THE DARKNESS DESCENDS

@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, June 2000, August 2001 (slight 
modifications). You know the drill -- all rights protected under 
the Berne Convention, all resemblance to persons living or dead 
is solely coincidental and unintentional, etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: 
No spooge here; however this is a very dark story, kind of an 
origin story for Raven the Dark Warrior.

The punishment for "consorting with the Darkness" in Raven's land 
is death by torture, and the immediate family of the accused is 
forced to witness it. He was sixteen or so when these events 
occurred. 

You could imagine that Raven's relationship with his older 
brother included an element of incestuous homoeroticism, and I 
wouldn't contradict you -- but I wouldn't confirm it, either. ;-)



"Believer 
Speak not to me of justice 
For none have I ever seen 
By God, I shall give as I receive 
Betrayer 
Speak not to me at all . . ."
-- Emperor, "The Loss and Curse of Reverence"



The tall golden-haired young man took one more pull from his last 
water flask, almost emptying it. As the sun's afternoon light 
filled the cave, the desert air blasted the moisture from his 
skin, making it feel tight on his bones and leaving his lips 
chapped and dry.

There was no going back, even had he somehow been able to. The 
caravan route was two days' travel on foot from here.

If he did not succeed tonight, tomorrow he would begin dying of 
thirst. Right now, the prospect of death frightened him less than 
failure. The Priests of the Light would have said he'd lose more 
than his life if he succeeded -- but to him it was well worth it.

He set the flask down on the rock of the cave floor beside him 
and stared out at the desert stretching endlessly away below the 
cliff. As always, he saw only the black rock formations 
shimmering under the fierce sun, now sinking all too slowly in 
the west. Below those misshapen spires and turrets, the red 
desert sand stretched away into infinity, broken only by the few 
scattered scrubby bushes that could eke out a living here.

The walls of the cliff were as rust-red as the sand, but those 
dark towers of stone seemed weirdly unnatural. It was even 
stranger that they seemed not to weather into the red sand; in 
fact, they appeared not to be sandstone at all. But then, the 
Jandorral had a well-deserved reputation for strangeness.

The white-hot sun was as brilliant and unforgiving as a Bright 
Lord. Under that pitiless light, the desert looked almost flat, 
without depth, like a painted landscape on a wall.

The little west-facing cave was no more than an indentation in 
the wall of the sandstone cliff, roughly six paces from its back 
wall to the opening, where a slope of sand and rubble descended 
from its mouth to the desert floor below, permitting access. Its 
interior was drowned in shade at midday, the sun's harsh light 
only reaching into it now at mid-afternoon.

To the young man's rudimentary mage-sense, the cave radiated a 
distinct aura of power -- dark and smoky, sullenly brooding. It 
was that feeling that had allowed him to pick it out, to 
recognize it as the spot he was looking for among all the other 
little caverns, grottos and holes in the eroded sandstone of the 
cliff.

He'd noticed quickly that though it looked like an inviting place 
to stop and rest, there were no smoke smudges on the ceiling to 
betray any passing travelers. No one lingered here.

If the ancient wandering half-mage he had questioned had told the 
truth, there was good reason for that. Death from thirst was not 
the worst fate the Jandorral held for travelers; even traders' 
caravans took care to remain on the main route.

His shortsword, still in its scabbard, lay against the back wall 
of the cave. His few other possessions were in his saddlebags, 
propped beside it. 

The young blond man got up a little stiffly, revealing himself as 
tall but lean with whipcord muscles -- he had just left behind 
the gawkiness of youth.

He withdrew from the mouth of the cave, where it fell away into 
the slope that led to the desert below. He paced back and forth 
inside his little space for a while, working the restlessness out 
of his long legs.

When that was done, he went to the back of the cave and sat down 
cross-legged beside his saddlebags.

He knew only a little magic, but from the books he had learned to 
center himself and concentrate on what he wanted, and how to Call 
to the Powers. At least, he knew how a mage called to the Light; 
he hoped the same method worked for the other side.

He closed his eyes and stilled his mind, pushing back the grief 
and anger, as he had since yesterday morning.

What he sought, no Mage of the Light would have sanctioned. But 
the Bright Mages had no answer to the malice of the Bright 
Priests.



It was bitter irony that his older brother, not he, had suffered 
the penalty of law for heresy. But then, he wasn't important 
enough to have enemies. Vechan, his older brother, had been.

Vechan had tried to talk him out of studying magecraft when he'd 
found out about it. It was little enough he'd been able to learn 
-- only what lay in the two old books left behind by a long-dead 
grandaunt who had never even passed her Examinations. Even so, 
the proper path for a would-be mage was under the guidance of the 
Bright Priesthood. And in any case it was not fitting for the 
offspring of a line of warriors to meddle with wizardry.

He had argued with Vechan. He didn't have a high opinion of the 
Priests of the Light even then, and he had no intention of 
submitting himself to their tutelage.

In the end, when it became clear he could not persuade Vechan to 
relent, he simply continued his studies in secret.



The old memory roused the young blond man from his trance.

He picked up the flask and drained it of the last precious 
swallow of lukewarm water, then got up and again padded to the 
mouth of the cave.

He wondered how long it would be before he began to feel the 
torment of thirst he couldn't assuage.

Long, long shadows from the black rock spires marched slowly 
across the sand, lengthening as the sun neared the horizon, 
though the heat was as unforgiving as ever. The little cave was 
drowned in shadow again.

He threw the empty flask away. A soft, final smack of leather 
striking sand marked its impact into the sand and rubble down the 
slope, followed by the brief sounds of its sliding a short 
distance. Then there was silence again.

He walked back, returned to his sitting position. He closed his 
eyes again and continued to Call to the only force that could 
oppose the Bright Priests . . . and hoped it might yet listen.



Much as they loved each other, Vechan had never really understood 
his thoughts. 

"Vechan," he once asked him, "do you *really* think the Light 
cares one whit more about us than the Dark?"

Vechan looked mildly surprised, as if he had never thought about 
it.

"So the Priests say," he said.

"I don't mean what the Priests say. We both know our catechisms. 
What do *you* think?"

Vechan pondered that a moment.

"I haven't." He shrugged. "I leave such things to the Priests." 
Then he offered him an odd look. "What is it that you think, 
then?"

He paused, arranging his thoughts, his words. Then: "I think . . 
. not. That we mean nothing to them other than the worship they 
get from us." He turned to look directly at Vechan.

His older brother's eyes widened slightly. "What makes you think 
such a thing?"

"Look at the Priests, how they act. You know the harvest wasn't 
good last year, but still the Archpriest told Lord Ruthor to go 
ahead and approve those taxes -- that the Aroll temple needed the 
new furnishings. Some of the peasants lost everything and had to 
sell themselves into slavery, remember? And everybody knows that 
some of those 'heretics' just made the wrong enemies . . ."

He would have gone on, but Vechan interrupted, saying simply: 
"Those are dangerous thoughts, kinsman. Best keep them between 
us."

That had started another argument, and again he had lost.



As night's darkness at last claimed the desert, the agonizing 
heat lifted. Rocks groaned and occasionally cracked as they 
cooled.

The sweat dried on the blond man's skin and clothes, leaving him 
feeling grimy but more comfortable.

He came out of his trance long enough to fetch a candle and small 
holder from his saddlebags and use a minor spell to light it, 
placing it on the rocky floor. The flame cast wavering shadows 
over the rock.

The strange yells of jackals sounded in the far distance, like 
the yelping of ancient dogs. He ignored them, intent on his 
Calling.

Then he heard something that was manifestly not a jackal, 
something that startled him out of his trance. It sounded only 
once, far away. It was something like a wolf's howl, but much 
deeper, long and sonorous . . . like a baying hound.

As it soared, then descended into silence, the young man felt the 
hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Something about that cry 
seemed . . . unnatural.

Not like an animal's cry at all.

He wondered what it was. A little chill trickled down his spine.

The strange cry was not repeated.



When he had made his decision several days ago, he had disguised 
himself so he could slip out of the family hold without anyone's 
recognizing him, then ridden for a full day to reach the caravan 
route.

He held to the road for the next two days. On the second evening, 
he removed and hid his horse's tack and bridle, then abandoned 
the beast to go where it would, keeping only one of the 
saddlebags. Probably it would join the next caravan that passed 
through, if it could survive a few days in the desert.

Then he'd set off on foot, looking for the place the old half-
mage had spoken of.

As he slept with his head pillowed against his saddlebags, the 
nightmare had come again, as it had every night since Vechan's 
execution.

The Chamber of Justice, with its white floors and walls lit by 
torchlight . . . The Priests of the Light in their snow-white 
robes, lined against the walls, waiting, watching, except for the 
ones stripped to the waist who would carry out the sentence . . .

Once again he stood bound and helpless in the grip of the guards 
while his tears blurred the sight of Vechan, naked, chained, 
frightened but too proud to plead.

It took his brother a long time to begin screaming, but scream he 
finally, inevitably did, the cries echoing from the walls.

Blood slowly dripping down to the tiles of the Chamber. The old-
meat stink of it, of fear and agony.

Grief. Horror. Helplessness.

The Priests wouldn't even let him avert his eyes. He shouted, 
cursed, begged them to stop, even threatened, until his throat 
was raw, but the four guards held him in a grip of iron as the 
execution was carried out . . .

Waking, he lay full-length on the sand, weeping in the darkness 
under the uncaring stars.
   


Now, in the cave, his head jerked up as he realized he'd nearly 
fallen asleep again.

It would have been pitch-black without the candle, now nearly 
burned out. He got another one and lit it from the stub.

He walked to the cave mouth, feeling the stiffness in his legs 
again -- he had sat cross-legged for long turnings. The soles of 
his boots gritted on sand grains on the floor as he looked out.

Below him, the sands and the dark outcroppings reflected only the 
faint light of the cold stars. Nothing at all moved out there.

Heavy despair welled up in him, weighed down his stomach, his 
very soul, matching the darkness of the desert night.

He had failed. Nothing and no one had heard his Call.

He would die here, alone and unseen, and Vechan's blood would 
forever cry aloud for vengeance and be forever unanswered.

Memories returned to torment him -- Vechan's face, the comforting 
warmth of his body, his strong arms around him. Arms he would not 
feel again, ever.

Then he felt the choking in his throat seize him. He went to the 
back of the cave, lay down on the hard floor of the cave and wept 
wrackingly, tears wetting the hard stone under his cheek.



He must have fallen asleep while crying, like a child. At least 
this time there had been no nightmares. He woke suddenly, roused 
by the sound of distant thunder.

The air had changed -- it was no longer dry but instead had a 
sullen, heavy feeling, almost smothering even in the evening's 
chill.

Once again he rose and went to the opening to look out.

A thick cloud cover had moved in, blotting out the stars. In the 
distance, he saw a flash of light, too buried in the fast-moving 
clouds for him to glimpse the lightning bolt itself. The rumble 
of the thunder came to him a few moments later, sending a faint 
vibration through the stone of the cave floor.

For a moment he regretted hurling away his water flask. If the 
storm passed over this spot, he could perhaps have refilled it.

A gust of wind blew through the cave, making the candle flame 
waver and nearly go out. No question -- there was rain in that 
wind. Another flash of light lit the brooding sky, closer now. He 
could feel the rumble right through the rock. There was a 
thrilling feeling in his skin, sending hairs lifting on the back 
of his neck.

As the young man watched, another gust struck, stronger this 
time, putting out the candle and plunging him into darkness.

Something held him there at the entrance, watching the storm 
approach. The wind strengthened still more, whipping his long 
hair around his face so he had to keep brushing it back. Airborne 
sand grains stung his eyes.

The lightning was marching steadily closer. The bolts were 
jaggedly clear now, each bolt a flash of brilliantly white light 
like a spear flung by a Bright Lord. With each flash, the desert 
was lit for an eyeblink, a landscape of bleached light and stark 
night shadow that imprinted itself on his vision in the ensuing 
darkness. The sound that followed each flash was an ear-splitting 
crack, and the rock under his feet shivered at the concussion; 
the storm was nearly overhead, and the next gust of wind brought 
a spray of stinging rain into his face.

He wiped his eyes, and then a flash of movement caught his 
attention: not lightning, but something dark beyond the entrance, 
a few body lengths down the slope.

It was lit for only an eyeblink by a lightning bolt, but in that 
moment he glimpsed something big and four-legged standing in the 
path, broadside to him.

He had a momentary impression of oddly red eyes glowing even in 
the flash of white light. An eyeblink later, it was gone.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and it was only in the 
moment afterward that he realized why: the sheer blackness of the 
form. It seemed, somehow, even darker than the surrounding night 
-- like a hole in the air.

*Only a wolf*, he thought, trying to convince himself. Were there 
wolves in the Jandorral?

He stepped back from the opening, then kept backing, toward where 
he thought his shortsword lay. Between the lightning flashes, the 
darkness in the cave was total; only the grayness of the entrance 
broke it.

His back struck something hard: the far wall. He groped for the 
sword, was about to light another magical flame in hopes of 
finding it when he heard the eerie call from earlier, no longer 
far away but right nearby.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up as a chill 
coursed down his spine.

He lifted one hand to cast a circle of protection around himself 
-- a fairly weak spell, but the only one of that nature that he'd 
mastered. Then he caught himself, remembering why he was here. 
Instead, as he wrestled with the growing fear that gripped him, 
urging him to forget his hatred and flee, he closed his eyes and 
reached outward with his half-trained mage-sight to see what it 
was that lurked nearby --

He felt it like a blow; something, or *Something*, was there and 
watching him. Outside no longer, but right there with him in the 
cavern.

It felt black beyond black, like a coiled adder about to strike 
but far larger and deadlier.

When he opened his eyes, even the dim gray of the cave entrance 
was gone, so that he was surrounded by utter darkness.

Stark, unreasoning terror gripped him -- an icy primal fear like 
nothing he had ever experienced before. A whispered, unthinking 
"Oh, Bright Gods . . ." came from him as he froze, flattening 
himself against the wall, knees weakening.

He had thought to bargain boldly with the Darkness.

Now he had to accept that Its merest presence drove him nearly 
mad with fear, turned his bowels to water, that he could only 
crouch like a trapped, whimpering animal as It loomed over him. 
For long breaths all thought and all words were driven from his 
mind by the primeval, instinctive terror that flooded his 
unprepared mind like a rising black tide.

He couldn't move a single muscle, only crouch there shaking. He 
could not even scream. What had come to his Call and now watched 
him was the cause of the primal terror of the first human beings, 
a fear so deep and primeval that no word, no concept existed for 
what it truly was. Formless, nearly mindless sounds came from his 
throat as the terror rose and began to drown his sanity. 

The Darkness seemed to chuckle at his terror, a chuckle that left 
his mind tottering on the brink of permanent madness. Then the 
unbearable fear relented, as if its source had waved some ghastly 
hand, causing it to ebb.

The utter darkness, so much blacker than the lesser darkness of 
the cave, had coalesced into a vaguely human form. It seemed to 
look at him, as his heart eased its crazed hammering, and a 
measure of rational thought returned.

*You did Call Us,* it intoned, but not in an audible voice. 
Instead, there was a flow of concepts, something just short of 
words, into his mind. *You sought to bargain.* It seemed amused.

He still couldn't speak, couldn't move.

The Darkness seemed unconcerned. It lifted one arm -- and Its 
presence, the cave, his fear all drowned in a sudden, vivid flow 
of images . . .

He was standing again in the Hall of Justice, watching Vechan's 
execution -- but no guards held him, for he could neither speak 
nor move, only watch helplessly.

Grief and agony tearing at his soul . . . toward the end, his 
brother begging for a quicker death, but being denied it until 
the full penalty had been exacted . . .

The face of Archpriest Arilagan, overseeing the torture. 
Underneath his cropped graying black hair, the Priest's lined 
face was hard and emotionless as granite as he watched the 
torturers work.

As he felt he couldn't bear to watch a moment longer, the vision 
dissolved, as in the nightmares in which he had relived it 
before. Before he could return to consciousness, another vision 
took its place.

This was still the Hall of Justice, but the chains held another 
form. At first he couldn't recognize it. Then he saw that it was 
Arilagan himself, stripped naked as Vechan had been.

As that realization sank in, the torturers approached. The faces 
of some were stony hard, others alight with twisted pleasure, 
exactly as they had been when they had tortured Vechan, and anger 
and vindictive joy mingled oddly in his soul.

Then he saw that the watching Priests' white robes were gone. The 
robes they wore were black now -- but they didn't seem to be the 
same men, either . . .

Arilagan was much swifter to scream than Vechan had been, but 
then he did not have a warrior's training. Flesh was peeled off 
him in strips, his blood streaming down to the stone floor of the 
courtyard.

A surge of shocking, feral joy rose in the young man's heart as 
he watched. Then the Hall faded into gray mists . . .

. . .  which cleared moments later.

This was a Hall again, but it was a different hall, torchlit, 
lined with black stone. Somehow he knew it was very old, that it 
had survived uncounted centuries of the dominion of the Priests 
of Light.

He was kneeling before a half-circle of seated, black-robed men. 
He couldn't see their faces; the vision was too vague, clouded, 
like a dream.

Someone stood before him, facing him, someone he couldn't see 
clearly. The figure bent to place something heavy and cold into 
his outstretched hands, laying it there like a gift of great 
price, a symbol of honor.

He looked down at it. It was a longsword, its hilt black, its 
blade still blacker, blacker than any metal had a right to be. 
Strange, swirling runes inlaid in gold marked the blade, runes 
that were repeated in gold inlay on the hilt.

He felt a fierce surge of pride. It seemed to have to do with 
something signified by their giving him the sword, not the weapon 
itself.

Then the dark hall dissolved as well.

Other visions followed, too many and melting too quickly into 
each other for him ever to remember all of them in detail 
afterward. But there was battle, as much battle as a warrior 
could ever want. More, there was pain and death: not his, but of 
the Priests of the Light and those who allied themselves with 
them, screaming, dying in all the ways the battlefield affords.

He watched other Priests being put to death in a thousand 
lingering ways, and he knew their deaths were at his own orders.

Even when he watched them being sacrificed on black altars, he 
felt no remorse, no reluctance.

*Yes*, he responded, and *YES!* 

The hatred and bloodlust he felt would once have sickened him. 
Now it felt like glory, the triumph of the snow tiger striking 
down its prey, the vindictive joy of the fighting dog as it sinks 
its fangs into its rival's neck and savors the flood of life's 
blood filling its jaws.

-- While somewhere deep and lost, some small part of himself 
screamed a last cry of horror at the evil that had entered his 
soul and seduced him -- or perhaps had always been there, 
unleashed by Vechan's cruel death.

Then it fell silent, never to cry again.

The Darkness chuckled again, Its soundless laughter rolling 
through his mind. Then for a long time he knew nothing more.



The first golden light of dawn filled the cave, though night's 
chill still lingered. Somewhere nearby, the hardy desert birds 
were already calling when the young blond man awoke.

He remembered his terror, and the fierce joy of the visions. The 
terror had turned to ashes in his soul, leaving only triumph.

He still felt grief over Vechan -- but for the first time since 
the execution, it was bearable.

Rising, his legs unsteady at first, he looked around the little 
cave. His sheathed sword was still there, propped against the 
wall, and so were the saddlebags, and the candle stub on the 
floor. There was no trace of the events of last night.

He became aware of how thirsty he was; his throat was so dry it 
burned.

After a deep few breaths, his vision and his legs steadied. He 
walked slowly to the entrance and looked out, expecting something 
-- he didn't know what.

What he saw was a horse and rider silhouetted in the first rays 
of the rising sun, walking across the sand toward the slope that 
led up to the cave, a second horse trailing behind them. He 
couldn't distinguish details against the light.

He didn't call out. Instead, he went to fetch his sword and 
scabbard from the back of the cave, and buckled them on.

Then he returned to the cave mouth and stepped out onto the 
precarious path downward. The growing warmth of dawn struck him, 
loosening his stiff muscles.

The blond man made his way cautiously down the sandy slope, 
sending pebbles and sand cascading downward as the mounted man 
reached its foot and looked up at him.

When he was only a little above the rider's head and close enough 
to speak comfortably, he stopped to look more closely at him.

The rider was dressed in a black hooded cloak despite the 
building heat, with blue riding trousers visible underneath. A 
staff was strapped to his back in a baldric, like a two-handed 
sword. His horse was a coal-black stallion.

The horseman looked up, pulling his hood back, revealing hair as 
long and flowing as the young man's own, but black silvered with 
gray here and there. His clean-shaven face was strong-boned and 
handsome, with few age-lines, but there was something about his 
gray eyes that might have given a less desperate man pause -- not 
blatant cruelty, but something more unsettling.

The blond man put one hand on the pommel of his shortsword but 
did not draw it. 

They stared at each other from their mutual vantage points, 
sizing each other up. The rider saw the blond man's hand on his 
sword, yet he didn't reach for his staff or any other weapon. He 
only looked back, a faint ghost of a smile upon his lips.

The younger man suddenly felt *something* that seemed to press in 
on his very soul -- from what little knowledge he had, he 
recognized it as a magical mind probe. After a breath, the 
sensation went away as quickly as it had come.

He covered his uneasy reaction by lowering his eyes as he took a 
single careful step down onto the next boulder. His gaze returned 
to the rider's face.

"Who are you?" he finally demanded.

The rider's smile became frank, almost insulting. "That can wait. 
First, who are *you*?"

The blond man considered. There could be no coincidence here, he 
knew. This man was here solely to meet him.

The riderless horse, a seal-brown gelding, stomped softly, 
swishing its tail. It was saddled and bridled as if awaiting 
another rider.

What to answer? Almost, he gave his old name . . . and changed 
his mind. The youth who had worn that name was dead.

"Call me Raven," he said, and shrugged.

The black-cloaked rider nodded as if that pleased him, the 
mocking smile fading. Then: "Raven, why not come down here and 
speak face to face? I have water."

Raven considered this and his burning thirst, and then he 
carefully climbed down the remainder of the slope. The man waited 
patiently for him.

He walked up to the jet-black horse, boots softly crunching on 
the sand. The beast whickered softly and turned its head to stare 
at him sideways, horse-fashion, and then he saw its eyes were a 
cherry-red like a sword on the forge. It wasn't just a reflection 
from the rising sun.

The rider must have seen his start, because he chuckled. "D'vogel 
is -- special," he said as he handed Raven a leather water flask. 
"I am Zhevke, by the way. Mount up when you're finished drinking 
and I'll take you to my hold."

The flask gurgled as Raven nearly drained it in a series of long 
swallows. He handed it back to Zhevke, who smiled again and 
pulled on the tether of the gelding, drawing it closer so that 
the blond man could mount it, then unfastening the rope from its 
bridle and coiling it up. 

Raven stared up at Zhevke and hesitated.

"I know your name," he stated. "But *who* are you?"

Zhevke looked back at him, and his gray eyes turned serious.

"Let us just say . . . I am here because I knew you were here. 
That Call of yours sounded a long distance. You need to learn 
subtlety."

Raven's eyes widened and he took a step back.

Zhevke grinned. "No need to fear. Now, let us go. I have much to 
teach you."

Raven stared at him. Finally, he shrugged again, and climbed into 
the saddle of the gelding.

Zhevke turned his stallion, then urged it into a slow walk, away 
from the cliff and the cave. Raven grasped the gelding's reins 
and followed.


Address comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . You can read 
this and other stories about Raven in my archive on Velan at:
http://vcl.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Artists/Maureen/Stories/Web/index2.html