Emperor of Legendia

It was all a hasty journey for the next two days. They hardly rested and before what seemed like shutting their eyes for a few moments, they were back to work again. None of them spoke much with each other. Silence had greeted them everywhere. They were passing the beginning of the Lake Durga by the second night. They would admire the nature to themselves and not comment about it. Everyone seemed to be lost in their own reveries of sad and happy moments. Zimon himself hadn’t uttered a single word. While Marco tried to come up with a master plan, nothing seemed to draw a silver lining. He would converse with Marvelo in the form of a couple gestures. Peter would waive his hand occasionally and gesture some interrogations if Marco was alright. Marco would wink and smile with a thumbs up. With only eight days left for Dark Lord’s army to leave, they were careful to be silent and not be spotted by anyone. Walking in their stealth manner, they felt the chill of the breeze of the north winds, sweeping through the lake currents. The moon light reflected like a silver glitter in the water. Cold smoke exhaled every time they opened their mouth. Persisting their vigil, they fought their way through the cold night ahead.

The morning was slow to come. They were climbing up a rocky terrain. Now being too close to the reigns of Dark Dume, it was a great risk of being spotted. However, it didn’t matter to Zimon, as according to him, they were bound to end up near the Dark Palace. So anyway they would be exposed sooner or later. They took a break near a fairly large cave, which Zimon said was known as Rising Man’s Cave. A superstitious belief some men had that anyone resting for a night in this cave would meet a bright fortune. Half the troop took refuge in the cave while rest settled in its perimeter. They were quite high above the sea level. Zimon pointed towards the Far East just beneath the rising sun. Zimon took out a tiny roll of paper from his traveller’s cloak. “Melda gave it to me.”, he said. Marco saw that it was a map layout. He could see a tiny dot referring to Sooryu in the left just above the Jahm Paths. “We are here.”, Zimon said pointing in between the sharp curve towards Dark Dume and a small town called Byzantium adjoining the shores of Pythian Odes. “And that’s the Pythian Odes up north, see it?”

Marco had mistakenly thought that what Zimon had pointed beneath the sun was a mirage and now he realized they were the far shores of the Pythian Odes. The sun now getting brighter blurred Marco’s sight but he could still make out the beautiful stretch of the sea on either sides. Marco nodded and turned to Zimon, “So, we are close to the north west.”

“Yes, we’ll take a short nap and then hurry to the border of Dark Dume”, said Zimon and walked into the cave behind Marco. Marco saw the outline of the book protruding from underneath Zimon’s left pocket. Letting a sigh, Marco took shelter beneath an old withered oak tree besides Peter, who was slicing an apple with his machete. Marco thought he heard Peter say something but before he remembered anything, he was already fast asleep.

By the evening they had covered a lot of leagues now. With every step closing to the Dark Dume, there was an abrupt change in climatic conditions. The temperature was dipping down at an alarming rate. The Legendians wrapped heavy sheets of blanket around themselves as they cut their way through the cold. They had been very quick since the noon; consumed a lot of potion too and at the brisk of running out of it. Zimon rode calm and composed; his brows crossed the heavy wrinkles on the forehead, prepared to face anything ahead.

With the fine view of the final sunset, large round orange sun dipping down behind the far mountain ranges, they finally entered the unguarded reigns of Dark Dume. As they proceeded into the night they witnessed snowflakes dropping around them, forming a thin layer of white on the ground. It was like they entered another world. There was an air of uneasiness with dark clouds looming over them. The harsh cold winds from the currents of the Pythian Odes on their right, slapping hard against their faces, they struggled to move forward. They soon reached an abandoned village where chains with shackles dangled on each door of destroyed cottages or shacks. Zimon shouted to his people, “Let’s camp here for tonight. Let the storm end.” The Legendians occupied all the abandoned homes of the village. Hardly did any one sleep as the windows clattered against the stormy winds and the pests in the rooms jostled here and there. By the late morning the storm had grown silent and the men found themselves surrounded by thick snow laden ground and barks. This would again slow them down considerably. However, the conditions better than the last night, they set out for Dark Palace. They walked continuously till the night with occasional feeding on breads and raw potatoes they bought from Sooryu. They had refilled their bottles with snow and let it melt underneath the warmth of their heaps of clothes in their bags. Marco smelled an unnatural air irritating his nostrils. He felt heading into glowing depths where the moonlight had no orientation and it was impossible to know which way they were heading to. Had there not been the updated map that Zimon carried, they’d be lost. The memory of sighting the Dark Lord in Salaha haunted him and the idea of meeting him again ran an unnatural chill down his spine. After a few several moments, they were walking by the side of a huge cliff with the vast sea on the right. The air smelled of rotten corpses. No longer then, Marco and others spotted decayed corpses hanging beneath the overhanging rocks glued to the edges of the cliff. An unending array of corpses filled the cliff’s edge. The corpses were frozen and clad with snow and yet it mysteriously imparted the stench. “Ergh!”, Debril choked while Marco scowled in dismay.

“This is what they did to the abandoned village, that disobeyed them.”, Zimon said in a low voice. Hurrying away from the horrible scene, the Legendians found the land covered with lesser snow, so they jogged at a stretch until noon. When it was nightfall, the wind pierced through their blankets and gave them a taste of icy winds. Though it was windy, they could distantly see blazing fires on what seemed to be some kind of towers in the inner skirts. They had slowed down a bit to settle down for a while when they heard voices, both near and distant. They were standing on a vast land scattered with snow laden rocks and boulders. They soon figured out glowing points of orange flame approaching them quickly from around the corner of a tiny hill.

“No one move...”, Zimon murmured to Marco. Marco tilted his forefingers left and right gesturing the soldiers not to move. As the crowd neared, the voice and shouts rose in volume, until they had fused into pulsing and angry sounds. They were about the quarter the number of the Legendians. They all congregated in front of the army. Marco could hear breathing hard besides him. A filthy smell arose at the nearing of Dark Dume’s men. Marco could see most of them wearing knee length heavy fur of wolves and bear; fastened by knots in the front. When the wind blew, it exposed black and silver metallic armours underneath the fur. They were all sporting knee high boots and a sword hanging beneath their waist on a belt wrapped around their jackets. Huge thick iron chains hung over their shoulders. A burning torch was raised high in one of their hands. They had ragged pale faces; fierce aggressions in their expressions, howling like jungle tribesmen.

“Who do we have here?”, came a cunning rusty voice, in an amused manner. A bunch of men moved aside to give a way to a slightly bent, tall, broad chested man. His long black hair under the silver helm were scattered all over the back. He had a deep scar stretching from the left upper bone of his cheek, disappearing at the eye socket and then continuing through the eyebrows to the middle of his forehead. Marco saw blood dripping down the left corner of the man’s lips. He handed something to the short fat man, which Marco couldn’t clearly see due to the flames.

“What a surprise!”, the man with the scar sneered when his eyes settled on Zimon. “It’s such a blessing to have you in my territory.” His laugh was followed by mocking laughter from his fellow men.

Another man stepped ahead limping across Zimon and Marco and stopped in front of Peter. He had a thick metal rod attached in his decayed flesh, he said, “And look at this very huge army. They will fight us with these leeches!” Another roar of laughter followed. “And look how he glares at me...”, the legless man sneered at Peter who was glaring with fury in his unblinking eyes. The man soothed Peter’s chin with his dirty gloves and said, “Handsome boy.” Peter jerked his arm and shoved away the man’s hand. The man frowned and said, “Your mother must be a beautiful lady.” He licked in the air with his tongue.

Before anything else could happen, before anyone would laugh again, Peter pulled out his machete from his belt and cut slit the man’s throat sending him whirling straight on the ground. The closest man in the group pulled out his sword and headed for Peter. But before it was too late, Marco had his blade resting on the man’s throat, “Dare you touch him!”, Marco hissed.

“SILENCE!”, Zimon roared and got down his horse. Shoving away Marco’s raised arm, he said, “For lord’s sake Peter!” Zimon turned to the scar faced man, “Look we don’t intend to fight. I just want to meet the Dark Lord.”

“He killed Hozwul! Kill these people...!”, the man whose attack Marco had defended Peter from shouted.

“No!”, the scar faced man replied, “We must produce them to the Dark Lord. He will be glad to see them.

“What about the boy?”, the other shouted.

“If you are wise enough...”, Zimon said, “You will realise that you stand in front of a wizard and an army much greater than yours...”

“For now...”, he jeered. “Follow us. Salaaz, take all the horses. Make sure they are on foot. We will take the detour through Brignjo.” He looked at Zimon, “You are in the outskirts of Archaeo. It will take three more days to reach the palace. Ask your men to behave or they shall meet their fates like those hanging on the cliffs.”

“Stay cool, Pete, Stay cool...”, Marco whispered to Peter.

The short fat man threw away the thing the scar faced man had handed to him. Marco saw it on the ground, which fluttered a bit and then lay still. Marco realised why blood had been dripping down the man’s lips. He had been devouring a live piegion!

They were all on foot, now that the horses were taken away from them. They were made to walk all night. On their way, they met several tribes of men from different parts of Dark Dume. All of them carried the same burning torches. The place never seemed to sleep at night. The leader of various tribes would chat with the scar-faced man and interrogate of his captives. They would offer ransom in order to get hold of Legendians so as to earn praise from the Dark Lord. But the scar faced man would reject all the offers. The tribes would jeer and mock at the army throwing lurid gestures. Someone would prompt obscene comments and the rest would follow into laughter fits. As night advanced into dawn, they were passing through a volcanic hill side.

“We settle here!”, he barked at Zimon.

“Here?”, asked Zimon, “Under this volcanic site?”. He noticed fumes and ashes flying in the air making it hard to breath.

“Hey old bones...”, the man blurted, “We sleep in the day... alright? And when I command, you listen. You’re not supposed to argue.”

“Watch your ...”, but Marco was cut-off by Zimon who snapped, “We’re resting here.”

Too tired to argue, everyone dropped to the ground. Yawning lazily, Marco sank down onto the ground. The sun was hidden behind the clouds. As soon as they would stop they would feel the cold taking over them. Marco began to shiver in the cold breeze, filled with ash and fumes.

When the sun was high they got up, fed on their remaining stock of food and walked for another whole day until they camped again at the night. Yoyo and Albert silently crawled up to Marco. Marco was half-asleep, half-awake, wrapped up in an old woven woollen cloth to cope up with the cold. He jerked his head up when he felt Yoyo’s arm brushing his side.

“What?”, Marco said, smoke blowing out his mouth.

Yoyo shook his head, “Nothing... Just wanted... I’m hungry and tired...Sire.”

Marco looked at the unconscious drunk men of Dark Dume. They had rum bottles thrown near their sleep driven bodies.

“Why don’t we just kill the freaks?”, Albert muttered.

“We can’t... they’ll take us safely to the Dark Lord.”, Marco said, “Lord Zimon needs to talk to him.”

“Talk? Talk??”, Albert squirmed and slapped his temple, “What are we playing at, sire? Why is he doing this?”. Tear started rolling down his cheek and Marco saw fear in his eyes. Yoyo glanced away when Marco looked at him.

Marco clutched Albert’s shoulder and shook him hard, “Do I know?”, he whispered sharply. Albert calmed down wiping his tears. “I don’t know... no one knows.”, Marco continued, “And it is too late to question! Hey... look at me! We are Legendians, aren’t we? We are chosen amongst the best men of our empire. We are unique, that’s why we are warriors. We are not ordinary men. We are those who do not fear of what’s coming ahead. We are those who can sacrifice ourselves for our honour, our home and for good. We never lose our hopes... And that’s all I know... that’s all I know!”

Albert looked up, his deep sunken watery eyes searched for hope in Marco’s eyes. His short lips stretched into a smile under his over grown moustache. Marco smiled back. He had run out of words.

On the third morning since they were captured, the Legendians slept like a baby. Zimon and his men had not slept this long since they left Irasy. Marco felt his head numb when he woke up; having slept for so long, his muscles ached, which made him groan. When noon arrived, though it made no difference in the coldness, they continued their journey. On their way, the black clouds arrived, darkening the terrain. A messenger spoke to the scarfaced man and let out a shrill laugh as he gazed at Zimon and glided away. “Treat our guests well.”, the messenger had said.

The ground was not laden by snow but the air was icy cold. They were walking by a mountain side by the approach of evening. Marco felt a sudden drain in his hope. It felt as if he had no trace of happiness left in him; not even to bring a curve of a one lopped sided smile. The joy of everything had died in him. The city was cursed; cursed of sorrows and evilness. It snatched away their hopes and happiness; the reason why Albert broke in front of Marco.

And then they witnessed the horror. Peter gaped, wide-eyed and awestruck. Albert glanced down the moment he saw it. Jack heard the shattering of his remaining hopes. Marco, unwillingly, tore his eyes into the ridges of the two mountain ranges, one in front of the mountain he stood on and the other opposite to the front one. A deep valley passed between the two mountain ranges; and on the vast flat tops of the mountains stood a huge number of warriors with their iron moulded armours and huge heavy weapons. As Marco’s eyes traced the mountain lines, he realized they stretched all the way down the valley. Dispatching from his army’s route, he climbed up over the peak of the mountain and his heart sank; on the vast plateaus on either sides of the long valley, congregated about more than fifty thousand warriors of Dark Dume. They howled and screamed as Legendians descended down the mountains into the valley. Now they were all above the Legendians on their either sides. Their bellows caught a rhythm with an alternate roar of clinks as they strike the tips of their iron rods on the ground. The ear deafening roar of more than fifty thousand men couldn’t help Marco make out what they were barking.

“Melda was right.”, Marco heard Zimon uttering in his ears. Zimon had to speak so near to Marco’s ear that his beard had brushed Marco’s shoulder. Perhaps, the whole world, except a handful of cities had joined the Dark Lord. They were nothing compared to their foes. They were like an ant in a herd of elephants. The whole army was so compressed in the valley; it seemed as if they had super imposed on each other. Marco could feel Peter’s hard breaths falling over his neck. A hundred yard ahead, shouted and howled the men who bought the army down the valley. The valley expanded in width as they proceeded further but the long line of warriors over the mountain range did not end.

Not long by then, six pointed towers piercing into the dark clouds were spotted far across the land. Roughly two leagues away from the dark palace, Marco stared at the huge black stoned structure for the first time in his life. He felt the deadliness in the surroundings by its mere presence. Marco guessed that the messengers were floating near or around the palace that engulfed it in its dark shade. Zimon did not flinch a bit at the sight of the Dark Palace. Marco gave a quick glance back at his men. All he saw was dead men walking with fear on their faces and sorrows in their hearts. On a second glance at the dark palace, Marco felt the wrath incurring in himself. Uneasy with his emotions, he turned to Peter on his left. Peter held an expression which Marco could never forget; a grimaced and disgusted look on his face. Peter looked at Marco with watery ice, “Gore me to death!”

“What?”, Marco was taken aback by the words.

“I don’t want to fight... kill me Marco.”, Peter said, breathing hard, his cheeks trembling up and down. Marco embraced Peter in his left arm, “Peter... are you alright?”

Peter jerked Marco away, “Leave me alone... I want to go back... I want to run.”

Marco clutched Zimon’s arms, “My lord?”

“His curse is working.”, Zimon said slowly, “It can work even on the strongest of us.”

Marco didn’t wait for further explanation. He left Peter alone to handle himself. Marco had to keep up his spirit for now. “Stop!”, the scar faced man came jolting to Zimon. He seemed very excited. The Legendians halted below the screaming men of Dark Dume. “The drawbridge has opened.”, the man shouted with wide eyes pointing towards the castle. The screams and roars from above deafened them again but Marco managed to grasp the last words. “The exalted is coming.”, they said in enchantments. Marco did not feel the cold wind anymore. He was numb. Zimon looked at Marco and nodded in consolation.

‘The Dark Lord is coming’, Marco thought, ‘so this is it...’ Marco turned back and gazed up at the plateaus. Some men had already climbed down from where the Legendians entered the valley. The empty valley behind them was now completely jammed up by men of Dark Dume. They were surrounded on all sides by the foe. Zimon looked up at the thousand positioned archers pointed right at his men. Soon, black clouds were nearing his men. The huge pack of crowd silenced down.

“Lord?”, Marco whispered. Zimon reacted, “Huh?”

Marco continued, “I wish there was someone who would have narrated our great journey of all times... I wish our children knew how this ended... how great fighters didn’t turn their back and instead walked into Elezabor’s domain to honour Legendia. I wish the world knew how we stood courageous till our last breath. But sadly... those are mere wishes.”

Zimon remained silent like an old helpless man leaning over his staff above the rubbles of Dark Dume. Marco expected no reply from his king. He was just glad that Zimon had heard him and he felt honoured to face the last stand besides his king. But Zimon spoke, “This is the last time we’d be speaking to each other Marco.”

The Dark Lord was now visible, accompanied by a number of messengers. He took his time to glide all the way to them. Marco did not care. He waited as he searched Zimon’s eyes. Zimon said, “I love you... and my entire kingdom. I always cared for Crypus... my parents and your parents... I loved them. And you Marco... it was a pleasure to walk this journey with you.”

These words came and went so quick and now Zimon was gazing down at the Dark Lord. Marco wanted to say how much he loved Zimon. He wanted to tell how Zimon completed his need of a father. “Me too...”, was all he could say instead.

The men blocking the way ahead of Legendians made a way through the middle and knelt down and whimpered as he passed through. An unnatural wind blew as Dark Lord touched the ground in front of Zimon. The whole fifty thousand men knelt on the ground and altogether erupted, “Hail the almighty, the Dark Lord.”

Hidden under the black cloak, the first thing that gave a deadly chill down the spine, were his red eyes flashing beneath the cloak. His hands were covered by a thorny metal black gauntlet. Seven feet tall, the Dark Lord carried his long heavily moulded iron staff on the top rim of which was mounted the golden dragon face with red eyes; its mouth wide open and a pair of sharp silver fangs seeping out from the front and resting on the lower jaw. Six messengers descended behind him and that part of the valley blackened out under the dark clouds. The Dark Lord stared at Zimon for a long time before saying, “Welcome... Lord William Zimon!”