Prologue

Few experience in a lifetime what some experience in a day. Despair often fuels the economy of lust, and often desperation becomes the machine for destruction. The twisting and turning of the gears erode away with time, pain wafting effervescently in upward spirals, leaving in their wake clouds of utter darkness. Beyond this endless night, however, lies hope for a new day.

Cristopher Palmas, boy of sixteen and master of the tales of yore, was effectively following in his fathers footsteps. This path was one of success among his people, one that would be retold through out the ages. Stories lined the shelves of chroniclers that shaped the past of the Eatonites, and his life was sure to be among theirs.

A small and humble people, the Eatonites were not men of war, although they were very skilled in hand to hand combat. They were artists, capturing the very essence of creation in the fine pages of their tales of the old days and of the new. This skill was their trademark, and, of course, they used it to the fullest advantage.

The weather in Eaton was usually cold for as far north as they were, and was always dark for long periods of time. It was at the darkest point in their calendar that Cris inherited his own room when his brother moved out. The large, comfortable stone loft was secretly coveted by Cris for many years, and, now that he had control of it, relieved these emotions and sent chills down his spine every time he entered it.

His father had been working on condensing the chronicles of the oldest periods of time into a single scroll. This was a very difficult, coveted, and monotonous task that every other Eatonite would kill for. His name would then be considered one of the greatest in history.

Chroniclers kept the ages of the beforetime written concisely within the parchments in such a matter as to ensure the accuracy and literary beauty of their forefathers. This was no simple task. If any transcription were to err from the original, it would be ceremoniously burned and then started a new from character one. Because of this danger, they were not apt to fail more than once.

As coveted as the job was, Cris father took extreme measures of security, locking them in a room completely incapable of being broken in by a normal person. He only took them out at times of the day when light was as bright as it could be, and it gave a clear view three miles down the road to see any oncoming visitors. These precautions proved to be almost foolproof, and he slowly continued on with his transcriptions.

No one was supposed to be aware of these scrolls in his possessions, but apparently word gets out, even if kept a close secret.

Across the world, nearly three thousand miles away, another youth of similar age was training hard to become a warrior of his tribe, the Parolians. His training required of him to remain in the wilderness and fend for himself for over a month. His passing age into adulthood relied solely upon this event. He would not fail.

His successes were met by a few failures, of which he quickly recovered from and learned not to err in such a fashion again. His growth, both physically and intellectually, were incredibly visible. His body hardened itself to the natural world; his mind grew a new sense of focus and drive that would compare him to the many wild predators he encountered. He was becoming one of the hunters, and eventually, he would become a man.

The youth, however, did not expect a certain chain of events to occur. On his second month he was spear fishing on the largest river in his country. It was on the bank of that river that he found a peculiar stone. It was incredibly large, and would normally be rather heavy if he weren’t as physically strong as he was. 

He retrieved the stone, looking it over as if to find any blemishes or peculiar markings, of which he found few. There were inscriptions, most of them in an unknown language, but some were discernable. Perhaps, he thought, this was a dialect of his spoken language?

It would be weeks before he would try to do anything with the stone. For the most part it remained a part of the floor under his cot. Upon completion of his trials in the wilderness, the youth returned to his hometown and was welcomed wholeheartedly. His discovery, however, remained a secret.

It would be exactly thirteen days later that he translated the older language into Parolian, which was no small accomplishment by any means. He would read small portions aloud, trying to decipher exactly what the artifact was saying. He seemed fearful of its origin, often throwing it at a wall in his room when despair had overridden his mind.

One day, however, fate would play its final hand. He got the courage to read the entire inscription. It read:

All ye who read this beware. Only those of proper royal lineage can utter the ballad of the sword of time. Only he that is chosen of the heavens will possess the sword. The sword of time is a valuable weapon of righteousness meant only to battle evil in selflessness. The origin of its bearer must be…

But no sooner had he uttered those words the stone lit aflame with white tongues of fire. They licked the air in front of his face frantically, as if to grasp for something in the distance, and he threw the stone as far away as he could to stop the intense heat from melting him alive. Unfortunately it did little good. The stone sent a rushing wind that vaporized his body, consuming his very being in the blink of an eye.

Darkness overshadowed him. He felt nothing, saw nothing, and could not bear to imagine where he had been sent to. He only sensed that he was falling, farther and farther down a bottomless abyss. Just when he lost all hope something bright, angelic, reached out and caught him. His memory of the event was blurred, but instantly he was back in his room, and the stone he had been reading, gone.

Cris was returning from his daily routine of traveling thirty or so miles into town to get the daily necessities when an alarming thought rushed passed his mind. His eyes quickly shot to the scene of his home, where an intruder, bearing a large knife, had killed his parents and was stealing the precious scrolls from his fathers safe. He shook his head violently, causing the images to disappear instantly. He drove the horses faster, worried that something had gone terribly wrong.

He reached the homestead to find everything neat and intact as usual. His parents had just finished up dinner at the normal time, and Cris helped them clean up the kitchen. As he walked over towards the washing basin to drop the dishes into the water, he heard a slight scratching noise outside the window. Fearing that his vision had come true, he slowly inched towards the window from whence the sound had originated. Peering out into the dusky evening air, the sound was followed up by a shrill screech of a cat, which, in its stupidity, had gotten caught in a bush. Cris shook his head, chuckling to himself.

He turned around to tell his mother that her cat was caught in the bush again, but to his utter dismay, she lay dead on the floor, a gaping knife wound in her chest. He remained focused on the body for what seemed like hours, but soon his shock transformed into an instinctual reaction. The intruder had failed to notice him upon his entrance, and, Cris thought, that could be used to his advantage. He took no time to mourn his mother’s demise. He grabbed the largest knife he could find, and followed the sloppy trail of blood the criminal had left in his wake.

The next room had equally dismaying news, for his father also lay dead on the floor. The thief, however, was clumsily rooting through the desk for any files and papers of value. Cris, although disheartened that his parents were no longer alive, acted quickly and calmly. He thrust the blade into the right shoulder of the intruder, causing the man to emit a bloodcurdling scream. The intruder reeled, his eyes wide with terror, not expecting anyone else to be in the house.

“Rule one, sir,” smiled Cristopher as he thrust the knife into the intruder’s knee, “never be so sloppy as to forget there is another in the house.”

The thief fell to the floor, whimpering in pain and trying to claw his way across the floor to escape the insanity that pursued him. Cris walked slowly in the criminal’s direction, an evil grin crept across his face.

“Rule number two,” he continued in his lackadaisical fashion, “don’t stain the carpets with blood. Mother hates that.”

With that he stabbed swiftly into the back of the thief. The man cried in pain for a few seconds, but quickly fell limp on the floor. Cris wiped his hands on a towel and did his business swiftly. He buried his parents out back, not wasting time with stones or markers. The thief got a royal burial of a rock tied to his ankles and dropped in the closest river.

He knew that more would soon follow and he was no longer safe. Apparently, the rumors of the resurfacing of the sword of time had reached Eaton, and many black market enthusiasts would be after the scrolls. He packed only the important ones in his sack and set out to brave the wilderness alone.

-----------

Chapters 5 and 6

A small band of men walking through an unmapped wilderness in search for an old folklore legends is nothing of the ordinary. Even more peculiar, mind you, was the magic that occurred when the wall grew stairs out of its face. An entire city seemed to pop out of the wall, with of course, as much noise as a herd of elephants. When the screeching stopped, William reeled to face the men.

“Quido, in days of yore,” he smiled with vain satisfaction.

“Also known as Plateau De Crosscliffe,” Cris added.

“A city…in the mountain,” John remarked in amazement.

            The men paced around the bottom stairs, staring intently at the cracked clay that seemed to form the adobe dwellings. They were intricate, but absurd, and altogether appeared to be somewhat weaker than they might have been decades before. Charles, the bravest of them all, bounded up the staircase two steps at a time. He lifted his whip towards the peak and smiled.

“Do come now, gents,” he said with a hearty laugh, “it appears strong enough to carry a grown man.”

“Indeed, it does,” replied Victor, and followed in pursuit.

            The rest of the men followed, and honestly resented that fact. The trip was slow and dull, and although the city (miraculously enough) ran to the top, it was still empty and vacant. When asked why the gypsies evacuated the stone city, William simply replied, “Vlad’s powers reach farther than I wish to imagine.”

            When they reached the other side, they were relieved to feel soft ground again. Three days of walking on solid rock will drive any man insane, and indeed no one was willing to jump eagerly into the nearby forest, which loomed ominously in the distance. The trees, many close to a thousand years old, bared their gnarled teeth at the travelers in disgust of their presence.

“Beware of what you say because your words may have an impact on their reactions.”

“Trees…react?” wondered Victor.

“They tell the birds, most of whom understand only the language of the trees. Most of the birds in this area are not Vlad’s, but it would not surprise me if there were a few,” stated Cris, “regardless, my suspicions are aroused and I feel the powers of evil growing.”

“Well we seem to know a lot about the wildlife. Now let’s get going so we can find this shrine,” impatiently commented John.

            Once again Charles was found, alone, writing in his journal. Lewick walked over and asked him how he was doing. Charles, in his own way, smiled and told Lee to sit down.

“Let me read my entry today for you. I hope to publish this as ‘The Great Travels of Charles Fischer and His Righteous Hearted Colleagues.’ Like the title?”

“A little long, I suppose,” replied Lee, “but do read on!”

“All right, here it goes:

“We have finally reached the unknown forest beyond the plateau. A long journey has yet awaited us, and I have the vile superstition that we haven’t quite yet begun the trip. John waxes grim, and Cristopher appears to be deceiving us in a subtle sort of way—almost like he knows where we are, just that he doesn’t want us to quite know that. William grows frustrated with our guide, and at night it seems that they stay up bickering about tomorrow’s travels. The rest of us (all three) are fine and healthy, we just need a water source. There is talk of a spring in the wood not far from where we are. We know this because of the water that flowed out of the area we are to enter. We drank heavily, and replenished our flasks. I could do for a good bit of Guinness by now, mainly to open up my mind to clarity once more. Lastly, the trip goes into the forest of which we know not the distance. We do know it ends, but if we have supplies enough to safely pass through, that is a mystery.”

“Charles, I believe I shall even buy your book when it is published. I shall enjoy reading it. Just do not lose it on our travels,” smiled Lewick.

“I shall keep it safely rolled in my lamb’s gut sack I carry on my back. It is waterproof and sturdy!”

“We’d better go. Cris is beckoning us to enter the forest now.”

            Cristopher and the others stepped into the edges of the wood, and then looked back. They all realized that this may be the final light they saw for days. There was no crack in the massive canopy of leaves, and even William shuddered with nervousness.

“Days in the woods…I can’t imagine,” he whispered.

“We must enter. It is our destiny,” replied Cris.

            Using a compass, the men headed due east through the forest. Days upon days went by, no light emanating through the trees, roots rising out of the blackened earth as high as 4 feet. Massive trunks often made the pathway crooked and often the group had to realign itself in the direction they intended to go. The men griped and complained, and it came to the point that most of them wanted to turn around and leave. Cris, realizing this could not be done, for there was no place for them to return to, pressed the group on. The following day, Charles noted the first glimmer of light straight ahead of the group. Though only a small crack in the darkness, they still found hope to press forward.

            When they finally reached the opening, the group of men rejoiced. Lewick kissed the earth while Victor stared at the blue sky. John, however, concentrated on another object of the new open space: the dilapidated old ruins not a quarter mile away. Tall buildings stretched across the landscape, obviously once part of a mighty civilization. In a strange language were written countless runes and sagas on the temples and houses that dotted the area. The shrine was the highlight of all their wonder, however, for it was here the sword was rumored to have been held. The sword, of course, was not there in the form of the sword. In fact, it was nowhere to be found. The men searched the whole shrine, and yet it was not uncovered. Cris then dusted of and old stone, and saw what he wanted to see.

“Ah, yes, the tablet of time. This is the sword’s home. The tablet tells of how to awaken the sword. I will try to do it first. If I am not the bearer then it must be someone else here.”

“Hold on, Cris. You are saying we came all this way, and you were the bearer the whole time?” asked Lewick.

“It makes sense. As far as we know, I am the only one here with direct bloodline from one of the five Kings of yore,” replied Cris.

Awkward silence permeated the room, but quickly as the thought crossed his mind, John said:

“I am a King.”

He said this, not quietly, or timidly, as he usually would have done, but with authority. Charles, in his journal, described it “as a King.”

“I am of Galoré, High King of Wulrik. I know that because my father never let me forget it,” John said.

“Cris! Read the tablet so we know what to do,” encouraged William.

“All right, here it goes:

All ye who read this beware. Only those of proper royal lineage can utter the ballade of the sword of time. Only he that is chosen of the heavens will possess the sword. The sword of time is a valuable weapon of righteousness meant only to battle evil in selflessness. The origin of its bearer must be—

Cris stopped reading, and dropped the tablet to the floor. It landed with a loud crash, and then all fell silent.

“I…cannot…bear the sword,” he whispered.

“What? Cris, it is not you?” asked Lee.

“No. I am of improper lineage. I am of Sororé, another king, but not the right king,” Cris replied, obviously shaken.

“Who is the king it requires?” asked John.

            Cris looked at John and then looked away. The thing he had worked for all his life—his father’s teachings, his many dangerous adventures in search for the sword—all lead to this dead end. Or…was it truly a dead end? He forced a smile and looked at John.

“You…my friend…are the one.”

“I must fulfill what I knew I needed to fulfill all along,” John replied, and lifted the tablet off the floor. He began to read the ballad on the tablet with power and dignity.

“Though I may be small in the world, I am a descendent of Galoré. I will bear the sword and save the world.”

            With that, a powerful bolt of lightning hit the tablet, and the sword image on the tablet lit up. The sword came out of the stone, shining in its glory. The blade itself was clear as crystal, the hilt made of pure gold, lined with silver and emerald. The hilt was abnormal, however, because it had numerous dimples in the golden handle. John studied them carefully, but did not understand what they were.

“The power capsules, John, are where you place these gems,” smiled Cris, as he handed John two small round stones.

            They were of reddish and yellowish color, and no more in diameter than a ten pence piece. John placed them in their rightful place, and the sword lit aflame with electric sparks and fiery tongues. In a moment, it all vanished, and then the scene returned to as it was before.

“Amazing,” whispered Victor.

“Truly, and that is just the beginning,” replied Cristopher.

“Cris, if I find all twelve elements, will I be able to defeat Vlad?” asked John.

Cris looked away and just remained silent.

(Chapter 6)

“In his own realm, Vlad is potent beyond our imaginations. He inherited most of the power from Boros, the dark lord. If we are to battle Vlad in his own land, we may not survive. The legends state that the sword bearer will have one person fight alongside him in the final battle, someone of dearest love. I have always interpreted it as a spouse. However, since you are not married…” Cris let his sentence draw out slowly, and then allowed the silence to sink in.

“Then I must get married? How many trials must I go through before I am able to free the world from this threat?” John questioned.

“Once again,” Cris began, edginess seeping into his voice, “This is not my place to say. You also seem to think it’s simply a matter of fulfilling prophecies. The wind is not telling us where it is going, and yet do you question that it exists? It takes you to where it deems worthy, and one must trust the Almighty that the wind will allow us to arrive at our destination. It is not the time, nor the season, that you are to be in the heat of strife and battle. Vlad has months, maybe even years, before he is fully prepared for an all out assault on the peoples of Valorien. We must be the ones to unite the world against him.”

“But how are we to accomplish such a task?” Lewick broke in.

“Allow the wind to tell you. Listen to the whispers it brings. It tells us to trust the heavens and the Lord of them. We must do our duty before we do anything drastic,” Cris replied solemnly.

Will cut in quickly, “I am sorry, but the day grows old quickly and we must make for the sea. If we can build a vessel, it will carry us due west, hopefully reaching another continent.

“One problem, William,” replied Victor, “there are no trees within a mile to chop down and drag to the shore to build the ship!”

“That does present a problem,” whispered Charles as he scanned the bay. Just then his eyes ran across a small object at the bank of the ocean.

“There we go,” he shouted, “a vessel to carry us o’er the sea!”

“Very good work, Charles,” smiled John, “Again you have amazed me with your amazing observation.”

            The men headed towards the craft, and when they noticed it was a sailed ship, and it gave the men shivers. Most of them had manned a sailed ship in their day, save William and Cris, which neither had ever sailed a ship as a crew member. Victor hoisted the anchor, and Charles and Lewick set the sails.

            It was a moderately sized ship, resembling to some extent a late medieval cruiser. It had three well used, yet still intact sails, and the woodwork and craftsmanship were second to none. It had a sleek hull that would cut through the roughest waves at sea, and the rudder remained sturdy after all of the years. After the preparations, the men set the direction southwest, and John took the wheel of the newly named vessel, The Mithora.

            Charles felt it a due time to write another addition to his now growing journal. It read as follows:

“Well, it appears to me that John indeed was special all of these years. I still remember the days of old when he, Lee, and I would romp around in the fields of Quimbleton. Too bad our military duties made us stray away from each other, but the funniest, queerest thing is that we were destined all along to be together in the end. Even Victor, another neighborhood friend, is here with us on our journey!

“We have been granted grace throughout these travels, and indeed we felt stuck in the forest for so long. I do believe that was hardly a trial compared to the obstacles that await us beyond the shores of this our beloved continent.

“I should very much like to take time, if I survive, after this endeavor to travel to the farthest reaches of our world. I have already seen enough to send shivers down my spine, but the naturalist part of me wants to run free in the Juragas, and to wander north of the forest we have just passed through. It is exciting to think that even more landscapes and civilizations await us, maybe more developed technologically than ourselves.

“I do believe I am needed at the starboard bow. I shall indeed pen more later.”

            After 20 or so days of sailing, it seemed as though this voyage would never end. The men, though, still were healthy, as they had filled many a wine pouch with water. Also, William had brought many a fruit along to share the rich vitamins with the crew. The average velocity was not grueling, but it seemed as though the sword powered the ship, and not the sails. The wind would stop at times, and yet the vessel continued at the same pace.

            John continued in his learning, growing in knowledge and understanding of the ancient customs and civilizations. He knew almost everything Cris did by the second week, and soon was well versed in the old tongue. His accelerated learning capabilities could be attributed to the sword, which seemed to heighten any human aspect of his persona.