Legend of Horian

&

The Dycentian Blade

Chapter One

The Home Coming

Horian returned to Kiraachu Island in the Kingdom of Dycentia with such high hopes for his future. He had been dropped off by the ship on which he had worked his apprenticeship: the Lady Delphina. Old Del, as her crew referred to her, had taken Horian to many ports in many places, but no land could rival and replace the rugged resplendence of Dycentia in his heart. The charismatic colours and scintillating scents found there, in the flailing fields of flowers buttered with butterflies and throngs of towering trees, trilling with birdsong, beetles and bees. And in the mollycoddled meadows marauding with mythical mammals and other bizarre but benevolent beasts, seemed to exist nowhere else.

The captain had held a dinner in Horian’s honour the evening before his homecoming, to commemorate his two years of service with them. They had made their good-byes then. When Horian stepped off the ship for the last time, it was without ceremony. It had been two years of combat training on land followed by two years of servitude on the sea for Horian. It had been a difficult yet exciting time. Horian was grateful for it but he was also glad that it was over, so a new phase of his life could begin.

It was fitting, he thought, that he should return home at daybreak, the time when life awaits the first warm touches of the sun’s rays. As he made his way up from the rocky coast, the shadow of night was shattered by the blush of dawn that touched down on the island. The grand golden gushes splashed everywhere, chasing away the remaining darkness into the brambles and rabbit holes. It was the best sunrise Horian had ever seen.

Although Horian’s village wasn’t sizable, the island itself was quite large and contained many different types of terrain. It was, in many ways, a world unto itself. Horian traversed the small mountains separating the coast from the more fertile inland. From their grassy peaks he could see stretches of fields that had recently been harvested.

In a few months they would be ripe again, chest-high, nodding and billowing in golden waves with rows of rice, wheat, oats, barley, millets, and corn. He saw the good-old orchards that had recently borne their fruit, which he knew were already preserved in mason jars, waiting to be turned into pies. If he closed his eyes he could smell his mother’s specialty—peach and papaya with some strawberries thrown in for good measure, and heaps of cinnamon with a drizzle of Dycentian wine.

Then from a drumlin hill that Horian scaled, he spied his sleepy boyhood village, lying just on the fringe of the forest. The cottages were expertly built, made of sturdy stone from the shoreline and thatched with golden bark. They had lasted for generations. His own quaint cottage that was the crown of Kiraachu Island being perched on a cloud cutting cliff had been built by his great-great-great-grandfather. Horian was still too far away to see his house clearly, but the thought of soon being in it caused him to quicken his step.

Following the grazing cattle that gambolled like lambs, he crossed Raushinee River, which the villagers used to irrigate tier upon tier of terraces garbed into the precipitous slopes. Taking a host of cobblestoned corridors down from this labyrinth of livelihood, he descended into a dingle festooned with fennels, folaashees, fig trees, mushrooms, molehills and wildflowers. He enjoyed the familiar twists and turns. Each boulder, each tree had a memory attached to this magical and flamboyant forest of Kiraachu.

 He had run along this enchanted path many times as a boy, as he was doing now. His years away had matured him as they were meant to, but as the path ended and his parents’ cottage appeared before him, he was transformed back into that young boy; sent away carrying a cloth sack containing little more than a change of clothes and a blunt blade, and the same sleeping ferret it contained right now.

Joy washed over Horian as he imagined his family’s delighted smiles. He continued through his mother’s overgrown herb garden to the cottage door, where he stopped again. He wondered how he should greet them. Should he knock on the door, so they would expect to see a neighbour or a travelling salesman on the doorstep? He raised his fist to knock, but hesitated. He decided to burst in and surprise everyone all at once. He pushed the old iron latch and swung the oak door open. The air that greeted him was warm and cosy. After many years away, it was good to be home.

Horian inhaled, detecting the sumptuous smell of breakfast. He could tell it was a feast of boiled dried strips of venison, and he guessed that there were dried cherries and plums to go with it. He walked over to the basil plant that was sitting on the windowsill in a blue clay vase. Thinking it looked dry he watered it from the kettle that sat beside it. His gaze then turned to the fine portrait of his mother which hung on the wall, admiring the way the sunlight enhanced the already radiant beauty of her elegant, pointed nose and her high cheekbones and forehead – features that were typical of Dycentian ladies.

The kitchen door, which was adjacent to the portrait, was closed. Horian walked slowly over to it, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. He twisted the wheaten knob and entered to see that breakfast was boiling over an unattended fire. Where was his mother? She was always up at dawn, nursing the fire, sweeping morning dew from the doorstep, but the house was quiet and no one stirred. Then he froze, hearing a sound that disturbed him greatly. Someone was honing a sword.

His heart reaching for his ribs, Horian steadily unsheathed his own sword. And then, with the eyes of a thief, he cautiously looked outside. To his relief, he discovered that what he had heard was only his mother and grandmother sharpening the kitchen knives and machetes.

“Surprise!” he shouted, letting the sword fall to the ground. The two women stared at him blankly for a moment, clearly shocked at the sight of a man who only a moment ago had been threatening them with a blade. Then Horian saw recognition flash across their faces.

“Horian... is that really you?” his mother exclaimed.

Horian dropped his canvas sack, forgetting that his ferret friend, Arthur, was asleep in there, and hugged both women. His little sister Gail, who had been sitting at her mother’s feet playing with a doll, jumped up and threw her small, chubby arms around her only brother’s legs, squeezing very tight. Horian broke away from the women and picked up the little girl. He spun her round, saying, “Oh, how I have missed you all!”

“We have missed you too, Horian, we have missed you too. So much,” his mother said. “You are so changed. I cannot believe you are the same little boy who left all those years ago. But your eyes, your eyes are the same, Horian.”

“You must tell me everything that has happened while I have been gone, Mother and Grandmother.”

“Me too!”

“Yes, you too, Gail,” he said, putting her down.

“Oh Horian,” Lady Cassandra said, reaching up and stroking his cheek affectionately. “You are the one who has been on an adventure; the question is what you have been up to?”

The ferret, Arthur, who had been woken up by Horian’s unceremonious dumping, now occupied the overjoyed Gail’s attention by performing tricks, although Horian knew she was still unaware of his most special talent. Horian shared a few of the new things he had learned and experienced with his mother and grandmother; he did not consider most of it fit talk for women folk.

He certainly did not think his refined mother would like to hear any of the crude language he had learned aboard the Old Del. Although the crew assured him that speaking that way was just part of being a man, Horian never took to it. He also found it hard to concentrate when the two women were staring at him so intently.

“You remind me so much of my son, your father. You have certainly developed into a strong, tall, handsome young man,” his grandmother, Rosalina, told him.

“Speaking of Father, is he not home? Where is he?” Horian was anxious to find someone he could tell his adventures to.

“Right here, my son, it has been so long!” His father, Juratan appeared, pushing the garden gate open; he was carrying a brown leather satchel that was unusually long. “Horian, you were nothing more than a tiger cub when you left us,” Juratan said, hugging his son closely to him. “Now look at you – you are a man! Come. You must be starved. We can talk over breakfast.”

The family sat down to eat together for the first time since the day Horian left home. During his four years of training, Horian had longed for the warmth of his family around him. And now finally to be in their company again, he felt so blessed as he humbled himself.

“So, Horian, tell us. Did you meet any nice girls on your travels? I would not mind a daughter-in-law – another pair of hands to help around the house,” said Lady Cassandra teasingly, while heaping his plate high with a second helping of food.

“No, mother, no girl has stolen my heart, as yet,” Horian responded, blushing.

“She would have to be beyond beautiful Cassandra, to melt and steal my son’s heart, right Horian?” said Juratan, patting Horian on the back.

Despite his double helpings, Horian was the first to finish his meal. Lady Cassandra tried to fill his plate a third time, but he gently refused. Throughout breakfast he had been wondering what could be in the case Juratan was carrying. He was impatient for the meal to be over, so he could ask his father about it.

“That was fine cooking, my dears,” Juratan said, at last putting his utensils down to signal he was finished. He gave his mother and his wife each a kiss on the cheek. “You should go and rest. Horian and I will do the dishes.”

Gail coaxed Arthur back out to the garden, where he entertained her some more. The two women, instead of resting, began the day’s other household chores. As promised, Horian and his father washed the dishes. When Juratan finished drying the last bowl, Horian finally felt it was the right time to ask him about what was in the leather satchel. He just sensed it was something important, something magical.

“Come, let us sit and talk, my son.”

Horian was eager to hear what Juratan was going to tell him. His father never ceased to amaze him with the products of his wizardry, although Lady Cassandra was not supposed to know he practiced it as much as he did – at least, that was the rule when Horian left four years ago.

Juratan settled down in Rosalina’s rocking chair. Horian took a chair from the dining table and sat down in front of his father. He noticed the dark circles under Juratan’s eyes. His face did not bear a single wrinkle yet his hair showed some strips of grey that Horian did not remember being there before.

“Horian, in this case rests the key to the world’s salvation from the wicked wizardly Warrior King Galleroth and his tyranny,” Juratan began. “Would you like some tea, son? I would like some tea.”

“No, thank you, Father.” Horian could not believe his father would say something that profound and then stop to put on a kettle, but he knew better than to complain. He waited patiently until his father returned to the rocking chair, cradling a steaming cup of tea in his hands.

“I suppose you had been gone no more than two years, Horian, when King Hemlington appointed me to create a blade of unfathomable power. And create it I did.” Juratan lowered his voice to a whisper, as if he was telling a secret. This seemed very odd to Horian since there was no one to overhear. “It is called the Dycentian Blade.”

“Wow. What a name, the Dycentian Blade. Just how powerful is the sword, Father?” asked Horian, unable to stop his gaze from flicking to the leather satchel.

“Powerful beyond anything you can even begin to comprehend, my son, even begin to comprehend. Or it will be, once the elements have been incorporated into its metal. You see, this blade is no ordinary sword; it is made of Sijjeel and Zaara, two enchanted metals that are far superior to steel. They are the only two materials which can contain such raw power the elements will emanate.”

Juratan took a sip of tea before continuing. Horian had never had so little tolerance for his father’s dramatic pauses. When Juratan began speaking again, he leaned in to Horian so that the two of them were in a sort of huddle.

“You are not the only one who was on an adventure, you see,” Juratan said, still whispering. “I too am going to travel the world to gather nine sacred elements which I will imbed into the sword. And each of these elements are divided into three shards which in turn are hidden within twenty-seven supernatural beasts. When each beast is slain, the shards will be freed and, attracted by the magic of the metal, will imbed themselves within the sword.”

Horian felt his father’s excitement and frowned. “How do you know that these elements exist, Father? And how will you find and fight this ridiculous number of twenty-seven beasts?”

Juratan smiled. “I am a sorcerer, my son. But they are a Royal Dycentian secret; only the Dycentian Dynasty knows of their existence. Our forefathers left notes in the archives, proving that such magical monsters do exist. And after many years of sleepless nights and experimentation,

“I have finally found a substance which acts like a strong magnet, influential enough to track these powers down. I have moulded this substance into a compass on the sword’s hilt and it will guide me towards the nine elements.”

Horian was impressed, yet still puzzled by one thing. “Father, may I know, why are you whispering? Is this a secret of some sort?”

“Son, in today’s world nothing can be kept secret. Galleroth’s spiritual beings are always on the hunt for anything that poses a threat to their highness. Once they discover something, word of it spreads like wildfire.”

“If that is true then whispering will do you no good, Father,” argued Horian.

“I am a wizard my son. I have a special whisper,” explained Juratan.

“You cast a spell on yourself?”

“No, not at all.”

Horian thought it was unusual for his father to be so cryptic, to make such little sense. “Father, are you feeling all right? What you are telling me is very strange. If you have the key to Galleroth’s destruction why have you not embarked on your quest to locate the elements so you can bring the demon down?”

“The Dycentian Blade will not let me, Horian. You know what they say, that there is always a string attached. Well, it seems I outdid myself this time; I created a magic far greater than myself. I did not foresee that when the magic of the two metals came together, it would create a force-field so strong that the Dycentian Blade would weigh as much as a Giant Juydhaad tree. Therefore, if this weapon ever achieves its full potential of power, no ordinary man will be able to wield it. I do not really know why this should be, but I think, it has something to do with the gods.”

“The gods?”

“Yes, the gods. I think I might have angered them by creating something so splendid. That I think that the Crown and Trophy of the Timeless Kingdom himself, Lord Trinigen Apocalypse wants to control the weapon’s power by deciding who can wield it. But I want you to know that I have thought of every protection possible. I have encased the sword in this oblong satchel so it is easy to carry as well as planting a paranormal virus of living cells inside the Dycentian Blade, which will be activated if it is ever taken by force. And If Galleroth managed to obtain the Dycentian Blade before I could get it to King Hemlington, the sword would dissolve like salt in water.”

“And what would happen to it then, Father?”

“It would rematerialize in a poe-red portal in the back of King Hemlington’s throne.”

“I heard during my travels that Galleroth has not been up to much recently except trying to keep his disintegrating empire together. Is he still a threat to Dycentia?”

“Always my son, always, right now, Galleroth is busy tending to his crumbling kingdom. Currently his cavalries are a shambles, staffed with lazy, fat men who do not know how to handle a lance. His full blown schizophrenic father Gallgangstinople, the head harvester of the Gallerian Government, did not pass greatness down to his only son, as I promise to do for you.” Juratan smiled at Horian in a way that made him uneasy.

“You will not be passing anything down to me anytime soon, Father. You are still a strong man.”

“Maybe, my son, but the world has changed since I was young. Back then, the Kingdom of Galleria was great—too great, some said. The line of Galleria became spoiled; growing ridiculously rich off their crown crop opium they desired the fruits of ruling without the duties that come along with it. A Succession of Sovereigns wasted the land’s liquid wealth and angered their people by not caring for them properly. Gallgangstinople was the worst of them. 

“His extreme extravagance exhausted his land’s natural resources, half a century it didn’t even take for him to pluck the forests of Galleria clean. Impoverishing provinces in his wake he enslaved the meagre men and made them mine the minerals from the mountains. To establish and erect an empire, which boasts marvellous mansions that bleed gothic grandeur by mercilessly stabbing the sky. And like every other man instilled with a lust for lush lavishness, he was not satisfied with just stone, sky and steel.

          “The mad monarch dreamed to drag the dales to the sky and he did. He realised his dream with the aid of an ancient art that artificially allowed him to conquer the clouds, by commissioning cataracts of cream to cut and stream through floating fields of flowers, which are now renowned as the most extraordinary architectural feats the world has ever seen. This king was a malignant mastermind Horian; his mundane mind earned him the name the Gore of Greed, as if that’s something to be proud of. To me he’s nothing but the scum of society, the very epitome of the word egregious.  

 “For he spent his youth yielding to illicit gain by scheming, stealing, smoking, carousing, gambling and drinking and drowning in drugs. He was a man hated by many and loved by few, due to territorial disputes. And commanded no more respect from his own public than he did from the public of the lands he had pillaged.

“That is, after stirring storms in the centre of societies, bribing barons, deluding despotic dukes and robbing them of their natural resources and political power. Did I ever tell you how this war criminal tried to strike a deal with Dycentia in order to feed his subjects and avoid an overthrow of his empire?”

“Yes, Father. You told me that for many years now we have supplied the Gallerians with a portion of our crops, in exchange for some sort of treaty. I never understood why they did not just take over Dycentia.”

“Why take over the responsibility of ruling us when we were growing food for them for free? Despite his drug abuse Gallgangstinople’s paranoia didn’t prevent him from being a practical man. Why waste his men’s lives fighting us when the mere threat of the fight got him what he needed?”

“I suppose that was smart. It does not seem fair to us, though.”

“It is not fair, although an unfair treaty is better than none at all. Now it seems Galleroth wants to go back on his father’s promise to Dycentia, and smash the treaty. When Gallgangstinople fell off his tower and died due to an overdose of opium so suddenly, he left his son with quite a mess. No gold in the coffers. No decent army. A host of high-ranking officials waiting in the wings to seize the throne and overthrow the ruler but Galleroth... Galleroth is standing tall and firm. Only several years older than you are now—he is a man not to be underestimated the reason being. By biting off more than he can chew, yet closing deals with neighbouring realms successfully. Cleaning corruption, banishing barbarism, nullifying nepotism, introducing democracy, abolishing slavery, lionizing law and instead of waging war, weaning wizardly warlords with waterfalls of wine. He made quite a name for himself; the Gallionic Council calls him the King of Charisma.

“Some senators say that he’s so cunning and charismatic, that he capitalized conspiracies and conquered complete counties, and is basically ‘Buying the World with Words.’ What he has achieved ever since sitting on his seat of state in my opinion Horian, is the equivalent of how life itself emerged on this earth. He is nothing like his father, and not your typical truculent tyrant, but a most magnetic, menacingly monopolistic monarch. Who most probably took after his empress mother Zaania who is in exile.

 “Her malign motives and obvious ingenuity and insatiable thirst for supremacy certainly threatened Galleroth. Rumour has it that he framed her for pushing his father off the tower. And the sexist Gallionic Legion to undermine an upheaval unquestionably sealed this statement by declaring to the public that this was pure propaganda. Put into practice by barons trying to topple Galleroth’s regime, by baselessly accusing him for orchestrating Gallgangstinople’s assassination.”

Juratan stood up to get some hot water off the fire and warm his tea. Horian regretted not offering to do this for him but his eagerness to know more had overcome his manners. “So if this pragmatic prodigy has been plotting plunders in his own dominion, like some deranged dog dying to devour dynasties from the inside out, it is certain that Dycentia will be a target and the treaty will be broken. Why are we even trying to keep it intact when I guess, no... I know his hatred for our people prejudicially burns bright?”

Juratan looked fondly at his son. “You have grown into not just a handsome but also a judicious man. King Hemlington is very virtuous. He believes that if you show an enemy mercy, the gods will show you mercy.”

“Is it that kind of thinking which makes a man a noble? I say it is not nobility but stupidity. We should be readying our army to fight. This folly, well, so called ‘mercy’ could jeopardize Dycentia’s security. We should be burning the weeds before they bloom nettles and overwhelm us. All the same, what kind of gardener in his right mind would show the weeds mercy?”

“Horian, King Hemlington is no fool. He wants peace. If we were to assail the Lands of Galleria head on, we would have to mobilize the entire Dycentian army and pierce the many perils posed by the Panjiyan. Good men would die, men with families, friends and fantasies, and worst of all, before reaching the enemy.

“Furthermore, there’s an old saying, ‘When the Lands of Galleria sneezes her neighbours catch the cold.’ So if our forces did set sail for the Lands of Galleria, the countries of Orclia, Gowlin as well as Trauleon would be sure to find out and make a move on us while we were completely defenceless. That would invite doom, destitution, desolation and disease, onto Dycentia’s very doorstep.

“Majestic our military might may be my son, even a pride of fearsome felines cannot defend itself from the fearless flies. And if you are thinking that the Elves, Dwarves and Humans would lend their aid, then you are wrong. They would all rather try to keep the peace than be responsible for starting a war. Like us, they would remain noble and stray to their swords only when directly attacked.

“In fact, our motherlands main motto is, ‘It is better to die fighting for your fatherland, than to die trying to conquer another’s.’ And if the worst does come to pass, then I am sure everyone will definitely feel differently about picking up arms. Until then, the situation remains what it is.”

“I understand, Father… we do nothing and wait to be slaughtered... for the sky to snow salt so we can perish like naked slugs and snails.”

“No, Horian. That is why our clever king commanded me to create the Dycentian Blade. So if Galleroth did attack, we would be prepared to massacre his minions with One Wipe, while keeping casualties to a minimum.” Juratan was whispering again.

“May I see the Dycentian Blade, Father?”

“I’m afraid not. It would only put you in danger, if you were one of the very few who could identify it by sight. We are going to keep it hidden until we figure out how someone can brandish its true power.”

“We?”

“King Hemlington and I. But if something were to happen to me, King Hemlington would need all the help he could get in finding someone strong enough to wield the Dycentian Blade.”

“Father, I told you – stop talking like that. We have many years to make up for. You are not going anywhere. I will not let you.”

“Thank you, my dear son.”

Just then the women folk came into the room. “The day is a-wasting!” Rosalina said, clapping her hands together. “You men will have plenty of time to catch up. Right now, there is housework to be done. It will be winter soon and we need to start preparing. Horian, you may be a man now but you still have chores to do.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Horian said, taking the broom the woman was holding out to him.

There was no more mention of the Dycentian Blade that day and the brown satchel disappeared from Horian’s sight. The next time I am alone with Father, he thought, I will have to make him tell me more.

Chapter Two

Man of the Household

The next day Lady Cassandra sent Horian to the lake to catch a stock of fish for her and Rosalina to cure, so the family would have plenty to eat that winter. Horian was happy to oblige for he loved spending time in the great outdoors, and to indulge in the tranquil ambience of the countryside of his homeland, especially on the dawn of a new day.

So, early that morning Horian had climbed into a wooden rowing boat and was now sitting in the half-light of a newly breaking dawn. It was the same lake he had fished many times as a boy. He turned to look at the land behind him, not needing the illuminating daylight to discern the tops of the thatched cottages of his village. To alleviate his homesickness when he first left Dycentia, he would close his eyes and map each cottage and each face in his mind; each craftsman, each friend.

 This place and its people were a part of him, for he and his friends grew up with this lake, the river, the mountains, animals and trees. It was… a piece of his heart. And the unchanged glory of these surroundings had brought Horian a tremendous sense of peace upon his return. With a large strong hand he picked up some of the moist dirt from the bait-bucket and brought it to his nose. He breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of the soil; the scent of his home.

During his four years away Horian had often imagined himself in this very spot, fishing as he used to. He had been a wide-eyed twelve-year-old boy when he left the Island of Kiraachu. As was the purpose of his absence he had returned a man, strengthened from his years of combat training and bronzed from his time spent as an apprentice on a ship studying the ways of the world.

The Dycentians were a race of people much like humans in appearance. Their bodies, however, were much more capable of physical perfection. Descended from giants, each Dycentian grew to an average height of twelve feet, give or take an inch or two. Horian had reached a mere six and a half feet when he left his island home, but by his fifteenth birthday had shot up to his full height of twelve feet and one inch. His once slight frame was not just taller; it had now filled out and was muscular, like his father’s.

Horian’s complexion was smooth and fair like his mother’s, but his face was by no means womanly. It was the tradition of Dycentian boys to wear their hair short, but now Horian’s sleek brown honey streaked hair hung down, flatteringly framing his chiselled features.

He was by all accounts a very handsome young man, a gentle giant sure to be the object of much female attention one day. It was inevitable that he would bring home the fine daughter-in-law his mother hoped for. Horian had not been around women enough for them to occupy much space in his mind yet; the only ones he thought of were the ones he had been separated from.

Horian missed his family terribly while he was away. He dreamed of them nightly, longing for the day when he would be with them again. He had greatly anticipated the pride in Juratan’s eyes when the man saw how transformed his boy was – how much like the father the son had become. He wished his father had been able to go fishing with him but he had work of his own to attend to. In spite of being so weary from his journey, Horian had barely been able to sleep the night before, thinking of all the questions he wanted to ask his father about the Dycentian Blade.

Although Horian was disappointed his father had not accompanied him, so both father and son could bond with Mother Nature, he was gratified to find that his luck with the fish remained the same. He captured a large basketful, doing all he could to shore up the family’s food supply before the fish found protection from his hook through several inches of solid ice. Horian’s companion took issue with his abundant collection.

“Do you not think you have caught enough fish already, Horian?” Arthur asked, yawning.

“Enough? Excuse me for being so industrious but we have to survive the whole of the winter on the meat of these fish,” retorted Horian as he threaded a large spider onto the hook of his rod and heaved it into the water to attract yet more bounty. “When you are looking up at me with those beady lilac little eyes of yours, begging me to fill your empty belly, I will remember how supportive you were of this venture, my ferret friend.”

Arthur had been given as a gift to Horian when he left Dycentia to begin his training. The creature, instilled with a special magic that gave him the power of speech, was supposed to keep the boy company during his time away from home. When Horian was younger the idea of possessing a talking ferret seemed less silly than it did now, however he could not imagine himself being without Arthur at present.

 Although the ferret sometimes annoyed him with his laziness and back talk, he had proven himself an excellent companion. After so many years, Horian hardly noticed that Arthur was a ferret, except when he caught himself conversing with him in front of others. Arthur’s abilities were for the most part their little secret. A talking ferret would fetch a high price on the open market, and Horian did not want to risk the theft of his good friend.

Many minutes passed without any bites on the end of Horian’s fishing rod. The sun was rising wide over the calm lake. Horian had been out for two hours already, taking advantage of the fact that fishing is most fruitful just before daybreak, when the world is dark and quiet and it is more difficult for the fish to figure out that they are being tricked. Weary from the hour and their task, Horian and Arthur were nodding off when the creaky sound of the rod’s reel alerted them.

“Brace yourself. This is a big one,” Horian gasped, grasping the arched rod tightly in one hand and managing the reel with the other. With the patience of a skilled fisherman, he slowly pulled the catch in; the glittering silver prize was the length of his arm. “A Casuareena fish,” he explained to Arthur. “He will feed us well... that is if I can get him off the hook.”

The sun had now risen wide and fully above the lake, its bright light dancing on the small ripples of crystal blue water, the glare making it harder to see what lay beneath. The best time for fishing had passed; it was time to head home. Horian was just about to make this pronunciation when a piercing scream cut him off.  It was a man’s scream. The sound rang through the forest and echoed off the lake. A scream that blood-curdling, at that hour, would have filled anyone’s heart with fear. It was no different for Horian.

The Casuareena fish had been putting up an honourable fight, as Horian struggled to free its long slippery form from the end of the rod. The prey took advantage of his distraction and gave its predator one last hard slap with its tail before disappearing into the depths of the lake. 

Horian paid the fish no mind and instead turned to look at the disturbed landscape behind him. The morning sky was filling with the island’s many bird species; their multicoloured wings in frantic motion as they hurried away from the spot where Horian’s family cottage stood.

“What in Heaven?” Horian was trying to be brave but his voice betrayed a tremor. He had never heard his father scream before but he instinctively recognized the sound. He grabbed the boat’s paddles and rowed shakily to the shore, where his father’s trusty steed, Tempest, was tethered to a tree. 

The horse was well-trained and remained calm in the face of the commotion surrounding him. Arthur climbed onto Horian’s shoulder just as the young man gave Tempest a firm kick, sending them off through the forest with great speed. So many questions clawed Horian’s mind as he approached the cottage, but his thoughts were soon interrupted by a man’s shout.

“What the Hell!” The voice, which Horian could not place, sounded very displeased.

He inaudibly halted Tempest, dismounted and hid behind a tree. He peeped around the side of the thick trunk to survey the scene, as he had been taught to do during his combat training. At the same time the man spoke again, just as loudly and just as angrily.

Horian saw an imposing figure yelling at his father. “Tell me, you son of a slug, what is this Blade made of..?”

“You tell me how you found out about it!” Juratan bellowed back.

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t play with my patience poof, or I’ll bite your head off, now tell me. What is this Blade made of..?”

Standing stunned and stinking with horror Horian realized that this must be Lord Galleroth. He slapped his lips when he saw that his father’s left hand had been amputated by some sort of weapon. That was the scream, he thought, as he stood solid, frozen with fear, and besieged by the shadow shawled reality reeking that this was the end of his world.

He had never seen Galleroth but there was no one else it could be. The Gallerians were also descended from giants – before undersea earthquakes separated the continents and volcanic ash gave birth to distinct island worlds, most two-legged beings were more alike than they were dissimilar. However, while the Dycentians’ beauty had evolved to match that of their home, the Gallerians’ appearance, which did not seem terribly evolved at all, matched the crudeness of theirs.

Long sharp horns protruded from their large skulls. Lord Galleroth’s horns grew back from his head, marking his royal bloodline. The horns of common Gallerians curled in the direction of their sunken white cheekbones. Still, this beastliness could be strangely attractive, perhaps because of the power that went along with it; the way one is captivated by sharks not because their looks are handsome, but because those attributes grant them such a high position on the food chain.

Lord Galleroth carried his thirteen-and-a-half foot frame with great nobility, as was his birthright. He also had Lady Cassandra’s cheeks clasped firmly in one enormous gloved hand, so tightly that her pale lips were pressed together. Seeing his mother in such peril clotted Horian’s blood.

Instead of replying to the injured Juratan, Galleroth suddenly released Horian’s mother and bent towards the ground. Only then did Horian see the hilt of a weapon sticking out of the top of his father’s familiar leather satchel. “What the... what the filth is this? This piece of poo weighs more than a whale,” grumbled Galleroth.

Screwing his boots into the soft soil he interlocked both hands on the hilt, struggling he swung the Dycentian Blade free of its covering. Horian’s eyes expanded when he saw Lord Galleroth’s hands begin to glow with a ruddy light, a light so bright that the Dycentian Blade appeared indistinct, as if veiled from his view.

“Aaaaarrrggghhh!” cried the ominous overlord. “What scheamish sorcery is this you little leech?”

The light grew in intensity and a grey swirl of smoke began to emerge from between his hands. Wonder whipped Horian as the Dycentian Blade started to fade, a mist creeping down its length. Then suddenly the metal appeared to vaporize and Galleroth gave a harsh scream. The Dycentian Blade had vanished in a veil of smoke and the villain was left with nothing but the scorched skin of his hands. Blinking like a blinded owl in the sunlight, Galleroth once more gripped Lady Cassandra’s face.

“What in blood’s name just happened? Restore the bloody blade this stinking instance you son of a skunk,” he demanded, squeezing ever harder, “or I will crush the head of your bitch like a grape, bitch!” 

The sight of his mumbling mother, who loved him more than anything in the world, being tormented on her knees, like a common crow, combined with the severity of his father’s stomach-churning injury, overwhelmed Horian with an emotion he had never felt in his life. Glaring with eyes that could gobble Galleroth, he was unable to control the tear that rolled down his otherwise stoic face.

His fright flared into rage, roaring through his veins, his blood boiled like lava and throbbed through his neck, pounding behind his ear a brusque hatred choked him as he found himself running to a nearby tree that had an axe protruding from its trunk. They were still a safe enough distance from Galleroth for Horian’s actions to go undetected.

“Horian, don’t forge this folly please. You stand no chance, no chance at all!” Arthur hissed. “If you go out there you will be killed faster than the flap of a bees wing beat. Do you really think this axe will protect you against Galleroth?” Arthur had given good counsel but Horian could not be dissuaded. He endeavoured to pull the large heavy axe, which was meant to be used by two men simultaneously, from the oversized tree. Everything in Horian’s land was large – the plants and mushrooms, the animals and insects, even the boulders – in keeping with the needs of its residents. If a person ever had cause to wonder why there would be a tree as ludicrously lofty with a gargantuan girth as a Giant Juydhaad, then the answer may very well be because that forest was once home to individuals who required such trees for safety and shelter. The tree in Horian’s forest was behaving much more like a hindrance than a help though, refusing to release the axe from its thick bark. Finally, the axe came free in Horian’s hands, its blade falling heavily to the ground. Trying to toss it over his shoulder, Arthur shook his head in disapproval.

“See how you struggle? You can barely carry that axe, let alone swing it. Do not be dim-witted. Galleroth is not going to leave this world as easily as he can take you out of it. And you know, you know that you can’t take him on Horian, so don’t let your ego engulf you, listen to me! A strong man isn’t the one who can wrestle another, but a strong man is the one who can wrestle his anger, so please.”

Horian paused and bowed his head, which was wet with sweat. He slowly let the axe handle slip from his grip as the potential consequences of his impulsivity sank in. He had been trained to be courageous, but careful. To attack smartly, when prepared. It took every ounce of his internal strength at that moment to follow those teachings.

“You are right, my loyal and shrewd friend, you are right,” he panted, bending over and resting his hands on his knees. Already they were blistering from his brawl with the axe. Horian had to accept that despite his training he was not yet ready for this level of confrontation. Fortunately his actions had gone unnoticed by the single-minded Galleroth. The malevolent monarch was still menacing Horian’s parents. “What deep thought are you in, Juratan? The grip I have on your witch of a wife is getting tighter. I am sure she would scream if she could.”

“No, please wait. I will tell you what you need to know.”

Before Galleroth could react, Juratan used the magic staff he held in his remaining hand to cast a spell which brought the tree behind the brute to life. The tree grabbed Galleroth with its branches, wrapping him around and constricting him like hundreds of big boas. When Galleroth’s grip on her face loosened, Lady Cassandra quickly took refuge behind a well, as her husband pointed his staff and fired a ball of a blue blaze at his oppressor. 

To Juratan’s dismay, Galleroth had used his own magic to break free from the tree’s tight embrace and quickly cocooned himself with his crimson cape. “So, you want to fight fire with fire? Very well, it is time to see whose magic is greater.” The fiend fired a red bolt of energy at Juratan, who immediately parried it with a blue one of his own.

“My fire was born to blow, now cinder already, you slug,” Galleroth sniggered with a savage snarl, his red bolt overpowering the injured wizard. In a horrific instant, the red energy turned into a huge singeing snake which tore Juratan’s head apart. The sparks fizzing fiercely into the air were so intense that they drowned out Juratan’s death scream.

Watching powerlessly, his father being fried in front of his very own eyes, made Horian feel as if the sky; smashed onto his head, the sky that was accompanied by a callous cloud that poured pure peril. Soon swelling into a sadistic storm, a throat throttling thunderous storm, it punched a hole in his soul.

 Scarring and spawning a sense severing sorrow that dawned a depthless dread, drumming doom on his face that drained its costly creamy colour to a discounted deathly white, as he felt his world turning upside down. Darkness dining on his mind, demanding it to decree his heart to stop pumping blood, for his father... his father was transformed into a vision of hell.

Like a blind beggar, Juratan held his left dangling eyeball on his hands as his brains boiled, bubbling and slithering out like seething soup from a cauldron. The fizzing sound slowly subsiding, Horian’s father’s fire fuelled scream seared into his ears, and it was such a scream, such a scream that the scream seemed as though it was the hulking hail, harbingering the Initiation of Infinity itself.

As space and time tattered away and left the forest floor shifting beneath Horian’s feet. Plunging him into the depths of despair, where the demons drenched him with a deadly devil worthy terror and took him like a trophy, only to kiss his every corner with misery, and then heartlessly hurl him ever deeper into the lightless lair of Agonies Abyss.

Lightless his life became, yet it did not spare him the sight of the long red raw jewel Juratan who finally fell, fighting the fire as his head haemorrhaged. Crying cascades of a dangerously dirty burgundy, blood bloomed from his hideous holes. All is lost, all is smithereens, slurred Horian, as all he could do was sink his teeth into his forearm and moan with a heaving chest.

 The heaving chest that on one side made him feel as though he could put out the fire with his tears, but the other side. The other side made him feel as if his innards like vomit arose to his throat; and then upon peering out his mouth became beleaguered by the sinister scene and tumbled back down. And that too not all the way down, they took refuge in his ribcage where they ruthlessly raped his heart. The heart that still soldiered on but succumbed, for it apocalyptically pumped pain, instead of blood.

“No! What have I done in my fit of fury?” the wicked wizard whined. He clapped his hands and the resulting shockwave blew the blaze to nothing, preventing it from spreading. Galleroth flew to his fallen foe and after squashing the snake, he kicked it away. Seeing Galleroth occupied, like a deer Lady Cassandra boldly bolted for the forest, but she was not quick enough to abscond.

“Where do you think you’re going gojess?” Galleroth gritted his teeth with a gruesome grin. He aimed a clenched fist in her direction and used his psychic power to pull her back to him. Lady Cassandra cried clawing at the grass as she frenetically tried to keep herself away from her husband’s killer. “Let me go! Please, my children will be orphans... Baagwaan killiyye chaur moojhe!” she beseeched.

A noosing knot formed in Horian’s throat and his stomach turned. He stretched his right arm forward, his fist clasping the empty air. He was so close to his mother and yet... yet he was a million miles away. As she was dragged further away his closed fist slowly unclenched. His heart ached when he remembered the last time he held her hand; when, as a child, he had used her fingers to help him learn to walk. His hand crept to his cheek, where his mother had last touched his face. His dreams darkened and his spirit sickened as he faced the fact that he might never feel her motherly touch ever again.

Galleroth brought Lady Cassandra to him and like a shameless thief, raised her to her knees. He then pulled her hair and said “look you little bitch, look at what happens when you wage war with a wicked wizardly warrior king like me! Now kiss the consequence.” Aiming his other fist at the remnants of Juratan, Horian and his mother breathlessly braced to see Galleroth godlessly guillotine what remained of the dead Dycentian’s head.

Flaying his foe’s flesh into flags, the sorcerer subsequently conjured a satchel into which the dead man’s internal organs oozed upwards, moving in a slippery viscous mass, it filled the bag. Groping his battle belt for a bottle he uncorked a cylindrical canister and dispensed a dark green liquid, before stirring both his hands over the carnijess concoction like a mad mage, speaking words Horian did not understand.

“Saavootaarey, meree jaan thoo meree humshukle hai.”

The wizard wildly chanted these strange words over and over again; his formerly glittering-grey eyes were now a smouldering scarlet. “If you would not explain the Blade to me in life, you will do so in death, you scum! Now reveal the secret! Do you want to know how I found out about the Blade? It was only a revolting rumour, a filthy fable, a whisper in the waves of darkness until today. It was you who showed me that it was real, Juratan. Now tell me its secrets!”

Galleroth repeated the foreign-sounding chant fifty times over, and then he gave up. “Vain! A waste of good black magic and my precious breath. He gives up nothing even in the permanent defeat of death.” Galleroth was shaking his head with gnarled lips and then with a sneering smile he turned his attention back to Lady Cassandra.

“I suppose this means that you are coming with me, my honeysuckle. You are far too winsome to live a lonely widow’s life. And I do believe you know about that infernal blade. But mind you, if I am not able to choke the truth out of you, you won’t be lucky to live love, you’d be lucky to die.” Galleroth growled these worrisome words with his battle-scarred face pressed close to Lady Cassandra’s.

He followed his edict with the senseless laugh of a crazy drunkard, which made Horian’s toes curl in his boots as the coldest shiver shattered down his spine. The young man could not bring himself to empathise how his mother was feeling at that moment. Galleroth carried Cassandra on his shoulder as she shrieked and beat him on the back with her futile fists. He gestured and a cage materialized beside him. Roughly, he thrust Horian’s mother inside. Of its own accord a Moltrosion swooped down through the canopy of trees, its expansive wings taking down branches and leaves as it made its way to its master. Galleroth glided onto the three-headed white dragon that jumped, and with a single flap of its awesome wings the Moltrosion was in the air again, grasping the cage holding Horian’s mother in its topaz titanium talons.

“Nooo!” hollered Horian, asphyxiated by abject agony; the tides of his blood turned and burned and galvanised his limbs. Fear fled from his face and he felt that his bones wanted to leap out of his frame. Making no attempt to be stealthy he lunged for his life. Jumping over a toppled tree, barging boughs; tackling tree stumps and thorns, skilfully skipping sly stones, protruding roots and camouflaged crevices.

 Like a deranged Dycentian bull, Horian burst, blood-thirsty out of the forest, under the path of the dragon’s flight. Fuelling his foolish valour with the thought that whatever happens, happens. Also that one can run from fate but never hide. And that whatever is inscribed in one’s destiny cannot be changed, save by the Decider of Destiny himself.

With this vigorously roiling in his heart, dying to discover what destiny had in store for him from the very start. His heart hammered heinously as he unlocked leaps he thought he never could achieve. Knifing the air like an otherworldly wind, wishing to give a kiss on Cassandra’s cheek at least. Horian huffed and puffed and pushed his legs to the limit, but he slipped. He had spent his youth in that forest and could expertly navigate every inch of it even in the dark. So it took him by complete surprise when he found himself falling, having slipped on something unexpected and gelatinous.

“What is this goo?” he floundered in frustration, now lying on his back. He was at the very edge of the forest, an area he had not visited since his return to the island. When he realized what had caused his misstep, he felt his blood completely congeal. Next to him, illuminated by a sliver of sunlight, lay a heart, guts, lungs, and one bright green eyeball that resembled his own—his father’s eye. From a branch they lay leaching out of a sack that looked like the one Galleroth had been chanting over.

Witnessing the entrails of his own father spill out. Convinced Horian that he was still cloaked by that cloud, the cruel cloud that thundered, ‘God doesn’t exist son!’ The organs overflowing from the sack were like the contents of the cloud claiming in his conscience like a light loathing lawyer, ‘Listen love, if god did love you an atom’s weight, would he have let you seen such a dark day?’

These reverberating words presented poisonous proof, which powerfully proved to Horian that even if anything divine did exist, they were no better than all the tyrants who dictate their dominions.

Horian also realized that Galleroth had been using the remains to try to summon Juratan’s spirit, to get him to reveal the secrets of the Dycentian Blade, but had underestimated what a Worthy Wizard and adversary Juratan was, and had made the prideful mistake of misjudging his opponent’s own foresight and influence. Horian was swallowed by a huge surge of pride for his father, and was then swept away by an even larger wave of woe.

He picked up the heart and lungs that Galleroth had so disrespectfully cast aside; his lips trembled as he tenderly kissed them. It was his father’s heart which had been ripped out, but holding it in his hands, Horian could swear his own heart was being wrenched from his chest, over and over again. As if it was repeatedly being bitten into like a pear by Galleroth, and then chewed like mules maul hay.  

Tears stopped in the corners of his eyes, Horian still could not digest the declaration that his destiny was so suddenly decided. Is this it..? Is this what fate had in store for me all along, ever since I was born, to become an orphan... a bloody orphan? Horian cursed.

The tears lingered no longer. “I am so... so... so sorry...” Horian apologised but could not say ‘Father,’ for the lump in his throat caught and killed that word. When his tears splashed and mingled with the blood of the heart, he looked up to see that the dragon was long gone. Just a speck in the sky, so small anyone would have mistaken the Moltrosion for a bird. He scowled with measureless malice at the dramatically disappearing dot.

“She is gone... They are gone. My Mother, my Father, my best friends... my everything, is gone. What do I do now?” he asked with a whimpering whisper, gently cradling his Father’s bloodless heart in his humming hands.

***

That night, at dusk, Horian built a ceremonial funeral pyre on the beach, laying his father’s remains honourably to rest on it. When earlier he had revealed the news of her son’s death to Rosalina, merely with his eyes. She had screamed in such a manner that Gail was awoken from her sleep, as well as alarming the entire village.

 They came running and were now bawling on the beach, waiting for Horian who was about to perform a man’s task, the duty of the firstborn son; the only son. Rosalina had tried to keep Gail away from such a sight; her granddaughter as yet had not even shed a single tear. She was standing beside her grandmother in silence; strangely, almost spookily, stroking the hair of her doll.

Rosalina knew how deeply Gail loved Juratan, and she could not even begin to conceive the affects that Juratan’s demise would have on the child’s young and fresh mind. It was an impossible task to keep her at bay and it was indecent, she thought, to try and keep her from witnessing the last rites of her father, no matter how young she was.

Rosalina and the entire village violently groaned and then breathlessly bayed when they saw Horian coming out of the now frightening forest with a large seashell; the one Lady Cassandra had always used to carry water in. Now it was overflowing with oil and, with tears overflowing from his eyes, Horian stopped, looking down at Gail who did not even flinch. He sadly continued and, standing before his father’s funeral pyre, dipped his fingers into the shell. He looked back at Rosalina, who nodded her head solemnly.

Horian flicked the oil liberally over the pyre, and sprinkled the incense. Then he walked back toward Rosalina, to take the torch she had already lit. He heard something, a splattering sound; looking back he was aghast to see Gail pouring the rest of the shell’s contents over herself. “Gail! What in Lord Trinigen Apocalypse’s name are you doing?”

“Horian, you will not burn my father! If you burn him then you will also have to burn me.”

“Gail my dear, please do not do this! We have lost our love Juratan and my dear daughter-in-law Lady Cassandra; we do not want to lose you too. If you do this, I will commit suicide,” threatened Rosalina.

“Grandmother, please understand. I cannot live without Father, I love him too much. I want to go to him; I want to be with him forever. Burn me Horian, please burn me!”

“Wow Gail, your thinking has matured; you talk like an adult when you are just a child. Father always said you would grow up to be someone significant, a healer or a sorceress. Will you not fulfill his dreams? Surely you will not let them go up in flames?”

“Please understand Horian, and do not try to bribe me with Father’s hopes.”

“Move out of my way Gail, please move out of the way. The auspicious time is flying.”

“No!” Gail was adamant and she shielded the pyre with her body.

“Gail, what foolishness is this? You understand..! Please understand that we will not be able to live without you. Please Gail, do not be so selfish, you say you cannot live without Father, but at least live for the sake of Mother, who is still alive as well as all of us. I will bring Mother back, I promise; I swear on my own life, I swear on Mother’s wellbeing... I swear on the sun! I will get her back, please, just live to see that day.” Horian failed to his knees, burying his tightly closed eyes behind prayerful hands.

They were soon clutched and pulled down; Gail wiped his tears, while her own eyes were welling. “That’s it Gail. Cry, come on, cry, let it all out.” Horian felt her breath on his chest as she pulled him to her; Gail gurglingly cried as he glared up at the star-studded sky, thinking that the gods are so cruel and have no love or mercy for man whatsoever. Gail’s tears slowed, finally sobbing softly to a stop, she slowly walked back to Rosalina, who dabbed her cheeks dry with the back of her saareez sleeve.

Horian again gathered the guts to pick up the torch; he stood and slowly walked toward the pyre once more. His right hand trembling, tears trickling and bearding down his chin, his head turned away when he sadly stabbed the stack of wood alight. As the first uncertain flames began to lick over the remains, woman wept and men mourned.

The sound of their grieving grew to a sound that said they themselves were set ablaze when a geyser of sparks soared into the air. The fire flew and fell, raging raucously; for a second the whole of Kiraachu Island seemed to have shook with the cries that cropped from a thousand chests, their energy spent it was not long before the fire conquered their cries and made it a continuous sigh in the background.

Standing before the flames which sent his father up to the sky in a steady stream of grey smoke, Horian thought about the conversation they’d had the day before. It was as if Juratan had known. He had told Horian just enough so that he knew where to turn for more information but had not provided his son with enough wisdom about the Dycentian Blade so that he could have tried to save him. Horian watched the flames intently. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, an image continually played in his mind. In it, he split Galleroth’s head in two with that axe. He used this image to distract himself from the other, more distressing one: The image of his father’s beloved face charred to a crisp, blacker than coal, no where within the realm of recognition.

“I promised that I would not let you go anywhere, Father. And now Mother is gone too. The mother who was my light when the sun never showed its face; the mother who was my rain when the clouds never came; the mother... the mother who never had to wipe my tears away and never can she be replaced.” When Horian had broken the news of Juratan’s death, Rosalina had told him that he was the man of the household now. Yesterday he had felt very much like a man, the happiest man, breathing the air of this world but today... today standing before his father’s funeral pyre, he felt like a helpless broken boy who had a heart happiness never called home.

“This is it... this is my life, this is our life Gail, just when we thought we had the perfect life, some horned hog had to come and ruin everything in a horned heartbeat!” Horian howled; his mind marred by a mental meltdown, he fell to his knees again, running his hands through the sand and lifting his arms to the sky. As the sand sifted away, the raw reality rippled through Horian and the seriousness of the situation like the fangs of snakes sank in and made him wail.

“And yooooo..! You, Father, stop it... stop it Father, please stop it. Please stop smiling in my head, for every time you smile and your face spreads I feel... I feel a pain worse than my groin being torn to shreds, and why..? Why did you have to die? Why? And what kind of god is god?

“He lets the evil people strut the earth like serpents on two legs, and he lets the good get slaughtered like sheep when they’re the only ones who obey his commandments. And I swear, I swear I could have hugged you harder. Why didn’t I hug harder..? Now... now there is literally nothing left to hug, not even a corpse... Not even a corpse. I couldn’t even kiss your forehead for god’s sake. And that smell... the smell of your burning flesh it smelt like scorched swine. I wonder why the flesh of man smells like scorched swine. Nevertheless, the sick stench doesn’t die; my nose is its new home. That fizzing as well, it haunts me. That fizzing frazzle has called my ears its final abode and it rings with raw relish but, this is what I do not understand.

“What sin did you commit to meet such a fiery fate, father... what sin? It is so hard to believe that only a few hours ago you were an actual breathing being with feelings, aspirations and dreams but now... now you’re nothing but a heart hacking memory. And you were so beautiful inside and out, your bodily gestures, your courage, your smile; your laugh and down to the very way you used to eat, breathe and sneeze were beautiful and cute.

“Especially in summer when he used go bold, me and mother used to polish his head. While strangling him in our minds that is, because he became too adorable with a bare head. He was hilarious as well… and not your typical Dycentian Father. To coronet his characteristics, I have to say that he was more than hilarious; this man had it all Arthur. You think I’m funny well, you don’t know what funny is until you meet my father. I mean, every little thing this man used to say and do was funny. Even his mere presence... yes, even his mere presence was funny. He was so funny and fabulous in fact, every time I used to see his face or remember one of his indelible expressions I used to say ‘God is great’... god is great? No. God is not great. God is not great, for if he was great he would’ve saved my Father from such a fiery fate!

 “And Father I g... I guess you won’t be a grandfather after all, that was your dream wasn’t it? And do you want to know what was my dream..? My dream was for you to brew a banquet in a king’s cauldron and feed the entire village in merriment for its newest member. That was my bloody dream! For father and son to down a dozen spirits and then tell timeless tales around a family fire, and that was the only thing lacking in your life, the only thing that would have made it complete, but you always used to say. You always used to say ‘Horian, son, whenever you feel gloom or be ill with a tragedy never curse the enemy but raise your hands to the sky with a selfless soul and a wholesome heart, and ask god for anything. He may not give you everything, but he will without a doubt give you something for verily he is The Shy.

“Yes Gail, god is the shy. He is so shy that he will not let your hands hit your knees empty. So come on everybody, what are you waiting for? Raise your hands. Raise your hands to the sky and sincerely supplicate, and today..! Today Trinigen Apocalypse, today you will not get away. Crown and Trophy of the Timeless Kingdom you are but you will not get away; you will have to answer this prayer. For we put you on trial Trinigen, and measure your mercy by raising our hands and beseeching before you.

“Let’s see how merciful you truly are, please perform what you never performed, please give my father back, take my life instead, well no... But you understand. And why do the good die young? They should live long, so they can exalt you as much as they can, so please give him back, but if you will not... if you will not then at least seal this scar, fill this void, fill this gaping hole in my heart.

“Fill it by, by guiding me and adjoining justice, for you are the Duke of Justice!” Then, imagining Juratan looking down on him, as well as the villagers, Horian stopped beating his chest like a one armed ape and became embarrassed by his self-pity.

Licking his lips and tasting his father’s dried blood set Horian’s heart aflame, this time lava literally coursed through his veins, or so he thought as he neighed “No!” His tone turned from tearful to tyrannical, his head came up like the head of a hound scenting prey.

Wiping his tears he jolted up. The sky scarred by a thick line of thunder he faced Rosalina and Gail; and when the wail of the water wealthy clouds came, rain roared down as he pointed the torch randomly at the villagers and speeched.

“I will not let my spirit break down like this, and let that vindictive villain be victorious! I am my father’s son. He sent me away to make sure I was prepared to be a paladin. Remember Arthur..? I said ‘All is lost, all is smithereens.’ Well, what I forgot to say, no, what I was meant to say, was. ‘All is lost, all is smithereens, but a new life blossoms to carry out his Father’s dreams,’ and that new life, that new life will be me! I will restore the sword and use it to slay that scum Galleroth, who will feel the worst of my wrath!

“Do you hear me? You son of a snake, your shadow has fallen on the wrong light. And you will pay dearly for it, you heartless hog! Little do you know that this mere being, this little lion, Horian, has the key to the gates of hell… or will soon enough go to the ends of the earth to obtain that key. And he will let nothing on his way stop him from opening the doors of the underworld and letting her unimaginable fires engulf your world!

“I will make you pay. I will make you pay for making me bite into my forearm so hard that it left a mark. I will make you pay for every hair that you dishonoured from my mother’s head. I will make you pay for every drop of my Father’s blood that stained, no, graced this ground, I swear down I will make you pay.

“If I have to bleed out my last drop of blood, I will. If I have to run across a roaring river, I will. If I have to walk through the wall of a waterfall, I will. If I have to scale a lava veiled volcano, I will. If I have to stop an avalanche in its tracks, I will. If I have to trek Trinigen’s Treacherous Trench barefoot, I will. If I have to flatten the dunes of the Deserts of Galleria, I will. If I have to move Mount Apocalypse by half an inch, I will. If I have to close the cavernous mouth of the Colossal Canyon, I will.

“If I have to move heaven and earth, I will. If I have to master Mother Nature herself, I will... And If I have to touch..! Yes, if I have to touch the bowels of the Panjiyan Ocean, I will. And If I have to die, slug-sucker... If I have to dive into the jaws of death that dog himself, I will take you with me, Gallerauuuth! As long as I have breath in my body, I swear it on my father’s pyre, and on my mother’s name, that I will make you dig your own grave, your own bloody grave, Gallerauuuth!

“And what a fitting punishment... what a fitting punishment for underestimating the blood coursing through my veins; never judge a sword by its sheath and start counting your days. Blow your belly with wine, smoke the smoke you smoke till your throats the colour of coal and get ready… Get ready to say goodbye as well as lust for light and pay for your atrocity and animosity in full recompense! How sweet my retribution will be.”    

Chapter Three

The Dream of Destiny

‘!Dear audience, live the legend by Immersing yourself into this timeless tale that is the epitome of the word epic!’

‘But be warned, for what you have read is just a prelude, a grand and glorious gateway to things no mind in the history of this earth has ever dreamed to conceived of.’

‘. Another Piece of Advice.’

‘Do not flick through the pages, for a few words will utterly ruin this

Poetic Pandemonium.’

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