The Black Souls Prologue
by Ixander Berrios
A cold bitter gale from the north gusted on Prince Bolthron’s face as the hooves of Ink thundered away from Fombra. He rushed out of the city soaked in sorrow. The grapple for power and the lost of many inner battles conspire against the heir to the Eagle Throne of Anharth breaking his inheritance and so, he left the place that saw him as a toddler, leaving no sign of his destiny. He was drowning in debris, but he mostly felt anger, wrath for his father, for his kingdom, for her, for himself.
His horse, Ink, was galloping with all the bursts of speed it had in that freezing night in the Luzaria Fords. Small drizzle drops cut his cheeks like hundreds of knives as he speeded up to the hills. From a long distance, Bolthron glimpsed the Ridge of Storms, the only place he thought for lodging. It has been days crossing rivers, forests and miles of plains swallowing his sour tears that no one will ever witness.
The Prince didn’t realize that he has no purpose in living until he saw the solid twin moons staring at him. He just remembered stories of the schola that the moons were in an eternal exile for disobeying the founding ancestors. Now the moons pity him understanding his dethronement. Carked and delirious, fighting with his own mind, Bolthron Camoldred had no other option. Everything turned into ruins for him; his first true love committed suicide for the death of another man, his companions from Vaxloud Schola rejected him like he was a plague and his family pushed him aside like a waif. But he considered that over everything, his honor and dignity was stolen. His pride needed to be fed. He intended to satisfy it.
The hatred he had within, pierced like a thorn, made him senseless. It was Winter when he left Molkan Castle. Although it hasn’t snowed for more than eight hundred years, the cold winds of the east were punching his face on the speed Ink was running. His gray cloak and boots weren’t enough for him to be warm.
He reached Berksmark, a small town hidden inside green lush hills nearby Lake Zolia. He hid Ink into some red wood trees tying the black horse on a low branch. With a dark gray silk cloak that covered his entire head tied with a silver brooch crafted as a black lightning, he walked to the dim poor town. By the circumstances, Prince Bolthron walked up to the crest getting a great view of the lake instead of entering to its main tunnel entrance. Reaching the top of the hill, he gazed to the east getting a panoramic view of the lake without seeing the other side, the same one that had bathed him and calmed his thirsts numberless times. Being the main source of water of the Kingdom and the city in particular, makes it a highly watched post of the Army.
He walked through the town that lies literally in a hole surrounded by hills and rock walls. His steps were slow and calculated. He looked around and he saw a few deteriorated wood houses with candle lights shining in the dark, other small two-story buildings in the same state, which he always guess they were inns…empty inns. The town only has one main road the same one the Prince was walking on. Ravens had relied on the town the feeding and by consequence the skies were darken by the feathers and not by the natural state of the night. The only sound he heard was the caws of the flock of crows and strong cold winds going through the town like a resident. It has no mayor or any affiliation with the King’s government, so the town felt like a void. Prince Bolthron had already been there twice, who discovered it while reading a book of legends. The founder of that town served the Royal Family of Molkan Castle with loyalty guarding a secret, unknown still, but after years of oblivion, the town was forgotten and the descends of the founder, likewise.
The presence of the Prince didn’t not cause any change in the town. Yet, a woman, young and beautiful with a green gown decorated with small flower designs on the borders was standing at the far end. The odds of her just standing there like if she was waiting for him created a chill down his spine and in the cold night, he began to sweat.
The Prince continued his walk ignoring that woman was looking at him. That very decision frightened Bothron even more because when he looked again to where the girl was, she had disappeared.
He, then, heard someone call him by his full name: Bolthron Keravnus Camoldred.
His eyes looked where his ears told him and saw a man in the shadows of an alley smoking a pipe on top of the barrel.
-The Prince has return- said the man. -Have you brought the Kingdom as you promised?
-No…my father has thrown me away from his presence. The throne of the Kingdom of Anharth is no longer mine and it will never be…- his voice submerged in his sorrow.
Those words made that man stand on his shuffling feet and scooted to him. The light of the twin moons revealed his many scars on his face and his filthy and greasy hair. His clothes were old leather of beaver and he was barefooted. For a moment Bolthron felt frighten by the furious lunatic face of the man. He threw his pipe and began to speak in a raging voice.
-You promised us gold! You promised us prosperity! You promised us a kingdom on your hands, and you still had the audacity to come empty-handed? — His voice was rising so he figured that the small town had ears on them.
Bolthron grabbed the hilt of his sword in any case of tantrum.
-I had it in my hands! My father…he…he was unjust. I was betrayed — he stated maintaining his voice firm.
A few people heard the man yelling. Curious, they all came out and surrounded them like if they were about to witness a fight. Bolthron was afraid of the dark lost eyes that were staring at him. They all look gaunt and haggard, like someone wasted them over the years. Men, women and children wanted an answer. They were tired of wearing rags and walking barefooted. Berksmark, always hidden between those hills of solid rock, once flourished. The ground wasn’t dry, the wood was the finest in the Kingdom, and its people were the most charismatic of the entire Solum Continent. Now it’s a sty, a hollow that hides something and the only way they could tell the Prince is by giving them what they asked, the prosperity all of them thirst for.
Droplets of rain joined the conversation.
-My father –he continued –was merciless with me, Nomar. I do not want you to think the wrong ideas.
-The Kingdom turned into chaos on your hands. Reasons your father had to take away the throne from you. You were never the chosen one-. Bolthron was perplexed of that revelation, as he called it. How did he know that? -You promised in vain. You couldn’t handle the lost of a woman, how would you lead this kingdom?- his rage made him show his yellow and destroyed teeth.
Tears began to roll down the cheeks of the Prince, tears of rage and wrath.
The Berksmarkans shouted to him to come back. But Prince Bolthron ran faster, panting. He trudged out of the town as his boots got stain with mud that the rain produced with the earth. But he did not care. He needed muteness. He went through the tunnel and sprint to Ink. He galloped away, east to the lake.
He couldn’t explain how that man knew that information, but he didn’t care either. He hit Ink as it rain stronger. He reached the shore of the lake in minutes without having precautions for possible knights of the Army scouting.
The moonlights of Emmild and Thya, the twin moons, shined on the surface of the black water that reflected from the skies. From far, he gazed lights, perhaps, boats with lanterns or the lake town of Zoledad or any other small village. He washed his face with the water while Ink drank from it. The water was honey to his tongue, delicious to the stomach. For that reason is the main water source of Fombra and Molkan Castle. The fishing business is really prosperous in Lake Zolia and the farming at the bottom of the lake as dismayed kingdoms. Sea-apples, inky seaweed and apricots are harvested weekly and sold throughout the Domain. The Prince saw a reflection of himself in the clear water and he punched it accompanied with insulting words. Coward. Weak. Miserable.
Uncertain of what will happen, he continued the gallop. The cold had increased as the night has. It wasn’t midnight yet, he was sure. The rain remained falling although softly.
After two days, Ink arrived to the Ridge of Storms, the group of mountains that provokes many of the rains of the Kingdom. Some rain clouds come from the Northern Mountains, others from the Yukem Mountains in the southeast, but the Ridge of Storms is the one that produces the lengthily storms.
Upon reaching the Ridge, it began to rain stronger than the past days, but by his luck, he found a cave to spend the night. The thunders and lightning were rumbling powerfully and the rain made the view blurry.
The cave was empty, only with a few pebbles.
As he was preparing to sleep, a lightning showed Bolthron something in a cape on the entrance of the cave. Ink got scared and lost control. Bolthron, trying to calm Ink down, armed himself with courage.
Silence. He noticed that he hold a metal rusted circle, some sort of key chain.
— I demand an answer. Who are you? — This time Bolthron yelled. He was frightened.
The unknown figure was just there standing, but it answered.
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