The Memoirs of Light

Chapter 6- the God of the Dark Mountain

Chapter six- The God of the Dark Mountain

Far away from the mountain where Jaylin began her journey crouched another mountain. It stood out from the plains before it and the mountain range behind it. It filled the surrounding lands with its evil.

It was more of a foothill, but no less threatening for its diminished size. Its very existence was so menacing that the farmers and townspeople who lived near it called it the Dark Mountain, and from the way they shuddered and crossed themselves as they said its name, you would think it was the pit of Hades itself.

Its black rock had been quarried and shaped until it was a fortress with black iron gates. Everyday through those gates soldiers went out, and prisoners went in. The poor souls were collected, harvested more like, from the surrounding lands. Once they went in, they never came out again. No one knew what the lord of the mountain did with them. Did he keep them as slaves? or maybe worse things...

The latest batch of thirty ragged souls was being dragged, chains clanking, through the gates during the gloomy dusk hour. Except for the noises of shuffling feet, whimpers of pain, and the soft crying of frightened children, the small group was completely silent as they gazed with hopeless dread at the looming mountain above them.

They were led through a maze of torchlit hallways, never pausing for a moment. They were taken past messhalls and barracks, armories and prison cells. Some of them could muster the strength of will to look about them at the fortress around which so much fear swirled. The rest gazed at their treading feet in unseeing despair, hopeless and lethargic.

They were taken at last to a doorway at the end of a long corridor and herded through it. Inside was a large room. Once every captive had been forced into the room, the door slammed shut and they heard the sound of a bolt sliding home.

For a good half hour, they were left alone. A few muttered to each other, wondering where they were, why they had been taken, what would happen to them now. Some paced the walls in stalwart determination, trying to devise a plan of escape. Some collapsed on the floor and wept. Some gathered their strength to comfort those who had no strength left. All were filled with unshakable dread.

The doors opened. Every voice was silent and every eye was turned in fearful anticipation to see if death had come upon them yet.

In through the doors strode a formation of ten soldiers, led by a tall man dressed in black and with skin to match. A long, pink scar cut across his face, disfiguring his lips. His eyes surveyed the huddled prisoners coldly, then he wordlessly gestured to his men. They marched in among the crowd, each seizing one by the arm. With a short knife, the soldier made a small cut inside each prisoner's elbow. Once that was done, they moved on to another person. Once the procedure was over, the soldiers assembled behind the scarred man, and he led them out again.

Once in the corridor outside, Maurus, the scarred, dark-skinned man, turned and locked the door behind him.

Another man was waiting for him. He was dressed much more richly than Maurus, and had a golden chain around his neck, from which hung a huge onyx stone. Maurus bowed and said, "The captives have been prepared, my lord, the great Rama."