The Great Darkening: The Epic of Haven: Book One (Epic of Haven Trilogy 1)
Table of Contents
Foreword
Pronunciation Guide
Preface
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Index
THE EPIC OF HAVEN
TRILOGY
BY R.G. TRIPLETT
BOOK ONE
THE GREAT DARKENING
BOOK TWO
THE RAVENOUS SIEGE
BOOK THREE
THE COMING DAWN
THE
GREAT
DARKENING
R.G. Triplett
Story by R.G. Triplett and Brandon Hyde
Edited by Melody Farrell
THIS BOOK IS PUBLISHED BY LOST POET PRESS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2013, 2014 by Robert G Triplett
Jacket art by Rob Stainback copyright © 2014 by Lost Poet Press
Map art by Rob Stainback copyright © 2014 by Lost Poet Press
Illustrations by Amanda Farrell copyright © 2014 by Lost Poet Press
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Lost Poet Press
First eBook edition.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrival system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
www.epicofhaven.com
www.lostpoetpress.com
ISBN 978-0-9914489-1-3
Library of Congress Control Number:
2014901064
Printed in the U.S.A.
Lost Poet Press first edition eBook, February 2014
To my fellow lost poets...
may you always find your place.
Foreword
Truth is a tricky thing sometimes. We can dissect it, quantify it, and fit it into our neat and clean doctrines. We can theorize and organize it while we annotate and regulate every single step of our process, and if we are not careful, we will find ourselves murderers of the very thing we set out to understand.
But if we approach it differently, something mysterious can, and hopefully does, happen to it; something that, if I am honest, I do not claim to completely understand.
We might never be able to systemize something as seemingly elusive and enigmatic as truth. We can, however, muse about it; we can wonder and revel in its complexities. We can let its multi-faceted flavors roll over the palate of our souls, and we can take its heartbeat, its rhythm, and set it in a whole other creature altogether; a new world of myth and song and story. We might find that the very thing we longed to study in the sterile, nonsense-free environments of fact and reason might only be truly understood, or at the very least wholly felt, in the messiness of a story. In doing this, we just might find that it is not so unfathomable as it first seemed, and perhaps we might discover something that was never really hidden to begin with.
This Epic is my small attempt to shine a fresh light on the mysteries of this world of ours. The last thing that I want to do is to create a new doctrine, or attempt to prove an old one. My aim is not to line my walls with pinned and cataloged corpses of magic or religion; to do so would be a wasteful endeavor indeed. But I believe that when the heart is moved by wonder, something ancient echoes there in its red, beating chambers; something true, something holy, something … gloriously original.
And that … well, that is what I want. Much of what I know about life, about God, hope, magic, and faith, I did not find in the textbooks or laboratories. Rather, I found it in fantastic, imaginative, poetic tales where truth was tasted, where tension was felt, and where the rise and fall of man’s journey reflected the unfailing image of a truth that we all long to return to.
Perhaps somewhere amongst these pages and pen points, you might peel back the layers of myth and magic and find the truth that lives, really lives. Or, if nothing else, you might at least trace its path, you might feel its spirit walking around in between ink and page; perhaps you may feel it resonate in the cadence and strains of the unfolding story.
Whatever the case, I pray that you enjoy the journey. I pray that you feel the gravity of greater stories echoing in the allegory and adventure, and I pray that we will travel well and long together.
Humbly and gratefully,
R.G. (Bobby)
Pronunciation Guide
PLACES/LANDMARKS
Aiénor (ahy-NOR)
Bay of Eurwen (YOOR-wihn)
Black Mountains of Cair (CAH-er)
Dardanos (DAR-dah-nohs)
Falls of Sarangrael (Ser-ahn-grey-EL)
Hilgari (hihl-GAR-ee) Mountains
Isle Dušana (doo-SAH-nah)
Islwyn (IH-sehl-wihn)
Kalein (kah-LEEN)
Maris (MAH-rihs)
Mount Aureole (AH-rohl)
Pool of Eiluned (ahy-LU-nihd)
Petros (PEH-trohs)
River Abonris (AB-ohn-rihs)
Talfryn (TAL-frihn) Pass
Terriah (TAIR-ah)
CHARACTERS
Ádhamh (AH-dahm)
Ardghal (AHRD-gahl)
Arthfael (ARTH-fay-el)
Azrael (AS-ray-el)
Basajuan (bah-shah-ZHOHN)
Brádách (BRA-dak)
Branwen (BRAN-wehn)
Caedmon (CAYD-mohn)
Calarmindon (cal-ahr-MIN-duhn)
Captain Tahd (TAWD)
Captain Seig (SEEG)
Chancellor Chaiphus (KAHY-fus)
Clivesis (CLAHYV-zees)
Deryn (DAIR-ehn)
Edur (ee-DOOR)
Eógan (YOU-gahn)
Evande (eh-VAN-day)
Faolan (FAY-ow-lan)
Farran (FAIR-ahn)
/>
Gaereld (GER-uhld)
Goran (GOR-an)
Haizea (Hi-ZAY-ah)
Iolanthe (ee-oh-LAN-thay)
Keily (KAHY-lee)
King Cascarie (KAS-kah-ree)
King Faramund (FAIR-ah-muhnd)
King Illium (IHL-ee-uhm)
King Kaestor (KAY-stohr)
Klieo (KLEE-oh)
Lieutenant Armas (AR-mahs)
Linnaea (LIHN-ee-ah)
Llinos (LEE-nos)
Marigeld (MAR-ih-gehld)
Meledae (MEL-eh-day)
Moa (MOH-ah)
Morana (mohr-AH-nah)
Nancwen (NANS-wehn)
Niniané (nih-nee-AH-nay)
Nogcwren (NOCK-ren)
Oskar (OH-scar)
Oweles (OOLS)
Pichan (PEE-shun)
Pyrrhus (PAHY-ruhs)
Remiel (Reh-mee-EL)
Rónán (ROH-nahn)
Ruarc (Roo-ARK)
Šárka (SAR-kah)
Shameus (SHEY-mus)
Wielund (WAHY-lund)
Yasen (YEAH-sehn)
Zigor (ZEE-gor)
Preface
Breathed into the hearts of men at our first birth are the silent whispers of myths that echo with the resounding feel of would-be legend. Somehow these grand incantations are bound and chained from within, hidden in a chasm of doubt and duty and distraction. They wait for one who would liberate their power and bring purpose to the captive heart in which they reside, making man fully alive for the second time.
In every generation, hopeful stories are told of a chosen few who find their chains fallen limp, and in turn their hearts free. Their voices sing with heroic melodies, and their eyes burn with a fierce understanding. Theirs is the task that strikes fear in the hearts of the unawakened; their mission is perilous and their quest daunting, by which the enslaved hearts of men hold to the faintest hope of freedom.
Prologue
King Illium awoke with a start, jolting upright as he heard the desperate knocking on his bedchamber door. He blinked hard, willing the sleepy fog to dissipate from his eyes as he forced himself to come alert and take account of his surroundings. His Queen, Evande, sat up in bed beside him. She clutched the bed linens to her small, milky-skinned frame and gasped a distressed breath.
“What is it, Illium?”
The frantic beckoning from his royal guard had not ceased its demanding clamor. King Illium swung his legs over the side of the bed and propelled himself towards the chamber door in a swift yet haphazard manner.
“Do not be afraid, my love,” he said reassuringly as the relentless pounding continued. “I am sure all is well.”
Evande could plainly see that all was not well, for a disruption of the King’s bedchambers as the silver light was just beginning to fade to morning’s first amber was an action that could only mean a desperate situation had arisen in the city.
She searched the strong face of her husband and her King, looking for some tell in the lines of his expression.
“Just wait there,” he whispered as his hand closed over the door latch. “I will see what the trouble is.”
Illium swung the door wide and beheld the forlorn faces of his captain of the guard and his scribe. Behind them stood two wispy figures with leathery, aging skin and long, green hair, dressed in the humble, dark brown robes of their office. The looks on their faces led Illium to an almost immediate realization of what had brought them to his chamber door on this early morning.
“The tree?” he asked with more confidence than he felt.
“You must come with us, Your Majesty,” spoke one of the green-haired figures. “It seems that our world is about to change.”
Before he could say any more, the bells of the great Citadel rang out in an alarming orchestration of noise and notes. Illium saw the color drain from his scribe’s face, and the two aged figures hung their heads in defeat.
“It is done,” whispered the other brown-robed figure as he clasped a leathery, gnarled hand over his heart. “Today … this day … shall mark the beginning of the end.”
“Captain!” said the King, rising to action before a haze of grief and confusion could overtake him. “Summon them, wake them now and bring them here right away! Assemble the council, for we must discuss what is to be done in the wake of so great a horror.” The King looked out the enormous glass window and surveyed the aftermath of the atrocity that had just befallen the shining city.
“Yes, your Brightness,” Captain Barkas replied.
King Illium turned his gaze back to his wife, who stood there in his bedchamber, naked and in shock. Fear had taken its merciless hold on her once bright and beautiful face, and tears began to trace an unfamiliar path down her panic-stricken features.
He went to her, gathering the bed linens that had fallen away. He gently wrapped her body with them and smoothed her hair away from her face, looking into her eyes.
“Take heart, my love,” he offered. “All is not lost yet.” He pressed a calming kiss to her forehead before walking out the open door to the anxious group of advisors.
The chamber warden approached Illium and, helping him into his dark, evergreen robe, he asked, “My Lord, what would you ask of me? How may I be of assistance on this dark morning?”
Illium smiled warmly at his servant, then addressed him, along with those frightened few that still remained in the corridor, awaiting words and wisdom from their King. “This is courage, my friends,” he said as he clasped the shoulders of the chamber warden. “Even in the face of this grave uncertainty, we must choose to remain true of heart, to not be given over to the point of despair. For while hope endures, so will our bright city … so will our people.”
King Illium looked each of them in the eyes, one at a time, compelling them to draw courage from his words and resolve from his heart.
“Come, for the citizens of Haven need us now more than ever before, and we, by the THREE who is SEVEN, shall not fail them.”
~ ~ ~
In many tales told before this telling, the Kingdom of Haven made its roots in the fertile and lush green of the most sought after and fought over ground in all of the lands of Aiénor. Its city flourished like a well-watered tree, rising high above all other kingdoms both in beauty and in might. Some said that Haven became the center of the world. A bright star in the midst of darkness, which many believed would shine for all eternity.
This famed light emanated from the most holy and yet the most humble of all possibilities. At the center of the royal city, in the garden of the great Citadel, a burning tree lived. This tree was neither made nor planted by human hands. Its brilliant amber flames perpetually licked the sky by day while the nights were illuminated by the subtler glow of silver fire, yet the flames did not consume a single leaf with their fury. No Arborist, regardless of skill and stature, completely understood the power of the great tree or knew the depths from which it drew its strength and shone its life-giving light.
In this great Kingdom of Haven there were those who lived under the radiant light of the burning tree, and there were those who lived in the outer dimness, beyond the reach of the undying flames. Although not everyone who lived outside the walls of Haven was corrupted by the brooding shadows, strange and evil things were afoot in the darkened places of the world where light had lost its reach. In the same way, not everyone who lived in the land of the light, inside the Kingdom of Haven, was noble and good—for there are hidden places in the hearts of men and of beasts alike where darkness is not so easily exposed.
For generations, the people of Haven lived and thrived amidst the illumination of this burning tree. Its light was revered and worshiped as a gift from the THREE who is SEVEN, not merely for its beauty or its practicality, but because every citizen of Haven had eyes to see that beyond the influence of the tree there existed no other form of unmade light.
To some, this brought great peace and wonder, filling their minds with gratitude for such a gift to be given to such a people. T
hese were the Poets, a people who reveled in beauty and worshiped in authentic honesty before an unknowable power. They wrote and sang of wonders beyond their comprehension that were born amidst the unending flames. They laughed often and felt deeply the true joy born in their most humble of communities.
To others, it brought only fear. Fear that one day the tree would no longer sustain the flames and would consume itself in catastrophic fury. Fear that the whole of the world would be plunged into a deafening darkness. These were the Priests, set to stockpiling timber and to teaching the way of the flint, preparing every soul for the great darkening of the world.
As their ideals and convictions led them down divergent paths, both the Poets and the Priests found themselves forgotten and at odds with each other. The Priests made their religion out of order and fear, baffled by the trusting wonder that their Poet brothers had at the great tree’s light.
The Poets were enraged by the sheer irreverence these Priests showed, confounded at how these holy men could not stand in wonder and amazement at such a gift. The Poets believed that mere calculations and preparations amidst this beauty made the brilliant world a much darker place.
The citizens of Haven, for the most part, tuned out the chatter of the rival brothers as nothing more than background noise and tired tradition. They were seen as mere competitors for the attention and the coin of those few citizens who still gathered, in chapels and cathedrals alike, to hear the postulating of irrelevant men.
The two sides were forced to live together in a world that no longer cared to notice them, and from within this societal apathy was born a great and grave danger. For the most toxic of all poisons is extracted from within the bowels of safety, and so the people of Haven lived under the drugged influence of indifference amidst the luminous vitality of a forgotten tree.
Until that dreaded morning.
The chief of the Arborists sounded the alarm, waking to frenzied life the whole of the city of Haven from its complacent slumber. While its citizens slept, the fires that for generations had burned without consumption had suddenly and unexpectedly feasted on the lower branches of the sacred tree. Its glowing embers lay corpse-like on the floor of the great garden, signaling with their lifeless black the beginning of a complete and utter change to the world of Aiénor.