A Crown for the Promised

Prologue

To find the truth of the realm. The dream of his foolish patron who brought Reagan to this lifeless place.

But Reagan couldn’t blame the fool—Damien—for hiring him and his wife, Astrid. All his life, Reagan had been a hunter. He was the finest tracker and his wife was the best shot in Kaeyn Arenth. The two people, daring enough to venture deep into the Dark Woods. But even they had no idea what to expect beyond the Dark Woods.

Until now.

Drudging up the wind-scarred trails of a craggy mountain, Damien soundly cursed the night that had put them in this position. Ten nights ago, Damien had come knocking on their door, wearing something very odd. A coat, very much like his own hunting leathers, fell smoothly down to his knees. The patterns etched onto it was unlike anything Reagan had ever seen. Feathers and foliage curled and eddied from the hem up, like smoke trails from a bonfire. The threads were a warm yellowish tone reminding Reagan of the ambers found in the mines of the Kerlen Trails. Underneath it was a jerkin of sorts, as intricately decorated as the coat he was wearing. Two rows of buttons on his midriff fastened it. A hat adorned his head. None of the sort Reagan would find in Kaeyn Arenth. Like a teardrop, its brim adhered to its crown, shaping a pointed front and rounded back. A white feather roosted on top of it and more of the same yellowish pattern bedecked its edges.

The chill northern wind had set his own body trembling under his mere hemp tunic, but the stranger before him gave no indication of a weather cooler than a windless night. Reagan had wondered if the jerkin had been crafted from unusual materials.

Damien had claimed he came from Verdania. Reagan could only guffaw at such a ridiculous claim.

Stories of Verdania were common in Kaeyn Arenth. Legend spoke of a floating kingdom above the clouds. They called it the kingdom of heaven, a home of the Angels. It was folk lore. Myth. Something no sane Morbidian would believe. Only an idiot might believe such a thing.

But the machinery the traveller carried, if there was a single proof of a Verdanii, that was it. A wooden stick augmented with bronze—a metal as fictional as the myth it came from. Bronze shared the same colour as the embroidery on his clothing. Beautiful and warm, Reagan thought. Damien called it a rifle. Having demonstrated its use, the rifle’s thundering roar made Reagan believe all the stories Damien had told him.

Damien had offered Reagan a bag of coins for safe passage to the Blackened Peak. But Reagan had no use for a fictional land’s wealth. He desired the rifle, nothing less. As he would expect, Damien groused and haggled at first. But when Reagan hammered an ultimatum to the Verdanii’s head, Damien let off a conceding sigh. “Only after you get me to the Blackened Peak,” Damien said before agreeing.

They departed the very next day. Reagan brought his trusted bow and dagger with him. A quiver of arrows for the Dark Woods. Another quiver for the Mourning Mountains beyond the woods. He considered another quiver for the Blackened Peak, but his hands were full. Astrid came along as always. Damien brought the rifle with him, saying that it could protect them. Reagan did not doubt him one bit.

And that was why they now found themselves here. Three wanderers, lost on the trails of the Blackened Peak, seeking for a fool’s dream.

The higher one climbed the Blackened Peak, the colder and darker it became. How long had it been since they last saw civilization? Reagan could not remember. The path was scraggy rocks with hardly any proper footing for them to walk on. Trees were scarce. The land, barren. There wasn’t enough warmth nor light for greenery. There was no life there. No hares, no snakes. Not even flies or maggots.

At first, he was grateful for the missing animals. It meant no threat, unlike the Dark Woods. Then, the food ran out. With nothing to hunt, dread came.

“I would start heading back to Kaeyn Arenth,” Astrid suggested, as she bit down the last bread.

Reagan nodded. There was nothing in that place.

“We press on,” Damien insisted.

“Don’t be daft,” Reagan argued, “that bread was the last of our food. We’ll die of hunger first if not anything else.”

“You can leave, if you wish,” Damien replied. He tapped on the bronze of his rifle and it clanged twice. “But this won’t be yours.”

Leaving him was tempting. No weapon was worth more than a life. But they continued to move forward.

Reagan was considering abandoning the quest when the rocks turned black and became smooth like glass. The blackness of its surface sucked all the colours touching it, the ground now shrouded in lightlessness.

It was unlike the darkness of night. Any other night, the moon gleamed with an entrancing blue somehow making the world around him seem enchanting. This…

This felt like death. Like someone had stolen the colours of the world. Like moments before he let loose an arrow to a deer’s heart when all he could hear was the thumping of his heart, and all he could feel was the unsettling trepidation of missing his shot.

An ominous, perplexing cry echoed through the black lands. For all Reagan knew, it could just be in his head. The sound of a woman’s weeping. Her cries pulled the strings of Reagan’s heart, cajoled him with a sense of pity. A voice overflowing with suffering and torment.

Help me! The voice begged and sobbed. Almost bawling.

“Who are you? And what do you want from me?” Reagan’s voice quavered. He was still striding deeper into the black lands.

Read the book, Reagan. The book will tell. Hurry, please! It’s painful.

“What book? And how do you know my name?”

Read the book. The voice echoed, still sobbing.

“I don’t unders—”

READ THE BOOK! The voice roared.

Reagan yelled, hands raising involuntarily to cup his ears.

“Reagan!” Astrid’s hand jerked his shoulder. “What’s happening? Who’re you talking to?”

“Someone needs help… Further up the mountain.” The sentence took seconds to form.

“Reagan, there’s no one here.”

Reagan looked around. Nothing but colourlessness and the black rocks.

“I, uh…” His heartbeat hastened, banging against his ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage.

“We have to turn back,” Astrid pleaded.

“We press on,” Damian refused. “A few more climbs and we will reach the peak. Have faith! Samael protects us.”

Reagan could not see the paleness on Astrid’s face. In that place, everything was monochrome. But the dread in her eyes was clear as day. Her dread injected terror in Reagan. Not because he feared for her, but because she was the bravest person he had ever known. And she was afraid.

Cold sweat flowed down Reagan’s brows. Turn back, turn back and never return to this dark place.

No, Reagan. Don’t abandon me. Please… it’s painful. It was that voice again like it could read his mind.

“Did you hear that?” Astrid asked.

“Yes… Yes, a woman! She’s crying. You hear her too?” Reagan replied to his wife. Finally reassurance that he was not just hearing things.

“No, no, it was a man’s. He was shrieking. Yelling for help.”

“I don’t hear any voice. No man nor woman,” Damien said.

“We’ve gotta help them. Reagan, we’ve gotta help them and then, we get out of this place.” Astrid said.

She clutched his wrist. Before Reagan could answer her—before he could suggest otherwise—Astrid dragged him further into the black lands. The huge black cliffs around them narrowed, converging into a single trail. Standing before them was an archway built by the same glassy black rocks that made the peak of the mountain.

Beyond, a valley rested. Black rocks formed a cromlech in the valley. In its centre, the black rocks fused to become something tethered to the very mountain.

Save me, Reagan. You are the chosen one. Save me from this torment.

The black rocks became a maiden. Young and eternal. Reaching out for him. The blackness of her skin and her gown were as deep as the night sky itself. They glinted with each movement she made, glittering like stars in the darkest night.

“You’re beautiful.” Reagan gaped. He didn’t care that his wife was by his side. He had seen the most beautiful woman in Morbidia. Far more beautiful than Astrid was and ever will be. He could not hear what Astrid had to say, nor cared. He reached out for the maiden’s hand. To feel her.

Only a finger away from touching her, Reagan heard the heavenly thunder again. From the rifle.

The maiden’s hand shattered like glass before his eyes. She shrieked in pain and her body shifted and churned. Wings sprouted off her back and she became a flying beast. Her wings whipped a mighty gust of wind past Reagan. They were feathered, very much like the birds. But scales covered her body like a snake. Her jaw was long and her teeth were fangs ready to tear him apart. Her other hand turned into talons, as menacing as any predators in the sky. In spite of her new appearance, she was still the black rocks that made the mountain.

You dare bring HER weapon into our home? It shrieked. The valley roiled. The very surface of the mountain creaked and shifted and turned. The black rocks breathed and more of her kind emerged from the surface.

“Reagan! We have to go,” Damien hollered. “Let’s go, I’ve gotten it. The truth of this realm!” He cocked his rifle again and fired at it. The beast shattered in front of Reagan.

The Son of Verdant has the Book! The mountain screeched. It sounded like death. As if the victims of war rose from the ruins of battle and wailed in unison. As like the curdling of a man right before a sword cut through his neck.

Reagan took Astrid’s hand. Run, just run. He scrambled, finally awake from his trance. After managing a few strides, he realised Astrid was lighter than she should be. There was her arm, but she was nowhere. Chunks of meat falling like rain from where she should have been.

The mountain had turned his wife apart.

The death screech continued. The beasts flew around him. Vultures around a carcass. A carcass. That was what he was.

“Damn it, Reagan! Move!” Damien called again, followed by another loud bang and the sound of rocks shattering.

Move.

But he couldn’t.

The pain encroached throughout his body from his spine. His hands jerked and twisted and tore. The talons ripped and shredded his back. He fell to his knees. And when he thought he would finally drop to rest, he flew instead. His lower half, missing.

Down below, he saw Damien scurrying beyond the archway. The rifle still in his hand, the book on the other. And the last glimpse of the world he saw was the fangs of the mountain.