Eranithia: Prophecies: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

In the southern part of Eranithia, near the Great Cliffs overlooking The King's Marshes, stood the oldest castle in Eranithia. It once belonged to a good king, but ten years ago everything changed with the murder of King Damien and Queen Seraphim. The lie that spread about their murders was that their own son had killed them and Arnath had to knock him unconscious to subdue him. The fact he'd run away was proof enough to convince all of Eranithia that it was true and to accept Arnath as king.

Arnath burned with anger as he hurried down the halls. His jaw locked with his upper lip curled into an ugly snarl. His teeth flashed in the torch light with a sickening tint of yellow. Servants jumped out of the way as he raced by. One servant hesitated too long and was bowled over. When Arnath caught himself from tripping he turned back to the young boy and struck him across the face.

"You have just cost your family their food rations for the evening, boy!" he shouted. The servant ran away crying.

When the guards saw him coming, they opened the doors with haste, allowing the king to enter the dark, damp, stone lined room where he kept a girl strapped to a wooden table in an enchanted sleep; her eyes hidden behind eyelids that were magically sealed shut. Her jet black hair, which normally fell down to her waist, was tucked perfectly beneath her body. Her fair skin was covered in cuts and bruises, some scabbed over, others still wet with fresh blood.

Arnath had her put under the enchanted sleep ten years ago, and because of this slumber she still appeared as the fifteen year old girl she had been.

Arnath bent over the girl, barking, "What are you up to?"

Arnath opened his mind to allow her to speak to him telepathically–her only means of communication.

She asked in her most innocent, girlish voice, What do you mean, Uncle?

He growled audibly. You called out to someone for help, didn't you, Serina?

How is that possible? You had your sorcerer put up wards to prevent that.

Arnath slammed his fist into the wooden table, right next to Serina's face. Don't you tell me of the spells around this castle! You have broken through them somehow and contacted someone. They came into Eranithia magically. Twins, a boy and a girl. I had them in custody and they have somehow escaped.

You're not implying I broke them out, are you Uncle? she asked, giggling.

Don't you mock me. I know you're behind this!

Of course I am, Uncle, she said, then closed her mind off.

Arnath roared with anger, then struck her across the face. Blood dripped down her cheek from the new wound opened by his large, ruby-studded ring. Tears seeped between her eyelids. She still felt the pain but couldn't caress her wounds for comfort, and knowing that to be true, Arnath took pleasure in causing her pain.

Arnath stormed back through the castle to the throne room where his top General awaited orders.

"Broc, take men with you and hunt down these twins. They are to be brought to me alive. Garandol has to be behind their escape. Kill him if you can, I only want the twins. Do not return until you have them. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, my lord," Broc said, crossing his right arm across his chest with his fist hitting his left shoulder before leaving the room.

Arnath massaged the temples of his head with his first two fingers and his thumb. The mental connection with his niece had caused him a migraine. His personal servant knelt before him.

"Bring me the harpist!"

"Yes, lord," he said with a bow.

"And bring Engard to me to tend to my head."

"Yes, lord," he said bowing repeatedly as he backed out of the room.

Minutes later, a young boy, about ten years old, dressed in a light blue tunic was brought in with a harp. He was placed before the king with a small stool as he played a peaceful, soothing song. Relaxing immediately, the king grew drowsy as he listened to the sad song the boy played for him.

Broc and his small regiment of monstrous men, the Forsaken, were ready to go within an hour. They headed north to a small village south of Trondil, where the two children had been held in for a short time.

Broc surveyed his soldiers. The disgusting display they were. The Forsaken weren't men at all. They were once Wood Elves that were taken captive by Arnath and made evil by the work of his sorcerer, Engard. Their skin turned dark gray and their eyes blackened; their once-red hair turned charcoal gray and thickened into seaweed-like dread locks; their hands turned to claws with long, sharp, black nails; their insidious teeth were full of poison.

The poison from their fangs would infect their victim within a day and turn them into one of The Forsaken. Some called them vampires because they would drink the blood of those they killed. Others call them werewolves because of the brutality of the fatal wounds they inflicted. But regardless of what they are called they are forsaken until the curse is lifted by the one who cursed them, by either his or her own lips or death.

They first stopped at the home of Mandin, Governor of the region, who lived in Sparrenth. It took a full day's hard riding for Broc and his monstrous creatures to arrive. When they arrived, the governor of the region was waiting to greet them.

"General Broc, what brings you to Sparrenth at such a late hour?" the short, fat Governor asked.

Broc couldn't repress his smirk as he noticed the obvious fear in Mandin's eyes.

"Your failure to hold two young strangers, Mandin," Broc said, dismounting his horse and handing the reigns to a young servant girl who had followed Governor Mandin out of the house.

Mandin's face went white. He had no response. Broc stepped up to Mandin, towering over the Governor.

"Do you even know in which direction they fled?" Broc asked.

Mandin stood as tall as he could, attempting to sound as confident as possible, "No, sir. There were no prints to follow. Garandol must have broken them out and fled for his home."

"And you know not where his dwelling is?"

Mandin flinched as he thought Broc's hand had gone for his sword. Broc grinned sinisterly as he reached for his water pouch.

You are right to fear me, you short, fat, bull of a man, Broc thought as he took a long drink of water.

"No, sir. Nobody knows where his home is. Many believe his home is never in the same place twice."

Broc swallowed his mouthful of water, wiping away a few drops from his thick, black beard, which splashed his face as he pulled the water-skin from his mouth.

"We both know that isn't true. He merely places wards and spells to keep people from finding it. They could be standing right in front of it and not know it."

"Then you know how difficult it would be to find him, sir," Mandin pointed out in his own defense.

Ignoring Mandin's statement, regardless of how true it was, Broc swung back into his saddle and waved The Forsaken on. Then they rode for Trondil, where he hoped there may be a clue to direct him toward finding the twins.