ACT I
Chapter One: Dying Light
Paling, 3045
Hale had never seen the sun.
He'd heard of it, of course. Everybody had. Yet he'd been born after the Fall, after the world had gone dark, after the ash. His father had seen the sun, long ago, in a different time. Now, he was dead.
Hale looked to the horizon with dark eyes, blades of scarlet painted across the sky in velvety streaks. Behind him, ash fell upon the grave, pale against the turned earth. He wiped a single tear from his cheek. The pain was still fresh, still raw. You are in a better place, he whispered. I hope.
He turned back to the patch of turned earth and kneeled. The gods were all dead. They had been dead for fifty years. There was no one to pray to, no words to say, no songs to recite. The red light, the dying light, as it had been so called, shone palely upon the granite slab and faded. Night was upon the world once again. It so often was.
Hale rose slowly, painfully, biting at his lower lip. He had known the man his entire life, up until the moment he had died in his arms. He'd watched his eyes widen, watched the breath spill from his lips and heard his last words. He remembered them clear as red flame. "The book," he had said, faint at first, a wheezing cough, nothing more. "Take it to the college. Take up the cowl. It's all I have left of me. It is my life." He had faltered slightly, then continued. "You will make a fine bard, someday, I am sure, my son."
A lump formed in Hale's throat as he swept his hand over the book. He'd seen his father working on it in the night, seen his lantern ablaze through the darkness. Upon the leather covering, emblazoned with gilded letter, it read plainly: The Arkanist.
I will not fail you, father, Hale promised the patch of earth. Never.
By the time Hale had recovered his senses, it was the dead of night. The dying light had died and the sky had been smeared black as soot, thick clouds of ash hanging above in a sinister shroud. It was not bitterly cold, but cold enough to tingle the skin so that tiny bumps prickled the flesh and sent a chill down the spin. It was dark however, incredibly deep and resounding, absolute. In the Evernight, or so the free folk had begun to call it, the days were short and the nights long, and in winter, all light is forgotten.
It had been fifty years since the Fall, since the gods had all died, and still their remnants, the ash, fell from the sky. Trees had died, plants had perished, light had faded, the sun had been lost, and the world had gone dark.
Nobody knew if it would ever end. They feared death. They feared life.
Hale dug through his small, linen knapsack and pulled out an iron lantern, oil-burning. He set it down on the ashen ground and let the wan light pool upon the earth, drenching his hands in warmth, its glow weak and pallid, sickly upon the grey. That was all. He could not see the road or even the trees beside him, reaching into the darkness like ghosts. He could only see his hands, the lines across his palms deep and stark against his pale flesh.
He'd have to wait until morning to continue. He had no other choice. He laid his head upon a smoothed rock and closed his eyes, the wind whispering in his ears. His stomach grumbled things, but he did not eat. His mouth bled, but he did not drink. The blood reminded him of what had happened. The blood reminded Hale that his father had died.
In that cold, dark place, Hale cried himself to sleep.
***
Morning came pale, and quick, and sudden. To Hale it had seemed like an eternity.
In little time, he was back on the road, riding east, the sky brightened to an almost insipid sort of alabaster, thin and lifeless. The ash had subsided to a meek flurry and the wind had quieted to a mere swirling. The remote and consuming silence clung to Hale as he went, drowning out all other sounds.
The road was old, but straight as a nail, and wide enough to fit two carriages abreast. It was all of laid stone, jutting up in places with large muddy ruts between the blocks, all covered in ash. On either side, the earth dipped at a slow gradient, speckled with gnarled old trees, their branches naked and bare, as though they'd been burned. Ahead, Hale led his horse into a small wood of dead fir trees.
Within their skeletal arms, the wind quieted to a gentle whisper and rustled as it snaked about across the ground, turning up loose leaves and ash. As he rode, he led his father's horse behind him, holding the reins at a close distance. He guessed to a willing buyer he could sell the mare for a good amount, maybe ten royals, enough to see him easily to Oldtowne and the College, not including what he already held in his coin purse. It wasn't much, but it all adds up, in the end. At least that was what his father had told him when he was young.
He was brought out of his brief revelry when he heard the arrow thump into the tree beside his face. It was of oak, the fletching black. Outlaws, Hale cursed, heart stopped.
Running wouldn't do much, he knew. They had bows, they would shoot the horse and then later him. No, running was out of the question. Hale would have to play along, and hope, hope to Aylar's Grace that these men would take what they wanted and leave him be. That is to say, if Aylar even existed anymore.
"Get down, traveler," said one of the outlaws in a smooth voice, almost tender. He approached slowly, laughing. "Calm down, my friend. You're trembling like a shitting dog. We're not going to kill you."
Hale felt his face go hot.
"Sure, we could, but we're not like that, you see," said the outlaw. "Lucky you."
Hale dropped from his saddle as he was told. Resisting wouldn't do much good either. He would have to do as he was told, without question, but not without wit, he reminded himself, not without cunning. Cunning keeps a man alive.
"What are you doing out here?" asked the outlaw, taking the reins of the horses. He signaled, and four others appeared from the shadows, two of which took the pair of horses and whatever Hale had left on them: clothes, food, drink, ink, scrolls, quill. He kept his coin purse close though. He'd learned that much from being on the road. Always keep your money close to you. It's your lifeline. Sad, but true.
The book was in his cloak pocket, his father's book. He kept that close too. That was his heart. "Dark and cold out nowadays. Hardly traveling weather."
"I might ask you the same," said Hale, looking into the man's eyes. They were dull, and black as jet, hidden beneath a low-hanging hood of boiled leather. "I didn't know outlaws were still around out here."
The man laughed. "Outlaws will exist so long as there is a law." Then he pulled his arrow from the tree. "Why two horses?"
"One for me, one for my father," said Hale quickly.
"Died?" asked the outlaw.
Hale nodded softly, the pain still ripe.
"Everybody dies," said the outlaw. "Shame he had to die in this, though," and he gestured about. "Shame we shall all have to die in this." He left his hand out, palm up, ash collecting. "I'm sorry for your loss. Really, I am. I'm sure he was a fine man."
Hale, taken aback, was slow to answer. "Thank you."
Then the outlaw patted Hale down, checking for things to take, and later sell. Eventually, after slipping two gold commons from a pouch under his arm, he found the coin purse. It was of a bloody red velvet, laced with gold string, far too nice for Hale. It had been a gift, long ago, and worth about as much as he carried in silver and gold. The outlaw dug around through the coins, and pocketed them, handing the purse back to Hale. "There's five or so left," he said, then felt again and found the book. "You can keep the book. Not worth much, I'd reckon, if anything. Can't read anyway, you know, a real pity. Does me no good." He handed the book back to Hale. "Better it stay with you."
"Aylar thanks you," said Hale, breathing a sigh of relief. He was amazed the outlaw didn't notice it.
"If he's still up there," said the outlaw grimly, looking at the pile of ash in his hand. "Hell, he might be in my very hand." He clapped his hands clean, letting the grey fall onto the forest floor.
"Say, where you heading?" he asked, his companions checking through Hale's supplies with ease and care behind. "Times being what they are, with talk of daemons about man's lips, I'd think a smart man like yourself would stay off the road."
"Oldtowne," said Hale. "And the College. Yet, for now, I suppose I'll make for the nearest village."
"Woodhearth is just down the road a while," said the outlaw. "We stopped there just last span. Good food you'll find there, and good stay if that's what you're planning."
The outlaw walked back over to his horse, a stark black destrier and reined in the beast, climbing onto its back. "Safe travels, then," he said. "Oldtowne is a far ways. And dangerous. If what men say is true, and there are daemons about, take this." The outlaw held out a hand, within which a small iron dagger glinted in the grey. Hale took it, careful not to cut himself, and wrapped his fingers about the worn, leather hilt.
Then, the outlaw kicked his horse's side and they rumbled off to the sound of thunder in the sky.
Hale waited until they disappeared off down the road, and then started east again, this time, on foot.
There are faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric world, Hale realized, sighing, a brief smile kissing his lips. Just not many.
Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it :))))) If so, or if not, please vote and comment about it. No matter how much I try, I am not a mind reader, sadly, lol. I don't know what you are thnking if you don't say it. Thanks again for reading!