Sample reading from dawn of darkness

Ehud’s steed trotted at an easy pace, its bulging eyes darting to and from the passing shadows that seemed to duck and hide behind the sinister trees which lined a crude path. Frail light beamed through the canopy overhead, lighting the rider’s path with filtered green and yellow rays. Ehud stroked the hide of the spooked animal, urging the stout charger onward with a soothing clack of his tongue. Three scouts flanked their leader amongst the maze of contorted trunks, ducking low branches and dodging briars as they traveled. The Sorn commander’s expression was steeled and confident, but he released a faint sigh of concern in light of the gloomy circumstances.
They had been scouring the eerie woodland all morning into the late of day. Ehud left the bulk of his horsemen at the edge of the strange forest and sent ten scouting parties to search for Joktan or any sign of the men that entered the underworld. The soldier was beginning to feel the jagged knife of fatigue stabbing into his mind and his reddened eyes begged for sleep. He had been riding for two days now. Fearing the unknown dangers of the forbidden lands, the Sorn had journeyed through the night and did not arrive until late morning.
Pelgrin, Ehud’s mount, flared its nostrils and stubbornly swung its head, refusing to advance past a tangle of brambles. The rider could smell it too—the stench of death. Dismounting, the scouts continued into the thicket on foot. Ehud withdrew an axe from his belt. It was not as heavy as a traditional Sorn cleaver and it had a convex blade instead of the standard concave edges. The veteran treasured the sleeker weapon because he had mastered the art of throwing it the same distance he could hurl a spear—a valuable skill when the moment called for it. Mimicking their captain’s example, the Sorn drew their blades with silent finesse and slipped into the vegetation. Wafting, the sickening odor of rotting flesh and spilt blood grew more suffocating the deeper the company crept into the growth. Ehud paused as a clearing allowed him to view the grizzly sight displayed before them. He forced his eyes to scan the carnage only long enough to see if his master’s body lie among the dead—it was not.
“What could have done this?” gasped one of the soldiers.
Ehud could only shake his head and nervously clutch the handle of his axe in response. While they inspected the corpses, the scouts’ ears pricked as a faint whistle carried from the Havilan desert and over the trees. Closer, a second scouting party relayed the same signal to any who could not distinguish the first. Ehud inserted two fingers past his lips and exhaled three shrill blasts, ordering any nearby horsemen to return to camp.
Hopefully, whatever news his men had discovered, it was less grim than this scene, thought Ehud.


Joktan awoke to the soft touch of a hand that tilted his head, allowing the cool flow of water to push past his dried and cracked lips. The stream of liquid cleansed his mouth and rushed down his parched throat, bringing the soldier new life. Joktan eased his eyes open to the sunlight and stared curiously at the white bearded man that hovered over him with a goatskin flask. The elderly, but tall and strong man, smiled warmly at the positive effects of the long draughts the soldier had taken.
“Senile old man!” shouted a soldier in tattered, brown leather armor that was coated with sand particles. Grasping the skin sack, the man removed a helmet that consisted of the same material as his armor and had concealed all but his eyes. Darkened brown skin was revealed as the man threw his head back and guzzled half the contents of the sack before handing it off to one of three other guards who had assembled behind him. A tarnished golden saber with a curved blade was tucked in the man’s belt and caught Joktan’s eye as the man bent backwards to drink.
“I thought I told you not to come around here anymore?” snapped the guard after he wiped the excess drizzle from his chin. “And now I find you giving aid to the enemy. Tell me why I should not toss you in the dungeons with this…spy?” demanded the brute as he gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of his blade.
The old man ignored the words of his accuser and raised the shoulder guard on Joktan’s armor, revealing the jagged bite marks and darkly colored infection that was spreading down the man’s chest and up his neck. “He needs help,” the aged citizen stated as he keenly observed the wound.
“Havilah does not give aid to its enemies,” snarled the soldier who took a step closer to Joktan. “And we do not take kindly to crazed old men who say they talk to a god and predict the end of the world!”
“You still have time to turn from your ways, repent and be saved,” added the old man, who seem to be unaffected by the guard’s taunting threats.
The soldier laughed heartily while glancing at his men. After his rude display, he turned back and attempted to strike the prophet with a swift backhand. To Joktan’s astonishment the soldier’s wrist was caught midflight. Enraged, the soldier tore his hand free and drew his sword.
“Take them both to the dungeon!” ordered the captain while pointing the blade shakily at the leathery-skinned elder.
Joktan was shoved off the wooden cart he had been laying on and fell to the earth-eroded cobble stone. His left arm and shoulder erupted with pain as he landed on them. Before he was given a chance to rise, a man forced him to his feet and hurried him along behind the commoner who had helped him. Joktan was infuriated at the injustice. He understood he deserved what he had coming, which was most likely a painful death, but not this kind man who merely gave a wounded soldier a drink.
The Sorn leader took in the sights around him, the city consisted of old stone buildings that were coated with sand and worn by the passing of time. There seemed to be no order in the city at all, Joktan passed women and men being beaten or raped between the houses that ran along the winding road he was forced to walk upon. Children came out to throw stones at him and the prophet, spitting and shouting blasphemies. The atrocities continued all the way to an inner stone-wall that matched the decay of the other structures Joktan had already seen.
Wooden doors, that appeared as ancient as the rest of the city, were creaked aside and both men were shoved past the walls. A courtyard appeared and an array of balconies protruded from two towers that rose before them on either side of the tiled yard. Gold and onyx statues were scattered about the court with men and women bowed before their ghoulish shapes and faces. Bridges were built between the domed towers and formed several triangular underpasses which Joktan was ushered through.
The towers were actually a joined and elongated structure that stood on either side of them, creating a colonnade which continued on to the base of a pyramid that must have once been brilliantly gold. A single, wide staircase ascended up the face of the pyramid to its peak. To Joktan’s amazement, built into the side of the first pyramid was another, larger one that was recently constructed with a fresh coating of gold. The second had a flat top and was defined by staircases and large symbols of onyx crafted into the gold’s smooth surface.
Joktan limped forward, his eyes upward, marveling at the extent of the structures and the amount of laborers it would have taken to accomplish such feats. Two entrances on either side of the first pyramid’s staircase were open and their rugged torch-lit interior appeared welcoming to the Sorn leader. Before he reached any of the entrances, he was shoved from behind and glanced down in time to see a square hole that lay in front of the pyramid steps. Joktan tumbled into the foul-smelling darkness that was dimly lit by a scarce amount of torches. Roughly hewn and filthy steps absorbed the prisoner’s fall as he rolled in a hapless mass of limbs that tumbled farther into the blackness. Snagging a hold, he was able to stop his descent by clinging to a crack in the wall.
Laughs and mocks echoed along the narrow passage as the guards caught up to their captive and kicked him into another roll. Joktan fell again until he found his footing and hurriedly stumbled down the steps to avoid being shoved and tumbling the rest of the way. The stairs descended until directly below the pyramid and then came to a room that was fairly lit. A company of guards sat around wooden tables with scraps of food and the buzzing of flies filled the air.
“Fresh meat!” scoffed one of the fattened soldiers as the prisoners were pushed into the room. The man waddled forward and grasped hold of Joktan’s neck, tilting the wounded man’s head back so it could be better seen in the light. The man smiled with a remnant of blackened and yellow teeth while he looked the captive over with his one good eye; his other stared straight forward, grayed and lifeless. “Not bad looking for a Sorn,” said the foul smelling guard as he ran his tongue across his teeth. “Where did you find this one?”
“Riders found him lying in the desert near the west gate; he was no doubt sent to scout out weakness in our walls,” responded one of the men who had brought the prisoners down.
“You’re not the first to come sneaking about,” the large jailer said with a smile and released his grip on Joktan. “Let me reunite you with your friends.”
Two armed men rose from their table on the far side of the room and kicked a wooden type door that dropped facedown, creating a platform that allowed access to and from a lower level on the other side. Joktan and the old man were swiftly prodded from the guard’s quarters into a cold hall that was completely void of light except for the jailers’ torches. A wretched mixture of contaminated air seeped into the Sorn’s lungs, causing him to instantly vomit. It was the smell of disease and human waste with an overpowering stench of death. Joktan noticed now that the two guards that accompanied them into the darkness were each masked with a cloth dipped in what seemed to be frankincense, allowing them to withstand the putrid air. Cupping his hands tightly over his mouth and nasal passages, the Sorn captive wished to die from suffocation rather than breathe in the toxic air again.
The shifting torchlight revealed barred square chambers on the sides of the hall; each too short for a man to even sit in. The cells ran as far along each wall as Joktan could see and were stacked three high—logically because that was all the short ceiling allowed. Raspy coughs and bone chilling moans escaped from the tiny cells while Joktan hurried across the long hall to try and escape the sickening torment of the smell and noises that surrounded him.
When they were halfway across the hall, the cell walls vanished for a short section and a beam of light shown through a large circular hole in the ceiling. Ropes, suspended from a pulley, were attached to a metal grate which was fixed to prevent access to the vertical tunnel. When Joktan was closer, he noticed the hole continued both straight up to the peak of the structure and also down to the lower of the prison. There were buckets strewn about and he surmised the ropes and pulleys were an easy way to transport supplies from the lower levels.
After what seemed like an eternity in the claustrophobic hell, the jailer reached a wall and turned a corner. The prisoner noticed a square wooden door, similar to the one they had come through on the other end. The base of the door was nearly above Joktan’s head and was positioned as if it were a part of the wall, making it nearly impossible for escape—but at least he now knew there were two ways out.
Escorted along a smaller passageway, the captives were led to a staircase that descended a half-circle to the lowest level of the structure. After a long while, the stairs ended at a wooden door which led to an eerie sanctum that pleasantly offered the lingering metallic scent of fresh blood. Inside, a mangled corpse was being dragged to what appeared to a well. The two guards, who were handling the body, glanced from their work only momentarily to acknowledge the presence of the new comers. Continuing their task, the men cast the dilapidated form into the pit and after a pause the body landed with an echoing thud on the surface below. High-pitched snarls, followed by the sounds of the meal’s ferocious indulgence, resounded from the pit below. Joktan gulped and did his best to stay clear of the hole as he was brought to where a man with a crimson cloak and hood sat at a wooden table. A candle and parchment were spread before cloaked man and his eyes stayed fixed upon the work of a feathered pen.
Joktan and the aged prophet were made to stand before the table upon which lay the gruesome trophy of a severed hand. Blood from the detached appendage formed a dark puddle on a slab of clay which was used as a vile form of ink. The parchment was riddled with red scrawling of torture methods and their results. Joktan’s gaze shifted past the table in disgust and began to study the crude metal and wooden apparatuses of torture that were erected in the back of the chamber.
“Welcome, to my dungeon,” began the figure in the crimson robe. “Some may find it…unappealing but to me it is home.”
Joktan stood in silence, refusing to meet the man’s uncanny stare.
“I have been hearing rumors of Sorn advancement into our territory? You would not know of such things would you?”
Joktan remained silent.
“Of course you would not, no one likes to talk,” the man said as he rose from his seat and began to walk around the table. Stopping a breath’s length away, he leaned under the prisoner’s downcast eyes, forcing him to look at him. “But it is my skill to make people talk, and I am exceptionally good at it.”
Joktan held the jailer’s stare until the man backed away and returned to his seat. “What about him?” Joktan asked, motioning toward the circular pit at the center of the room.
A one-sided smirk creased the man’s disfigured face that was shadowed by a hood. “You see the trick is not getting information—everyman has his breaking point—it is more about being sure you have drained him of everything… And sometimes you just have to kill a man to get to that point.”
Joktan gave the man a cold stare and stood strong despite his weakened state. “Why would you tell me this?”
The old man laughed and sat again at the table, intertwining his emaciated fingers before him. “You seem like one with intelligence, there is no fooling a man who knows his own fate; death will come to you, how and when are up to you.”
Quiet infiltrated the room as grayed eyes studied the soldier from beneath the brim of his hood. “For now I have enough information,” he said after long last. Rising again, he secured the parchment in the length of his robe and paced briskly past the prisoners. Halting abruptly, he turned. “Put our guests in the special cell…together. They will need their rest before tomorrow.”


It was a risk, there was no delusion in Ehud’s mind that his plan might end with either his death or capture, but he had to try. Having convened with the reassembled search-teams, he discovered that Joktan may be alive after all. His riders, that had scoured the desert, relayed that they had found tracks leading from the forest. Following the trail, they came upon Havilan horsemen on a patrol of their borders. Hiding behind a dune, the Sorn watched the enemy scouts pull a man from the sand and bring him into their city.
Ehud allowed only ten warriors to accompany him to the desert and as dusk threatened to fall upon the land, they laid in wait. Within sight of the walls, a lone scout patrolled the rolling hills on one final sweep before the night arrived. Stripped of their horses and armor, the Sorn waited in the shadow of a hill. Ehud signaled his men to be silent as they all burrowed into the sand to hide from their prey’s sight. The commander secured a firm grip on the handle of a slender dagger. He knew they would have only one chance to sneak past the wall and save Joktan before he met his end at the hands of the enemy.
Head resting upon his palms, the gate-tower’s watchman lacked enthusiasm as his eyes followed the distant form of a rider. The rest of the west-gate’s patrols were returning for the night, and the only thing keeping the guard from some much need rest was the arrival of the final late-comer. He observed from his stony height while the scout would slip behind a mound of sand and then reappear a moment later. The watchman sighed as the dull sequence continued until the horseman disappeared in the shadow of a dune and failed to surface.
“What now?” muttered the guard.
Straightening his posture, the man wondered for an instant if something was amiss. He dispatched his concern the moment it surfaced, for the scout galloped back into his line of sight. Turning his mount, the rider headed for the west-gate.
“About time,” complained the watchman as he strode from the tower’s edge and began his descent down the spiraling steps. Too tired to question the horsemen about the delay, he ordered the gate to close after the scout had entered the city.

The doors shuddered behind the disguised foreigner and were bolted with careless haste. It was the changing of guards for the night and soldiers were busily coming and going in a fray of excitement. Ehud led his captured steed into a stable beside the gate and reined the animal in the shadowy portion of the structure. Nearby, several men huddled around the torchlight while they discussed the happenings of the day. The masked stranger knelt by his horse and fed it handfuls of straw while he inclined his ear to the banter of the soldiers.
“…Another?” asked a slim guard with raggedy long hair.
“That’s three now, you think they’d learn,” added the fattest of the company with a snort.
There was an odd cackle from a woman with grayed hair who appeared with a jar of an odorous brew. Slamming the draught on a rickety table, she gathered the men’s attention. “The stars they tell, they do!” cooed the hag. Placing her wart speckled hands on the table, she released another spell of her insane laughter.
“What have you seen, old woman?” demanded the stout soldier while he poured himself a drink in a wooden cup.
The hag’s eyes widened in a crazed stare, forcing the man to retreat before their unsettling gaze. “Blind! All of you! I have seen the deaths of you all!” She scowled.
The guards rose from the table as the woman swiped a cup and held it over her head. “Kill the prophet I told you!” she shouted as she began to pour the brown liquid upon the table. “Spill his blood in the streets!” The ale pooled and glimmered in the torchlight as it trickled from the glass. Using the remnant of the cup’s contents, the hag sprayed the men around her and hurled the mug at them. “Now the blood is upon you! Kill the Sorn! Slay the prophet!” she hissed.
Wiping his splattered face clean, the robust guard glowered at the woman. “They will be dead by the morning, witch,” he growled.
Donning a sinister grin, the hag turned to take her leave. “Ensure that it so,” she said with a laugh as she faded into the shadows.
Unnoticed, the hidden observer slipped away into the night. In search of his friend, he took to the darkened streets filled with the perverse revelry of the city’s inhabitants. Ehud knew he only had till dawn to contrive a plan to spring Joktan from this hellish place.

Pending the doom of their short sentence, the prisoners were moved to a wooden cage that had been retracted from the ceiling above the pit where the guards had tossed the corpse earlier. After being nearly thrown in, the two men were lowered into the shadows. Joktan heard the men laugh as he moved deeper into the darkened den of the monsters. A beam of light infiltrated the gloomy depths from a narrow passageway that ascended directly through the pyramids levels above and allowed the captives a limited range of sight.
Amber eyes stared at the fresh meat from below and the smell of their latest meal filled the air. The holy-man returned the gaze and whispered something quiet that caused the beasts below them to settle.
“Are you not angry that you have been put here unjustly?” Joktan asked after he could not endure the quiet any longer. “Your god has certainly forsaken you.”
“I am not to question why, just to follow and obey—man’s wisdom is folly in comparison to God’s. I am his servant; He would not lead me astray,” responded the strange elder.
“What do you call this hell then? A blessing? By the sounds of it we will both die tomorrow.”
“If that is God’s will.”
“Stubborn old man,” Joktan mumbled. “Your faith has made you blind!”
His outburst caused him to wince in pain and he tore the armor from his shoulder to get a better look. The infection had swelled, turning his skin a calloused light black that had formed over the wound and was slowly spreading.
“Nasty bite,” remarked the old man as the distant light from above beamed upon the wound. “It appears the poison is spreading on swift wings, you might turn before night has ended.”
“Turn?” questioned Joktan, who was in too much pain to express fear at the man’s words.
“That is a bite from a spawn of the deceiver, you will become a servant to the darkness,” said the man as he rested his head against the wooden confines of the cell. “You will become trapped inside your own mind as you lose control and thirst for death and blood like the Enlar.”
“Eloquent,” remarked the Sorn. “Well, either way I’m going to die in this place.”
“Death is just the beginning.”
Joktan let out a heavy sigh. He could feel the heated disease that festered inside him being exhaled from his dry mouth. “What can be worse than this world?”
“This world itself is not evil, but has become filled with evil people and our sin has tainted it. The betrayer who caused our fall will become your new master when you die and if you think this world is hell you are in for a surprise,” said the old man bluntly.
“I am not a child, I will not fall for your ancient tales,” Joktan said with a snarl. He did not know where the embittered words came from but he was beginning to feel powerless.
“A child’s faith is what is required to believe; your so called knowledge and wisdom blinds you,” explained the prophet as he closed his eyes and his lips began to mouth silent words.
“No more,” begged the physically and mentally deteriorating prisoner. He could feel the infection had nearly reached the base of his mind and the surface of his rapidly beating heart. Closing his eyes, Joktan felt his fever rise to an almost insufferable height. When the captive felt he could endure no longer, the sickness and pain vanished and the floor below him fell away. A cool, refreshing air passed his lips like sweetened water as the mortal floated; which direction he was going and how fast was impossible to tell. The flight ended abruptly and Joktan felt himself drop to a smooth surface that radiated warmth.
Although his eyes were open, he could see nothing but blackness and his own flesh. A searing sensation touched his ears but no pain was felt and instantly he heard voices.
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is filled with his glory!” sang a chorus of voices together.
The ground on which Joktan knelt shook at the sound of the beautiful declaration. Then a far greater voice, like that of an army of trumpets resounded from before him. “What wickedness runs rampant upon the world I have created?”
“I cannot see,” Joktan said; his voice feeble in comparison.
“You do not see because you have no faith to see,” answered a softer voice from close by.
Then Joktan felt his eyes touched with fire and sight came to him. “Now see and have faith.” Again the spirit being, whose height was greater than that of a Nephilim, touched Joktan’s lips with a hot stone held by tongs. “Speak and be heard.”
A great chamber of a temple surrounded him, its walls and pillars reached past what his sight allowed and white smoke filled the air with a sweet essence. Great beings, like men, were cloaked in flowing robes of shimmering white with crystalline hair and they floated above. They had six wings, using only two to fly and the others to cover their eyes and feet. The Seraphim surrounded a great throne of glistening sapphire that hovered on a mist above them; the figure that sat upon it was so bright that Joktan could not rest his eyes upon him. The length of the being’s crystalline robe ran down around either side of the throne and lay at the mortal’s feet.
“Which one of you will go to save my servant and stand against the Prince of Darkness who would be risen at the call of his people?” asked the voice from the throne.
Joktan looked around at the angels that remained transfixed on their worship. He waited to see which of the great warriors would come forward, but none came.
“Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” the great voice asked again.
The frail man shook in the unanswered silence that was only disturbed by the praises of the Seraphim. Suddenly red slashes of light formed a vortex around a confined area before Joktan and a figure appeared at its center. The being was more beautiful than any of the others. As Joktan stared at the new arrival, the being’s form flashed into a pale glimmer of a blackened serpent with folded wings. Horns that shimmered like obsidian curved out of the beast’s head and red breath vented from its jaws.
“This one is mine! His soul has not been cleansed!” commanded the Arc-Angel; his voice a conjugation of purity and a deep, bone chilling growl.
Joktan watched the angel’s hand reach out toward him; its movement shadowed by the form of the creature’s oily scales and curved black claws. The mortal stood and took a step, only to fall helplessly upon his face. The creature grabbed hold of him and began to drag him away from the throne.
“I will go, send me!” cried Joktan in sudden distress.
“Lucifer!” called the great voice, causing the wicked spirit to release the mortal. “I alone will say when a soul is ready to be taken; his time is not yet complete.
“…Will you stand alone against the darkness? Will you surrender your life to Me?” the crystalline figure asked with a much softer voice.
The mortal nodded, “I shall.”
“If he fails then,” hissed the great winged-serpent. “I demand claim to the earth and all its souls!”
“Let it be so,” responded the Almighty.
Lucifer smirked, and Joktan watched as the spirit vanished as he had come.