The Tale of the Land of Bon (Long Fiction)

29 Jun


You’ve imbibed a special potion that makes you immortal. Now that you’ve got forever, what changes will you make in your life? How will you live life differently, knowing you’ll always be around to be accountable for your actions?

Once upon a time, in the land of Bon, there was an evil wizard.  This wizard’s name was Ratah the Malevolent.  He was a most powerful wizard.  He learned and trained in the lore of the Nefarim, an ancient clan of wizards who studied and practiced dark magic.  

Ratah was seldom seen by any Bonian.  He resided in his fortress of Candafar.  It was a magically enchanted fortress and no one had been able to break its spell.  Some had tried, but they had met their deaths as a reward for their efforts.

There were whispers and legends surrounding Ratah and his haunting fortress.  Stories of villainy that most found hard to talk about, but all believed.  The name of Ratah was spoken only in hushed tones for fear of his wrath.

But for all the legends and fear, Ratah had not been seen for many years.  In fact, no one could say for certain when he had last left the walls of his castle.  The truth was it had been over a century since Ratah had walked the lanes and roads of Bon.  All that time he had been delving deeper into the dark magic; further than any wizard had ever done.

For all his malice and hate, Ratah had one great fear.  A fear that even he had been unable to conquer.  Ratah was afraid of his own demise.  He did not fear any mortal Bonian.  Nor did he fear the great multitude of good wizards or even the Council of Roalenthal.  The Council of Roalenthal was made up of only the highest, oldest and noblest wizards.  There were eight wizards on the council, one for each borough of Bon.

However, there was one being that was as powerful as Ratah.  One of unknown origin, neither male nor female.  One even older than Ratah, older even than Ratah’s mentor Beltofor.  This one was not a wizard, at least not of the regular sort (if wizards can be thought of as regular at all).  Halgolet was his name.  Halgolet had magical powers like a wizard, but also he possessed the ability of a seer and healer.

The Council of Roalethal had given him the title of Halgolet the Diviner.  Halgolet and Ratah had met only once, some three hundred years ago.  It was rumored, for no Bonian was so old as to remember, that the altercation left Ratah with an incurable scar across his left cheek.  For his part, Halgolet had been pierced through the side by Ratah’s enchanted dagger.

And so it was, Ratah remained in his fortress of Candafar, covered in dark clouds and darker magic.  No one knew for sure where Halgolet was.  No one even knew where he lived.  He would simply appear from time to time and then, just as unexpectedly, he would vanish.  But, he had not been seen for a long, long time.  Was he still alive?  Was he dead?  No one knew.

But as for Ratah, everyone knew whatever he was up to , it would be of no good to anyone else.


It was a warm summer morning.  Landor of the east borough of Bon, was out tending his garden.  He had picked squash and carrots and radishes.  He was now busy hoeing around his tomato plants and would soon dig the earth for some hearty potatoes.  Landor always sang as he worked in his garden.

Excuse me sir, Landor heard someone say over his shoulder.  Turning he saw a handsome young Bonian standing at his garden gate.  From his appearance and accent Landor suspected he was from the north borough; probably, from the city of Tandorian.

Yes, may I help you, Landor inquired of the stranger?

Yes, good sir, I hope you can.  I am Zoag from the north.  I was hoping I may call upon your hospitality, the stranger replied.

Certainly so, Landor offered with a smile, what should I do for you?

A nice, cold drink of water would do much to lighten my load, Zoag answered.   I have been traveling many miles and I am tired from my journeys.

Well of course, Landor said, Follow me over to the well and drink until your thirst is quenched.

Zoag followed Landor to the well.  Both sat and drank heartily of the fresh, crisp water.

Ah, nothing better than spring water from an old-fashioned well, Zoag praised, It has been too long since I have had such refreshing water.

Well, I am glad I could accommodate you fine sir, Landor said with pride in his voice.  This well was dug by my great-great-great grandfather on my mother’s side.  He had quite the gift for such things they say. 

Indeed, I do believe he did, Zoag said, There is nothing better for a deep, drying thirst than a cool drink of well water.  

The two continued to drink of the water and talk of small matters.  Landor noticed the fine apparel of the stranger.  Blue and silver threads intertwined, making his cloak shimmer in the morning sun.  About his waist was a golden belt with unusual, but beautiful patterns and designs.  On his right hip was a jewel-studded dagger, that glistened in the sun light.

It has been in my family for many generations, Zoag offered, noticing Landor’s stare at the dagger.

Landor’s trance was broken, as he stuttered and looked up.  Um, yes, yes, I was just noticing it.  It is a beautiful weapon, there is no doubt.

Thank you, the stranger replied, I cherish it with my very life.  

Yes, I am sure you do at that, said Landor.  Landor’s attention continued to be on the dagger.

Would you like to see it, asked Zoag, I don’t usually make such an offer, but you have been so kind to me.

Oh, I couldn’t, Landor said, I couldn’t ask you for such an honor as that.

Well, it is settled then, said Zoag, You didn’t ask, I offered.  So here, take a look.

The weapon indeed was one of a kind.  It was beautiful and peerless.  It had not a single scratch or smudge on blade or handle.

It looks like it’s never been used, doesn’t it, Zoag questioned?  I can assure you however, it has been used in many and great wars of the past.

Did one of your ancestors make this weapon, Landor asked?

No, answered Zoag, to be honest, I am not sure how it came to be in our possession.  Neither my father nor his could tell for certain of its origin.  The best we could make out is that it had been in the family for some eight or nine generations.  Beyond that, I am afraid I do not know.  Though, I believe it may be of a magical origin.  

At this, Landor looked up and blushed.  Yes, I was thinking that may be so myself, he said, as he continued to turn the dagger over in his hand.  I have never seen its equal.

Have you seen many daggers in your time, Zoag asked?  I would think a farmer wouldn’t have much use for such things or the people who carried them.

Well, I have always had an active curiosity, Landor said with a glint in his eye.  Stay here and let me get something to show you.

Landor went to the barn and from a hidden box removed an item wrapped in black silk.

Here it is, he said, returning to the well, I have had this for as long as I can remember.

Zoag reached his hand to take it from the silk, but something stopped him.  It seems a magical relic as well, he said looking at Landor, it almost seems to have an eerie presence about it.  It seems to have a dark quality to it.

Yes, I suppose it does, not all things are created in the light you know, Landor replied.  Some things are made in the deep, far away from wandering eyes.  

Zoag pulled back his hand, This is true and of such caution is advised.

Yes, it is, Landor said, as his countenance seemed to change and his form grew dark.  In a moment, the dagger was floating above the silk, turning violently in every direction.  Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.  Nothing made a sound, not bird or animal.  The sun glinted off the blade.  Zoag seemed mesmerized by it.  Then, in an instant, a piercing ring was heard, Landor smiled wryly, and the dagger sunk into the heart of Zoag.

Zoag, clutched at the dagger, attempted to stand, and fell to the earth dead.

Ratah claimed the dagger from Zoag’s chest and returned it to its silken sheath.  He then reached across the dead body of the stranger and took the jewel-studded dagger from his side.

At last, Ratah said with glee, the lost Dagger of Trumtistin is mine.

Ratah had planned this for a hundred years.  He had sent his spies to find its whereabouts and then, using his magical incantations, had led unsuspecting Zoag to his demise.  Zoag was no ordinary Bonian.  He was one of the Eight.  Wizard of the northern borough.  And now, he lay dead at the feet of Ratah.

At long last, I hold the secret of the ages.  At long last, I have conquered my one fear, Ratah thought to himself.  Now, with the two daggers in his possession, the lost Dagger of Trumtistin and the Dagger of Golah, he had attained his prize.  The two daggers separately were great and magical weapons; but, when possessed together, they yielded a high, unnatural magic.  A magic that gave to their owner eternal life.  As long as he owned them, he would live perpetually.

Not even Ratah knew how the daggers had come into existence.  Though he had sought their origin for hundreds of years, his searchings always came to a dead end.  But now, it was no matter.  Now, he possessed the two daggers.  Now he was invincible; even against death.


Two years had passed since Ratah gained possession of the lost Dagger of Trumtistin.  In those two years he had killed the entire Council of Roalenthal.  All of Bon was now in his possession.  In vengeance and hate he lorded over Bon and all its boroughs.  Every king and prince were forced to bow before him.  If any refused, he was killed or imprisoned deep within the bowels of Candafar.  The sun no longer shone on Bon.  The air was filled with evil and darkness.  The landscape had turned brown and decayed.  Bonians were now slaves to Ratah the Malevolent.   He was now the high, exalted king of Bon.  Nothing remained of the splendor of the land anymore.  Now, it was a wasteland.  Now, it was a hell.

Bonians prayed for relief, for a savior.  But none came.  Evil ruled the kingdom.  Ratah ruled all.  He changed his name from Ratah the Malevolent to Ratah the Immortal.

There are but two things that fill the ears of Bonians now.  The one is the sound of their own weeping and wailing.  The other, is the sound of Ratah’s laughter, high in his castle of Candafar as he reigns as the immortal, supreme dark lord of Bon.


Posted by on June 29, 2013 in Daily Prompt


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4 responses to “The Tale of the Land of Bon (Long Fiction)

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