Category: Fantasy Publisher: Kenneth Paul Jones
ISBN-10: 1500409340
Type: Fiction
Pages: 362
Copyright: Aug 5, 2011
ISBN-13: 9781500409340
Enlightened trees tell the tale of the creation and corruption of the planet Areth.
Enlightened trees tell the story of Raeben of the Clan Destined, with each chapter being unwound as a new ring of growth. Drawn by a tiny planet’s charm, the pondering super-being unwittingly unleashes evolution upon earth. Did my finger cause Man? In answer to this Raeben forgoes The Quest of his kind to create a sister planet on the opposite side of the sun. With hopes of taming Man’s willful nature, Raeben digs a pit and fills it with mentors. Christened by the tears of the clandestine, it isn’t long before new life begins to flourish upon Areth. But Raeben’s hole falls deeper than anything he might have imagined for there are other, less compassionate, entities seeking second chances as well. Corruption and trickery run rampant and, bound by the best kept secret in the Universes, Raeben soon finds himself on a path to becoming a man. Unveiled in three parts, this begins the chronicle of the Clan Destined One while describing how the oldest and wisest of these lumbering narrators was laid to rest.
Excerpt
Forgive me, for I am presently half-absorbed by imperatives impossible for you to envision; forcing chronological order, for the time being, to wander ever evasive. The time being…how ironic, for we are both time beings—are we not?
It is no small task we’ve embarked upon, and amongst your quarry of descriptive words I find few capable of rendering the full degree of urgency necessitated now. So many characters have been stirred into action, though not so many that stand harmonious in time. A select few of these characters seek guidance, though there are others whose only wish is to impose gravities much further advanced within the tale. To stall time is no small thing, but for you, exceptions must be made.
Should you be The One, we must first begin by unearthing a bottomless pit— a pithism, rooted deep in the past. Never fret; the box of Pandora was always ajar. Thus it is only a matter of time before, ashes to ashes, we all fall in. As the soothsayer Mangeline presaged, “Like Helen unto the Dioscuri; there were three born of fortitude; and one of three shall read more fey even fathered betwixt such shades of grey.”
And that is whom Lord Krawl seeks, at present, even upon this very planet! Only recently has he lost one of those he felt certain to be of the three and sorely is his patience spent. His guard surrounds him. All of them on edge, mostly for being unsure of whom it is exactly they seek.
Stretching out my limbs, I can see Lord Krawl plainly. His unwavering eyes strike first, far blacker than any crow; they strip dignity from all they encounter. The features of his face are chiseled sharp and devoid of emotion. He glowers like a slate statue, a cruel god boundless in his thirst to oppress. The self-inaugurated poster boy of malice, he is the nemesis to all things vulnerable, an impenetrable barrier of incomparable apathy. They say falsely that he casts no shadow, that his grim demeanor denies any opportunity for light. Mangeline attests that every step he has ever taken is wholly retraceable, all the way back to the day he crawled from his mother’s festering womb.
“He entered our world entwined by shadow, his infant black eyes struck wide. I’ll never forget him being passed into his mother’s waiting arms for his two dead siblings slid free in the same instance. It wasn’t until their knotted umbilical cords were cut free from his tiny fists that he ceased thrashing and did cry his first defiant breath. We stood in a credulous circular stupor while his fetid breath swarmed us like an inescapable blanket, dulling our senses. When at long last they were regained, we discovered the newborn suckling upon the dead flesh of his smothered mother. The room was sealed though sometime thereafter used as a torture chamber. It proved itself unfailing in extracting secrets from traitors and spies. As for him, being just a babe, innocence was unduly awarded him. To this day every breath he exhales bids a new foul cloud to form in the skies. The same grey smog has ever marked his steps, following behind like an obedient dog while attracting all that’s amiss in the worlds.”
He stands ever so proudly, his hair rippling in a single long braid, excessively oiled in perfume. Secured by nine crimped onyx spheres, diminishing proportionally in size, the glistening braid draws light from all corners only to see it extinguished, in turn, by the cold black globes. A slick shadowy cloak crowns Lord Krawl’s shoulders making them appear exceedingly wide; an illusion furthered by the clay colored coat peeking out from beneath. Tightly buttoned, it boasts of leather so heavy his movements squawk like gangling saplings sewn together by the wind. His cheekbones rise haughtily, threatening to burst from his sallow skin. I can hear the clack of his boot heels now; that self-assured stride. He pauses in a moment of deep deliberation. He is speaking. Listen.
“Perhaps it’s time we employ the help of those able to smell the very marrow of that which we seek,” he says, tapping a poster thumb-tacked to a pole. One of his cronies—named Vandetta—pushes his way closer. He cocks his head comically at the same crooked angle as the flyer.
The flyer advertises a movie called Blood Boutique. Its picture, most unceremoniously, depicts two vampires about to gorge on their hapless, barely-clad female victim. Vandetta speaks, his eyes scrutinizing the flyer as if it’s riddled with hidden clues.
“How can we be sure they still reside on this planet? Don’t tell me these humans are infatuated by their own slaughter.” There is nothing overly striking about Vendetta, save for his eyes which are utterly expressionless. Lord Krawl’s own dim eyes close, and tilting his head upwards, he takes a deep sniff of air in through his nose. A perverse smile forms on his paper thin lips.
“Oh, they’re here all right—and close by! I find their stench no less than that of their Gorgon cousins!” He sniffs the air once again before pointing at a decrepit looking theater across the walk.
“In fact, there’s a whole coven of the blood-sucking vermin holed up in there!” He tugged the corners of his collar up and sneered. “Pull on your silver chain mail, boys. I hear their bite is a real bitch…” He pauses. “Unless that was their Gorgon cousins… I must admit I was never that keen on Metamorphic Genealogy.”
Vandetta spins on his heels, storming towards the condemned theater. He kicks one of the huge, weathered-looking doors. His knee high boot disappears through a red and white sign: “Danger! Demolition Zone: No Entry!” He proceeds to kick it several more times until an opening large enough to squeeze through is achieved. There is no need however as the door’s rusty hinges give way and the remains of it crash to the ground. He tosses the rubble aside, rushing into the dark forbidden corridor awaiting him.
“Well don’t wait for us,” mutters the one referred to as Neke, dragging a hand slowly over his stubbly head and all the way down to his white bristly chin.
“And I query whether he has even the slightest intimation how he might forge such a reticent camaraderie anyways,” added Gad. Though Gadryk Lark was nearly a foot taller than his brother Nekelis he still fell well short of Lord Devious Krawl. They wore black, as did all Krawl’s cohorts but what set them apart from the rest was their silky white hair, Gad’s flowed wildly down his back while Neke’s was cropped short like the quills of a hackle hog. Both had pointy beak noses with Gad’s eyes being placed preposterously close on either side of his.
“Slightest what—where?”
“Never mind, Neke.” Lord Krawl said, his thin lips curling back quite impossibly. He broke into stride. “You will soon see Vandetta has things well in hand—the least we can do is try to keep up. He has his own way—Vandetta—and, though I admit his hospitality can lack cordiality at times, his success rate speaks volumes—something you could take a lesson from, Gad, for being entirely devoid of even the subtlest heuristics, your pompous manner fatigues me immeasurably.”
Upon entering the unlit playhouse, they find that Vandetta has already achieved an audience with its disgruntled vampire inhabitants. Never withdrawing his glare from the hissing coven, Vandetta speaks slowly and purposely.
“I’ve presented our terms and—still—await acceptance.”
“You’ve no right to ask anything of us! You! That one! I recognize your filthy scent!” Spat a grizzled-looking male through twisted, salivating fangs. He pointed a long crooked finger at Lord Krawl. “Your blood flows from the Houses of Tarock and Autolycus! We owe you no favors. Leave us while the door remains ajar… leave us while you might.”
Lord Krawl grimaced; conveying his displeasure while his crew prepared for the worst as this generally meant the negotiation period had ended. Shockingly, he sighed and then smiled, showing the majority of his perfectly straight teeth. He spoke, his voice echoing with surprising kindness from the balcony above.
“We have not come seeking repayment of a debt; we’ve come offering terms for a sweet and savory alliance. Rest assured this proposal should be accepted with no less vigor than a feast of peasant blood between you. We’ve come in good faith. We do not deny being in need of your services, and because of that we’re willing to overlook certain things—such as your miserable means of existence.” Lord Krawl pushed the last nine syllables through his teeth, not bothering to hide his disdain. He pressed two tightly clenched fists into his chin.
He continued: “Let us not mince words. Your future has arrived; recognize it for it stands before you as sure as Garm guards Helheim. Look in my eyes and see the truth of the matter. You dwindle in the doldrums of a bygone era while I ride the coming storm of Hraesvelg. The time has come to set cloaked and daggered teeth aside. It is judgment day and high time we assess your place in this world—HONESTLY.” He smiled again and his voice returned to a less hostile level….
“Few indeed are the planets to which you might run; and far fewer those that would bid you stay—not that any of you would make it so far.” He stepped casually from the safety of his brethren, pushing his way past Vandetta towards the line of seething vampires. They chorused venomous warnings though Lord Krawl took no notice.
“It is a most peculiar place—this world of Man,” he mused. “Surely you must know it better than most, for even though wrought of the undying flesh you find your species dragged, faster and faster, towards those archaic cairns offering you naught but eternal monotony. It is from such inflexible corners that hypocrisy rises, and with it the prospect of absolute death—your death; your demise.” He touched a sole finger to his lips, feigning a look of genuine concern.
“And so I ask you, as much for your own sake as mine, will you not choose to endeavor? Heed the wishes of a changing world; adapt them to serve your own insatiable cravings! I CARE NOT—but I must know right now—will it be my terms or your annulment?”
The same vampire that had pointed at Lord Krawl earlier moved closer, hissing loudly to display undeniably daunting upper and lower fangs. It spoke in a foreign, slurred tongue, and black spit sputtered down the pointed ridge of its chin.
“Your terms? Annulment? And what’s to stop us from gorging upon your own soft flesh—”
Thwack—whump! Its severed head fell spurting to the floor followed by the crumpling mass of its body. Lord Krawl stepped neatly aside, his cloak closing as quickly as it had parted, leaving only trails of thought to mark the path his sword had taken. Raising both empty hands in a gesture of peace, he spoke above the din of hissing, spitting vampires while his henchmen approached with swords drawn, ready to protect their fearless commander.
“Is that your answer then?” he asked calmly, wiping a fleck of blood from his sleeve with a gloved hand. “Did he blather for all of you? Is this to mark the end—of the once great vampire race? So be it; I care not; your breath is foul; your teeth crooked―”
“We accept your terms,” croaked a voice. Lord Krawl turned away, tapping a finger against his lips and looking as though he might be choosing something from a dinner menu.
“Vandetta, do me a favor and open those blinds a touch. Oh ― and place this on the sill.” Lord Krawl put the toe of his boot beneath the decapitated head and rolled it toward Vandetta, who picked it up without hesitation. Carrying it to the window, he placed it on the sill. He’d barely opened the blind before he wisely jumped backwards as the dripping head burst into flame. Seconds later the flames diminished, and the blackened glob ruptured into twisted plumes of smoke. Vandetta reached to protect his face, at the same time noticing wisps of smoke trailing away from his own hands. He stepped clear of the light fissure, all the while rubbing his fingers gingerly to cleanse them.
“I said we will accept your terms,” begat the voice again. Lord Krawl turned to the vampire that had spoken.
“Good, good; it’s about time we let cooler heads prevail. Find those we seek and you shall soon be rid of us. Be quick for you’ll find our hospitality wanes in time.” He turned and walked out leaving all save his shadow staring after him.
Valiant escapades, wicked battles, and heart wrenching loss await readers in this fourth installment of the bestselling Dragoneer Saga. Hold onto your dragon!
