Into Oblivion (Book 4) Read online

  Into

  Oblivion

  Book Four of

  The Dragon Chronicles

  Kindle Edition

  SHAWN E. CRAPO

  Copyright © 2014 Shawn E. Crapo

  Cover Art © 2014 Shawn E. Crapo

  Map Art © 2014 Shawn E. Crapo

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.shawnecrapo.com

  Twitter: @brainzrgood4u

  DEDICATION

  For Ron Crapo, Stella Ellis, Ryan (sis), Cam and Eli, Damon, and Luke.

  THE DRAGON CHRONICLES

  Wrothgaar’s Quest (prequel novella)

  Onyx Dragon

  The Ascent

  King of the North

  Into Oblivion

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Though there are too many people to list, I have to acknowledge the works of Sir Thomas Mallory, Bram Stoker, Michael Crichton, Einstein, and a host of many others. They all had a small part in inspiring this entire series, and the characters within it.

  Once again, thanks to Steve Smith for the proofreading.

  Prologue

  Mist coiled and swirled around the small barge as it drifted down the winding Khuf River. The water was still, flowing almost imperceptibly to the North, and was an inky black under the cover of the heavy fog. The moonlight reflected perfectly from its surface, lighting the envelope of mist that crept along it with an eerie, living glow of silver and blue.

  The air was warm, as it always was in the tropical area along the river, but there was a slight chill that grew stronger as the barge approached its destination; the Cove of Dreams. There, hidden in a small, rocky lagoon accessible only by the river, were the tombs of the Keynakin, Sulemain’s former Knights. Once a sacred burial place built to honor the protectors of Khem, the Cove was now a wellspring of darkness; one from which the Enkhatar had been created.

  Now, with the Sword of Sulemain in her grasp, the Prophet had returned to awaken their master.

  The sword would be the key to the tomb of Sulemain himself, and the instrument by which he could be enslaved. Like his followers, the First Prophet of Imbra would become a dark servant of The Lifegiver, and would lead the Enkhatar to victory.

  The Prophet smiled as she thought of how The Lifegiver would reward her for this deed. She had failed him in Eirenoch, she knew, but she would make amends for that failure by bringing him the soul of the purest, most noble warrior that Khem had ever known. Even Imbra himself would reel in terror at Sulemain’s new form.

  Behind the Prophet, six handmaidens—the Ka’ha’di—sat in two rows, facing each other in silence. They were initiates, not fully anointed, and were here for a single purpose; to offer the ultimate sacrifice to bring The Lifegiver’s wishes to fruition. They knew, and accepted, their fate.

  Two Enkhatar stood at the stern, silent and still like black statues. The darkness that drove their spirits burned off of them like ebony flame, licking the air with its malevolent tongue.

  The Ka’ha’di avoided the Enkhatars’ dark stares, keeping their own eyes inward toward the center of the seating area. They were terrified of them, the Prophet knew, and it was evident that the six of them feared the undead knights more than death itself. Though the Prophet herself was not fond of them, either, they were a great asset in this battle for global domination.

  Powerful as they were, however, two of them had been destroyed in Eirenoch by the Knights of The Dragon. Of the original twelve, only ten remained. These two, who accompanied her on this task, were her personal guards. They would obey her every command and protect her to their very ends.

  As the cove came into view, she sighed with relief knowing the mighty Enkhatar were with her. The darkness of the cove made her uneasy, and their presence would ensure that any undesirable spirits were kept at bay.

  “We have arrived, sisters,” she announced to the Ka’ha’di.

  They stood, wrapping themselves in their cloaks, and faced forward. The Prophet guided the small barge onto the shore with her magic, gently sliding it upward onto the sandy bank. The Enkhatar moved to the bow, stepping onto the wet sand. They bent and crouched to form a makeshift platform for the Prophet to walk upon, which she did gladly.

  With the Sword of Sulemain in her grasp, she turned to the Ka’ha’di to motion for them to follow.

  “Come now, sisters,” she said. “Our task awaits us.”

  The Handmaidens stepped onto the shore, using the Enkhatar as the Prophet had done. They gathered behind her in formation, and the Enkhatar moved around them on either side to walk in front.

  In careful step, the procession marched forward.

  The cove was enveloped in the same cold mist that covered the surface of the river. It drifted slowly inward, swirling around the large rocks that littered the beach. The sand was weathered flat by the frequent high tides, and was smooth and damp.

  Around the cove, the high rock walls that closed it off rose upward into the darkness of the night sky. They were carved into flat surfaces, decorated with ancient symbols that were unfamiliar to the Prophet. Thirteen doors lined the walls, with the largest one in the center. The twelve other doors had been smashed, leaving only the center one intact. From these twelve empty tombs, the Enkhatar had been awakened. Only one remained.

  It was carved with the same symbols, yet also gilded with polished gold, and painted with blue and red trim. A large carving of Imbra adorned the very center, depicting him holding his hands around a narrow, vertical slit.

  The Prophet scowled as the procession neared; her disdain obvious. Imbra was the Firstborn who had ruled Khem and the surrounding desert lands before the coming of The Lifegiver. Now, like the others, he was imprisoned within the Earth, slowly dying as his energy was drained.

  The Prophet unwrapped the Sword of Sulemain and draped the cloth over her shoulder. The ornate scimitar, though full of life, was dull and dormant in her grasp. Still, it was a beautiful weapon, and even in the hands of the vile, it was unbreakable and deadly.

  She ran her fingers along the gleaming blade, tracing the fine etchings and ridges that ran along its length. She took them all into her mind as she approached the door, focusing their shapes and forms into the proper spell to charge the blade with her vile magic.

  Suddenly, she thrust the blade into the air. The Ka’ha’di were startled, and shrank back in terror. Lightning struck the blade, sparking along its length and lighting the cove with its bluish, flickering glow. It dissipated with a few more arcs of random energy, then faded, leaving the blade glowing. Satisfied, the Prophet lowered the sword, pointing its tip at the keyhole that was now alight with The Lifegiver’s dark power.

  She thrust the blade into it. The stone ground against the sword’s metal as it slid into the slot, sparking and groaning with the sounds of friction. She released the blade when it had been fully inserted, stepping back to watch the mechanism as it began to spin.

  With several loud, rapid clicks, the sword’s hilt slowly turned, activating the machinery and magical glyphs inside. When the process had completed, the door slowly opened, sliding back into the tomb and then down into a channel in the floor. The Prophet smiled, peering into the darkness ahead.

  She motioned for the two Enkhatar to proceed. The giants glided past, disappearing into the tomb without a backward glance. The Prophet turned to her handmaidens, who were now visibly frightened.

  “Follow me,” she said, turning to enter the darkened structure.

  As she faded from sight, the Ka’ha’di followed.

  Sulemain’s tomb was a square chambe
r, at least ten yards to a side and covered in elaborate, archaic carvings. They were pictograms, an ancient language that The Lifegiver had deemed blasphemous and even The Prophet was not able to read them.

  Brackets of wood and silver lined the walls, each holding a lamp of glowing, orange material, and a weapon of a different type. There were swords, daggers, and halberds from many cultures, each symbolizing the lands that Sulemain had once protected. The Prophet surmised that the weapons were gifts of thanks to Sulemain, given to him in appreciation of his protection.

  In the center was Sulemain’s sarcophagus. It was stone, square, and massive. The sides were painted with many pictures of Sulemain during various stages of his life. He was portrayed as a divine child, an elite warrior of truth, and, finally, as the Prophet of Imbra. The structure’s lid, a foot-thick slab of sandstone, was painted with the figure of a many-armed goddess, wielding a curved sword in each of her six hands.

  Sulemain’s divine Mother, Kali, daughter of Imbra himself.

  Behind the structure, the Enkhatar stood; swords in hand and still as statues. They held their weapons out in front of them, pointing upward.

  “Take your places, my sisters,” the Prophet commanded.

  The Ka’ha’di moved to either side of the sarcophagus, facing the center. They each drew a curved dagger, which they held against their breasts, blade up.

  The Prophet raised her hands, causing the orange lamps to flicker and die out. Their glow was replaced by a sinister red, powered by her magic.

  “Show yourself to me, Sulemain of Imbra,” she commanded.

  Suddenly, the lid crumbled to dust, falling into piles inside and along the outer edges of the sarcophagus. Sulemain’s body lay within, mummified by the dry, desert heat. He was dressed in his divine armor, as he was during his life as a warrior. It was similar to the Enkhatars’ in shape, though made of steel and trimmed in gold. Upon his breastplate was the symbol of Kali, with the icon of Imbra, an ibis bird, placed over it.

  “Bring him to life, sisters,” the Prophet said.

  The Ka’ha’di leaned forward, hanging their heads over the stone walls of the sarcophagus. Each raised her dagger, placing it against her throat, and violently drew it across.

  The Prophet smiled as the Ka’ha’di dropped their daggers, grasping the top of the stone box to steady themselves as they choked on the rapidly gushing blood. The dark fluid sprayed upon Sulemain’s body, disappearing into the dried flesh as it was absorbed. When the handmaidens had nearly exhausted their life’s blood, The Prophet nodded to the Enkhatar to finish the ritual.

  The armored giants raised their swords above their heads, striking downward with great force to decapitate the dying priestesses. Their heads rolled into the sarcophagus as their bodies collapsed to the floor in lifeless heaps.

  As the remaining observers watched, Sulemain’s armor darkened. The steel became black, tarnished by the dark magic of The Lifegiver. Its golden trim faded to a sickly gray, and the symbols of Imbra and Kali crumbled and disintegrated. Slowly, a sinister red glow came to the openings in Sulemain’s faceplate. It shined through like the fires of Hell, and dark flames began to lick the air around him.

  Sulemain had been awakened.

  The body sat up as a low rumbling filled the room. The Enkhatar bowed, fearful of the presence of their new master. Sulemain himself wailed in agony and torment, his divine voice echoing menacingly throughout the tomb. His soul was now imprisoned within his rotting body, and he would feel the pain of undeath for all eternity.

  The Prophet felt, and enjoyed, his pain.

  The body of Sulemain stepped from its sarcophagus, struggling to maintain balance as it grew in size. The cracking and rustling sounds of dried flesh stretching and transforming filled the tomb. Slowly, Sulemain stood. He was a vision of terror; blackened with dark energy, trembling in pain, and filled with the wrath of the undead.

  Ignoring his warriors, who were now standing, Sulemain looked down at the Prophet. His eyes, glowing red with fury, stared down at her with hate. The former Prophet of Imbra was now a slave of The Lifegiver, and his anger was apparent. He would be an unstoppable weapon of evil and would lay waste to any who opposed him, yet some small part of his soul remained. It was a small part that was left there for a singular purpose; it would be a constant reminder to Imbra that his favored child was now his greatest enemy. The Prophet laughed at the irony.

  The Lord of the Enkhatar had arisen.

  Chapter One

  The Wellspring was silent, yet booming with life, as Aeli stood over the grave of her beloved mentor, Jodocus. She had been pleasantly surprised to find that the creatures of the forest had constructed a shrine to him, and had even carved a likeness of the Druid from wood. The elaborate and impressive carving was laid atop the very spot where Jodocus had been interred, and would serve as a reminder of the sacrifice he had made to save the land of Eirenoch.

  And Aeli, herself.

  She wept as she remembered stumbling upon the old Druid as he rested his lifeless, yet smiling, head against the trunk of the great oak tree. His battle with a creature known as The Devourer had sapped his strength, and his life, yet resulted in the creature’s demise. Jodocus had lured the beast away from Aeli, and entrapped her within the branches of several trees, protecting her and saving her life. Though she had been angry with him for doing so, she knew deep down that she would have been of no use in the battle.

  The Devourer was far beyond her abilities as a Druid.

  She knelt next to the carving, reaching out to touch its smooth surface. It was warm, as if the wood of which it was made was still alive. And, indeed it was. She felt its pulsating energy flowing through its depths, and the love of the forest emanating forth. For her own love of Jodocus, the forest had given her its acceptance. She was now the Great Druid of Eirenoch, and the protector of her forests.

  Small animals randomly ran by as her thoughts focused on her mentor. They stopped occasionally to observe her, their innocent eyes taking in her appearance, and their noses making note of her scent. She had shown up at the perfect time; a time of gathering when the animals of Eirenoch would travel to the Wellspring to pay homage to the spirit of the Dragon; for it was he who gave them all life.

  “Jodocus,” she spoke softly. “It has been a year since I last saw your kind face. In that time, I have learned much. The land has taught me the things you never got a chance to teach me. I have truly become a child of the forest, and it has nurtured me more than it ever has. I owe this all to you, my friend.”

  She leaned forward, placing her forehead on the carving’s face. “I miss you so much,” she whispered, sobbing.

  As she wept, she felt the presence of another person in the forest. She did not move, however, as she knew the presence, and knew that he meant no harm. She remained still, allowing the visitor to speak the first words when he was ready.

  “I loved him, too,” Farouk said, his footsteps making gentle crunching sounds as he approached. “He taught me more about myself than I could ever have imagined.”

  “I know,” Aeli replied. “Myself, as well.”

  She leaned back, rising to greet Farouk.

  “There is still much for me to learn,” she said, accepting Farouk’s embrace.

  “That is why I am here,” he said. “I will teach you what you need to learn to protect this land. Then, I must continue on to my destiny. But, not until the armies of the world are ready to face The Lifegiver.”

  “The Dragon is dying,” Aeli said. “I can feel his power waning.”

  “Yes,” Farouk agreed. “He is gradually distributing his power to the land itself. When the transfer is complete, Eirenoch will be without a Firstborn until Eamon takes his place.”

  Aeli leaned back, her hands clasping Farouk’s shoulders.

  “Then I must learn all I can,” she said.

  “You must also teach the child all you know.”

  “You know about the child, Jodocus?” Aeli asked.
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br />   Farouk smiled. “There is very little that escapes me these days,” he said. “I felt his birth when I was in communion with the Great Mother.”

  “Do you know what he is?”

  “I can only say that his birth was a result of the death of his namesake,” Farouk replied. “He is truly a child of the forest; a foundling placed by the spirits themselves.”

  “Does The Dragon know?”

  Farouk turned from Aeli’s grasp. “No,” he said. “The spirits seemed to have drawn the child’s power from an outside source; something of which the Dragon is not aware.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Farouk thought for a moment, eager to teach Aeli everything she would need to know, but not sure how to explain this.

  “There are other forces at work here on Earth,” he began. “Earth, like all worlds, is simply a child of the greater spirits. The Great Mother herself is only a minor spirit compared to those that reside in the higher realms. The Sun, for example, is a spirit in its own right.”

  “Do you think that Jodocus is a child of the Sun?”

  “It is possible,” Farouk replied. “At least partially. I have the feeling that our friend in the sky has taken an interest in the goings on of our little planet.”

  Aeli nodded, smiling. “I would like to think that he is destined for greatness, but that some small part of the real Jodocus is in there, somewhere.”

  Farouk smiled warmly. “I believe both are true,” he said. “By the way, where is he?”

  “Oh,” Aeli chuckled. “He is in very, very good hands.”

  Jodocus raced through the rough forest paths at top speed, leaping over roots, dodging sagging branches, and swinging around the massive trunks of every tree that got in his way. Behind him, his pursuer struggled to keep up, desperate to catch the child before he got away.

  Though only a year old, Jodocus had the body of a five year old, and the agility and endurance of something even greater. His quickness was astounding, even for his small size, and his pursuer found it nearly impossible to stay close.