Abjection along the Road to Apotheosis Journey book 2

ABJECTION ALONG THE ROAD TO APOTHEOSIS (JOURNEY BK 2)

By

GEORGE STRAATMAN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 George Straatman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Smashwords Titles by George Straatman

THE CONVERGING

THE CONVERGING: MARK OF THE DEMON

THE CONVERGING: CLOSURES IN BLOOD

JOURNEY THROUGH THE LAND OF SHADES

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Steve Efondo of Sefdesign for his work in providing the stunning cover graphic for this novel. The cover design for this novel is particularly beautiful. I dedicate this novel to my wife Louise who has had to live with my creative angst over the many years it’s taken to bring this story to fruition.

For a detailed map of The Antiquated Lands visit www.georgestraatman.com

Prologue

1

A solitary figure stood on the eastern bank of the Hiberas River, gazing fixedly across the now tranquil expanse of dark water, through the brooding swirl of mists which completely obscured the opposite shore. Beyond the mother of pearl mist lay the eternal mystery; a realm upon which no living being had ever trod…or so it was believed. Shrouded in perpetual mystery, the opposite shore at once tantalized and mocked…seemingly so near, yet impossibly distant.

The Land of Shades, Islena murmured thoughtfully. She considered many of the tales that she had heard about the land beyond the deceptively deadly river Hiberas…indulgent fantasies each and every one. Despite the certitude of the teller, such tales could neither be confirmed nor refuted and thus the Land of Shades remained the definitive mystery of this antiquated world. The Hiberas River, every bit as indecipherable as the Land of Shades itself, stood as an unassailable ward that preserved the shadow kingdom’s enduring riddle. She scanned the distant shore and then bent down to retrieve a small pebble. Driven by ire, she threw the stone toward the distant bank.

It reached up toward the unforgiving blue sky, its tiny speckles of mica glistening in the harsh morning sunshine. It commenced its descent and Islena felt her heart begin to soar as it did. Abruptly, a strident hiss shattered the pervasive shroud of silence as the acrid stench of burning ozone permeated the air. A tongue of argent flame leapt from the now churning waters of the Hiberas, engulfing the pebble like a ravenous predator. A distinct crack reached Doraux's ears and the tongue of flame fizzled as rapidly as it had first appeared. Gray particles of dust floated down into the water to be consumed in tiny eruptions of argent fire.

Islena's brow furrowed in consternation. She regarded the roiling waters with a mixture of trepidation and dark wonder. Horror upon horror and outrage upon outrage and still she had not lost her capacity to be horrified and astounded. At least the tales of the Hiberas River were founded firmly in the bedrock of incontrovertible fact. Any object that broached the vertical plane of the river’s eastern bank suffered immediate and catastrophic immolation. Despite having the outward appearance of an ordinary river, it was a writhing mass of balefire that was contained between the river banks. Though the specifics of what the river had been intended to protect remained a mystery, one thing was unequivocally certain…the Hiberas remained an insurmountable barrier that defied mage and scholar alike. Venturing closer to the water's edge, she peered at the turbulent surface. The water was black and utterly impenetrable to the gaze. It was not wistful fancy to imagine that the Hiberas could well be a living entity and the argent tongues of flame were appendages or extensions of a sentient being.

Islena’s hectic thoughts inevitably circled back to the one pivotal question that has plagued men through the ages…had the barrier been erected to keep humans out of the west or to keep the purported monstrosities from the Land of Shades out of the east?

Islena sighed wearily as the full weight of the reason for her presence on the river’s eastern shore imposed itself on her troubled thoughts. Now, after of endless centuries of speculation and conjecture, the Land of Shades would finally be compelled to divulge its secrets. If the Hiberas could not be surmounted, it would be…circumvented. From the lamentable experiences of her own world, she knew that extreme plight bred sheer desperation. Desperation very often inspired the most abominable of horrors.

By unanimous agreement, the leaders of the three beleaguered cornerstone nations had conceived a gambit as audacious as it was desperate. If by some miracle, it succeeded, Myrhia’s juggernaut of conquest would be temporarily stymied and the age old mysteries of the Land of Shades would be laid bare. Theirs would be an act of desecration worthy of the most heinous of her world's most predacious criminals. They would act from a position of presumed righteousness; secure in the belief that there was no other viable alternative.

‘Even if this act of utter madness succeeds, you will be left exposed like wheat chaff between two grinding millstones,’ she reminded herself, the unenviable prospect rousing a shudder of trepidation that raced the length of her spine and caused her to inhale sharply.

Islena muttered a vile epithet against the woman who had precipitated this insanity.

Someone hailed her from the crest of the hill that led down to the shoreline. She flinched, making no move to acknowledge either their presence or that she had heard their call. She briefly contemplated what it might be like to perish in the argent fury of the Hiberas. No doubt there would be an instant of silver agony, followed by an eternity of welcomed oblivion and this insufferable madness would be at a merciful end.

She sighed again, knowing that her nature precluded the cold luxury of self-destruction.

Footsteps crunched fallen leaves as the messenger descended upon her.

‘Damn their persistence,’ she thought with no small amount of rancor and stubbornly refused to turn from the conundrum of the river.

The messenger, a youthful Jerhia who had survived the systematic destruction of his people, stopped three feet from Islena. He breathed deeply, ill at ease in the presence of the alien woman and the strange aura of puissance that enveloped her like a cocoon…an aberrant reflection of light that conveyed the impression of divinity.

They are anxious to begin, Milady, he reported haltingly, clearly unsettled by the aura.

Fine, Islena replied distantly. The Jerhia frowned. Gillian has asked that you join the party at once, Milady. The High Queen's Morticants are converging upon us rapidly. We are likely to be overrun if we do not make haste.

Islena closed her eyes, trying to summon the requisite energy to set her feet in motion, exhorting herself with notions of hope that were so fleeting as to be nonexistent. Ever the pragmatist, despite all that had befallen her since first being dragged into this awful place, Doraux could not easily embrace the fool’s delusion that all would be well by wishful thinking alone. She followed the Jerhia up the rocky incline, envying his enthusiasm in the face of stupefying adversity. As she was about to enter the tree lined path, Islena hesitated and glanced back at the Hiberas. The water was black and churning with mystery.

Its inscrutable countenance reminded her of the state of her own tumultuous soul. It was in this state of desolation that Islena Doraux prepared to enter the Land of Shades.

2

Before the calamity fell upon her like an invisible hammer from the placid blue skies, Islena Doraux had led a relatively ordinary life. She had experienced the ebbs and flows common to many people of her age and station. There had been moments of intense joy and bitter despair which providence elects to dole out in seemingly random patterns that baffle both victim and beneficiary alike. With the bleak exception of her parents’ tragic and senseless death, the path of Islena's life could have been described as a stolid progression over a series of gently rolling hills and valleys.

This is not to say that Islena, herself, could correctly be characterized as ordinary. Physically, she possessed an intense and exotic beauty that was well near painful to behold under certain lights. She consumed large chunks of life with a voracious appetite and passion that propelled her inexorably forward, though sometimes made her appear alien and even hostile to the people who knew her most intimately.

To those who did not know her, Islena Doraux was an aberration…a hieroglyph who defied definition. The delicate, fragile beauty of her exquisite face seemed absurdly incongruent when juxtaposed against the awesome power of her body. The taut flesh and rippling muscles beneath appeared to have been carved from a slab of granite or obsidian, conveying the impression of incredible physical capability.

This seeming paradox of body and face was in some ways an outward manifestation of the turbulent soul that dwelled within the exotic vessel of flesh. Islena was driven by the conviction that she was destined to stand as a symbol; an exemplary prototype of a new order in which women would rebelliously shrug off the shackling preconceptions of inferiority and servility, thus claiming a share of the power they so richly deserved and had so long been denied by the male-dominated world.

In this, Islena was not unique. Women of her era were relentlessly toppling every bastion of male domination. She however attacked the antiquated strictures from a unique perspective and with a tenacity that skirted the edges of mad obsession.

And thus her life had proceeded, beset by stress and brightened by joy in small measures, and probably would have continued to do so, had it not been for a macabre incident that shattered her illusion of mundane normalcy.

While cycling at the fitness facility where she worked, Islena was suddenly stricken by a vision of a man whom she did not immediately recognize, but who, nonetheless, seemed eerily familiar. The vision held the vivid and unsettling quality of premonition. Disoriented and stunned, Islena collapsed, setting into motion an odd sequence of events that would inevitably lead her to the moment of anguished contemplation on the banks of the river Hiberas. After Islena recounts the vague details of the incident to her close friend and assistant, Marla Holmes, her friend surprisingly implores Islena to visit a psychic to divine the possible meaning of the augury. Though wary of her friend's inclination to embrace all things supernatural, Islena reluctantly agrees.

Dominique Normandy proves to be the antithesis of the caricature fortune teller. Dignified and intelligent, Dominique provides a demonstration of her clairvoyance that shakes the foundations of Islena’s trenchant skepticism. Still reluctant, Doraux agrees to throw her fate open to the oracular power of the tarot.

The ensuing tarot reading paints a stark portrait of impending catastrophe that Islena disdainfully rejects. Vexed by Islena's curt dismissal, Dominique reaches out and clasps Doraux's arm.

The physical contact unleashes a psychic thunderclap channeling Dominique's ability as a conduit. Through the contact, both women are jolted by a panoramic vision of apocalyptic devastation in which Doraux is depicted as the catalyst…the volatile fuel igniting an all-consuming pyre that spares nothing in its path.

Angered by the unsolicited touch and deeply terrified by the abstract implications of the subsequent vision, Islena flees blindly, stubbornly denying that she anything beyond revulsion and disgust at the psychic’s antics.

Islena attempts to cling to her denial in the face of Marla's persistent concern, but the approaching menace does not allow her to hide behind her disbelief. The visions persist, becoming progressively more macabre and vivid, until the source of Islena's torment finally materializes to stake its claim upon her.

This apparition informs Islena that she will be broken to serve his machinations and he will do everything necessary to insure her subservience…including harming her family. Horrified and outraged, Islena realizes that she has little alternative but to take measures to protect herself against a threat that defies her sensibilities.

In another world, a grim battle between good and evil is approaching its horrific climax. Myrhia reigns as High Queen of Emercia…the most powerful and affluent of nations in a world that resembles Islena's in a time ten centuries past. Myrhia is also the most powerful sorceress this antiquated world has ever witnessed…a tyrant possessed of near limitless power and infinite ambition. Unconstrained by compassion or mercy, Myrhia has waged a savage war to conquer her world and now stands on the verge of fulfilling her ambition, though absolute subjugation of her world is only a small aspect of her ultimate campaign of conquest.

Myrhia discerns that her insatiable lust for power and dominion will not be appeased by the thorough abjection of one comparatively primitive world. Three ancient Icons stand as the means to surmounting the dimensional restrictions of time and space, but the recumbent power of these artifacts may only be unleashed by the one individual destined to wield them in defense against the very evil that the enchantress embodies. Supremely confident of her ability to control the currents of destiny, Myrhia elects to ignore the prophecies foretelling of her demise at the hands of the very creature she would now aspire to bend to her service…an audacious gambit that would yield limitless dominion should she succeed. Electing to employ seduction and subtle manipulation to bend Islena to her service, Myrhia dispatches a Morticant, an animated creature of phenomenal power, to terrorize Doraux, intent on eventually driving her to the enchantress in search of sanctuary.

Islena's once relatively placid world soon spirals into madness, finally leading her back to Dominique in the wake of Marla's gruesome murder at the hands of Myrhia's Morticant. In Dominique Normandy's parlor, the psychic admonishes Doraux that she will find no peace until she confronts her tormentor, either acquiescing to his demands or destroying him. Accepting the inexorable truth of Normandy's dire warning, Islena willingly passes into Myrhia's world of calumny and unrelenting horror.

Only the intervention of the mystical Metocan prevents Islena from falling directly into Myrhia's possession.

Suddenly finding herself alone and utterly confused, Islena struggles to adapt to the hostile, salient realities of the archaic land in which she now finds herself. In the course of her Odyssey to confront her tormentor, she meets and eventually befriends Amrand and Lorio, people from two divergent races that have fallen under the fist of Myrhia's insidious ambition for conquest.

Both Amrand, the Jerhia warrior, and Lorio, the tempestuous Lamish beauty, are mystified by Islena's appearance and both correctly construe her presence in their world as another ominous facet of Myrhia’s complex machinations. From the pair, Islena learns more about the turmoil that has beset the antiquated world though she is vehemently opposed to any course of action that would embroil her in its conflict.

Convinced that Islena must be vitally important to Myrhia's insidious scheme, both Lorio and Amrand impress upon her the exigent need to elude the enchantress and seek sanctuary in the relative safety of the western continent which has not yet fallen under the High Queen's fist. As an inducement to comply, Islena is told that the solution to the dilemma of her abduction and a return to her world may be found in the collective wisdom of the Cornerstone Nations of this western continent. Islena discovers that each is a nation devoted to practice of one of the elemental arts; warfare, earth lore and magic. All have aligned themselves against Myrhia's tyranny and stand as the only obstruction between the High Queen and her goal of unmitigated dominance over the two continents.

Though characteristically leery of imparting trust, Islena is wooed by the prospect of being returned home and reluctantly agrees to follow the pair. They set off through the war torn eastern land in search of one of the three stone causeways to the west, hoping to slip Myrhia's tightening vice.

Meanwhile, the leaders of the Cornerstone Nations assemble to consider the collapse of the Eastern Continent and to conceive a defense against the direct threat of invasion that looms over their homelands for the first time in history. During the course of this rather contentious conclave, the leaders are horrified to learn that Myrhia has violated the laws of time and space to summon a woman whose coming was foretold in the prophecies of the ancients. Upon consideration, the three leaders reach the terrifying conclusion that the ultimate aim of Myrhia’s heinous violation is the collection of the three fabled proclamations…three elemental icons purported to be repositories of the cumulative knowledge of each of the cornerstone nations. The ancient book of wisdoms foretold that one shall rise to wield these proclamations against an inexorable shadow. Yet, despite this inherent contradiction, the conclave members come to accept this scenario and devise a desperate and daring plan to foil the enchantress’ stunningly audacious ambition.

A master of espionage and assassination, Gillian, a Jerhia warrior, is dispatched to the war-ravaged eastern continent with the task of locating Islena Doraux and taking whatever measures are required to preclude the possibility that the woman might become Myrhia's pawn.

As the three gradually make their way north, Islena is dismayed to discover that her companions…especially the spirited Lorio…perceive her as a symbol of hope and defiance in the face of Myrhia’s dreadful oppression. Islena vehemently insists that she will not become embroiled in their world's conflicts and wants only to return home.

Her foresworn neutrality is sorely tested when the trio come upon a small village that bears the indelible scars of the grim warfare that has ravaged the country for the past seven years. Appalled and outraged by the conditions in which the village inhabitants attempt to survive, Islena is moved to assist them in their abject poverty.

While trying to substantiate Amrand and Lorio's account of the land's peril, the village is evidently attacked by a group of Jerhia troopers, who ruthlessly slaughter the helpless villagers. Before Islena can fall captive, she is rescued by the Imperial Cavalry of the High Queen's army. Islena wakes to find herself in the protective custody of the Emercian Queen, believing that she has been deceived by Amrand and Lorio.

Islena is taken to the fortress town of Perdwick, where she awakens to find herself in the presence of the High Queen of Emercia. From all outward appearances, Myrhia is the diametrical opposite of everything that she has been reputed to be. She is possessed of an air of vulnerability and angelic pulchritude that would seemingly refute every allegation leveled against her. Islena is quickly beguiled by Myrhia's charismatic personality.

Weaving an artful web of illusion and deception, the enchantress succeeds in dispelling Islena's mistrust. During this time, Islena learns of the Three Proclamations and the ancient prophecy that has foretold her coming. Islena is horrified by Myrhia’s intimation that she might be this mythical figure.

When Islena inquires about the fate of her traveling companion, Myrhia discloses that Amrand was killed while attempting to avoid capture and Lorio was set free to return to her people. Myrhia then recounts her version of the events that have moved her world to this particular grim juncture in its history, portraying noble Emercia as a beleaguered victim of Jerhia aggression and treachery.

The Emercian Queen relates how her armies are poised to recapture the land that the barbaric Jerhia invaders from the west first annexed in the war that began after the assassination of her husband. Though she had hoped that the ejection of the invaders would bring about an end to the conflict, Islena's unexpected appearance would suggest that her enemies have turned to more desperate and diabolical tactics to achieve their ends. The High Queen elaborates upon her notion of the scheme to animate the force of the ancient Icons, concluding cryptically, You, Islena, are the key to unlocking the dormant power of the proclamations…this is why you’ve been drawn into our bitter conflict.

Cynical at the very mention of magic and disconcerted by the frequent allusions to a quiescent power that she supposedly possesses, Islena vehemently rejects the assertion that she is destined to play the pivotal role in this antiquated world’s dark drama. Doraux vows that she will never submit to superstitious hysteria.

Vexed by Islena's obstinate refusal to accept the exigency of the situation, the High Queen flares, Accept the fact that your old beliefs hold no currency here and dispense with them.

Finally, the High Queen exhorts the woman to join her in the struggle against the hordes of the west. She leaves Islena with an ancient work simply entitled: The Sacred Book, suggesting that it will shed light upon the significance of the Proclamations and the coming of Messianic figure that is destined to wield them. Sensing that Islena has still is still trenchantly clinging to her mistrust, Myrhia invites her to explore the walled city of Perdwick and glean from its citizens the true disposition of both the High Queen and her avowed enemies from the west.

After reading the pertinent passages from the Sacred Book, Islena gains some perspective on the scope and enormity of her predicament. Despite her cynicism, it becomes evident that the inhabitants of this strange and antiquated world zealously embrace this ancient myth. More disquieting still, the potentates, both good and evil, have somehow decided that she is the incarnation of this prophetic savior. Judging by the passion with which Myrhia subscribed to this ludicrous fantasy, Islena doubted that she will manage to disabuse those who covet her of this absurd delusion. With this epiphany, Islena realizes that she has become a powerful piece in a deadly game of chess between death-sworn opponents who will not hesitate to enslave her…or destroy her if she cannot be bent to their will.

Dejected by the realization that, despite her fervent desire to remain neutral, she will inevitably be forced into the roiling cauldron of this world’s conflict, Doraux wanders into the city of Perdwick in hopes of developing a better understanding of where she should throw her allegiance. In the city, she finds a hive of frenetic activity that seems oddly lacking in both purpose and soul. The city’s inhabitants appear to drift about in an aimless stupor as though under the thrall of some enchantment.

Amidst these robotic, almost spectral beings, Islena encounters a blind merchant girl named Isindred, who is later killed by assassins while in her company. Enraged by the girl’s brutal and senseless death, Islena manages to kill the assassins, who were seemingly dispatched with her as their intended target.

Returning to the High Queen's keep, Islena reaches a decision to support Myrhia, only to learn that the Queen has not yet returned from her trip to the front.

Before Myrhia returns, Islena inadvertently stumbles upon the city dungeons, where to her horror and utter revulsion; she comes upon Lorio incarcerated in the bowels of the filthy prison. The Lamish woman has been savagely brutalized and repeatedly violated. In a terrible instant of crystalline revelation, the face of Islena’s true tormentor and antagonist is revealed.

Before Islena can free Lorio and escape, she finds herself incarcerated and forced to endure an orchestrated campaign of brutal coercion and duress. The enchantress informs Islena that her reach is infinite and that her family is not safe from her wrath, should Doraux persist in her refusal to submit to the Queen’s service. Myrhia demonstrates the depth of her depravity by forcing Islena to participate in the sadistic torture of Amrand, the Jerhia who tried to lead her to the west.

When it seemed that Islena had sunk to the nadir of despair and contemplates capitulation, she is inexplicably freed by Ynthrax, Myrhia's High Commander. Staggered by the enormity of Myrhia's madness and the proliferation of the dreaded Morticants, Ynthrax entreats Islena to seek out the Proclamations and efface the Blight of Myrhia's pernicious evil, knowing all too well that his betrayal would have insured this death.

Together with a severely weakened Lorio, Islena makes a desperate run to the north in hopes of reaching the final open causeway to the west.

In the interim between Islena's capture and her unexpected liberation from the dungeons of Perdwick, Myrhia's armies have succeeded in driving the valiant, but vastly outnumbered defenders from the eastern continent. Led by a contingent of indestructible Morticants, her Imperial armies overwhelm the Jerhia, defenders, rolling over the once impregnable country as quickly as they were able to traverse the mountainous terrain. Only a desperate act of magic is able to halt Myrhia’s juggernaut at the borders of Natzurdan…a country of the earth lore wielders who are able to alter the landscape to become virtually impassable for a time.

Frustrated and increasingly impatient, the enchantress assumes direct command of her armies in the west. Knowing that it is imperative that Islena not be allowed to reach the relative safety of the cornerstone nations, the enchantress vivifies Marla Holmes, transmogrifying Islena's friend into a hybrid version of the prototypical Morticant. Fuelled by an immutable personal enmity, Marla is delegated the task of seeking out and capturing Islena before she can reach the safe haven of the west.

Despite the intensity of the search and the constant threat of betrayal, Islena and Lorio manage to avoid recapture until the pair happens upon a tiny village named Tinacot. Eschewing Lorio's strident insistence that they circumvent the village, Islena is visited by a presage…an intimation that the village will provide some manner of solace and aid in her quest to reach Metocan.

Initially, it seems that her intuition has deceived her as the two are quickly taken prisoner by unscrupulous villagers who are eager to curry favor with the Emercian Queen.

By preparing a diversion, Gillian is able to rescue the two. Proclaiming that he is the last of the gentleman thieves, the Jerhia convinces Islena to allow him to accompany the pair in their search for the final causeway to the West.

To reach this causeway, the trio must first traverse the Blighted Lands, a barren, purgatorial expanse of ice and rock, inhabited by religious fanatics who have been driven from the south because of the depravity of their beliefs and practices. While crossing the vast wastelands, a deadly Sherak, a blizzard of lethal intensity, catches the exposed and vulnerable trio on an open expanse plain.

Sighting a beacon, the three converge upon its promise of sanctuary, but before they can reach shelter, Lorio succumbs to the cumulative effects of her personal ordeal and the ravages of the Sherak. Suddenly, the three find themselves in the inopportune position of requiring the aid of the monks of Runesholm. At first, Jackylwyn, the Abbey Curate, is congenial and promises to minister to the ailing Lorio and provide the party with what provisions they may require to complete their journey.

Perceiving the true menace that the Ravers pose, Gillian implores Islena to refuse the proffered aid, but Doraux is cognizant of the fact that Lorio will not survive further exposure to the elements without medical attention and a period of respite from the inimical environment.

Later, a somber Jackylwyn informs Islena that Lorio has succumbed to her infirmity. Declaring her intention to depart at once, an embittered, disconsolate Islena discovers the true purpose behind the Curate's benevolence and again finds herself a hostage…an intended sacrifice to the depraved order’s lust for blood.

Helpless, Islena is forced to submit to the Ritual of Blooding, the ostensible purpose of which is to divine the purity of her soul. Perceiving that the premise of the ritual is rooted more in sadism than religion, she nonetheless acquiesces to the test of the sword, knowing that it could well provide a blessed albeit fatal end to her ordeal.

While Islena and her companions fall prey to the ravers, the hybrid Morticant, Marla Holmes, projects her unbound spirit across the wastelands in search of her reviled quarry. When she finally locates Doraux and discerns the immediacy of her peril, Marla reaches out to her mistress. Alarmed by Islena's proximity to disaster and the prospect for the catastrophic unraveling of her carefully laid machinations, the enchantress momentarily abandons her war in the West in a blackly ironic effort to rescue Islena from the zealots.

In a fiery climax, Jackylwyn's attempt to enact the Ritual of Blooding upon Doraux results in his own immolation and leaves Islena in possession of what may be the first of the ancient Proclamations.

Suffused by the sword's power and unable to control its outpouring, Islena nearly destroys the Abbey along with its occupants…friend and foe alike. Only the intervention of Kevlan, a Metocan posing as a Runesholm adept, is able to prevent the total obliteration of the abbey by helping Islena channel and subjugate her nascent power. Abhorred by the obscene magnitude of the Icon’s power, Doraux castes aside the sword only to find herself face to face with the spectral image of her tormentor.

Discerning the profound effect that the sword's puissance has had upon Doraux, Myrhia makes one final attempt to exploit Islena's obvious confusion with an offer of unlimited power and sanctuary. Hoping to administer one final, debilitating blow to Islena's spirit, the enchantress reveals her Morticant hybrid. Shattered by the intensity of Marla's enmity and the apparent consequences of her obdurate refusal to heed every admonition she’s received, Islena offers her life in resignation to the creature's hunger for retribution. Alarmed by Doraux's eager petition for death, Myrhia commands Marla to withdraw. Islena then snatches up the sword and hurls it at the Emercian Queen, exhorting her to take it and leave her to a peaceful end.

Even in her ephemeral state, Myrhia is acutely cognizant of the fact that she cannot survive contact with the terrible force of the Jerhia Icon. Forced to withdraw, a livid enchantress vows that she will resort to any means to break Islena to her will and it will now be Islena’s family that will suffer the consequences of her continuing intransigence.

In the aftermath, Doraux discovers that Lorio did not perish, but only fell victim to the Ranter's vile magic…an enchantment that simulated the appearance of death. Driven by plummeting despair, Islena inexplicably vents her frustration and outrage upon the Lamish woman, who is stricken by her friend's torrent of vitriol. Unable to suffer the venomous tirade, Lorio flees in grief.

Thoroughly dejected and fraught with self-loathing, Doraux refuses to accept the silent entreaty of the Jerhia Icon. With pointed indifference, she agrees to follow Kevlan and Gillian to the relative security of the West.

Here begins the second segment of Islena Doraux's journey through the Land of Shades.

Chapter One

1

She sat motionless on a slick outcrop of Basalt. The enveloping fog drifted around her, constantly shifting and swirling with the lithe grace of some elegant and decidedly sentient being. The pervasive dampness had worked its way into the heart of her large muscles, tying them into stiff knots that had reduced her movements to lurching, wooden lock steps. No amount of movement seemed able to banish the chill and stiffness that had burrowed deep into her bones.

It had been three days since the ordeal at Runesholm, though Islena was unsure of the precise passage of time. Indeed, the ubiquitous fog made the marking of time a difficult proposition. The coming of night was indicated only by the thickening of shadow. As dark would approach, that eerie white effulgence would drain from the churning mist until, when night was finally upon the world, the featureless landscape was transformed into a series of slate gray shadows that made even the most deliberate of movement a treacherous undertaking.

Islena deduced that she and her traveling companions had nearly reached the Great Mother; the purportedly bottomless chasm that separated the eastern and western continents of this absurdly antiquated world. She had no idea of how far the great gorge might be, just as she had lost the faculty to gauge distance and sound in the oppressive fog. She found herself apathetic to this loss, just as she was unconcerned by the possibility that she might wander sightlessly into the abyss. In her present state of mind, Islena would have welcomed this eventuality with gratitude.

A shrill cry of warning briefly roused her from her torpor. She glanced up to see that she had nearly stumbled onto a Megalin bush; the deadly, spike-like barbs of which could well have punctured her thigh to the bone. She cursed absently at the natural booby trap. It occurred to her that the only forms of life that could proliferate in this hellish waste of the Blighted Land were invariably hostile. Malice seemed to be the only catalyst for growth in this vile place.

Gillian slowed his pace, allowing Islena to use his back as a point of reference. She adjusted her course and shuffled listlessly after the Jerhia. A part of her was amazed and disquieted by her mindless, mulish behavior, but Islena merely shrugged it off. A vivid image of Lorio's face tried to insinuate itself upon her thoughts, but she savagely banished the ethereal image, dreading where such contemplations would inevitably lead. Thoughts of her final bitter exchange with Lorio opened the door to a plethora of dark thoughts, each more damning than the last, and she had neither the desire nor the energy to spring the latch of that Pandora's Box.

Instead, she turned her thoughts to consideration of the man guiding them. The Metocan possessed the uncanny ability to travel without the benefit of sight. Kevlan seemed perfectly attuned to the physical geography of his immediate surroundings as evinced by his prevention of her nearly colliding with the cantankerous Megalin bush. His talent added credence to her suspicion that his race was not entirely human and that his present body was merely a convenient facade to simplify interaction with other creatures of this world. This perfunctory acceptance, as much as anything else, indicated just how profoundly her sensibilities had been altered since first arriving in this stupefying, strange world

During their few periods of rest, she had overheard Kevlan and Gillian locked in intense debate, and though she had never ventured close enough to hear specifics, Islena had little doubt that she was the source of contention. Her lapse into a lethargic indifference since leaving Runesholm was undoubtedly causing both no shortage of consternation. After all, her brooding, morose nature was hardly fitting for a woman supposedly destined to be the savior of their world.

She harbored few illusions that her arrival would be greeted with mixed emotions once they finally reached their destinations. When the two men gazed at her, Doraux could perceive a sense of urgency and desperate longing in their expressions, and though cognizant of their need, Islena found that she was callously indifferent to their plight.

She had discovered that her only chance to maintain her tenuous grip on sanity came with detaching herself from everything but her own personal and immutable despair. She had become a receptacle for despair and grief, allowing it to suffuse her being and extinguish every final spark of false hope that her heart might harbor. When the degradation and suffering finally surpassed her capacity to endure, it was possible that she would conjure the wherewithal to defy her natural aversion and put an end to her sorry existence. In death, she would vehemently reject the strident demands that pressed down upon her from every quarter. With one resolved dagger thrust, she would deny the common people their hollow savior while thwarting Myrhia’s designs on omnipotence. This conflict would thus be reduced to its true context…another sad world locked in a tragic and ultimately pathetic struggle for balance.

There was a certain perverse comfort in the notion that hers was the power to abruptly end this deadly melodrama. Yet, her disinclination toward self deception made this solace imperfect. While her mind surrendered to despair of its own volition, her physical body grew steadily stronger. Forced food deprivation and the rigors of constant flight had banished what little fat Islena's body had contained. While bathing in a cold stream, beneath the cover of the ubiquitous fog, she realized that her muscles were denser and more clearly defined than at any time in her life. Her ordeal had endowed her with a striated muscularity and separation that she would have thought unimaginable in her previous life. While her spirit was ravaged, her physical body flourished in the face of constant abuse and deprivation.

There were other mystifying aspects to this physical transformation that implied her physical body would defy her beleaguered mind and not willingly participate in an act of self-immolation. Given that Islena possessed no natural propensity for suicide…even considered it craven in all but a few extreme circumstances…Doraux knew that her suffering would have to reach epic extremes before she would ever capitulate. Conventional logic dictated that she should have been tottering on the verge of physical exhaustion. There was no way that her diet, as sporadic as it was, should have sustained her through this hellish ordeal. The cumulative effects of prolonged flight, stress and physical abuse should have incapacitated her weeks ago, and yet her body had not only resisted deterioration, it had thrived and somehow grown harder…stronger.

Because you’re being honed, she murmured and blinked as though the source of this disconcerting thought had not been her own agitated mind. While she understood how the body might appear more defined with the reduction of fat, she could produce no plausible explanation for the substantial increase in raw power and endurance. Inadequate nutrition might produce the outward appearance of being leaner and harder, but it simply could not augment her physical capabilities such as strength, speed and endurance.

‘Unless this is part of a process that is not entirely physical,’ her internal companion offered. Islena grimaced at the implications of this notion, but the fact of her heightened strength was irrefutable as though her body was drawing upon a hidden wellspring of power in preparation for the climactic battle yet to be waged.

Bullshit! she muttered irritably, unsettled by the concept that her body could possess its own agenda in defiance to the evident wishes of her conscious thought. Still, she felt more capable than she had at any juncture since the onset of this nightmare. Myrhia had subjected her to humiliation, both physical and psychological, and she had only grown stronger. Circumstances had forced her to take human life and she had been equal to the challenge. Beaten, stripped of her dignity and innocence, she had been forced to flee and hide like a timid burrowing animal. Through all of this, Islena had become stronger, more formidable. She had been honed to a diamond-hard, lethal edge.

‘Forged like an exquisite sword, perchance.’ The simile had leapt unbidden to her mind, evoking a guttural groan of disgust.

The moment that she had activated the recumbent power of the Jerhia icon, her body had formed an affinity with the weapon. Since that time, she had been constantly attuned to the sword's presence as though it emitted a silent entreaty to take it up and succumb to the allure of the enormous power now quiescent in its steel blade…a power only she could animate if the myths surrounding the icon’s origins held any credence.

Her despair had thus far insulated her against that seductive whisper, but promise of unadulterated power, framed in lilting tones that caressed the edges of her thoughts, would not be entirely silenced.

‘Had it been the day before last?' Islena thought that it had. She had emerged from a fugue to find herself staring fixedly at the wrapped weapon. Profoundly shaken, she had fled from the Icon as though it were the very embodiment of evil…a pernicious addiction that could ensnare her soul with but a single touch.

From that initial instant of contact, Islena's body had been suffused by the cumulative power of generations of a culture that had been instrumental in forging the destiny of this world. This cultural amalgam spoke to her in the single voice of millions…imploring her to take up the thread of destiny and restore the natural flow of order that had been so catastrophically disrupted with the coming of the enchantress. The avalanche of emotional and sensory energy that had flooded her body during those initial moments of contact had very nearly torn the fabric of her frazzled mind to shreds. The titanic burst may well have left her a drooling vegetable had she not clung tenaciously to her refusal not to heed the collective’s strident plea.

Even though she had succeeded (if only by the barest of increments) in resisting the primal urge to succumb to the collective will of an entire culture’s history, its seductive whisper would not be silenced.

It was this incessant clamor that attenuated Islena's conviction that she could exercise her option and simply withdraw from the antiquated world’s dark drama, thus denying Myrhia her prize and her beleaguered enemies, their Messiah.

The most frightening aspect of the final eruption at Runesholm had not been the tremendous devastation, nor had it been the indiscriminate taking of life. The most disturbing facet had been the intense, insatiable craving that had been born in that moment of awakening. The power had subsided, but in its wake there had remained a compulsion very similar to an addict's itch…one that would allow her no peace.

She had liberated the dormant power of an ancient culture and it, in turn, had endowed her with an indescribable puissance and vivified desires that she had struggled all of her life to suppress. Doggedly clinging to despair, Islena had managed to hold these desires at bay, but their attraction might well grow beyond the ability of her grief to contain them. What would follow then? This simple interrogative threw open the flood gates of a personal introspection of which Doraux wanted no part. Like a thickly shadowed path leading down into a terrible internal darkness, this simple question would wrench things into the light…fundamental truths that she had no desire to ponder.

Islena was constantly tormented by Myrhia's implacable certitude that she would eventually succumb to the temptations of power. That supreme confidence shook Islena, forcing her to confront her greatest apprehensions and admit to her darkest craving. This lust that burned in her heart like a dark, greasy flame could be contained in the civilized environment of her old world. In her world of mounting feminine power, there had been many legitimate corridors through which to channel her ambition…gainful pursuits that would be viewed with respect and admiration.

This world, however, despite its primitive state of development, offered more visceral ways to satiate that lust. There had been an instant…an admittedly brief flicker, but there nonetheless…during her rampage at Runesholm, when Islena had experienced a soaring euphoria that came with obtaining a vast reservoir of power…hers alone to do with as she would. A lightless abyss in her soul had opened like a maw, but like the fabled black hole which ravenously devours energy, she sensed that there would be no end to the power required to appease her appetite. Was this not the very muck from which monsters, such as Myrhia, were bred? If she actively sought out and obtained the remaining two Proclamations, gaining the inherent power that each contained, what might she become? That was the salient question upon which the hinge of all existence might well turn.

Myrhia was adamant in her contention that Islena was destined to become her fawning dog. Doraux refused to accept that eventuality, but she could foresee a scenario in which she might evolve into a creature not vastly different from the enchantress…if she was to allow the temptation of power to erode each and every one of her moral constraints. If she was being unwaveringly candid, her greatest adversary was not the insidious Myrhia, but rather her own flawed nature. Something dark and insidious was sequestered deep in the murky recesses of her subconscious. Myrhia’s constant suggestion of intimacy…of foreknowledge suggesting that she was keenly aware of whatever dark mystery might be burned into the cold soil of Islena’s heart…chilled Islena to her very marrow. Whatever this purported flaw might be, the Emercian Queen had risked everything in the belief that she could exploit Islena’s inner darkness to her full advantage. The episode at Runesholm confirmed the enchantress’ assessment that Islena’s susceptibility to corruption was all too real. Under the right circumstances, even Islena could see that she was vulnerable to the thorough and irredeemable corruption that comes with absolute power.

And thus she found herself pinioned between two equally unpalatable options; the unconditional capitulation to grief that would eventually lead to self-destruction or the unqualified acceptance of her role as savior and all of the terrifying possibilities that this would entail.

She stumbled through the swirling mists of this gothic landscape, assailed by indecision and the fear that, should she elect not to act, the course of events would simply sweep all volition away and she would find herself ensnared in fate’s tangled web.

2

Gillian had constantly, but furtively scrutinized Islena since the moment the trio had departed the Abbey, but he had made no effort to engage her in conversation. His reluctance lay, not only in her brooding reticence, but also his own conflicted feelings over what had transpired in the sword chamber.

He had always believed that the Proclamations were nothing more than a collection of inane child's fables, conceived by dreamers determined to devote their entire lives to foolish and futile quests, rather than face the harsh and rigid realities of their existence. Still, no amount of rationalization could explain the dazzling eruption of force that had well near leveled the Abbey and everything within it. Unlike Ossiran, Gillian was open-minded enough to accept things that ran contrary to his own beliefs and preconceptions when confronted by irrefutable evidence provided by his five senses. Among other things, it had been this refusal to be constrained by prejudices and rigid dogma that had cast Gillian out of favor with the conservative Jerhia hierarchy.

‘And probably into the jaws of this present dilemma as well,’ he thought with no small degree of vexation. Dredging up the rancor and the perceived slights and injustices of the past was pointless and ultimately detrimental to his present mission. He had chosen the path of rebelliousness of his own volition, fully aware that defying centuries of tradition would have unpleasant consequences. He had been unwilling to conform and his superiors had been unwilling to compromise. His exile to the Hiberas had grown out of that conflict as a natural progression. Long-harbored resentments were poisonous and Gillian’s irreverent and rather whimsical soul would never allow him to be destroyed by festering animosity.

He stole a brief glance at the woman as she mechanically stumbled after him through the ubiquitous mists. Her head was cast downward, her face set in an inscrutable blank. Only the slight furrows at the corners of her exquisite green eyes gave any indication of the intensity of the emotional turmoil raging behind the façade. Gillian was grateful for the concealing fogs. It partially obscured her face, which was painfully lovely to behold when gazed upon directly, and protected him from a host of confusing emotions which her exotic beauty evoked…an invitation to entanglements that he simply could not afford to indulge.

The Jerhia shook his head, dismayed by the sudden appearance of these childish fancies. He would have thought himself immune to adolescent infatuations that such beauty could easily inspire, but this woman had quickly disabused him of that rather smug delusion. He tried to focus dispassionately upon his mission, but incredibly lucid images of her naked torso, with its high, firm breasts and spectacular muscle structure, kept intruding upon his thoughts. How utterly magnificent she had been as she dispatched Jackylwyn and the ranters at the Abbey. Her lovely green eyes blazing like emerald novas, Islena had seemed like an incarnation of some mythical warrior goddess…all wrath and fire. In that instant, it had been possible to accept that this enigmatic woman might indeed be the salvation of this beleaguered world.

If Gillian was willing to allow that the sword of Runesholm and the Jerhia Icon were one and the same, it followed that the ancient prophecy might hold a measure of credence as well. Again, the Jerhia shook his head in consternation. It was impossible to reconcile the deity-like creature who had obliterated the blood cult of Runesholm, with the broken, morose woman who stumbled after him like an ambulatory corpse.

Gillian sensed the