They were no doubt about to enter the realm of Slithzalien that Brinlee had spoken of. There was no way they were going to get around the gate, which left them feeling as helpless as two people clapped in chains. The dark forces were obviously not about to let anyone slip into their place of gathering without them knowing of their presence. There was no telling what dangers could await the two companions on the other side.
“We are at the gate bridging Eclestia to the Dark Lord’s realm,” said Alma thoughtfully. “It was once a part of Eclestia, but the darkness warped the land and its people. The gate seems to be growing. He must be desperate to keep anyone out. It appears he is concerned over any dissenting travelers reaching the Lady of the Lake. His spies are everywhere, and he may already be aware of our quest.”
The gate creaked open and seemed to send a shock wave across the entire land as it did. High puffs of smoke surged through the air. When the atmosphere cleared, Ing and Alma were surprised to see that the gate had now opened.
A tall man in dark black armor, with red trim, that covered his whole body, stepped forward through the gate and proceeded to greet them. His helmet was adorned with two horns, which shot out of the top, spiraling up like icicles in the winter; at his side rested a formidable weapon: a two-handed Claymore sword with a serpent etched on the handle. The sheath it lay inside was made of adamant.
“Don’t say anything,” whispered Alma to Ing.
The two companions watched the man, in wait of what would happen.
“I AM GENERAL SOREN ABBALLAH,” boomed a voice from inside the armor. “WHO ARE YOU?”
Before they could answer, another voice spoke. “Step down, General,” said a quiet, serpentine voice. A man in a richly-colored vibrant purple cloak came to the general’s side, sliding his feet across the ground like a snake slithering towards an unsuspecting prey. His face and hands were completely hidden.
“MY MASTER,” said General Soren, bowing down.
“I know of this one,” asserted the cloaked figure. Ing could not see the face behind the darkness, but he had a feeling it was looking at his companion. “Her name is Alma Lifetree. Word has come to me from a source in Garlie; a tavern owner informed me of her.” The figure’s voice made Ing tremble with fear inside. He looked nervously at Alma. What was going on? Was this tavern owner the man he had been wary about back in Garlie, the town where he had met Alma? “Who is this boy with you?”
“I have brought him to you, my lord,” said Alma and she lowered to her knees, bowing before the cloaked figure, just as the general was doing. “He is trying to destroy all we have done.” Ing froze.
“Quite a curious looking boy. He looks somehow...familiar,” said the cloaked figure. “Restrain him, Alma.”
Before Ing had the chance to grasp what was happening, Alma pulled a rope out from her pocket and tied Ing’s arms behind his back so tightly that he felt that he was about to lose circulation.
He thought of speaking, but no words came to his mouth. His companion had turned his back on him. He knew he should have been more cautious of her. He shouldn’t have been so quick to trust people outside the walls of his home.
“Give me his sword,” ordered the cloaked figure. Not only was he bound, but now his only weapon was being taken from him, just like in Shamsake. He would be defenseless.
Alma grabbed the sword and handed it over obediently. “Horwin, you old fool,” said the cloaked figure. “Your life could have been spared. A pity.”
Alma seemed to flinch at these words.
“Don’t you touch him!” cried Ing.
The cloaked figure looked around for several moments before responding. He looked toward the man called Soren as he spoke. “Can’t you feel the change in the wind? The dark days are coming once again, my friend. Don’t forget what I promised you. You will be made whole like you were once upon a time.”
The four of them made their way through the streets of what was revealed to be quite the bizarre town. Everyone bowed as the cloaked figure passed. Inside the shelter of the great gate were the fabled beings of darkness: Illusionists, bandits with red eyes and pale skin, unknown creatures of all shapes and sizes, winged monsters soaring through the black sky, vicious beasts. Ing noticed that, ironically, some of the inhabitants appeared indifferent from ordinary people.
Doing his best to keep his mind logical and his emotions at bay, he sheepishly allowed himself to be escorted to a tower that was seven stories high, its pronounced gray color arousing discomfort in Ing. At each story was a stone spire that arched for several hundred feet on either side of the tower, coiling upward like a snake on the verge of striking—an obvious tribute to Slithzalien.
Two guards clad in gray armor stood at both sides of the double doors to the fortress. Ing was forced up several staircases to the top floor. Guards were everywhere, snickering as he walked past. Densely arranged jail cells lined the walls—their inmates shrieking in torment, and muttering different hysterics--and lava bubbled up through cracks in the ground. Each staircase consisted of forty stairs, and
