The Shadow King: Primeval Darkness

Elizabeth Springbrook

“A blunder- apparently the merest chance- reveals an unsuspected world, and the individual is drawn into a relationship with forces that are not rightly understood. As Freud has shown, blunders are not the merest chance. They are the result of suppressed desires and conflicts. They are the ripples on the surface of life, produced by unsuspecting springs. And these may be very deep- as the soul itself. The blunder may amount to the opening of a destiny.”- Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Pg 51, 1968

Long ago, in the earliest years after the gods created the world, Mithrolos was ruled by a man known as the High King, for he had dominion over every creature and tribe in the land. Creatures called “shadows,” so called for their true forms in which they appeared to be made of mist, came at his call. This proved him to be the chosen High King for the Shadows were bound magically, by the god who created them, so that they could only appear when the true High King was in the land.

Time slowly ticked away, as it always has, and it came to pass that the High King would never marry nor have any children to carry on his line. This worried his councilors and his people. They did not want to loose the High King’s great leadership. Only the Shadows understood, for they were incapable of reproducing no matter what shape they wore. No, the High King’s heart was not set upon romance. Not even if his councilors pressed him or paraded beautiful women, native to the land, before him. This stopped at the High King’s request, he felt that the women were being offended by this pointless and unnecessary action.

Slowly, the High King began to sicken as he aged. With the progression of his years, he began to prophesize, as most dying kings do. Often, one of the Seven Shadow Lords, T’oft the First, came to hear the High King’s prophecies and record them for future generations and also to see if they ever came true.

On one of the stormiest nights of the year, T’oft was walking up the obsidian stairs to the High King’s chambers. Once again, he was going to hear if the night held a prophecy and to record it. He wore his favorite form, that of a well-dressed human man. His clothing was of the Necromancer style with a sleeveless shirt and long pants, laced gracefully at his calves, with boots that reached his knees. In his hands he carried a bound parchment book, a quill, and a small clay bottle of ink. His milk-white skin and amber eyes gave him away as a shadow. He reached he High King’s chambers and knocked on the door three times, his code. The door was opened by one of the King’s attendants.

“You may enter here, T’oft,” was her greeting. T’oft entered with a smile, he could only enter a personal chamber if welcomed in. The High King lay in his grand four-poster bed with deep purple hangings. Two attendants scurried about in their duties to keep the king happy in his last days. Two of the five-man council sat nearby, waiting to hear the king’s prophecy.

“T’oft, my old friend. You come to see me yet again,” was the High King’s greeting to the Shadow Lord. T’oft smiled and bowed, even if his king was not in the best of states, Kader was always in a good mood and never snapped at anyone for their mistakes.

“My friend, time may pass and the mountains may crumble into the sea but my respect and friendship is eternal,” T’oft replied with a small bow.

“You look silly, T’oft. Necromancer fashion is not for you,” one of the female attendants whispered.

“It’s all the rage among the Shadow Folk,” T’oft stated before taking a seat, cross-legged, on the floor. He opened his book to a fresh page and opened the ink bottle. He dipped the quill into the ink and prepared to record the prophecy, if it came. A few moments passed before the High King’s eyes went all white, he sat straight up in his bed, and began to speak in an extremely deep voice.

“Out of the north shall come a powerful man, he shall unite all of Mithrolos under one banner and against a dark foe before ruling the land. His line shall hold the crown until enemies from out of the south-east come and do battle. That is the doom of Zahir!” The High King proclaimed. T’oft’s quill flew as fast as the Thunderbird it had been plucked from to record the prophecy and not miss a single detail. As soon as the last words came out of the High King’s mouth, he fell back onto his bed and died. The strain of prophesizing was too much for his old body to handle.

“And so passes Kader, first High King of Mithrolos,” T’oft said sadly before collecting his materials.

“You’ll not stay?” Asked one of the council members, noticing T’oft’s sudden hurried actions and grabbing the Shadow Lord’s shoulder.

“What reason have I?” T’oft asked before disappearing entirely and leaving the councilor with his hand sitting in mid-air.

“Everyone knows the lore, Shadow only walk among us only when the true high king sits on the throne,” the female attendant that had addressed T’oft earlier said while pulling a white sheet over her king’s head. The council lords shook their heads, why did Shadows have to be such moody creatures?

In the Shadow Mountain, home of all Shadows, every existing Shadow was converging to hear the Seven Shadow Lords. They had all been called back to the mountain the moment that Kader had died. T’oft sat in the very center chair of the seven thrones on a raised platform in a stadium-like area. Shadows filled the seats in front of the thrones. Soon, the other six Shadow Lords arrived, sat in the other thrones, and the assembly quieted to hear T’oft speak. The First Shadow Lord and scribe of the Shadows stood.

“King Kader is dead. We will now await the next High King. According to Kader’s prophecy the next king will come out of the North. This means that he will either be a Necromancer or an Elf,” T’oft said, his voice carrying throughout the chamber. First one voice began talking then another and another until the whole assembly was speaking at once. T’oft sat back down with his fellow lords as they awaited the ensuing discussion.

“What makes you believe that the High King’s prophecy is true?” was the question of the Shadow Lady of Faith, Brystal the Second, who sat to T’oft’s right.

“When have you heard a non-shadow use the phrase “That is the doom of Zahir?” Kader used that phrase after all of his prophecies. If our god and creator wasn’t speaking through him then I don’t know why he was using that phrase,” T’oft replied.

“Plenty of old men say strange things in their old age. Did you ever use the phrase around him, o mighty T’oft?” Brystal asked.

“I never used it around him, I had no reason to,” T’oft said, not even looking at her as she addressed him. Brystal scowled at him before settling back into her throne.

“I still doubt the prophecies of a human, even if said human was the high king,” Brystal muttered. It was Othello the Third who leapt to T’oft’s defense.

“For the Shadow Lady of Faith, you aren’t showing much, Lady Brystal. I suggest that you take T’oft words and stew them in the pot of your mind. If T’oft says Kader made a prophecy, then he most likely did. T’oft does not lie, even to his enemies,” Othello said with a scowl, nearly leaping out of his chair. T’oft raised his left hand which meant “peace brother” to calm the raging Othello.

“Othello, you may be the Shadow Lord of Battle, but I will not allow fighting between us. It creates weaknesses and unbalances in our powers,” T’oft said as calm as the winds of a normal day. Othello relaxed in his chair.

“Forgive me, my lord T’oft the First. I only meant to defend your words to those who do not believe,” Othello explained, trying to justify his outburst and shooting a dirty look at Brystal.

“There needs be no apologies, brother. Our sister’s doubts may not be unfounded. It could come to pass that the High King’s prophecies do not come true, but it could also come to pass that Mithrolos will crumble into the Orago Sea and we are all forgotten save in molding history books and in the dim stanzas of great ballads. Either way, it profits us to be patient,” T’oft replied, looking off passed the assembly. “But there is no escape from destiny’s firm grip.”

“You speak the truth, Milord. I was wrong to doubt your intelligence. Accept my humble apology,” Brystal asked. T’oft nodded to her in reply.

Time slowly ticked away for the Shadows, locked away in their mountain they had very little to keep them occupied. T’oft recorded the years, managing to keep sane by rewriting some of his old manuscripts dating back to the earliest days after his creation. He was the foremost scholar on the history of Mithrolos as well as the Shadows. Any event that had occurred since the beginning of time was in his books.

The day that T’oft felt the pulse was not a special one. He was working on the account of Kader’s life when a sudden pulse shook him. His hand flew to his chest, feeling a powerful energy was about to enter the world. T’oft’s amber eyes flashed and he smiled. Seeking a fresh piece of parchment he scrawled these words: On this day, one hundred and twenty years after the death of Kader, the next true high king was born.

Far in the Northlands, in the region of Siros, lay the kingdom of the Necromancers. The Necromancers were the most powerful and dangerous kind of magic-user one could ever meet. They were known mostly for creating Zombies from prisoners and keeping these moving bodies long after the soul of the prisoner was gone. Their king, Raghnall, was a noble man. He had five children and his queen was expecting again. Raghnall sat awaiting news outside the birthing chambers. It was thought that to be bad luck for a man to be in the birthing chambers while a woman was giving birth. Next to Raghnall sat his eldest child, a daughter named Maysa. She was only six but had always been at her father’s side when her brothers were being born.

The king was confident that his queen could pull through, she had four times before. But if he lost either child or wife then he would be distraught. Maysa, in her impatience, was kicking her legs back and fourth like a very small child.

“Please, sparrow, stop that,” Raghnall commanded gently. Maysa immediately stopped.

“Sorry father,” she apologized. Raghnall patted his daughter’s head gently. He appreciated and awarded obedience whenever he found it.

“Not much longer now,” Raghnall stated, looking outside as the moon began to rise. A full moon was always a good sign in Necromancer tradition, it predicted greatness, and tonight the moon was bright and full. Silent moments passed before the cry of a child rang out through the halls of the castle. Raghnall let a relived sigh escape his lips. Maysa looked at her father then at the door to the birthing chamber, then back at her father. Raghnall knew her thoughts.

“No, not yet. We must be invited in. Your mother and new sibling must be made presentable first,” Raghnall replied. Maysa hung her head, slightly bored. Soon, one of the midwives came out into the hall, carrying a bundle in her arms.

“Meet your new son, Milord.”