; there were some who sat back either to watch it all with curious eyes or with uncaring expressions and thoughts. Stylinor was among some of that curious kind, listening to the talk of strange things as one would a story, only this was more serious. He first heard the exchange of opinions and warnings when he returned down the narrow lane, cut by lumberjacks and their log-hauling-wagons, to take some rest for the night.

  He had stuck under his belt his hatchet, and having left his mark upon his chop, Stylinor didn’t worry that anyone would take his hard earned wood from where he left it in the muddy hills. Lumberjacks were honest men, dealing justly with one another and helping whenever asked, or if tempted with a morsel of the wood. The woodmen were excellent with stories as well, and could tell one from the top of their heads if asked politely; but as Stylinor was walking down the lumberjack lane as dusk began its descent, he overheard the exchanges between two burly men as they loaded their wood into a horse drawn wagon, and knew as he listened more intently that the story the bigger one shared was no story from the imagination.

  “I’m telling you that it isn’t any cloud of natural weather,” the big lumberman with a golden beard was saying, “and don’t ye be disbelieving what I’m telling you, ye hear me?”