Vision returned to Izrak as he stood upon the altar. Lebi was gone, taking with her whatever warmth had remained to a day growing cold under the weary eye of the late afternoon sun. The dead man fell to his knees. Trembling fingers raked over the stone where she had stood mere moments before—and yet so long ago. His roar reverberated through the chamber, his eyes flaring with hellfire. Stone fractured under the force of his fists crashing against the floor.

Then silence, and Izrak shrank into himself.

Light spilled into the narthex as the iron doors opened once more. Izrak looked over, saw the forest spirit standing just beyond the threshold, before he turned and stepped away from the church. The mercenary climbed to his feet and followed.

Outside, he found the spirit standing beneath a dead willow, its barren branches swaying in the breeze. Hand on the grip of his sword, Izrak approached.

“My realm is no place for the dead. Leave, warrior. Only torment awaits you on this path,” the spirit said as he ran his hand over the desiccated bole of the willow.

“Enough games, Old One.” Izrak drew his sword, the blade’s edges singing with fury. “Where is Elishei?”

“Safe….” the spirit whispered—the susurration of a somber brook. He faced the mercenary. “Would you protect her? And with what? Your sword knows but one song.” He looked towards the darkness gathering in the west. “How could you protect anyone… with so much hate.”

Izrak lowered his blade, looked upon edges nicked and worn by countless battles. It never ends. And for what? The mercenary shifted his dead gaze to the willow, watching as its long arms raked over withered grass and parched soil. It all ends the same way….

“Your emptiness knows only hunger. Your hate only consumes.” Dissipating into a whirlwind, the spirit coursed through the air, racing westward. His last words were a murmur on the wind. “You cannot save her.”

Izrak slammed his sword back into its scabbard.

Damn it all! He grasped at the woven pouch. Why did you do this to me? Why will you not let me rest? “Answer me!”

Only the echoes of his wrath offered reply.

This is my punishment. The mercenary peered back at the church. There is no forgiveness. Izrak returned to the path, continuing his tired trudge to the Old City. For what I did to you….

***

Night unfurled over the valley upon sable dragon wings. Serpent shadows coiled beneath the sanguine veil of the sun’s dying light. Jagged pines rose along undulating hills like spines over the infernal line of the horizon, and the lofty boughs of birch flared upon the pyre of day’s passing. Dusk’s tenebrous fingers crept from the pines shouldering the root-choked path, reaching in blind, ravenous desire to ensnare the wretched and forlorn. Driven by despair, he passed into a chthonic realm lost beneath the depths of eons unfathomable, where death was not an end, but another state of being. And thus, as the moon rose from the ashes of a dead sun, did Izrak Laav find himself at the Stygian shores of the Old City.

And the mercenary trembled at the sight. Spread over the valley floor as an infection through a wound, the Old City was a black abomination. Obsidian obelisks towered hundreds of feet over the city, their jewel encrusted tips glimmered in provocation to the stars above. Cyclopean spires rose in magnificent decadence among domed monoliths of alien dimensions. At the nexus of the blasphemous city lay a coliseum seated upon a terraced pyramid, a great stair cutting a swath up to the threshold of the dread arena. The Algov flowed down from the eastern mountains, through the city, where it fed a somnolent lake gleaming beneath the moonlight—a portal to an argent plane of dreams eternal.

Whatever sort of madness could drive the girl to this place, was almost incomprehensible to the mercenary. Yet, this is where the path has led me… Izrak’s gaze was drawn once more to the terrible coliseum. I must see it through… For her.

Releasing the pouch at his hip, the mercenary began his descent into the city.

***

A gibbous moon approached its zenith as Izrak climbed the final step and emerged onto a vast courtyard before the gates of the coliseum. Like a still lake, its mirrored surface glowed faintly under the ghost-light of the stars. Hundreds of black sculptures, as though scorched, melted, kneeled throughout the court with arms outstretched. Their carven faces, contorted with misery and pain, were lifted in blind supplication to a monstrous statue of a three-headed dragon, an image of a dark god of the old world. Garyn’zmei.

Izrak recognized the great serpent from the legends his mother had told him on brumal nights, seated before the warm light of a blazing hearth.

Born from the primordial reaches of the Vnesh’tot, the Outer Void, at the dawn of creation, Garyn’zmei was not simply evil; the serpent was chaos incarnate. Evil paid tribute to him. Tales of the horrid dragon never failed to frighten the young Izrak, and even now, his image gave the mercenary pause. The implications of the idol’s presence in the city were more than he dared to dwell upon.

After a moment, the mercenary moved on to the gates of the coliseum.

Sand crunched under his boots as Izrak stepped into the arena. In the shape of a hexagon, its vacant galleries climbed to a domed roof open at the apex. The silver eye of the moon peered through, a cosmic spectator plagued by boredom, and unscrupulous in the application of its remedy. Umbral pillars of liquid shadow flanked the perimeter of the battleground, heaved upon the backs of skeletal men, faces twisted in agony under the crushing weight of their perdurable burdens. Scaled serpents coiled over the pillars, their heads slithering over the tops to gaze upon the abhorrent spectacles that were once on display.

“Elishei!” Izrak called out as he moved to the center. Please. “Elishei!”

“She’s not here.” The mocking voice, smooth, cruel, seethed from the shadows behind.

The mercenary spun about, his blade an argent gleam as Izrak drew it. A man, a warrior, leaned against the base of an adjacent pillar, his head resting upon the shoulder of the forsaken soul.

He wore a cuirass of black scales over a shirt of mail, vambraces and greaves of burnished steel, and dark pauldrons in the shape of dragon’s heads. Crowned with a silver circlet adorned with a dragon head, its wings wrapped around his temples, the warrior was the image of the great serpent made man.

Stepping away, he moved to join Izrak at the center. “It’s just you,” he said, lifting his longsword, holding the point level with the mercenary, “and me.”

Standing a head taller than Izrak, his hair was dusk-brown, eyes the color of aged amber. Just like his mother… Cheeks sloped down at hard angles to deep lines around the mouth. A full beard and furrowed brow aged him ten summers, but there was no mistaking the man’s identity.

“Ryol….”

Ryol sneered. “Father.”

Izrak stepped towards his son. “How is this possible?”

“Does it matter? Four hundred years I’ve waited to put you in the ground. You had your chance to talk.” Ryol shifted stance. “Now, you’re going to listen.”

Before Izrak had processed the words, a heavy boot slammed into his chest, sending the mercenary reeling. Instinct took over and he recovered as Ryol closed the distance, narrowly avoiding the dark warrior’s cross slash.

Ryol thrust, driving his blade at the mercenary’s skull. Izrak parried the strike, countered with an overhead blow. Catching the slash with ease, Ryol shifted his blade, pulling Izrak’s sword down with his crossguard. Thrown off balance, the mercenary lurched forward just as the pommel of Ryol’s sword crashed into his face. Izrak went sprawling.

The dark warrior charged in with an overhead stroke that sunk into the sand, just missing Izrak as he rolled away. Jumping to his feet, the mercenary thrust his blade at Ryol’s throat. Ryol parried, then drove Izrak back under a flurry of titanic blows that strained the limits of the mercenary’s preternatural strength.

Ryol swatted his father’s sword aside, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him bodily from the ground. “Is this what I looked up to!” he roared through bared teeth. The warrior hurled Izrak several feet into the sand, a child discarding an unwanted toy.

The mercenary rolled to a crouch, but Ryol was already upon him before he could stand, the dark warrior’s blade falling in a shimmering arc. Izrak lifted his sword overhead in desperate defense. Ryol’s cleaved through Izrak’s battered weapon, the shards of the blade showering the mercenary as he tumbled back onto his knees.

Izrak looked at the hilt of his shattered sword. Is that what I have become? It fell from his hand as he gazed at his son.

“All I ever wanted was to be you,” Ryol said, his back turned to the mercenary. “All I wanted was for you to teach me to fight. To be strong!” He faced him, eyes dark with contempt. “As you were. Once.”

Izrak’s head sank to his chest. “I wanted a different life for you. A life of peace.”

“Look at me, father.” Izrak lifted his head. Ryol held his blade before him. “Do you remember this sword?”

My old sword… given to me by my father. Izrak looked away.

“You should’ve taught me to use it,” Ryol said, lifting his weapon overhead. “I could have saved her then. Saved her from you.”

Izrak looked up once more, watched as the blade fell towards him. Each second was a lifetime in passing. How it should have ended… His vision flashed silver under the gleam of the blade. All faded into darkness.

IV

Dark Sun

V

ALL THAT WAS GOOD AND RIGHT

Ryol retreated into the shade of the main room, the cut on his cheek still burning.

Slicing potatoes for the evening stew, his mother stood before a steaming pot; the hearty aroma never failed to bring a hungry growl to the boy’s stomach. Cila must be playing outside. Seated at the table in the center of the room, his father ran a cloth damp with oil over his sword.

Ryol’s eyes lingered on the blade, peering at the arcane sigils engraved along the length of the fuller. The boy had often asked what those sigils meant. A sacred oath? An ancient spell? His father never told him. It was a secret. Just like everything else about Izrak Laav.

Placing a small crate of writing materials—fresh quills and parchment—near the door, Ryol moved to the table as Izrak poured more oil onto the cloth, and without looking up, resumed his work.

“I’m back, father.” Ryol grimaced as he ran a finger over his cut.

Izrak handled the longsword with ease, as though it were another quill in his pallid hands. “Was Pisat able to supply what I requested?”

“Yes, father. He even discounted the price.” Ryol held out a pair of kops. “Here.” His father placed the cloth on the table, looked at him. Those hollow eyes… As gazing into a starless sky in the dead of night, Ryol’s head swam in the abyss of that desolate stare.

Izrak examined the coins for a moment, then stood. “They are yours. You have earned them.” He turned and stepped over to the unlit hearth. On hooks mounted above the fireplace, the dead man hung his father’s sword.

“Thank you, father.” The boy returned the coins to his jacket pocket.

Izrak moved to stand before him. Ryol lowered his head, nose wrinkled, lips pinched, resisting the urge to back away. It’s not his fault. Even now, he loved his father—what’s left of him—but the smell; it was getting worse. Composing his face, he looked up. The dead man traced a cold thumb over the cut. Ryol’s gut roiled.

“What happened?”

Ryol glanced at his mother. Knuckles pressed to her lips, Lebi’s eyes darted to Izrak, then back to Ryol. He looked back at his father.

“I passed some of the other boys from the village on my way home. They were practicing with their training swords near the river. Father, I didn’t mean to, but Andri, Bogda’s son, insulted you. And the things he said about mother… I told him to take back his words. Said he would if I could beat him in a duel.”

“Did you defeat him?”

A tear rolled over Ryol’s cheek just before he wiped it away. His head fell.

“You have near sixteen summers to your name, yet you deign to squabble with the others as a child.” Izrak pushed past the boy to the entryway.

Face flushed, Ryol spun about. “If you would’ve taught me how to fight, I could’ve won! I could’ve defended mother’s honor. And yours!”

“And do their words cut so deep,” the dead man lifted the crate near the door, “that you would place yourself in danger to revenge them?”

“What do you know about it?” Ryol’s face twisted, his eyes blazing with fury.

His mother blanched. “Ryol! Do not—”

Izrak lifted a hand. “Let the boy speak, Lebi.”

“You never leave the house. You don’t hear what they say about us. About you! They tease Cila at the market with mother. Everyone mocks me behind my back. I can’t take it anymore!” Ryol’s chest heaved as a turgid silence settled over the room.

Izrak stared at the boy for a moment.

“And if I teach you the arts of the sword, then what? You will slay every man, woman and child, who bear an ill word upon their tongue?”

“No, father. I just…” Ryol looked at the sword on the wall, “I want to feel like I can do something. I’m scared. You don’t hear what they say….”

“I hear enough.” Izrak moved beside him, gazing at his father’s sword. “War has plagued our family for generations, a disease passed on from father to son.” He looked at Ryol, placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Though your grandfather taught me the ways of war, I vowed I would never become a soldier. I failed to keep that vow. Although, you have a chance for something more. Something good.” The dead man sighed. “Come with me. I will share the skills I learned from my mother, to make ink and illuminate texts.”

Ryol shrugged off his father’s hand. “I don’t want to be a scribe! I want to protect my family. Defend my home.” The boy rushed over to the fireplace. “If you won’t teach me how, I’ll teach myself.” Lifting the sword from the wall, Ryol faced his father. “If you won’t protect our family,” he said, charging out the door, “I will!”

***

Awash in the starlight, the grove glowed silver, and pulsed with the ferocity of his nocturnal assault. The chill night air did little to cool Ryol’s blazing passions. The would-be warrior attacked mercilessly, imitating the forms he had spent hours watching the other boys practicing, and hacked at the besieged branches of a defenseless willow.

Heavy in his sweat-slicked hand, the weight of the sword felt good. It was power; power that he could wield, that he could control. How could his father not understand? Ryol knew, felt in his soul, that this was what he was meant to be, a hero, in helm and armor with sword in hand, a protector of all that was good and right.

Ryol switched stance, stepped in for another strike when a scream pierced the veil of night’s charnel shroud. The boy froze mid-swing, whirled about. Was that… Another scream tore through the air. A tremor jolted through Ryol, his spine going rigid. Mother!

Crashing through the thin boles of aged aspen, Ryol raced towards the source of the chilling scream, towards his home. Charging into the dooryard, he saw the house had fallen into darkness, a dread silence hanging over the home—the silence just before a sentence is passed.

A battering ram at the gates, Ryol’s heart hammered against his chest as he stepped inside, caution hindering his advance like volleys of arrows from the ramparts. Inside, the air was ice, his breath a mist as he moved through the main room. Shadows seemed to writhe in the corners and under the low spaces, crawling out, heedless of the moon’s futile attempts to drive them back. What is this cold? This dark… Not natural. The boy crept into a narrow hall.

“Mother? Father?” Ryol whispered, holding the sword in front of him as he neared the bedrooms.

A scuffing sound, wood against wood, sounded from the room to his left. Cila! He burst into his sister’s room. Her bed lay empty, the fur covers splayed over the floor. No. Where is she? Something shifted under the bed. “Cila!” Just then, a squelching sound—fingers churning raw meat—seethed from their parents’ room. Despair seized his throat, dragged him to their door. It stood slightly ajar. Ryol peered inside.

Illuminated by the frail light of a helpless moon, the boy saw a figure crouched over another on the bed. Ryol’s eyes widened as he met his mother’s listless gaze. Rage overpowered terror as he thrust the door open, leapt inside, sword raised.

“What have you done? Get away from her!”

Izrak ceased his feeding, his body still as death. The dead man’s head turned slowly over his shoulder, lipless maw glistening crimson. His eyes flared orange, pits set with burning coals….

About the Author:

Lee Patton is a Christian and Army veteran from North Dakota. His work has been published in The Literary Fantasy Magazine and The Penmen Review. Fascinated with mythic tales of mighty heroes and dark terrors, Lee dwells in the realm of fantasy, where faith and courage are carried on the edge of a blade. In his free time, Lee is reading vintage Sword & Sorcery, exercising, and learning the Russian language.

Heed The Call and discover more at: Deathless Realms – Fantasy Tales of Lee Patton.

A Valley of Shadow Schedule:

• Part One: 28 Feb. 2025

• Part Two: 28 March 2025

• Part Three: 25 April 2025

• Part Four: 30 May 2025

• Part Five: 27 June 2025