The Living Stone: The Eres Chronicles Book I

The

Living

Stone

 

The Chronicles of Eres

Book I

 

by M.B. Mooney

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

© 2013 MB Mooney

 

All rights reserved.

 

2nd Edition

 

www.mbmooney.com

 

ISBN: 978-1492245681

This book is dedicated to Micah, Elisha, and Hosanna. May you never lose your creative spark and always endeavor to share it with the world. You have already made me wealthy beyond comparison with your joy and imagination, but it is too much for me alone.

 

And to all that dream of a Kingdom where everything is good and right and just – keep striving and hoping for that which is beyond our comprehension but the deepest cry of our hearts.

 

“I have come so you may live,” Yosu told them. “Your heart beats, your lungs take in breath, and you have your own thoughts. You think you are alive, but you are dead. You must trade your death for my life. You cannot hold both. Few will understand and fewer will choose. But if you choose my way, it is a life no one can take from you. Then you will be truly free.”

Mochus drew closer to the Master. “So is this the end of death foretold by the ancients? The end of all things?” Mochus asked.

Great sorrow overcame Yosu, and he said to Mochus, “No, my friend. This is only the beginning.”

 

- From the Ydu, 5th Scroll, translated into common tongue by the Prophet

Chapter 1

 

Home Again

 

Caleb De'Ador's steel gray eyes squinted against the late afternoon sun while the boat beneath him docked in the harbor of Asya, the largest city on the continent of humanity. The elven kingdom of Kryus from across the ocean ruled and oppressed this land where Caleb had been raised until leaving years ago.

He returned today to the place of his birth. And where he would likely meet his end.

The Far Lover - a sleek elven vessel constructed with black Liorian wood - came to rest at the end of a busy pier, and Caleb stood at the bow. He turned his bearded face from the wind to watch the human workers secure the craft to the moorings, his shoulder length brown hair falling across his eyes. The shirtless and barefoot men each bore a small eagle tattoo on their left wrist that marked them as corporate slaves.

Caleb had paid for his passage back in Kaltiel but slept in the hold with the slaves, making no friends among the elven bosses on the long voyage across the ocean from Kryus. He wanted to say his farewells to the slaves as he left the boat, but he decided to satisfy himself with one nearby - Dun.

He had spent the most time with Dun along the journey. A gregarious man, Dun was hardened but quick with a joke; his hearty laugh was good company, especially over a game of Tablets. When Caleb shared ancient stories of heroic men and women, Dun listened but dismissed the tales as wave whispers. He did ask to hear more, however, almost every night. Caleb did his best to remember the stories of the ancient scriptures, tales told by his father and his Uncle Reyan years ago.

Caleb now approached Dun, and the man lowered his eyes and hunched his shoulders up on deck in sight of the elven Captain driving the men to their work. Caleb stretched out his hand. Dun took it in friendship.

“Remember to keep your ear to the wind, my friend,” Caleb said. “And do not be surprised if you hear that things are beginning to change.”

Dun gave a smile missing a couple teeth. “I will. Well met.”

“Well met,” Caleb said.

The momentary pause in activity caught the Captain's attention, and he hurried in their direction. Caleb adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and left Dun to his work.

The Captain was average height for an elf - a head shorter than the common man - with cropped blond hair and sharp pointed ears. He wore a plain, long white robe and leather sandals, and he walked with a slight limp, which he proudly claimed to have acquired in the War of Accession. Caleb was skeptical, however. Elves possessed long lives and aggrandized memories.

When they passed each other, the Captain turned and shot Caleb a glare. After centuries of Kryan control, humans learned to bow to the elves. But Caleb didn't avert his stare. He stood straight, reaching over with his hand to hold the leather bracer that covered his left forearm. The elf frowned while Caleb held the gaze.

The Captain broke away first and spun, cursing and yelling at the men moving quickly about the ship, a nine-thonged whip held in his right hand. Caleb began to move to the plank that led off the boat. He peeked from the corner of his eye; the elven Captain rushed Dun.

“Come on, you piece of crit! We haven't got all breakin' day!”

Dun simply nodded, bowing to the Captain and staring down, pulling a line with all his might to furl the massive white sail.

The Captain took another two steps and raised the whip, bringing it down upon Dun's bare back. The man tied off the line and knelt in a huddle, his arms crossing to protect his head. The Captain continued to whip him.

Caleb froze two paces away from the walkway off the ship. He rolled his shoulders while the scars on his own back from an elven whip began to itch beneath his white shirt, the cloak, and the burden of the canvas pack. His fists clenched at his side in the midst of the man's cries of agony.

“Break me,” Caleb whispered.

Spinning around, he faced the Captain and Dun.

The Captain continued to beat Dun, blood dripping from several rips on the man's flesh and onto the deck. The rest of the human crew slowed in their work, their faces blank. Dun yelled in pain through gritted teeth. The Captain began to grin.

Caleb sprinted, his feet quiet across the deck, and he stopped in a crouch in the small space between Dun and the Captain. The Captain brought down the whip, but this time Caleb caught the leather thongs on his covered left forearm. The thin lashes wound around his wrist with a snapping sound. He reached out and grabbed the whip with his left hand.

The Captain stood rigid. Dun groaned and caught his breath, collapsing to the deck.

Sneering at the elf, Caleb pulled on the whip. The Captain held fast to the handle and was drawn into a right-handed strike between the eyes, his head snapping back. Gasping while he faltered, the Captain stumbled, and Caleb yanked the whip away, standing from the crouched position and rotating into a flying right kick across the side of the Captain's head.

The Captain's legs buckled, and he dropped to the deck in an unconscious heap.

The human crew froze, watching him with fear in their eyes. Caleb unwound the whip from his forearm and threw it overboard. He heard yelling from down below in the hold, the First Mate preparing the cargo to be unloaded. “What's going on up there?”

Time to go, Caleb thought.

He adjusted his pack, nodded to Dun and the rest of the slaves, and walked towards the plank leading to the quay.

As Caleb stepped on the pier and strode away from the ship, the First Mate screamed, “Hey - what the shog?”

Caleb reached back and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, moving quickly - without looking desperate - down the pier towards the bustling docks north of the white city walls.

The cacophony of sounds in the harbor surrounded him: loud voices, profanity, wooden crates shifting, horses pulling wagons. The scent of dung and sweat caught his nostrils. Many humans also wore the eagle tattoo on their left wrist.

At the end of the pier, Caleb swung right and inclined his head enough to see the First Mate of the Far Lover pushing through the crowd and following him, calling angrily with a short sword in his hand. Caleb cursed and maneuvered through the throng of people and cargo toward the wide gate into the city.

Two elven Cityguard stood at the gate, clothed in their gray tunics, light steel armor and helmets, the elven gladi - short swords - at their side. The guard, engrossed in their conversation, didn't even look at him when he passed through the wide opening in the wall.

Caleb knew the First Mate followed him, however, so he pressed into the northern quarter of Asya. Old, dilapidated warehouses rose on either side, human workers busy while elven supervisors stood over them. After two blocks, he stole a glance behind him, and two steel Cityguard helmets bobbed in his direction. He took a deep breath and ran.

Leaving the warehouses, he found himself among tenements, gray rectangular buildings that had once been painted bright colors. Kryus had burned all of Asya while conquering the ancient city, and they rebuilt it to show their compassion. That was centuries ago. The paint and color had faded to nothing. Odors of human waste and decay overpowered Caleb, nauseated him. The few hollow-eyed and bone thin humans in the streets were clothed in rags.

Turning left down a side alley between two tenements, he glanced over his shoulder. The two Cityguard gained on him, five mitres away. The First Mate had gone.

The alley narrowed along the length of the tenements, littered with debris, and beyond the shadows, Caleb peered ahead. A dead end. He slowed to a stop, sighing, and he whirled to see the Cityguard jogging towards him. The two guard completely blocked the way in the narrow alley, their gladi in their hands.

Caleb let his pack drop to the floor, and he kicked it to the side. He removed his cloak, his eyes never leaving the Cityguard in their approach, and he draped the mantle over his pack. He stepped forward and stood with his hands relaxed at his side.

The two elves halted two mitres away. They caught their breath, both scowling. “You need to come with us,” the first Cityguard said.

The sight of the guard triggered a distinct childhood memory - holding his weeping baby sister in his arms in a dark cave, hearing the distant screams of his mother as the Cityguard did things to her that he could only guess, an imagination that had become more detailed as he grew into manhood.

There was a letter in his pack, and gold, but he dismissed that option. With his mother's screams in his head, he sneered back at the guard. He angled his body with his left foot slightly forward, his knees bent, his feet shoulder width apart.

The two elves hesitated, blinking and sharing a glance in surprise when they saw his eyes. Their frowns deepened at his gall. Trained to work as a team, the two guard tread forward with their gladi before them. Their faces were intent on their prey, sobered in their duty.

Caleb had been trained, as well, and by better masters. The Cityguard on his right stabbed forward, and Caleb leapt backward out of range of the gladus. The elf on the left immediately struck out with his sword behind his partner's move, and this time Caleb slid to his left, stretched out with his right hand and grabbed the sword arm of the elf. He lashed out with his left hand and crushed the Cityguard's windpipe.

The Cityguard gurgled, trying to gasp, and Caleb spun the elf towards his partner, using the wounded one as a shield and pushing both guard back against the wall of the alley.

The second guard's gladus caught between himself and his partner, and he struggled to free it while Caleb twisted the wounded elf's right wrist. He heard a popping sound as the sword fell to the dirt of the alley.

Caleb let the suffocating elf fall while he jumped straight up and brought his elbow down into the face of the second Cityguard. The elf sputtered when blood spouted from his nose, and Caleb wasted no time in crossing his arms and grabbing the elf by the neck. The elf blindly swung his gladus and slashed across Caleb's right forearm. In one fluid and violent motion, Caleb turned and threw the elf over his shoulder against the opposite wall of the alley. The elf's spine broke, the elf dead before he hit the dirt.

The elf at Caleb's feet still clutched at his neck, straining for breath, for life. Caleb stepped over him. Walking over to his pack, he opened it and picked out a new shirt. He tore the one he wore off his body, ripped it into a few strips and dressed the gash on his forearm. It wasn't deep but bled heavily. He tugged the new shirt on, placed the cloak into the pack, and he slung the backpack over his shoulders.

Both elves were dead by the time Caleb exited the shadows of the alley and turned left onto the main street, glancing both ways to make sure there weren't any more threats.

There were none. But the First Mate might have gone for help, and when the Captain returned to consciousness, the elves of the city would be looking for him.

He would need somewhere to hide tonight, but it had been more than seventeen years since he was last in this city with his uncle. A lifetime ago.

He could only think of one place. He hoped he could find it.

 

_

 

Crossing the city, Caleb used as many side streets as he could. The sun fell behind the city wall, the western horizon changing to shades of orange and red.

He paused in front of an apartment building closer to the Merchant District on the southern edge of Asya and stopped a young man on the street, a thin youth with bushy dark hair, pallid skin, and dilated pupils. Caleb could smell the sickly sweet scent of Sorcos on the young man deep in the thrall of the drug.

“Excuse me,” Caleb said. “Do the Re'Wyl's live in this building?”

“Whu?” The youth's body swayed when his head turned to look at Caleb.

The Kryan Empire generously provided Sorcos, a drug they claimed entertained the mind and healed the body. What medicinal effects it had, Caleb had never seen, but it was highly addictive and produced a tranquil and somnolent population.

Many humans in the Kryan Empire went hungry. But they could always find Sorcos.

Caleb spoke louder now that he had the boy's attention. “Jyson and Rose Re'Wyl. Do they still live here?” He pointed to the apartment building.

“Oh, yeah. Up on third be the rooms o' Jyson; rooms three-four.” He pursed his lips in satisfaction.

“Thank you.” Caleb walked into the building. After he climbed the narrow stairwell up to the third floor, he had trouble making out the numbers in the dim hallway. He found the fourth door, on the corner of the building, and he knocked. The door opened.

Rose had always been a handsome woman, and while she was now older, that hadn't changed. She wore a baggy red tunic over a brown pleated skirt.

Running a hand through her graying blond hair, she smiled at him without recognition. “May I help you?”

“Rose. It's me. Caleb De'Ador.”

It took her a moment to register the name, but once she did, her eyes widened. She froze, and her face tightened. “Caleb? What - what are you doing here?”

A man's voice echoed from within the apartment. “Who is it?”

Caught between her husband and the man at her door, Rose hesitated, but after a moment searching his eyes, she grabbed Caleb's arm, the one with the fresh wound. He winced as she pulled him into the room. “Come in, quickly.” She shut the door behind him.

The main room was small and sparse but functional. A small table with four chairs stood in the corner next to a wood stove and there were cabinets on the wall. A short couch and two ragged but inviting cushioned reading chairs sat on the opposite side of the room. Books and parchments were piled on the floor.

A man with wavy white hair and a full white beard regarded Caleb from one of the chairs. He stood.

Jyson was fit for his age, and he wore a simple crimson tunic over brown pants.

Rose hovered next to Caleb and faced her husband. “Jy, he says he's Caleb De'Ador.”

Jyson frowned. “That boy disappeared more than fifteen years ago.”

“Yes, I know. But I'm back now,” Caleb said.

“He has the same eyes.” Rose's voice was low.

“We'll need more than a likeness of the eyes to believe a man is someone we thought long dead.” Jyson's glare challenged him.

They want proof? Caleb thought. Very well.

“My name is Caleb De'Ador. My uncle is Reyan Be'Luthel, also known by many in Erelon as the Prophet. He is an enemy of Kryus for traveling to nations, cities, and towns and preaching the truth of El, the Creator, truth that the Empire has tried for centuries to suppress or eradicate. He teaches men that they were created to be free. After the Kryan Empire burned my parents at the stake, my little sister and I lived and traveled with the Prophet and his family. I was last here seventeen years ago. I was thirteen years old, and my sister and I slept on that floor with your two kids.”

Both of them froze. Two long, quiet heartbeats passed.

“Only a handful of people could know that, Jy,” Rose said. “Only a handful in the world.”

Jyson's jaw clenched. “What happened to you?”

Caleb took a deep breath. “I was … kidnapped by the Kryan Empire while we were in the city of Landen sixteen years ago. I am back.”

“You escaped?” Jyson asked.

“Not exactly. I was being trained by the elves, and my Master sent me away once I was ready.”

Jyson's lip curled. “You work for the elves?”

“No. I am free and here on my own.” Caleb held up his arm, rolled back the sleeve of the shirt and showed them the bloody cloth around the gash. “I just had a run-in with the Cityguard in the slave quarter. I need medical attention and a place to stay the night, maybe some help buying a horse and supplies. I will be gone first thing in the morning. I can't stay here long. They'll be looking for me.”

Jyson shook his head in disbelief.

Rose finally sniffed and gently took Caleb's left hand. “Come to the table. At least I can clean that up for you. Would you like some tea?”

“Thank you,” he said.

She led him to the table. He dropped his pack nearby and sat in one of the wooden chairs. He was soon sipping hot bitter tea while Rose took a bowl of water and a clean rag and washed out the cut on his forearm. She wrapped it again in dry cloth.

Jyson continued to glare at him from across the room, but he eventually walked over to the table and joined them. Rose set a cup of tea in front of him.

“Speaking of my Uncle,” Caleb said. “When was the last you heard from him?”

Rose faltered, hesitating before she finished tying off the cloth around the wound, and then she sat next to him, pouring herself some tea. Jyson sighed and rubbed his beard, his eyes flicking to his wife. Rose blinked slowly.

“How long you been in the city?” Jyson asked.

Caleb looked from Rose back to Jyson. “Just got off the boat this afternoon.”

“He don't know, Jy,” Rose said.

“What don't I know?”

Jyson leaned forward over the small table. “Caleb, my boy, your Uncle Reyan's been captured and imprisoned by the Empire. They brought him here to the prison. He's at the Pyts.”

_

 

Caleb sat quiet while Rose reached out and took her husband's hand.

“How long has he been in prison?” Caleb asked.

“Three days, maybe,” Jyson said.

Caleb sniffed. “Where did they find him?”

“They got him in Falya,” Jyson said.

“Did someone betray him? Turn him in?” Caleb had to force his hand to relax to keep from crushing the mug in his grip.

“Not know,” Jyson said.

Caleb grunted. “Are they gonna execute him?”

“Not know that either,” Jyson said. “But the Cryars keep saying that they gonna re-educate him.”

The Moonguard or Bladeguard - Special Forces of the Kryan Empire - possessed all manner of means to get someone to talk, to twist their mind in unnatural ways. Kryus called this “re-education.” Caleb knew full well what was in store for Reyan. He had been taught by some of the same Masters.

“I have to get him out of there,” Caleb said.

A look of shock passed between husband and wife. No one had ever escaped from the Pyts-at least not that anyone knew. “You know that's impossible,” Rose said.

“Anything is possible with El,” Caleb said. “Wasn't that what he always taught?”

Jyson and Rose just stared at him.

“I'll need some help.”

“We can't help,” Rose said. “It's too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous?” Caleb's nostrils flared. “We have to. Reyan knows the location of every pocket of resistance. Break it, he's responsible for starting most of them. And that includes the both of you. You're already crit deep in danger. All it would take is for Reyan to say your name in a moment of weakness. Then you and your kids would be hunted.”

Jyson glowered. “Reyan wouldn't …”

“He wouldn't do it willingly, I know. But the elves have their ways.”

The older couple gazed away from him. Rose chewed her lip. “How can we help?”

Caleb sat straight. “Do you know anyone in the black market here in the city? Someone well connected? Someone we can trust. I'll need some supplies, off the books that the elves can't trace.”

“Don't ask for much do you?” Jyson said. “I know a man can get whatever you need, and he knows everyone, but…”

“Do you trust him?” Caleb pressed. “Will he betray us?”

“Freyd Fa'Yador owes me,” Jyson said.

Rose shook her head.

“He has no desire to come to the Empire's attention, nor give me up to them.” Jyson scoffed. “But this man is not a man you want to deal with.”

You don't know the kind of people I'm used to dealing with, Caleb thought. “You let me worry about that. Can you get me a meeting with him? Tonight?”

Jyson's jaw tightened.

Caleb reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “I can do this, Jyson. Help me try.”

A long moment passed as Jyson measured Caleb's gaze. “We leave in an hour,” he said, and Rose groaned.

_

 

Caleb followed Jyson while they walked from the apartment to the Market Square to meet Freyd. Jyson explained how his position as stable master for the First Captain of the Cityguard had its advantages. The elves were comfortable around Jyson's quiet presence, and they let important information slip in his hearing. They believed humans were simple and stupid.

Freyd Fa'Yador ran the extensive, and lucrative, black market in Asya, and the main front for his operation was The Singing Dragon, a tavern.

The Kryan Empire tolerated, even encouraged, things like gambling and prostitution, as long as the taxes were paid. But the Empire kept firm control over the manufacture and trade of goods, however, setting prices and collecting their cut of profits. Those they caught usurping that control were punished. Severely.

Jyson was able to warn Freyd several times over the years of raids or other activity that threatened to expose the racketeer. In return, Freyd helped Jyson find a safe place for believers in El to meet or travelers to stay unnoticed, people like the Prophet.

Humans milled about or traveled through the Square, an octagonal area covered in cobblestones, well-lit with lamps and torches and surrounded by various shops. An imposing statue of Emperor Tanicus stood at its center.

Made of pure gold, the statue towered thirty mitres high, depicting a perfect elf with long flowing hair and a robe draped over his body. His right hand reached out to the west, pleading with the world of men. The statue's face shone with concern and wisdom. His left hand stretched down and grasped the golden human children clamoring at his feet. Words were chiseled into the marble base of the statue. The Liberator.

Standing at the statue's base, one of the city's Cryars - a beautiful elfess with blond ringlets - called out the news and propaganda of the Empire as people walked by.

“Thank the Emperor Tanicus! He has captured the Prophet, and lies have been silenced!”

Most of the citizens ignored her, but a few nodded or shook their heads as they passed. Leaflets and placards around the Square prominently displayed a Qadi-bol playoff game to be played the next night in the coliseum. Several posters publicized the heroic capture and imprisonment of the Prophet.

Caleb gritted his teeth and followed silently behind Jyson.

Jyson led them left down Ceed Street, and they stood before the opulent façade of The Singing Dragon, painted in red, green, and yellow with large torches burning in the mouths of iron dragons at either side of the open double doors that led into the tavern. Stringed music and clear singing could be heard as Caleb strode into the main room.

The tavern was furnished with red padded chairs and round tables, all of it once painted to look expensive but now appeared cheap and faded. Human patrons filled the place, most of them well dressed, some dancing, some singing along. Several men and women sat in a separate area where they smoked Sorcos, but the smell of the drug was masked by perfumes and incense.

Four women sat at the bar, dressed in red linen outfits that revealed almost every milimitre of skin. Known to the locals as crinkles, these women plied their bodies, whispering in the ears of the men who drank liquor and ale.

A beautiful woman entertained the room with a song. She was accompanied by a group of musicians - two with guitars, one with a mandolin, and the last played a fiddle. She sang about the encounter of two lovers who promised each other exaggerated and eternal affection. The lyrics of the song described the sexual intimacy in graphic, supernatural detail.

Jyson and Caleb walked through the room towards the back right corner where two large men guarded an arched doorway covered in a red curtain. Both men were a head taller than Caleb, thick with muscle, and wore red silk long-sleeved tunics, black loose trousers and boots. They looked past Jyson and regarded Caleb.

Caleb returned the stares, marking the way they stood, carried themselves, and shifted their weight. They possessed no real training or skill. Strength was their one advantage, which was effective enough against most.

Jyson addressed the man on the right, a long scar across his chin. “Grat, I need to speak with Freyd.”

Both men glared at Caleb. “Who is that?” Grat asked. The man on the left sneered with his pug nose. Caleb didn't move or respond.

“He's with me,” Jyson said.

Grat frowned at Jyson, but he stepped aside. Pug Nose gave way, as well, but both men entered behind Jyson and Caleb.

The dim back room was filled with more expensive items - gold and silver goblets, larger tables and chairs, and golden dragon lamps. Men and women lounged about the room, and in the far right corner sat a fat balding man with dark features.

He was in his middle years, and he wore a long silk blue tunic gathered with a white sash over bright green trousers. He drank spiced wine from a goblet while sitting on a couch with a woman on either side of him, both even barer than the crinkles in the main room.

The balding man looked up from his cup, his eyes smiling. “Jyson! A rare visit. How are you?”

“I'm fine, Freyd,” Jyson said and placed a hand on Caleb's arm as they stopped five paces away. “How are you?” The room quieted.

“Can't complain.” Freyd pulled the two women closer to him, and they giggled. “Settle down, ladies. We have a true believer in our midst.” They silenced, smirking, but Freyd's tone lost its humor. “How are the kids?”

“Shel's still a stable master up in Falya,” Jyson said. “And nothing new from Leni. She's well.”

“Good to hear.” Freyd waved at Caleb. “Who is this?”

Caleb stayed ready and alert, mindful of Grat and Pug Nose behind him.

“This is a friend,” Jyson said. “And I need to call in a favor.”

“Sure,” Freyd said. “What can I do for you?”

Jyson glanced at the other humans in the room. “This is a big favor.”

Freyd lifted his nose and sniffed. “Everyone leave us alone for a moment.” The two ladies next to Freyd each gave him a kiss before making their exit, and the room cleared. “You, too,” Freyd called over Caleb's shoulder. Grat grunted, but he and Pug Nose followed the rest.

“Sit,” Freyd said. Caleb and Jyson each pulled a chair from the middle of the room to face him.

Caleb assessed his options. Everything from threats to bribes crossed his brain, but he decided to leave those as a last resort. Jyson had a relationship with this man, and so Caleb would play that Tablet first.

“My name is Caleb. I need your help to break the Prophet out of the Pyts.”

Freyd laughed heartily, his midsection jiggling. Then he caught Caleb's stare. “Wait. You're serious?” He turned to Jyson. “Your friend here is either insane or stupid.” Freyd shot Caleb a mocking grin. “Shog a goat, boy, you know that's impossible. They're gonna do all they can to make an example of that poor soul, and I'm sorry for it, but how d'you expect me to help you?”

“Jyson tells me you're pretty connected. I'll need to get some things without the elves knowing about it,” Caleb said. “And I'll need to find someone who has escaped from the Pyts.”

“Like I said, impossible. No one has ever escaped from the Pyts.” But Freyd spoke too quick.

Caleb sighed. “It is important to the Empire that people believe that, but you and I are men of the real world. We both know better, and if you know someone who can help me, I would like to meet him. Or her.”

“You trying to start a riot? Crit on the Empire? They been huntin' that man for decades now. I've hid him myself in this city lots o' times. Elves'll be pretty piffed if they lose him now.” Freyd grasped his goblet tight.

“Just trying to get him out of there.” Caleb's steel gray eyes held Freyd's gaze. “You're right. They'll try to make an example out of him, but first they'll bring in the best interrogators they have and try to make him talk. If he talks - and they are very good at making people talk - then they will get to your friend Jyson here. And if they get to Jyson …”

Caleb let the words hang in the air, the logic not lost on Freyd. “So if you know someone that can help me …”

Freyd's fingers began to fidget, and he put down his cup. “Big breakin' favor, Jy. This could get us all shogged.”

Caleb waited. Like Freyd knew, they might all be shogged anyway.

Freyd snorted. “I might know someone. Come back in the morning.”

Caleb rose to leave, and Jyson stood with him.

“And Jyson,” Freyd said before they left. “This favor? I do this for you, and we're even again, understand?”

Caleb watched Jyson nod somberly before they turned to leave.

Outside in the street, Caleb asked, “What does he owe you?”

It took a moment before Jyson spoke, and Caleb thought he wouldn't get a response.

Finally, Jyson growled, “I let his son marry my daughter.”

_

 

The Dark Gate was concealed within the Kaleti Mountains, peaks that spread across the southwest region of the great continent of Ereland, also known as the land of humanity on the world of Eres.

Thoros the Demilord stood in the darkness within the mountain, waiting for the Gate to open. A weak red glow from the deep fiery caverns below was the only light, although his black eyes could see clearly. The scorching heat of the Underland wafted from behind him.

Known as the Mahsaksa'ar in the First Tongue, the Dark Gate was a half-circle of black stone, smooth and unnatural, and it was one of two portals to the Underland, or the Heol Ra'eres. The Gate was twenty mitres tall and ten wide.

The Gate shuddered when it split, opening with a deafening sound, the gray stone doors swinging wide, scraping and groaning. Thoros rolled his muscular shoulders and stepped out from the Underland into the world above.

Storms raged upon the mountain and the surrounding region, the three moons of Eres coming into alignment - the green moon of Cynadi and the blue of Motali eclipsed by the red moon of Vysti - and wreaking havoc upon the land. Black clouds gathered, tornadoes ripped through the foothills, and rain and hail laid waste to the countryside. Thick lightning accompanied by deafening thunder dug small craters into Maed and the plains to the north. The mountain trembled.

Thoros twisted at his waist to peer up at the apex of the Gate. Written upon it was a script in a language older than even the First Tongue. Some once called it prophecy, others a curse, but more accurately it was a command from the Creator, the one responsible for its construction and the imprisonment of the demics into the Underland.

The command inscribed in melted blood gems stated that every 527 years, when the three moons of Eres fell into alignment in their orbit over the mountain of Maed, the Gate would open and allow a force of demics and one Demilord back into the world.

The script placed the responsibility of defeating those monsters into the hands of ancient human warriors.

The Demilord stood two and a half mitres tall. His dark red skin, hairless and thick as armor, had curses etched in black ink over his bare muscular torso and thick arms, each painful stroke a reminder of the dark power of the Underland; every excruciating phrase in his flesh had been earned as a reward from his Master. He wore a simple pair of loose black trousers that hung down below his knees. His eyes shone black and beady beneath a prominent forehead, and two large black horns curved up and outward from his temples to face forward. Two ebony tusks protruded from the bottom row of sharpened teeth in his mouth. He had pointed ears and a small nose. His hands and feet were three-fingered claws with long black talons at the end.

Thoros stood strong and immovable as the storm and gales beat at him. He took a breath of air, cold in contrast to the dark halls and caverns of the Underland, and his body adjusted to the chill. The night was bright, almost blinding compared to the black caverns, and he surveyed the northern vista from the face of Maed.

He called his army of demics forth.

The common demics issued forth from the Dark Gate behind him in droves, a handful of them holding clubs fashioned from the stalagmites of the deep caves of the Underland. Most were weaponless; their talons and tusks would tear through any surface short of iron and steel.

The demics looked much like Thoros but a third of his size and more simian with longer arms and shorter legs. The impish creatures poured past Thoros, screaming in pain, a high pitched screeching sound, when the clean water and hail hit their red flesh, skin that had been scarred and tempered by the heat and dryness of the Underland.

The demics were not capable of much thought beyond destruction, hunger, anger and fear. Thoros commanded them with a telepathic link to continue through the Gate until as many demics as possible could make it. His orders were filled with implied threat in the face of the anguish from the hail and rain. They were created to obey, and he designed to drive them.

He also promised them they would feed on the flesh of the living races. That helped to overcome their fear.

The precipitation caused Thoros pain, as well, but his hide withstood it. The moon of Cynadi moved into the eastern sky and Vysti to the south. The storms lowered their intensity but still continued.

When the Gate finally closed, one demic was not quite fast enough, and the stone closed upon him and crushed the creature, black blood splattering on the stony ground. Other demics ran headlong into the shut barrier inside the mountain. Thoros could sense them in his mind. How many had made it through? Thoros guessed at least eight, perhaps, ten thousand.

Bana Sahat, the Lord of the Underland, had bred, trained, and tortured the Demilord for a millennium to come to the world of Eres and lead the demic horde for a single purpose: to find the Key that would permanently free the perverse monsters from the dark and fiery prison of the Underland.

The Lord of the Underland and the demics once lived in the world above, thousands of years ago, ruling the night and feeding on the flesh of the First Ones. But Yosu and the warriors of El had driven the demics back after many years of war, banishing them into the deep chambers of the Underland where they starved or ate one another instead of the delicious flesh of human, elf, or dwarf. While the sun and rain tortured them, at least here they would feed.

The demics were ravenous. So was Thoros, but he ate something far different and more powerful.

The same telepathic link that allowed him to communicate with the demics also helped him to locate the Key, the Heol-caeg. Thoros closed his black eyes and took a deep breath. North. Due north.

This was his hour, his time to do what none of the other fourteen Demilords before him could accomplish. He would teach the humans of this age the meaning of evil and hate and set his race free again to rule the night.

He opened his eyes again, and a smile spread on his face.

Thoros ran behind the demics, driving them north with an audible and mental roar, a demand to find the Key, and destroy and consume every living thing in their path.

Chapter 2

 

From the Pyts

 

Lying on a pallet in Jyson and Rose's apartment, Caleb spent much of the night looking at the dark ceiling. He managed a couple hours of sleep before he rose and gathered his things. An uncomfortable silence dominated the apartment as Rose made a simple breakfast for him and Jyson.

After a few minutes eating, Jyson moved to the far corner of the main room, knelt down and pulled up a loose board. His hand came away with a set of parchments. He replaced the board, stood, and came back to sit across from Caleb, staring at him. “You were away for a long time, and now you've returned.”

Caleb nodded but wouldn't meet his eyes.

Jyson peered at the parchment. “The ancient scriptures contain a prophecy, a man who will return and lead humanity to freedom. The Brendel. Do you know it?”

Caleb didn't answer him.

Jyson began to read. Was that Uncle Reyan's handwriting? “He will be born in the land of humanity but travel far away. His return will be a sign that men and women will rise and claim their freedom from the chains of others and the bondage they place upon themselves …”

“He will be the rebirth of the Sohan-el,” Caleb interrupted. Jyson and Rose fell still. “The sword that gives him life will take his life. He will be inflicted with deep wounds, and those scars will follow him all his days. He is not a man, but a sword, and El will wield him as a sword, a blade to cut out the heart of those who enslave and oppress.”

Caleb sniffed. “My father had a copy like that, translated by my uncle, and Da would sit and read it aloud, over and over, almost like a prayer. It haunts me every day.”

“Great and mighty El,” Jyson whispered. “Has it really begun?”

“So you're going to the Stone?” Rose asked.

He pursed his lips. Believing an oracle to be true, to have hope in it, was one thing. Living it was a different matter. What kind of man does it take to embody a prophecy? Could he claim to be such a man? To know for sure, he would need to travel west to find the Living Stone. If tested and found worthy, he would be given an unforged sword and become a Sohan-el, the first in hundreds of years.

“As soon as I break Reyan out of the Pyts, yeah.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes shining with tears.

The sword that gives him life will take his life … He didn't want her pity, so Caleb stood and put the backpack over his shoulders. He moved to the door and Jyson followed.

“Sorry.” Caleb faced him. “I'm going alone from here. This is where we say goodbye.”

The older man grabbed Caleb's right forearm, but Caleb held firm and set his jaw. “If I get him out tonight, we're leaving Asya and won't be back. If you see or hear anything suspicious, get out of the city and hide. You have a place to go, right? Arrangements for an emergency?”

Jyson nodded.

“Good, then don't hesitate.” Caleb wrenched his arm away from Jyson. “I know you trust this Freyd man, but the elves have their ways of getting information. You know the danger.” He stepped into the hall. “Thank you both. I hope we meet again someday.”

Rose joined him at the door. “We'll pray.”

Caleb nodded and left to meet with Freyd Fa'Yador alone. He would pray, too. Pray that what he was about to do wouldn't get them all killed.

Or worse.

_

 

Still early, Caleb strode down the street towards the Square while vendors set up their booths. Once arriving in the Square, Caleb noticed two Nican of Olinar, both dressed in long, flowing, blue silk robes down past their ankles. They wore short cloaks with roomy hoods made of a lighter blue, muttering prayers to the god of the ocean and dipping their hands into a crystal bowl before flicking drops of water as they asked for peace from the coming storm. Caleb lifted his head and noticed the clouds gathering on the horizon to the west. The storm would be upon them by evening.

The main temple of Ashinar, with the accompanying temples to the other eight Kryan gods, dominated the northern edge of the Square towards the Wealthy district where all the elves lived. The Temple was a cluster of nine high towers of white stone, trimmed in gold and silver.

Would the coming rain aid or hinder his mission? Depending on the plan, probably both, and Caleb uttered a prayer to El, the Creator of all things.

The Singing Dragon was empty this morning, clean and spotless but eerily quiet. Grat and Pug Nose stood in front of the doorway to the back room again. They did not speak or move when he brushed past them.

A large round table was situated in the middle of the red carpet. The room was sparsely lit with oil lamps from the corners, and Freyd reposed in a high-back red velvet chair at the table, facing Caleb and drinking spiced tea. A pot with porcelain cups and a plate of pastries sat before him.

To Freyd's left, a small figure huddled in a wooden chair, wrapped in a long hooded green cloak, the cowl up and casting a shadow across the face.

Caleb took the other empty chair that waited for him, plush and red like Freyd's. He removed his backpack and set it on the floor.

“Where's Jyson?” Freyd asked.

“I came alone,” Caleb said. “Is that a problem?”

“Not with me.” Freyd waved over the tea and pastries on the table. “Please, help yourself.”

“I already ate,” Caleb said.

Freyd chuckled short. “Down to business, eh? A man after my own heart. But before we get to it, there have been some rumors of an incident yesterday at the docks.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow.

“A man fitting your description seems to have struck an elf Captain of some boat,” Freyd said. “My sources even say he killed a couple guard. The elves are very intent on finding this man.”

“Interesting. You have a point?”

Freyd snorted. “This favor is even more dangerous than I thought. Attacking elves on the docks isn't my idea of a low profile.”

“Are you saying you won't help me?”

Freyd shook his head. “I'll do what I can, but as a businessman, I have concerns that need protected.”

“I understand.” Caleb leaned forward, facing the third person at the table. “Who is this?”

“A man such as you have requested,” Freyd said. “The only person I have ever known to escape the Pyts, and I know this city better than anyone.”

Caleb studied the shadows underneath the hood. “Let me see your face.”

Freyd inclined his head. “As you may imagine, my friend here is nervous. The elves never advertised his escape - they might believe him dead - but if they knew …”

“Let me see your face,” Caleb said, enunciating the words.

The hooded head turned to Freyd, who nodded an encouragement. The figure faced Caleb, reached up with both hands, and lowered his hood, revealing a bone thin boy with a beak of a nose, full lips and bulging dark eyes.

“You're a child,” Caleb said.

The boy frowned. “I'll be nineteen next month!”

Caleb raised his hands. “No offense.” Caleb lowered his hands and narrowed his eyes. “What is your name?”

“Aden,” the boy said after a pause.

“My name is Caleb. Did Mr. Fa'Yador explain to you what I need?”

“Yea, you wanna get someone out the Pyts. Who?”

“His name is Reyan Be'Luthel, also known as the Prophet by some,” Caleb said.

Aden's eyes tightened, and his body tensed. “You wanna free the Prophet from the Pyts?”

That was a preview of The Living Stone: The Eres Chronicles Book I. To read the rest purchase the book.

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