The Prophecies of Andrapaal
The Eleventh Tome
Chapter IX
written by: Tim Law
Year 513 of the Kingdom of Thuraen
Fredrickson the Third is King
Vladimir the Young is Chief Sage
The late hour, the almost unbelievable events that he had experienced, and an utter exhaustion caused Raven to lose his fight against sleep. As his eyes slowly shut and his head rested gently against the stone floor of his cell, Raven’s mind drifted to the Great Hall again. This time, the expansive room was filled with a sea of jeering faces. Raven was the young boy again, not quite twelve summers, who first took up the truth keeper’s blade, standing small and sheepish in the middle of the crowd. Surrounding him were the dead truth keepers, his fallen brothers. They all wore the sad face of those who bore the truth that no one wanted to hear. Raven recognised each one of the faces, saw them distort into the hideous image they wore in death.
Surrounding these ghostly figures was the vorsurk party waving their barbaric weapons. Their fanged maws laughed openly, and they made signs of darkness and doom as they pointed at the child in the centre of their midst. These creatures knew the truth, but it was not in their nature to reveal it, to embrace it. The vorsurk were a race of violent creatures that had no place in their culture for innocence. Anything other than blood, death, and seeking power was a wasted moment of time for them.
Beyond these monsters, the creatures of chaos that looked so out of place in the largest room of the palace, there began the mob of sages. The faces, so unlike those of the vorsurk and the ghostlike images of the dead truth keepers, were wrinkled, wise, and enraged. Each of these faces contained a mouth, open and shouting accusations. The mob began as a mass of blue robed figures, then a ring of red, and finally a roughly made circle of yellow.
As Raven covered his eyes from the visual attack, the voices began ringing in his ears. Every figure in the entire packed Great Hall screamed every single petty thing that Raven had ever done wrong. The pup that he had forgotten to feed, the day he refused to tell his mother he loved her, the night he ran away, and all the names of those who had died at his sword. Every time it would end with the names of Paechra’s father and King Fredrickson.
Above all of this, high on a throne of ruby red and gold sat the image of Vladimir. Morthos knelt beside him on his right and whispered in the old sage’s ear. Paechra sat at Vladimir’s left and just stared across the hall at Raven, seething with hatred. Vladimir hurriedly scrawled down each and every word he heard, somehow hearing all that the crowd chanted. The scroll in his hand grew longer and longer, seeming to Raven eternal in length. As the dark haired boy scanned the room’s faces in earnest, his greatest fear was realised. His father was nowhere to be seen.
Paechra felt the sun strike her back with warmth as the dawn broke, heralding a new day. Still, she knelt in the middle of the back alley where Raven had been captured the night before. Paechra wept, though she no longer had any tears that would flow. She missed her father deeply, but she was confused that she no longer felt anger stemming from his loss. Her father’s visit had made quite clear to her that Raven had played no part in her father’s murderous demise. Tears of sadness all through the dark early hours of the morn had mixed with tears of guilt, and confusion. It was still difficult for Paechra to make sense of the images she had witnessed in her vision, that of the woman with child, the horde of vorsurk forming the river. She also struggled to dismiss the scenes of her father’s death she knew she had truly seen and had truly heard. The warning of her father, his last words to her, played over and over in her mind. It was a piece of a puzzle that the sage’s daughter was in no fit state to solve. Paechra was as sure as she could be that Raven had not been down in the city beneath, not that night, not ever. As certain of this fact, Paechra knew too that it was her own doing that had led to Raven’s capture. Paechra keened in the empty street as she realised she had played a part in dooming an innocent man, a friend, to his death. The druid also realised that there had been someone resembling Raven, framing her friend, leading her to believe that Raven had committed the crime of murdering her father.
“Vladimir…” whispered Paechra, knowing that her father’s words were true. “Now I am ready to look beyond the vision father. This human, sage or not shall be brought to justice for your death.”
The druid began a low throated, animalistic growl as the blue magic light began to glow about her. As Andrapaal awoke to the strange sound that sprang forth louder and louder from within the sylva maiden, those who walked that very back alley gave the mourning figure a wide birth.
Anton fell into his unmade bed succumbing to a feeling of utter exhaustion. His mind was flooded in strange images of the rogue truth keeper, the faithless Johannas Stormsong. The boy was bathed in magic, a harmless outline of blue magic, which caused all the truth keepers Anton included, to fear touching him. The boy was accused of killing the king and of sage killing; heinous crimes of a nature Anton had never needed to deal with before. The Head of the Truth Keepers wished that none would ever need deal with crimes of such a nature again. The strange boy never once seemed to fear the magic that outlined him. Anton could not help but think that stranger still was the lack of blood on Johannas’ hands and clothing, there seemed no evidence that this boy had committed the deeds of which he was accused. The early morning continued on as a chaotic disaster. Fifteen citizens, all of whom had ignored the warnings of Vladimir, the Chief of all Sages, arrived at the arena where Johannas had been escorted to await his trial at the same time. All fifteen of the citizens had in custody their own version of the criminal that they had managed to restrain. All fifteen versions of the supposed criminal were, of course, not Johannas. Not all fifteen were as innocent of any crime as they claimed. In addition to this, a handful of his own men, men which had not been picked to hunt down the rogue, had arrived with suspicious characters arrested as Johannas too. It was enough of a nightmare to hand the real Johannas over to his father. The poor sage that had been dragged from bed to complete the necessary paper work for all nineteen of the arrests had been for hours scribbling down statements and transcribing them to a great tome. Half of the captured were set free, two fled in the confusion of the morning, and the rest were left in the hands of Michael Stormsong to settle into cells beneath the arena as was part of his role as Custodian of Criminals. Feeling every year of his age, fearing sleep would claim him before he completed his duty, Anton finally reported to Vladimir.
“Good,” Vladimir had stated plainly, emotionlessly, to Anton’s surprise. “Now leave me be, Anton. We both require our rest, and today I have great things to achieve,” the sage added cryptically as a dismissal.
Anton bobbed a quick bow, not wishing to starve his body any longer of the slumber it yearned for. In his unfocused state, he had missed the remains of the charred blue robe that was once coated in blood. The charred blue robe that lay almost totally consumed in Vladimir’s dead fireplace.
Anton’s final thought before his eyes closed tight was a curse that he had neglected in the chaos to take a statement from Johannas. Fearing what such a statement might reveal, Anton decided quickly that such a task would wait until later, much, much later.
Michael felt the spear shaft in his hands, the roughness of the wood, and the sharpness of the metallic point. It was the same shaft that Johannas, his son, had thrown and thus had somehow proven to Michael all his beliefs of why the world had come crashing down around him. The night in the bar came back to the old man, the recent night when he had explained to Benjamin what he should have told his son.
“I had forgiven you, my son, why make this family’s shame so much harder to bear?” Michael whispered to himself, but then he burst into a fit of laughter.
Johannas had come in search of a father, and received a shoulder whose coolness compared to the stones of the wall of Andrapaal at the height of winter. The boy had been clueless of what his father accused him of having done, which had infuriated Michael all the more. Michael threw the spear and discovered that he, too, could strike the barrel. It proved nothing, only that once again his son was lost without a father beside him.
“How can I disbelieve the words of Vladimir, Chief of Sages? It was his words that slurred our family name, his doing that placed me where I am. Alone, it was my choice to believe such words,” Michael continued to say to himself. “Maybe it is time that I did grant my own flesh and blood the same opportunity to be both heard and believed. If he did commit such crimes as I hold him for, then his punishment should fit the deed. If such two heinous murders are not his to claim, I do pray to the Keepers of the Truth that such same words set my son free of his chains.”
Deep in thought, Michael moved to return to his prisoners, when an unknown voice called to him.
Vladimir fumed in his cell. Perhaps it had not been a wise move to strike so suddenly on the king. The sages, his brothers, those wise men who guided the kingdom and looked to him as chief sage to guide them, had completely ignored his words. They had focused upon the unimportant queen, the role that they were to play in the repair of the rulership, but not at all upon the importance of making Vladimir Sage King. The boy that was the power hungry Morthos, whinged and whined about just how unfair it all was, clouding the honed mind of the persona Vladimir.
“Not only will they delay my crowning, but they refuse to believe the evidence of the guilt of the truth keeper. All the pieces of the puzzle that I have painstakingly gifted them, and still they will not accept the boy Raven’s guilt,” the voice of Morthos continued to complain.
“Quiet!” hissed the inner voice of the elder sage, and the sage that wore the silver sash began to think again.
“It was paramount that the king be disposed. Another life, nay two more lives must be lost if I am to retain my hold upon the kingdom. Before I can be concerned with the precious queen though, I must create a solution to the present dilemma,” Vladimir pondered quietly to himself.
“My brothers,” he began through clenched teeth, biting back his bitterness towards the other sages of blue, “must be convinced there is a necessity for stability in the rulership now…”
The tome bound in black flapped open and revealed again the powerful spell that harnessed the pure heat of the sun. Vladimir smirked like Morthos would have. Eagerly he began to read.
The would-be sorcerer, Thurzuk, paused in his murmured chanting to survey his new brood of soldiers. He howled loudly and wildly in delight as he saw for each of the ten vorsurk warriors that stood before him, anointed in the blood of their brothers, there stood another eleven, and another, and another. Each time he added a fresh droplet of the dark blood from the hearts he held to a warrior’s face, a fresh batch of eleven blood thirsty fighters sprang to life before his eyes. As their leader’s laugh flowed forth unabashed, his growing army took up the cry. Thurzuk continued chanting as he dabbed himself once more. To his immediate left, right, all about him, he felt the numbers swell again. This time, the savages were perfect replicas of the would-be sorcerer himself. Even as he howled his delight, he knew that soon the hearts would run dry. To Thurzuk, though, that mattered little. Soon it would be the eleventh hour, and by then, even if the hearts still had blood to give, it would be time to strike at the kingdom’s centre. Already, his army seemed strong enough for the task ahead. Thurzuk continued chanting, continued anointing one after the other of the chosen eleven, continued to feel the numbers of his horde increase, continued to do as the tome of dark magic had shown him. Already there were almost too many vorsurk to keep their numbers hidden within the oak forest, Thurzuk looked out from where he stood and smiled at the sight of the unsuspecting city below. The river of violence was ready to break its banks. The would-be sorcerer dabbed more blood upon the soldiers before him and strained his ears to hear the ringing of Andrapaal’s city bells. The eleventh hour was not far away. The city and the great tome would both be his and soon.
Jefferson put his finger to his lips as a sign for silence. The red robed sage Moosuf gave the sage dressed in blue a quizzical look, then silently questioned the two other blue robed sages that were present in Jefferson’s cell.
“Keep your quill away. We have invited you here not as a scribe, this time,” Jefferson stated quietly.
Moosuf nodded slowly, thinking that he understood. As his eyes scanned over the scraps of paper that had been highlighted, crossed through, scribbled over by these three Knowledge Keepers.
“We are concerned… Yes, I believe concerned is the correct term,” the blue robed sage Moosuf knew as Sammeal began to say.
With a boyish grin that still seemed suited to his elderly frame, Jefferson continued what Sammeal had begun.
“We are most concerned about the state of mind of our brother Vladimir. You know him well, perhaps better than the people he serves. We are uncertain if he is who he states he is. We are very much uncertain if rulership is indeed the right, safest role for Vladimir to hold.”
Moosuf looked blankly back at the three elderly faces. Within his mind, the poor red robed sage weighed up his options. Could he betray the sage whose very words of guidance and wisdom had led Moosuf as far down the path of knowledge as he had come, with confidence that such a role was meant to be his? Could he open his mouth and state what he had seen? Could he tell these men of the strange, horrific image of Vladimir bearing a sword, covered in blood, and headed away from King Fredrickson’s chamber? Moosuf took a deep breath, and behind the closed door privacy of Jefferson’s chamber, he began to talk.
Martha shook her head in disbelief. None of the others in the market place had believed her story, and now Michael the jailer thought her words false. She spat at the trainer’s feet and leered, as nasty a stare as she could form.
“I was not surprised this morning when the other palace staff, marketers, and others like me did not believe my tale. You, though, sir, are a lord if the stories they tell of you and the gossip be believed, Michael Stormsong,” Martha began, disappointment echoing in her voice. “Or at least once upon a time you were,” she added lightning fast as an afterthought, seeing Michael begin to argue.
“Aye,” Michael agreed, just as quickly. “Being a lord, though, did naught to grant me wisdom, just let me grow grey around my temples and nothing more.”
“I’d be telling a truth keeper, any truth keeper, if I thought they’d listen. You, though, my lord of the greying temples, you are the boy’s father, and to you I do swear that my words you need to hear again,” Martha pleaded, feeling as though her heart was heavy enough to fall from her breast.
“Very well,” Michael replied with an audible sigh.
Martha began her tale again, this time without the elaboration she added to the version she had told in the market square to any who would listen. This was possibly the last chance she would have to retell such a strange tale, and the truth seemed just as strange as any fiction could have been.
Raven awoke from his bad dream. The reality of the world rushed back into his thoughts, slapping him harshly across the face and then poking him all over his body, making his muscles ache from the cold of the stone cell. Raven prayed to the keepers of truth that he would get a chance to find out why Morthos had chosen to betray the kingdom in such a way, murderer and magician. There was a murmur from the other prisoners, those who shared the cells beneath the arena with the captured truth keeper. Raven sighed in relief as he discovered what those other men and women had seen. Finally, the strange blanket of blue that had enveloped him for hours had ebbed away. He rested his head against the cool stone of the cage beneath the arena that held him captive.
“Hey!” growled his cellmate, a man solidly built and so tall that had to stoop as he stood so as not to strike his head upon the ceiling of the cage.
“You the one that Vlad said about last night? You the one that they think killed our king?” the brute asked.
Raven did not waste his breath explaining his innocence. This kind of brute Raven recognised from his time hunting the vorsurk that had killed his brother truth keepers. It would not matter what Raven said, this brute was looking for a fight.
“What’s it to you?” a voice asked from the dark shadows. Both Raven and the giant thug turned in surprise. Raven knew when he had been thrown into the cell that it had only contained one inmate. It seemed to Raven that the giant could count as well, his look of shock at this new addition to their cell evident even in the gloom of the dungeon. The first thing Raven noticed of the new arrival was two familiar eyes, the eyes of the dragon-shape Thur the air spirit had taken the first few times they had met. It was at that very moment that it dawned on Raven that the Lady of Possibility was not interested in him gambling, not interested in his father, she was only interested in keeping Raven alive, safe.
Raven saw the thug swing a wild punch that could have easily floored him. It passed straight through the spirit of air, causing the giant of a man to grunt as his fist connected with the cell wall. The whirlwind that suddenly erupted within the confined space of the cell played lightly with Raven’s spiked hair as it pummeled the brute ferociously.
Raven noticed that the brute still stood, his face now covered in shallow cuts. A stunned and scared expression filled the giant’s face.
FEAR NOT, HUMAN. I KNOW IT WOULD BE THE SYLVA’S WILL, YOU ARE KEPT SAFE. I SENSE THAT ALREADY SHE SEES THE TRUTH OF EVERYTHING AND BERATES HERSELF FOR THE ROLE SHE PLAYED, Thur stated jovially, appearing as the sylva again. He added a wink for Raven’s benefit before the air spirit vanished into the dark shadows again and was gone as suddenly as it had arrived. The two in the cell watched each other for a few moments, not moving, both not sure how to take in what had just occurred.
Daniel sharpened his knives and whistled the tune that all young men do who are happy with their work, their family, their life. It was his first day back at the slaughterhouse house and all of his fellow workers were amazed to see him not only back at work, but actually alive. It seemed that Thomas, the master butcher, had not made mention of the miraculous healing. Daniel was not worried though, he was happy to be working again. That day, it seemed to him that the slaughterhouse was the place that he was supposed to be. Keenly, the apprentice butcher awaited the arrival of his master, eager to demonstrate how lucky both he and Thomas were that his life had been spared.
The swollen numbers of vorsurk soldiers began marking their faces themselves with the blood of their murdered kin. As the crimson paint was applied, they began a deep throated, wild chant, in preparation of their strike. Faces were anointed with the sticky blood, creating wild swirl patterns, making the monsters look even more ferocious, more frightful, eager for bloodshed. As Thurzuk caught the sound of the city bells beginning to ring, marking the eleventh hour of the day, he raised his head and began to howl at the sun. Now was the time to strike. Necron-Blaith, the greatest of the Tomes of Power, was his to claim.
As the sun moved across the sky, oblivious to the fact that it marked the passing of the hours for those below it, Paechra drew the power of magic from the nature that surrounded her. The few plants and grasses that released their energy was just sufficient for the druid to reach across the land with her mind to the only friend she truly knew she had.
“Mother! Mother, please answer me and comfort me with your voice!” Paechra pleaded. It shocked her to hear just how weak her voice had become. Her throat was raw from her heart poured grief, and a new fear gripped the young sylva, thinking that her spell would fail due to her physical weakness. Ignoring the cries of alarm from the witnesses to her magic that stood in fear about her, Paechra fell to her knees again.
Child, I hear your plea. Take solace in the warm smile of a friend. Tell me all that does trouble you so… came the reply that Paechra hoped with all her being to hear.
“My father is dead, and the friend that I spoke of, Raven the human, I have helped to mark for the same fate…” Paechra began as explanation. As the mother druid sat silently, her image taking firmer form the longer that Paechra talked, the younger druid opened her heart and told everything.
The blatant show of magic in that back alley of Andrapaal caused instant panic. For the whole time that mother and daughter druid spoke, the street was silent and empty. The sun moved across the sky, oblivious to the fact that the eleventh hour drew so very near.
In the darkness of her shelter, the mother druid frowned with worry. The death of Therdous Lightheart was sad news indeed. The unbalance of his daughter’s spirit, though, was of a greater concern. Paechra did not seem to understand the danger she faced. The low prince of Spiritgrove, whose love Paechra had spurned before leaving to seek out her father, was still missing from the community. The mother druid sensed his anger, the wound upon his pride still left unhealed. Paechra was in no fit state to deal with such a threat, and yet the mother druid knew that such a fate was soon to be Paechra’s. Old and weary as she was, the mother druid shook off her desire to return to sleep’s comforting embrace. She had a great number to wake, as Paechra would need all of her sisters. The magic of the druids would keep their sister hidden from the hunter who wished her such harm. Even so far from the sylva lands, there were ways for the druids of Spiritgrove to protect the sister they so dearly loved.
Still in the cell of Jefferson the blue robed sage, Moosuf debated in his mind whether the passed two hours of questioning had gone poorly or well. Moosuf was well versed with the card game of Kingdom of Thuraen, as he often played with his friends, other learning sages just like himself. He played for fun, never for gain, and was considered an excellent, crafty player. On some occasions, he was gracious enough to allow opponents to succeed. Moosuf found that this behaviour kept fragile friendships strong and solid friendships even stronger. At the times when he was asked to play against chief sage Vladimir, Moosuf was encouraged to leave such grace behind and play only to win.
“In the words of Sage Sebastian the Knowledgeable, To play weakness instead of showing a true strength is the utmost behaviour of evilness, for it does feed the deeds of our enemies and it does feed the minds and mouths of the howling demons of untruth with the lies that they turn like our own sharpened blades against us,” Vladimir had purred wisely.
As Moosuf nodded silently that he had understood, the sage narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and spoke again.
“Take true heed, young one, of the wisdom of the sages that have come before you. Listen to the basic truths of Sebastian, form a habit of showing such weakness, and it shall be more than just your robe that shows the crimson colour.”
That had been the first and only time that Moosuf had purposefully lost to the master sage. From that very moment onwards, Moosuf had played harder. He was less lenient in how he played against the other Knowledge Speakers. And never again was he going to be caught playing any way but to win against sages dressed in blue.
The number of Knowledge Keepers that had gathered in Jefferson’s small cell had increased to five, and Moosuf still only knew the two of them. As Jefferson and Sammeal continued to question, Moosuf decided that the intellectual tussle was going well in his favour.
Vladimir’s lesson had left Moosuf well prepared for such a task. As Sammeal pandered him with another question concerning the silver sashed sage, Moosuf was again very cautious with how he responded.
“I would very rarely see the chief sage during the day,” he began in reply, each word picked carefully. “On some occasions, he would merely request a transcript, and I would not speak to the sage at all,” he continued, abruptly ending his reply to the fourteenth question, ceasing to add any more as the five elderly faces encouraged him with forced smiles and utter silence. Working so closely with Vladimir, Moosuf felt comfortable with silence. Within the privacy of his mind, he painstakingly examined his response and the reaction of the small group of sages. Moosuf was quite pleased, everything was going very well.
The city bells rang out the toll for the eleventh hour. With a warm sun in the summer sky, almost directly above them, the citizens of Andrapaal continued with what business it was that filled their day. Gregory the blacksmith continued to pound away in his forge, still producing the blades that the sages had requested. Already, a shipment of the new style of sword was headed eastwards by wagon. It was destined for the border guard and the skirmish that waged there between the Soldiers of Truth and the vorsurk warriors of endless darkness. Thinking of the armored knights fighting with his new swords brought the unfocused mind of the smithy around to thoughts of Johannas. That fallen truth keeper’s blade was broken, just like the faith Johannas had had and seemingly would never have again. The faithless one was caught. As far as Gregory knew, at that very moment, the one that he had known as Raven was being interrogated by Vladimir the Young. Such a thought brought a smile to the blacksmith’s lips.
Just as the bell tolled eleven, Vladimir, chief of all Andrapaal’s sages, readied himself for his most dire act of treachery. Standing unsteadily upon his ancient legs with the black leather bound tome open and resting in his shaking arms, the old man looked for the last time at the circle of eleven candles he had painstakingly constructed and then magically lit with the flickering blue flame. His strength was sapped already, but determination pushed the sage onwards. As the first of eleven rings sounded, Vladimir turned to the first candle and opened his mouth to sing.
Sarah the seamstress cursed, as the needle she sewed with, pricked her callused finger. The dirty word only half formed, though as her opened mouth began a note that was both deep and powerful and yet feminine at the same time. Her finger slowly ebbed blood as the needle and dress she was creating fell from her hands.
“Mistress, what troubles you so?” asked one of the many other seamstresses that Sarah employed. Never before had any of the girls seen the head seamstress suffer a pin prick, and the event caused the other seamstresses great concern. They gathered around Sarah, trying to stop the bleeding, begging for the head seamstress to answer them. Caught in the web of dark vorsurk magic, spun by Vladimir, the chief of sages, Sarah was unable to reply. Just as the blue robed master sage sang a low note, Sarah, too, began to sing. The note continued to emanate from the seamstress, attracting more and more attention from worried workers that crowded around her.
“Answer us mistress!” the seamstresses pleaded, shaking Sarah.
Sarah ignored them all. She could no longer see her workers, her eyes glazed over, her body no longer her own. The note continued, the same tone but growing louder.
As the city bells of Andrapaal finished tolling for the eighth time, Vladimir concentrated on the most northwesterly candle, the candle that represented where his loyal blacksmith would be pounding away at another sword blade.
“Farewell Gregory…” Vladimir whispered in great sorrow. As the ninth bell sounded, the sage took a great lung full of air and sang yet another note.
Gregory dropped his hammer and opened his mouth widely. A deep note, clear and powerful, emanated from within the blacksmith. The few around the forge, trying quickly to finish their business in the slums, paused, captivated by the strange but beautiful note that seemed to flow without end from Gregory’s lips. As the tenth bell of the eleventh hour rang out loudly across the city, those within hearing of the forge found the tower’s note difficult to catch.
Already, Vladimir had extinguished the candle of Anthony the baker and so many others of the Citizens Eleven before the tenth bell had a chance to ring. Quietly, he sang his notes within the privacy of his room, but all along the outskirts of the city, various notes sprang to life loudly, born from the mouths of Vladimir’s loyal group. The sage was distracted for a moment, flicking his eyes away from the candles to his door as the magic that enchanted it against intruders and interruptions unraveled.
“How can you fail me now?” the sage cursed through gritted teeth. As the spell that barred the entrance to his cell came undone, Vladimir was further distracted by a knocking on his door. The spell he cast was sapping all of his energy, and Vladimir found he could not refocus the vorsurk magic to reset the barrier to his room to keep the new arrival out.
‘Continue! Cast the spell! Cast the spell!’ urged the black tome, a command that the sage just could not ignore. The tenth candle was extinguished, only one blue flame remained.
Anton, the head of the truth keeper army that guarded the city as well as the kingdom, opened the portal to the cell of Vladimir of the silver sash with great caution. Of late, the news he had been bringing to his master had not been taken well, and this piece of information concerning the sylva girl Paechra exploring the city’s tunnels was not grand either. Nevertheless, it was information the chief of sages needed to know. The strange capture of the rogue truth keeper in the earliest of hours of that day had been reported to the great sage; Anton, though had purposely left out the eerie blue light. Still trying to figure out where such oddness fit into the events, the head truth keeper had given in and decided to tell Vladimir of his concerns.
All thoughts of this news were forgotten, though, as unbidden, Anton entered Vladimir’s cell. The room of his master was alight! The truth keeper’s first thought was to douse the fire, but the forge was dead already. Looking about him, Anton then noticed the source of the fire. A circle of eleven candles, big and fat and the color of bees’ wax dyed a blue-grey. The last of these candles burned with a humongous flame, shaped strangely like a man at work. As he watched, the truth keeper saw with pure horror that within the circle his master stood, facing the eleventh candle and mouthing words that were certainly not human. As that eleventh candle flared, Anton unfroze. Awkwardly, he ran in his armor towards who he could only see now as a monstrous magician. As he reached the circle of blue-grey candles, the light of the last candle thrust at him like a sword blade searing through his protective shell without effort and causing a terrible pain to engulf him. Thrown free of the circle with the power of the protective spell, Anton crashed into the frame of the open doorway and remained still.
The eleventh bell tolled. Vladimir turned upon the final candle and mouthed the note that filled his mind, felt as a searing pain that began at the bridge of his nose and ebbed slowly across his forehead. As the note was released and the pain drained away, the final candle flared up violently before going out, leaving in the room a sickening stench of burning and blood. With the spell complete, Chief Sage Vladimir the Young unleashed upon the city a force of heat so legendary and devastatingly powerful. It was like a sun flare itself struck down from the clear blue sky, through the roof of the palace and into the room of the silver sashed sage staking Vladimir like a scarecrow to the floor of his cell before fingers of flame leapt forth, blasting out of Vladimir’s room, through the palace and towards the unlucky eleven. The book fell from Vladimir’s shaking hands with an echoing thud. A heartbeat later and the sage collapsed after it. As he lay panting in a pool of his own sweat, the final stroke that marked the eleventh hour of the day faded.
The sounds of the slaughterhouse had ceased as always as the eleventh hour bells began to ring out their happy tolls. It was this time of day when the slaughter-men took a long break and apprentices cleaned up the killing floor and sharpened the blades, ready for it all to begin again two hours later. As the eleventh ring faded away, the power of the sun spell sought out its victim. It searched for Thomas, the representative of the eleven, and Vladimir’s pawn. Still not yet arisen from his activities of the late evening, Thomas slept safe in his home. The spell then took on a life of its own. Daniel, the butcher’s apprentice, began to sing. Those around him pointed at the strange boy who had cheated death, and began to laugh.
“What life have you been gifted as a penance since you left my side?” Michael whispered in awe to his son.
Raven just shrugged in reply.
“If the words of the palace kitchen hand Martha are to be taken as a sage’s truth, then the true criminal is Vladimir,” Michael continued.
“So, what can we do?!” Raven shouted as the bells for the eleventh hour began to toll. He felt relief that someone believed his story, but also a mixture of uncertainty of what lay before him on the road ahead.
“Firstly, this sylva friend of yours must be told of the truth of your innocence,” Michael stated articulately, his mind sliding like a slick serpent back into the role of a commanding truth keeper.
With his hands upon the cool bars of the cell, Raven watched the star-like twinkle return to his father’s eyes.
“And once Paechra knows that her father was slain by another? It will not make her grief any less. What then, father?” Raven asked, tentatively.
“Once Paechra knows that her father’s blood is on Vladimir’s hands, she will have a friend again. She, my son, will have someone to share her grief with,” Michael stated like a wise old owl.
“Once Paechra knows of your innocence, so too will the sages, and then the citizenry. Before the ink is even dry upon the accusations, you shall be free again, and in a much better position to show this magician up as the true figure that should be encaged,” Michael added with the force and clarity of a flooding stream.
In the darkness, father and son Stormsong smiled together. It felt wonderful to be united again.
The flames erupted from Gregory as the note abruptly ceased. Those gathered nearby to listen were, like the blacksmith, incinerated instantly. Buildings crumbled in the path of the vorsurk sun spell, one of the most powerful that could be found in the eleventh tome. The ring of flame grew larger and larger, wiping out anything that fell within its reach. Living things turned to black, incinerated dust. Things of stone and earth cracked and warped from the extreme heat, crumbling and falling with a crash after only a few moments of tension. Wooden carts, building struts, and anything else that the great oaks of the valley’s forest had fallen to create, burst into little fires of their own. As these replicas of the ring of destruction died away, they left black smudges in the wake of the sun spell’s fury.
Ronald Eagle-wing watched the forests of the Vale of History, the oak guardians of Andrapaal city, concerned as his keen ears picked up the chant of the vorsurk horde upon the breeze. It sounded like the whole of the forest teemed with the barbarian warriors, an army of millions, somehow here at Andrapaal’s very gates. He was aware of the tolling of the city’s bell, aware that his shift was soon to end.
“You! Edward! Run and get the commander, anyone high enough up that can make a decision!” Ronald barked as an order to a soldier nearby. The man snapped to attention and rushed off as if the very demons of falsity were snapping at his heels. He had been mesmerised by the chanting that he and all the other soldiers just like him had heard, and was eager to get as far away from the unnatural sound as he possibly could.
Over the ringing of the city bells, Ronald called out his commands.
“Hold strong, men. These walls have turned back the vile scum before. Fear not, they shall hold firm again.”
It dawned on Ronald that history taught all humans that it was in truth the sylva ones whose arrows had felled the vorsurk. With no sylva to speak of, Ronald knew not how the force hidden within the forest was to be repelled. All he knew is that he hoped beyond hope that his words would be proven true. He whispered under his breath like a mantra, his wish that the walls held strong.
With his eyes peering keenly into the forest, Ronald felt, rather than saw, the ring of flame that engulfed him, his fellow truth keepers, and the thick wall of stone that they stood upon. He was dead well before his body fell the twenty feet to the ground. Like his fellow soldiers, he had ceased to know anything before the great twisted slabs of stone rained over him, buried him at the place where the stone wall used to stand.
Twisted in its function by the wrong identity of its vessel, the version of the sun spell that exploded forth from the singing Daniel flared upward and outward, taking with the apprentice butcher the lives of those who laughed at him, like some sort of perverse justice. Beyond this scen,e though, none were harmed. The walls that framed Andrapaal at this place remained intact, and thus defendable. Mad panic gripped the living citizenry. Thoughts for loved ones caused many to rush away from the wall towards the palace and Andrapaal’s heart, into deeper danger, places where the devastating sun spell was causing colossal damage and instant death.
The devastating arcane strike upon the city of Andrapaal was not witnessed by the Knowledge Keepers, who huddled together in Jefferson’s cell. Their united focus had been solely upon the red robed Knowledge Speaker in the centre of their midst. So much attention had made Moosuf uncomfortable, but he replied to the questions of the elder blue robed sages with what he knew to be the honest truth. As he answered, Moosuf began to see a picture of the master sage Vladimir that was not the figure that he aspired to be. As the questions continued, Moosuf began to ask his own questions of himself. He thought deep and hard about whom it was that he had been protecting.
‘Was it me? Fearful of what it was that I truly did know, fearful of what ramifications awaited me because of what I had been told or had seen while in Vladimir’s company?’ Moosuf wondered. This idea was dismissed as quickly as it formed.
Vladimir never seemed to reveal anything that seemed sinister when he and Moosuf were together.
‘It was more likely to be a loyalty to the sage I call master, accepting what I did see and hear and translating it as wisdom,’ the red robed sage continued in his mind, giving a small nod of his head as he settled upon the idea.
“Yes?” asked Jefferson, reacting to the nod.
“My nod meant nothing, Your Wisdom. Just pondering upon how Vladimir could do so much evil within the city without detection,” Moosuf replied.
“The how is no longer of the greatest importance,” announced one of the blue robed Knowledge Keepers. “What is important is the why of it all,” the same sage added, stroking a small white goatee thoughtfully. The other sages copied the actions of their brother, Knowledge Keeper, and took up thoughtful poses of their own.
With the focus of the occupants of the room suddenly no longer on him, it dawned on Moosuf that perhaps it was actually another game, a game that Vladimir taught to all his pawns as a form of security against any of his secrets becoming exposed. If such was the case, it had been Vladimir who had won. Moosuf suggested to the elder sages his theory explaining more of the strange events he had witnessed while spending time with the sage, watching him, listening to words that sounded like sweet wisdom, Vladimir always encouraging Moosuf to succeed with whatever task he had been set. The seven Knowledge Keepers that squeezed into Jefferson’s living quarters continued to ask their questions. They wrote his answers as quickly as they were said and then discussed Moosuf’s every word, making extra notes at what ideas such discussions brought forth. Slowly, as a group, they were piecing together a pattern of the chief of sages that became more and more criminal. Vladimir had hidden behind the wise words of sages before him, and looked less and less to Moosuf like the actual blue robed sage he idolized. The name of a yellow robed Knowledge Seeker was mentioned a number of times, a boy that was Moosuf’s junior by eight years or more. As his words and the words of the blue robed men became more and more entwined, Moosuf witnessed his image of Vladimir the mentor and Vladimir the friend twist and corrupt into that of Morthos the Liar, the child monster. And then the spell cast by that same child monster struck with such a blow that the room, as much as the whole of the city, shook. Shelves of scrolls came crashing down upon the party of men, burying them and Moosuf under paper, ink, and heavy wood. In the dark silence that came straight after the arcane strike, Moosuf felt hurt. Scrambling free of the cell’s mess, he checked himself over and found that physically, he was free of injury. The hurt he felt was deep inside. The hurt he felt was betrayal.
***
Zerrick cracked the hydra whip again and smiled with satisfaction as the heads of the serpents all bit deeply. The naked slave laughed at the pain. The eyes of the slave had rolled back, showing the eerie whites. The lips of the slave were stained in blood that had run from his mouth, chewing his own tongue, inner cheeks. Sweat covered the slave’s naked form in all places where the whip had not left a free bleeding welt, creating a glistening figure that looked like it glowed in the flickering light of the ceremony candles. The human could feel none of this. He had ceased to exist the moment that the demon of torture had come forth and possessed him. Zerrick consulted the open book he held, and then, with complete and utter confidence, he finally asked the question that burned within him.
“Where is the book!? Where is Necron-Blaith, book eleven of the eleven books of power?”
The very moment that he had asked the question, he regretted it. The power all seemed to seep out of him, leaving him feeling every one of his ancient years, leaving him feeling vulnerable.
LET ME SHOW YOU, the possessed slave growled a carnivorous growl that went well beyond anything natural that an animal could produce. The slave shook violently and broke both his arms and legs as he freed himself from the bonds Zerrick had applied to him. Upon flesh cloaked bones that cracked and creaked with each stride, the possessed slave moved toward where Zerrick stood. Frozen in fear at what he witnessed, the vorsurk sorcerer cried out as the thing he had brought into the world pounced upon him. As the creature bit into his face, piercing both of his eyes with the human’s incisor teeth, Zerrick’s mind was flooded by a thousand, thousand images. The last of those images showed Andrapaal, the very heart of the human kingdom, bathed in flame. Through all the torturous agony that the sorcerer experienced at that very moment, he still managed to form a smile.
***
Paechra felt, rather than saw, the spell at work. She felt strongly the need of Raven to have her near. Something was happening to the human that she still hoped she could call friend, and she could feel his uncertainty. The unnatural, silent shriek of Daniel, the butcher’s apprentice, caused Paechra’s head to instantly snap to the left. She paused for the briefest of moments, a wild deer testing the wind for the scent of where and when to run. Then Paechra was away. Where the deer would have fled from the smell of fire, the sound of screaming, Paechra ran towards the abattoir. Before the vorsurk horde had even left the cover of the forest, Paechra knew of their arrival, she could recognise the deeply scarring effects of their evil magicks.
The criminals howled as wildly as any vorsurk could as Michael spoke quietly with his son. They had caught the first few words that Raven’s father had spoken, and then exploded into a crashing ocean of protest. Those for whom the words of Vladimir had caused their incarceration argued that such a man was definitely evil. Others screamed back louder still against such thoughts. Those of an intelligent but corrupt mind found a way to fuel both fires. Thus, when the devastating spell of vorsurk magic struck, the caged criminals of Andrapaal were already whipped to fever pitch, chaos eagerly awaiting release.
“Now!!” screeched Thurzuk, watching the powerful spell cast by the human sage cause the protective walls around the city of Andrapaal crack and then crumble. As his single worded order sprang forth from his snarling lips, he wildly waved his weapon above his head, spurring his barbaric force forward. Without need of another word, the force of over a thousand erupted from the forest that hid them as if they were rats abandoning a sinking vessel. The only difference was the sharp, jagged blades that these brutes carried with such obvious desire to use them. The moment their sorcerer gave his order, the creatures were a black carpet flowing across the valley. In the very next moment, that same army of warriors had breached the fallen walls of Andrapaal and were burying their blades deeply into the citizens, or making short work of the truth keeper force that rushed forth to meet their attack. Every truth keeper who held his blade up to deflect a vorsurk’s strike found the weapon useless, found just a hilt in his hands to defend the next blow. A lucky truth keeper would think fast and mash what was left of his weapon into the vorsurk maw before the barbaric beast cut him down. Taught strictly to fight with blade, and blade alone, many of the truth keepers had not the ability to think so quickly.
At the Peasant’s gate, not far from the charred and smoking remains of Thomas’ abattoir, Paechra led the only arm of resistance against the vorsurk attack. Swathed in the eerie blue light of her own magic, her arms outlined in the vicious claws of a gigantic she-bear, the druid carved up any and all of the vorsurk beasts foolish enough to charge within her reach. Stunned by the swift and sudden strike on their beloved city, the heart of the kingdom, the citizens of Andrapaal were drawn to the light that enveloped the sylva, and the hope of survival that it symbolised. First came ten, then twenty citizens as Paechra battered away the hungry vorsurk. The creatures attacked in packs of a dozen or more, usually more than sufficient numbers to overrun any resistance. Paechra however, stood as no usual resistance, setting her feet like a great forest oak, letting her tears blind her from the chaos, and letting her magic seep slowly from the plant and animal life around her. Down from the city wall came a small force of truth keepers, witnesses to how feeble their blades were, and how formidable Paechra was with her own strange weapons.
These truth keepers left their swords at their side and began swinging their fists, lowering themselves to the state of bar brawling thugs. It was this act that saved their lives and allowed them to stand beside Paechra, keeping at bay the raging torrent of barbaric warriors that gushed freely throughout the city. More citizens joined this small circle that was fighting back against the monsters that ripped and tore through soldier and citizen alike, without remorse. Soon there were three hundred, and then more than five hundred citizens and truth keepers alike, fighting as one with whatever they could grasp.
As the sun passed the peak for the second hour of the afternoon, alas, no more of the citizenry were able to join the sylva bathed in blue, the sole source of resistance against the hurricane of violence. There was a thick, distinct line of monstrous orcs that cut off Paechra and her gathering from the devastated city of Andrapaal.
Below the city surface, in the gloomy blindness of the prison cells, Michael stared wide eyed into the wide eyes of his son. The prisoners in the other cells grew deathly still.
“What in the name of truth was that?!” Michael cried out in alarm.
Raven could do nothing but shrug to demonstrate his lack of knowledge.
VORSURK MAGIC, IT HAS A DISTINCT SMELL… Thur stated, stepping forth casually from the deepest of the darkness of Raven’s cell to almost pass through the bars.
“Could this be Vladimir’s doing?” Raven asked with eager curiosity.
Michael went to reply as stones from the wall nearby collapsed upon the arena above and the cells beneath it. The whole structure shook and then began to collapse.
“You find Paechra, make sure that she is safe,” Raven suggested to Thur as quick as he thought of it.
Michael stood his ground, uncertain what to do. Releasing the hard men in his care into the chaos above him was the only way to save them as the arena slowly imploded in on itself.
OPEN THE CELLS, FATHER HUMAN. I KNOW THAT YOU AND YOUR SON WILL KEEP THESE CREATURES ENCAGED WELL IN CHECK, Thur laughed.
Michael’s widened eyes grew wider still as he realised that the stranger in his cells had effortlessly walked free.
“Come, father, release us!” Raven begged, tugging urgently at his father’s sleeve.
Reluctantly, Michael obeyed.
Vladimir woke, beads of perspiration dotting his forehead and soaking through his robe of blue to leave him feeling cold and clammy. He slowly pried open his eyes and looked up at the ceiling of his room. Beside him, snapped shut and looking innocent lay the black leather bound tome.
“I did it,” he tried to shout, it only seeping out from his lips as a hash, almost soundless whisper. A wracking cough caused the old frame of the sage to convulse. He breathed deeply, as deeply as he could, and another painful cough shook him. Vladimir focused on breathing slowly, shallowly, ignoring the pain that burned like a fire through his chest. As the room quieted, Vladimir heard the faint breaths of Anton, the Head of the Truth Keepers lay unconscious, sounding almost like he was sleeping a peaceful sleep except for the occasional groan he made.
Thurzuk watched for only a moment as his forces flowed into Andrapaal without opponent. He marched determinedly toward the palace. Without thought, he drew his long blade from its sheath, satisfied with the snake like hiss it made as it slid free. For a moment, the warrior, come sorcerer, admired his weapon. It was almost as long as his muscular arms, and yet it was nearly hair thin. Within the thinness of the blade were thousands of wickedly sharp teeth, bent at various angles, and chaotically grouped together. It was a blade stained black from all the crimson it had tasted, perfect for ripping and tearing rather than slicing. Thurzuk admired his blade, and the way the citizens parted and ran as they saw him approach. He admired it only for the single moment though, for the sorcerer had a tome to collect. Then he had a kingdom to rule.
Michael ran out into the city and almost cried. Martha, the kitchen hand, lay dead or dying, struck down by a vorsurk barbed spear.
“If only she had stayed a moment more with us,” he murmured as he ran on passed her. Time spent fighting on the border had shown Michael many a wound like that which Martha had suffered. His thoughts went out to her, but his mind was focused on the task at hand. His men, the imprisoned of Andrapaal whom he had cared for, followed Michael to the surface tentatively, uncertain of what they would witness and equally unsure of their reception from the city and her citizens.
“Where do we go from here?” Michael mouthed silently to his son.
Raven made a head count.
“We currently have eleven men, twelve with you included, Father. Not enough to take back the city, but perhaps we can take over the gambling hall and attract survivors to join us,” he whispered, but not silently, immediately causing some of the more ambitious of his cell mates to boast about their strength.
“I may be included in your ranks,” stated one of the inmates, a man who was dressed in the robes of a sage. Raven had not included him in the count, the robes marking the man as a scholar and not a warrior. It was not his robes but his past that truly made the man.
“I do not know why you share the cells with us, but I see you were, until recently, a man of the tomes of truth,” observed Raven.
“Indeed, I still consider myself to be a man of the worshipped truth. In a life before, though, I hunted for fish in the far north. I am Owen, librarian and fisherman’s son,” the sage stated. “Give me a spear and I’ll have your back.”
Raven nodded. “We need every able body. Who knows what force has struck the city,” he said, shaking Owen by the hand.
“What of that other stranger?” Michael asked.
“Father, that stranger is already gone. Truth be told and truth be believed,” said Raven with a laugh straight from his youth. “That stranger was Thur air spirit, something we have been taught for centuries not to believe in.”
“So we shall not rely upon it for support,” Michael replied.
“Come, Father, I wish to check on Gregory. If he has survived this, I hope he had the sense to rally beside Paechra. If he did not think of the sylva then hopefully Paechra is with Thomas. I have seen the sylva tackle vorsurk before, and I believe any who rally with Paechra will survive this,” Raven added, his tone gone suddenly somber.
Michael merely nodded his agreement, amazed at how much the time away from Andrapaal had changed his son.
“Then we head left from here and hope beyond hope that at least that much of the city has remained unchanged,” Raven continued, leading the small party toward the home of the blacksmith.
Thurzuk wandered through the hall of records and saw the wall marked with the prophecy emblazoned with white hot lettering. Each of the symbols continued to shine for a moment as a particular sign or symbol, and then, before his eyes, it changed to some other character. Swarmed around the scene was a sea of red, yellow and blue robed figures, madly scrawling down what they saw, and arguing about its meaning. A protective semicircle of armoured truth keepers stood sentry over the crowd of scholars. They drew their weapons almost as one as Thurzuk stepped forward.
“Grant me the powers to diminish your enemies,” the sorcerer begged of the tome, the book of power that he felt so incredibly close at hand.
A sharp pain engulfed his mind, a sign of the rejection the tome had given to his request.
“A spell! Any spell!” Thurzuk asked again, garbling in his vorsurk tongue.
Again, the tome struck him with the sharpest of pains, as if a barbed whip lashed at his mind, striking deeply and true to its aim.
Despite the pain that crippled his thoughts, Thurzuk smiled. If the tome was not to help him, he would deal with these humans in the way he was more experienced. They would feel the bite of his blade. As each of the truth keepers ran at the vorsurk, he rhythmically chopped them down. The blades that the humans wielded fell apart at the slightest touch of Thurzuk’s own weapon, their armour did little better in stopping his deadly attacks. As the sages turned their view away from the changing prophecy to cower before the barbarian, Thurzuk ignored them and marched determinedly towards where he knew the tome to be. He had no respect for those that were old, weak, all mind and no muscle. Such things needed no attention, until the battle was over and the tortures began.
Thomas awoke to thunderous pain. His skull ached, his very mind screamed fire. He eased open his bloodshot eyes to see the world had been destroyed. Fire licked everything and hungrily ate at everything it touched. The dark clouds of poison threatened to consume the butcher and return him permanently back to the sleep he had just awoken from. Rushing from his home, out into the street, Thomas was struck by yet another horrific scene. Beasts armed with blades that any blacksmith would have been ashamed to have forged, effortlessly carved up the citizens of Andrapaal as if they were sides of beef being prepped for market sale. Unable to move, so stunned by the horrors he witnessed, Thomas shook.
“Agh!” he cried out in alarm as a hand grasped him by the shoulder.
“Praises to all keepers of truth, it is you, Thomas the butcher, of the eleven of Andrapaal. You have survived somehow when the others have not,” the angelic voice of a young truth keeper stated in utter awe.
Thomas could only stand, open mouthed, with nothing to say.
“Come, it is important that we get you to the glowing sylva. It seems this is the only place of safety in the whole of the city,” the truth keeper continued, ignoring Thomas’s lack of reply.
“Sarah is dead? Did she suffer as all others do? Do you mean to say that Gregory is dead, too, and all of the others?” Thomas whispered, staggering after the soldier of truth as the sobering news filtered beyond his muddled thoughts and caused his eyes to grow wide.
“Nay, we believe that it was evil vorsurk magics. They attacked the city heart with their spell,” the truth keeper explained, occasionally looking back over his shoulder to face Thomas as he spoke. Then the truth keeper suddenly stopped short.
Thomas kept running at the easy pace the young truth keeper had set, not stopping but instead crashing into the boy who was probably half his age. This sent the boy stumbling into the midst of three vorsurk warriors. Thomas span upon the spot and fled as quickly as his booted feet would carry him. Behind him came the screams of the truth keeper that was guiding him to safety. Those screams ended almost as soon as they began. To Thomas, though, they would echo in his mind forever.
“Father, please grant me the strength to live through this and be able to see the sun rise again,” Paechra pleaded, feeling the strain of so many solid hours feeding from the life force of that and those around her. This was the longest time that Paechra had ever spent without break, wielding druidic magic. In a whole day, the druid had used her magic for two hours, not much more, and now she was pushing her body and the natural, living sources of her power to sustain an unending use of magic for three constant hours. Blood, sweat, and gore from herself and her enemies coated the blue glowing she-bear claws that were her arms. Surrounded by five hundred humans, each one equally covered in injuries and vorzurk, Paechra did not know for how much longer she could stand the stench, the exhaustion, and the taxing drain of the magic that she strained with every fiber of her being to continue to produce. The sylva knew that she was the beacon for Andrapaal to hold back the barbarian onslaught. Instead of turning away from her strange weapons, the humans had found her an inspiration for their own stand against the invaders. Paechra continued to murmur her mantra through gritted teeth. She ignored the words and let them flow out subconsciously. More lupine beasts died at her feet as they rushed at the small army of citizenry, hoping to claim more flesh, more souls, more territory, until the whole of the city was under vorsurk domination. Paechra’s great bear claws inspired those around her to swat the barbarian force away. She could not give in, she would not give in. The druid was tempted to suck power from her enemy, the fallen vorsurk at lay dying at her feet. The words of the song taught to all druids, The Druids Blessing, The Druids Curse, reminded Paechra that the sources she drew on for power needed to be pure. The life essence of the vorsurk would corrupt her power and drive her to madness, striking out at the citizens rather than their shared enemy.
With one swift kick, Thurzuk caved in the door to Vladimir’s study. He surveyed the small room and gave a mighty laugh. The human wizard who had tried to claim the victory from Thurzuk lay prostrate; the black tome lay beside him. In a corner of the room lay an old warrior, nothing worthy of Thurzuk’s attention.
“You have the tome given by my master,” Thurzuk stated, taking one deliberate step into the room.
Vladimir painstakingly lifted himself up to a sitting position. He lunged for the tome and tried to open it. The book would not move. The pages remained closed off to the sage.
“What trickery do you play at?” Vladimir hissed, his eyes narrowing.
Thurzuk laughed again, a deep booming laugh of one who was confident he had not only defeated his enemy, but had won the war.
Vladimir asked his question again, but this time his voice cracked, filled with fear.
“As did my master, I only regret that on this day, the king of sages they called the bear is not here to face me. Only a man of strength and wisdom such as he could have come close to saving his people against my master’s plan. Alas, it was he who had to fall first that this very day might come. NOW GIVE ME THE TOME!!!” the vorsurk ordered, his final words booming throughout the palace as he unleashed his fury at Vladimir’s delay.
Moments late,r the eleventh tome of the eleven tomes of power was clasped possessively in the claws of the vorsurk sorcerer. The book fluttered open in the windless room.
“Now tell me everything…” Thurzuk whispered as a guttural growl.
Vladimir felt his mind prised open as he was forced to obey.
Anton became conscious again at the faint whimpering of Vladimir, with a deep set desire to find the queen. Uncertain of what action to take, he had left Queen Catherine and her servants in the care of trusted friends. It was his plan as he headed to see Vladimir in his room to ask the wise sage for the best action to take. This was when Anton had witnessed the magic spell cast by the Chief of the Sages. Now he witnessed more dark magic, more evil rituals. There was a vorsurk in the palace, and the sounds, sights, and smells of chaos were evident seemingly everywhere. Anton left the man he had once called Wisdom, and the creature of dark untruths, and fled in hope that he was the first to think of the queen. Anton’s first and only thoughts upon waking in that palace room was that the final vessel of royal blood and thus the final reigning figure of the kingdom, would be no longer safe.
- Behind The Mask - October 29, 2025
- The Eleventh Tome – Chapter IX - August 21, 2025
- When Our Numbers Came Up - May 1, 2025
