The Prophecies of Andrapaal
The Eleventh Tome
Chapter VII
written by: Tim Law
Year 513 of the Kingdom of Thuraen
Fredrickson the Third is King
Vladimir the Young is Chief Sage
Thur the air spirit hovered high above the palace, deep in thought. As the sylva had requested, the ancient spirit watched over the truth keeper of the raven coloured hair. He saw the young soldier climb the steps and again he thought to fly down and speak with the human. The spirit chuckled jovially to itself, remembering the past, and all its alternate endings. Thur regretted the interruption from the light spirit, as there had been a number of amusing paths his talk with the truth keeper could have taken. The spirit followed the possibilities that were ahead of Raven at that very moment. Each one seemed far too serious for Thur’s normal interest. A soft breeze began where the air spirit sighed with regret. Thur relaxed, settling in to watch just what future the rogue truth keeper chose to walk.
The Banquet Hall of the palace of Andrapaal was the place where the student sages were presented to the lords and ladies of the city once their training was complete, it was where truth keepers who had returned from the border celebrated their citizenship with family and friends and it was the place in the palace where the king and sages entertained foreign merchants and other important visitors. This was the one room of the palace that Raven had the strongest memories of, aside from the hall where the prophecy was displayed, the place with which everyone who passed through Andrapaal was familiar. The truth keeper thought it strange that he was directed to the Banquet Hall for his meeting with the sages, but he did not question the directions from his brother truth keepers.
‘I don’t remember it being so somber,’ Raven thought as he entered the hall, trying hard to find within the archives of his memory, the image of this room, grandest in the palace, that previous experience had left him with. As it was such a precious moment in the truth keeper’s young life, it came back to him immediately, causing a faint smile to grace his lips. In his mind Raven pictured the Banquet Hall as it had been. He heard again the sweet, clear notes as a musician’s fingers glided lightly over harp strings lulling the chatting crowd that filled the majestic room into a mood that was a mix of pleasant interest and expectation. A bard entrusted with a shrill flute, had joined the angelic harp and Raven imagined that he watched again as the tables and benches where shifted to the far end of the hall and the ladies chose their partners from the lords, attending truth keepers and newly dubbed knights of the word. Then came a moment where the crowd paired off to become ready dancers, the man bowed a silent greeting and the lady curtsied in reply. Both in turn smiled a coy smile and then the dancing began. Raven joined in these celebrations, as much trained in the steps of the waltz as he was in the dance of combat. The ladies he had been paired with that were local to Andrapaal’s streets praised the progression Raven had made from uncertain foal to lead stallion of this year’s new Truth Keepers. They steered clear of mentioning Raven’s mother, not long dead and commented numerously upon just how proud his father looked.
“Just like a suckling pig,” one besparkled lady of more agility than her years normally allowed stated with mirth, flashing Raven’s father a smile. His lordship Michael smiled broadly in return and gave his only child a wink before the dance spun on and the contact between father and son was lost. The ladies that had come from afar said little, admiring his handsome looks and the blade at his hip, avoiding any personal subjects.
Long after the evening gave way to night, the bard bid the dancers to rest awhile and, as wine cups overflowed once more he sang tales of love, war, heroes and villains. Smiles spread across the faces of each and every lord and lady while the eyes of each new pawn of the truth keeper fold showed plainly the wonder and pure delight each one of them felt, until dawn caused the sun to rise and the singing to finally cease.
For Raven this memory of his graduation into the ranks of truth keeper was a glimmer of joy in a sea of sadness. He kept it safe in his heart for times when loneliness and fear clouded his mind. He thought of it now, refusing to see the empty hall as the depressing place of echoing darkness it now was. Raven began to ponder on how life had turned for him since that pleasant evening, but his thoughts were interrupted as a sudden, unexpected voice drew his focus and brought the truth keeper of the word instantly back to the gloomy hall.
“Did I say step forward?” a figure asked quietly, almost silently. The figure was hidden from immediate sight, standing just outside the shadow of the weak candle’s flame. The tone of the figure’s voice did not even attempt to hide the dislike of the truth keeper that it harbored. The question was spoken just louder than a whisper in the deathly silence of the grand palace hall. The truth keeper noted with concern and some annoyance that he knew exactly whom it was that owned such a voice. Such a voice from his past echoing in this great hall left Raven greatly confused.
‘Master Morthos?’ Raven thought to himself, ‘How is that possible?’
As the sage stepped into the faint candle light the truth keeper’s face contorted into a look that showed his confusion deepening.
“Vladimir? Knowledge Bearer, Vladimir? Where is Master Morthos?”
***
As Paechra passed through the tunnels her torch shed light upon faded letters.
“Just words. The sages tell us they mean nothing,” Sarah explained.
“Just words… Let’s see just what they say,” Paechra replied, a slight smile forming upon her lips.
“If the sages feel they mean nothing, perhaps we shouldn’t bother,” Sarah continued, not noticing the excitement that was beginning to consume the sylva.
“Let me teach you. I tried to show Raven how to write his name. After about an hour or so, we had to stop,” Paechra said sourly, Sarah just then noting the sparkle in the sylva’s eyes.
“You taught a truth keeper how to… to… to… write?” Sarah stammered, utterly shocked by the statement.
“Well only the r and the a, and that was truly the hardest task that I have ever attempted. Look! Right here, this is how we, the sylva draw the first letter of your name. This symbol to us represents your s and over here is an example of the same letter in your tongue. Do you see just how similar the letter is to a coiled serpent preparing to strike?” the druid explained.
“Paechra stop, please! Learning like that is forbidden by the sages. I want to leave these strange words,” Sarah cried out, obviously troubled by something so against her upbringing.
“Alright Sarah, I suppose you do have an early morning ahead of you. Do you know the twists and turns of these tunnels?” Paechra asked.
“Fear not, my friend,” Sarah yawned. “I hear my bed calling to me. I shall just follow its voice.”
“Take the torch to help light the darkness of this city beneath,” suggested Paechra, holding out the source of light. “I have a way of making my own light and I would still like to spend a little more time with these strange combinations of languages,” the sylva added with childish excitement. The druid felt that by following the trail of language it was bound to lead to her father.
Sarah took the flaming beacon that Paechra offered, giving the sylva a voiceless shrug. Paechra watched the light as it went, listening to the voice of the seamstress as her new found friend’s mutterings became more and more faint. No matter what the seamstress said, nothing could dampen Paechra’s mood. Her father would be found this night, there amongst the words.
Vladimir smiled an inner smile. This rogue truth keeper, a young man only a few years different in age to himself, was quite clever indeed. This meeting was not going as well as the sage had hoped. He had not much time to correct the truth keeper’s allegiance, already late for the meeting with the Citizen’s Eleven. Then Raven said something that caused the sage to loose all other thought.
“Your Wisdom! I cannot continue crusading in the name of truth and the word if my heart and my mind do not believe,” Raven stated innocently. The truth keeper was caught up in his personal struggle. Uncertain of the real identity of the shadowed figure, Raven assumed that he was meeting with Vladimir, Chief of Sages and that he had mistaken the voice of Morthos, the voice that haunted his past.
“So you have found other belief? What can be more truthful than truth? What can be more sacred than that which records and bounds the truth?” Vladimir replied. He tried to make his voice sound as old as his body felt. The sage allowed himself another inner smile as the truth keeper continued on, seemingly fooled.
“No. Not found but lost… self belief. What I have bared witness to is a truth none of the books have recorded…”
“You can read!” Vladimir cried out in great shock.
“No, Your Wisdom. The mysteries of the word are not for my humble eyes to see and know,” Raven replied solemnly.
Vladimir sighed. There was to be no blow, no flurry of harsh scolding words that would put Raven back onto the path of the truth keeper. Nothing that Vladimir could think of would ease the pain and confusion of ten years absence, a failed search that was doomed from the beginning, and a return to a kingdom that the boy no longer knew. The true Vladimir may have had the wisdom to speak at that very moment. The blue robed sage though was gone. Young Morthos stood in his place, and that was why Vladimir could only sigh. His hope had failed. His plan was gone.
“Time has changed you child,” Vladimir growled, following this statement with another audible sigh. “Time has in fact changed us all. You have changed your name Johannas Stormsong but that has not hidden from me, the upstart wolf pup those foolish combat trainers spawned from the barracks,” the head sage continued.
Raven opened his mouth to speak, but the look Vladimir gave him from the shadows silenced the truth keeper immediately.
“When first you obeyed my orders I had high hopes for you. Now I can only think of the Truth you have betrayed, and still betray today when Andrapaal needs protection the most. Time has changed us all, but for too few can I see it as a change for the better,” Vladimir finally stated, getting more animated as he spoke until he finally paused with an accusing finger pointed straight at Raven.
“First obeyed you? First, followed your orders? Edward Bear-Heart was head of the sages when I first took up the blade for truth. His passing saddened me… it saddens me still, but I know even beyond truth that you before me are not Chief Sage Bear-Heart. That can only mean…” Raven stated, slowly, uncertain at first. As the reality of who stood before him began to sink in, the truth keeper suddenly felt sick and horrified. Images of the burnt farm and the slaughtered family, his fellow truth keepers and the old sage stripped bare all flooded Raven’s senses, causing him to fall to his knees as if struck a harsh blow.
“Johannas, have I truly changed that much?” the sage whispered.
“I lay my sword at the feet of the man who killed so many? Was it truly you who led us to that ambush? Morthos? How can..?” Raven cried out in disbelief.
“The old man was a fool and your brothers were even less intelligent. Your childishness made you as blind to this truth as the old man was. Now again you stand here in my presence and still your heart is blind from the truth I speak. You do not give up tonight your sword and all it means to be a truth keeper . You gave up the honor of carrying such a blade those ten summers ago when you turned your back upon me. The Truth will not be sorry to see you go!” again the sage flared up in agitation. This meeting had not gone at all to just how he had planned it.
“I know you old man. I have seen the blackness and hollowness of your heart. What you have planned for this city and its people I will have no part of. Grant me death if you wish. Banishment I will accept with equal pleasure. Keep me here though Morthos and many more will know you as I know you. The truth as you see it will be no more. The people of the city of knowledge will receive exactly what it is they need to know,” Raven rose back to his feet and then spat in disgust, throwing his sheathed blade down at the sage’s feet.
“Be aware of the coming of the black bird… to dismiss such a cry is to encourage the past… the rains will not fall forever… what came before will come again,” Vladimir whispered to himself, recalling the words from the prophecy’s tenth stanza.
“You have given up your symbol of faithfulness. Do not expect your story to be taken up as a flag of truth,” the sage stated louder, for the benefit of the truth keeper. Raven turned away and began to storm back towards the large oaken doors.
“It shall be seen whose truth will be believed,” was Raven’s reply.
***
“I forbid you to do such a foolish thing!” Gregory had growled when Sarah told him of her plan to help Paechra search for her father.
“You forbid me… That makes me wish to do the task even more so!” Sarah had hissed in return.
“You may not go about the streets with the sylva! You must attend the meeting of the eleven!” Gregory had snapped back gruffly. His tree trunk arms firmly placed upon his wide hips. His barrel like chest was puffed out, making him look like a purple faced washer woman.
“There is time before the seventh hour. I shall be there with you before the silver sash arrives. Why you’d not help this girl in the first place is beyond my knowing,” Sarah spat back. Her own stance had mimicked that of the blacksmiths, but she had made it purposely sloppy, to make fun of the man. Frustrated, Gregory had turned back to his work in the forge. Sarah remembered the first hammer blow that Gregory had struck in anger had ruined the sword he was working upon. When she and Paechra left the forge to begin their search, the curses of the blacksmith followed after them.
With the last exchange between herself and the blacksmith Sarah snuck into Thomas’ cellar as quietly as her ample figure allowed. The silence in the room was unusual, almost unnerving for the seamstress. Compared to the excitement of the sylva Paechra surrounded by the strange words, the silence of the ten others in the cellar was odd. Compared with the usual noise of sage Vladimir’s booming voice, or the responses from Andrapaal’s representatives, the silence was troubling. Searching the tunnels with Paechra had made Sarah a quarter of the hour later than when the meeting had been scheduled to start.
“What have I missed? All, or none?” Sarah whispered harshly to the blacksmith as she snuck in behind Gregory, Thomas the butcher beside him.
“Your arrival has missed you naught, but the non-appearance of our mighty leader.” Anthony, the representative of the bakers and bread makers of the city growled. The strange earlier hour of the meeting had brought him from his bed. Precious sleep that the baker relied upon to get him through his early morning tasks was slipping away each moment this meeting delayed. He dared not disappear though, just like his fellow members of the eleven. It was not good practice to snub the chief of the sages.
Sarah playfully poked her tongue at the blacksmith. He scowled, not seeing the humour. Patiently the seamstress waited for the master to arrive.
Raven stormed down the corridors of the palace in a deeply disturbed mood. All of the guilt, the fear and the determination that had fueled the truth keeper in his search for the killers of his brothers, the same killers that had murdered the old sage, all of his primal feelings of the past ten years had been washed away. It left him feeling only empty, and confused. Morthos had been behind all the deaths. It had not been the fault of Raven that his brothers had died. It was upon the hands of Morthos that their blood had been spilled. Morthos murdered the sage Vladimir. Morthos was using magic, the dark sorcery of the vorsurk. This was something different to the abilities that Paechra had shown Raven she could do as a druid. Traveling with the sylva Raven had witnessed her healing and soothing powers, whenever the light from within had enveloped her something positive occurred. What Morthos was doing seemed to Raven to be twisted and wrong. The great feeling of emptiness threatened to consume Raven as he realised that he had spent ten years of his life seeking out signs that an evil murderer was alive and safe. The truth keeper rushed into the hall of records as the pit of his stomach threatened to travel up and out of his mouth. The small crowd waiting to record their business parted for him quickly. The blue robed sage waited with quill raised to see just what Raven was about to do. The truth keeper made it to the wall and panted, his head placed against the cooling stone. His hands clutched at his stomach until he could feel it settle again. The coinage at Raven’s hip felt suddenly heavier, it was unbalanced with the absence of the sheathed blade.
The truth keeper looked up at the wall to regain his focus.
PAECHRA
The word struck him like a slap from a challenger’s gauntlet. The R and the A were as clear to Raven as if it were Paechra giving him another lesson in words. The lettering surrounding the words was impossible for Raven to read, but he was certain that he had read that one word true. Feeling ever so cold, even more confused, but feeling the sickness pass, Raven turned away from the wall and headed as quickly as he could for the outside air. As the truth keeper left, the hall of records returned to its normal busy self. Chatter erupted and the quill began to scratch upon the parchment. Like a heart that had skipped a beat, the truth was suddenly recorded once more.
***
After his meeting with Raven, Vladimir went immediately up to his cell. He consulted the black leather bound tome but found nothing there to guide him in how to deal with the rogue truth keeper. In anger he slid the heavy book from his desk, scattering a pile of parchments in the process so that when the book landed with a thud upon the floor it was already framed in mess. The pages fluttered in the windless room and stopped abruptly upon the spell that harnessed the sun.
“What help does this grant me now?!” Vladimir cried out angrily. His hands clutched in fists as he tried to calm himself. It was of no use however. Storming out, he charged from the palace straight to the home of Thomas the butcher. It was close on the eighth hour of the night when he finally attended the meeting of the Citizen’s Eleven. His first words were said to the eleven in a harsh cold tone.
“The truth keeper Johannas Stormsong, also named Raven, is faithless!”
As one, the eleven cried out, some surprised at their master’s arrival while others who knew Raven were stunned by what Vladimir had said.
“Silence!!!” Vladimir cried out. The sound echoed around the cellar dramatically.
“And his friend is a witch!” Gregory added cursing as Sarah nudged him hard in the back instantly.
Anthony rolled his eyes, as he thought to himself ‘I cannot believe I got up for this.’
“I vouch for the sylva! She is no witch… More an angel of truth and a life giver,” cried out Sarah the Seamstress.
“You did not see the strange light and the conversation that Paechra had with nobody there,” Gregory the Blacksmith argued back.
“You did not see the boy at death’s doorstep who Paechra brought back to us with plants and patience,” Sarah argued back, looking to Thomas the Butcher for support.
“Silence,” Vladimir said again, this time so furiously that he was not ignored. “Faithless! He no longer holds the weapon of a truth keeper. The boy has turned his back on all truth… No words he speaks can be believed… Make certain that by the time the city bells sound midday this truth I have spoken is known by all of Andrapaal, is known by the townships nearby and that the known truth is spread quickly across the kingdom…”
“Witch,” murmured Gregory.
“This meeting is over!” Vladimir announced.
It had already been such a long day for the sage.
Raven rushed from the palace in search of his father. Midway through his hurried travels he stopped short. The pouch did way heavy at his hip, the worry for his companion Paechra, weighed heavier though upon his heart. Raven decided the most important thing would be to seek out Paechra and tell her of the prophecy. Staring down one of the many dark streets of Andrapaal Raven was reminded more of his time away seeking out the kidnapped sage, and less of the city that he called home. In the darkness Raven could hear his heart beat, hear every breath of air he took. Suddenly he caught the sound of another’s breath.
The dark streets of the town of Th’Yik sprang instantly to the truth keeper’s mind. There he had been searching the vorsurk slave pens for signs of Morthos, finding none of course. Not daring to sleep anywhere beyond the borders of the human kingdom, the truth keeper wore all his possessions upon his back and had his surcoat and sheathed sword buried in his blankets. Raven’s chain armour, the only other give away that he had been a truth keeper, had been traded at least a year ago for food and meager supplies. So when three wolf-like vorsurk warriors stumbled across Raven on a dark and empty street the truth keeper had no protection, no weapon, only wits and a single second to react.
As it had been in Th’Yik, the single second of warning, was all that Raven needed to save himself.
“It’s my gold..!” was all that the angry, young merchant was able to say, before Raven’s blow to his stomach stole the rest of his breath. The dagger strike that was a fond form of attack for many a merchant, missed its mark. A second assailant came at Raven from behind, feet slapping loudly upon the cobbles, a small pick axe raised for a killing blow. Unlike the merchant, this one was heavy set with muscle and seemed more experienced at fighting in the dark. Raven avoided each of the three strikes the small axe made. The truth keeper’s hand shot out and found the axe wielder’s nose. There came a crunch that was almost inaudible in the heat of the skirmish, but the impact of the blow as Raven’s gauntlet hit its mark was enough to tell him he had done enough to floor this foe. As he had in the streets of Th’Yik, Raven reached for the sword that normally sat at his hip, only to find it was not there. In Th’Yik there had been his heavy blanket upon his back. In Andrapaal there was the sack of money at his side.
“Get him now! He’s only the one man, and he has my money!!” the merchant whined as he rose again from Raven’s blow.
From seemingly out of nowhere there came another, the third of the ambush party. He was a short, but stocky fellow merchant, who led with his dagger, followed by a flurry of kicks. Raven took a shallow scratch upon the arm from the dagger as he twisted from its path. Twice the merchant’s boot caught Raven about the ribs, but as the heavy purse clipped the man’s head he sighed mid-kick and toppled to the ground.
“Here! Catch your winnings!” Raven roared. He wound the purse about his head as he strode up to the merchant and used the hefty weight as a ball and chain to catch the man in under the ribs. While his three assailants were coming to and inspecting their wounds Raven brushed the blood from his gloves as best he could before choosing a path that was better lit. Raven sped as quickly as he could towards Gregory’ forge. There he hoped to find Paechra, or at the very least to find a big blacksmith. No merchant in their right mind would try and attack Gregory.
Paechra thought guiltily of her father as the strange languages scrawled across the wall kept her hypnotically distracted. He was in danger, the magical circle and the pleading visions told Paechra this much. He was somewhere close, just out of reach. The only thing preventing Paechra from finding him was the confusing words that her eyes could not tear away from. They spoke of a warrior named Raven that would free the people. As Paechra read further she tried to discover what the humans needed freeing from. There she found even more confusing the tale of the Lioness who was born to save the Raven. An hour passed by and still Paechra could not decipher the riddles of the confusing mixture of languages as the story continued to twist and turn chaotically before her elven eyes. Mid sentence, Paechra felt rather than saw the light of her spell beginning to dim. She tore her eager eyes away from the words, and that was when she suddenly heard the faint cry.
Her mind filled with the image of her father. He was weak, far weaker than Paechra had expected her strong willed father to be. The cursed red circle still imprisoned him. The very moment the image struck her it vanished. Paechra felt it burn into her mind though, guiding her. Paechra let the light fade completely from around her, focusing all the remaining power she had borrowed to keep a connection to the image, a precious connection to her father. The tunnels around the sylva maiden became as black as pitch. She had a new light to guide her now though. It was an inner light that Aiera would have been proud to shine. Paechra followed her new path with all her haste and all of her determination.
After his meeting with the sage Raven had returned to the forge to find the place vacant. Not sure where in the city that Paechra had gotten to and surprised that Gregory was still away, Raven had waited to see which of the two would arrive first. It was Gregory, but the reception Raven received was not the one that he expected.
“Gregory, please take this money and keep it safe,” Raven had asked of the blacksmith. “It is for my father, a great man and a wonderful lord. What you think of the trainer of the truth keepers please put aside and believe me, this money is well deserved of him.”
“Johannas Stormsong! I have been ordered by the great sage Vladimir to spread the word amongst the citizens that you are faithless,” Gregory replied angrily.
Raven had been feeling confused from his meeting with the sage and somewhat betrayed but this was immediately replaced by a cold, dreaded feeling that something terrible was unfolding as he heard Gregory speak. The blacksmith had only ever known him as Raven. This use of his formal name, the name he had forsaken until his brothers were avenged, was something that Raven noticed immediately, it was something that he did not like. It was especially so, the formal name coupled with the blacksmith’s furious tone.
“Johannas Stormsong I have spent weeks with you. Introducing you to my friends, my job, my life and all the while you pretended to be a faithful. You pretended to be a Truth Keeper!” the blacksmith stated icily, all the while growing redder and redder in the face. Raven smelt alcohol as Gregory drew close. Raven’s dread developed into a heavy stone in his stomach, a stone that quickly became surrounded by knots that any sailor would have been proud of tying.
“I am a Truth Keeper! I am Raven and never have I pretended to be anyone else,” Raven replied. “When did I ever lie to you Gregory? I am your friend and I am a keeper of truth.” He raised his hands up in protest as Gregory drew even closer. The splattered blood on the truth keeper’s gauntlets glistened in the firelight of the forge. So worked up was Gregory’s rage that he did not even pause to notice this.
“What is this rumour then about you giving up your sword?” the blacksmith spat.
Raven held Gregory’s intense gaze as he quickly thought back over the evening.
‘Gregory has already heard a rumour about me giving up my blade? Who knows of this fact?’ Raven asked himself, concerned. The names of those he knew and those who knew of his arrival in the city flew through his mind. None truly knew of his intentions, not even himself. That was until he had met with Vladimir.
‘No. Not Vladimir.’ Raven reminded himself. ‘It was Morthos!’
Raven said slowly, deliberately “Oath bound to tell the truth, I cannot deny that I have given up the blade that I cherish. It does not mean that I give up my fai…”
“If the master states that it is so then so it must be! You are faithless!! A rogue black bird without a flock,” Gregory cried out, shoving Raven causing the truth keeper to take a step back and stumble.
“Get out of my house! Get out of my city! You are no longer a guest here. Andrapaal welcomes you no longer, faithless!” the blacksmith roared. “It is as the master predicted, your type always seems to be able to fool the innocent. I truly pity that little girl you travel with. The girl wizard! I know not what makes me feel worse. The fact that I lived with a faithless! Or that a magic caster slept in my bed!!”
“Paechra! I must get to Paechra,” Raven stammered as a sudden feeling of fear for the sylva enveloped the truth keeper and caused the stone in his stomach to grow heavier. The knots also tightened so that it seemed like they would never come undone.
“I will not allow it! The only danger she faces is from you. Now come get the gift I forged for you with my own hands. Goodness is on my side, faithless. You will be forgotten and none will hear your sorcerer’s voice again,” Gregory cried out as tears began to stream unhindered down his cheeks. Near blinded, the blacksmith fumbled about his forge until his hands clasped about the hilt of the sword he had created for Raven’s hip.
“Gregory you fool! Put down that blade! You don’t know how to wield it,” Raven pleaded with his friend. “Those tears in your eyes will make it impossible for you to see clearly.” Raven’s raised arms became his only defense against Gregory’ suddenly, dangerous anger.
‘And in truth my friend it is the one you call master that is the sorcerer, not me,’ Raven added in his mind. He dared not speak the words aloud however, from fear of how much greater the blacksmith’s fury would become when he heard them.
The blacksmith lumbered forward with the sword held out awkwardly in front.
“I cry for the shame you have brought upon my house. I don’t need to know how to strike. The Truth will guide my hand. That is what the sages teach…” said Gregory as he openly wept. Raven saw a wild reflection of the maddened smith in the blade of the sword as it was raised above the blacksmith’s head like a hammer and it caught the flames of the forge. Then the blade came whistling down, and the image was lost. The momentum of the blow caused the giant blacksmith to step in front of the forge, the two combatants suddenly bathed in shadow. Raven felt rather than saw that the blow had left him uninjured. It had smashed into his arms and knocked them sideways. The strength of the blow, the true danger, was lost as the blade of the sword fell weakly away from the hilt. Moments later the useless metal bounced and then fell with a loud chorus of clangs and clatters out of sight of the two men.
‘Are all those blades created so weakly? Millions of my brothers are defenseless against the vorsurk wolf packs!’ Raven thought to himself in wild panic. He searched the blacksmith’s face for any sign of betrayal. As Raven expected though the giant smith was just as shocked to see his masterwork so faulty. So amazed in fact was Gregory that he thought it was his own inexperience with the sword that had caused the weapon to break.
“I don’t need a sword of truth to punish you wicked betrayer!” Gregory declared. “The great sages do proclaim with wisdom that the truth will guide you to your truthful path!! It is my path to flatten you! Truth keeper, bah! Your truth I cannot even spit upon. Come get your gift, painful it shall be…” the blacksmith continued at a roar. As he discarded the useless sword hilt, he clenched both his fists and squared up to Raven like a wrestler ready to begin a bout.
In the shadows of the dark forge Raven saw only his doom. For the second time that night he felt the weight of the coins at his hip. Seeing no other option, the truth keeper took up the bag and swung it in a vicious arc. Gregory caught Raven, straight across the jaw with his left fist, a jab to size up the distance between the two of them. That punch alone was enough to make Raven’s head swim. The blow had brought the blacksmith’s head just within the path of the sack of silver. As the bag caught Gregory across the temple it burst and Raven’s winnings spilled free, bouncing about the forge. As Gregory dropped with a thud to the earth the flames of his forge fire lit up the tinkling silver.
“I am sorry, but the real truth is that your master is the one who has betrayed you, not me,” Raven whispered sadly as he crouched over Gregory to see if he still lived.
Not sure where to turn next, Raven ran into the maze of Andrapaal’s backstreets. Far off the bells tolled the ninth hour.
In the cell of Vladimir the chief of sages, another Raven stood. He was dressed in the chain armour of the truth keeper and had his faded sheath belted to his hip. He chanted strange vorsurk syllables, guteral and foreign upon his tongue. His sword was drawn and raised, prepared for the battle to come. As this figure began to sink into the stone he laughed. It started as the laugh of an old sage. By the time the stone swallowed him completely it had changed to that of a young truth keeper.
‘It feels good to be young again,’ Morthos thought to himself.
Not far away the bells tolled the ninth hour.
Paechra heard the cry again. It was her father for certain. The sylva quickened her pace and then gave a stifled cry of horror as her father finally came into view. He was far paler than Paechra had ever seen him. Normally the old sylva man she called father had a rose in his cheeks, a twinkle like the stars of the universe embedded in his eyes. Now he looked faded. The man encaged in the scarlet circlet was a willow branch, a far cry from the regal branch of silver birch that Paechra always admired about Therdous.
“Paechra! Daughter!” the old sylva panted. His face contorted into a vision of utter agony as he tried to step out of the crimson ring. His voice, normally a strong tenor that once crooned Paechra to the land of slumber, came out now as just a hoarse and harsh weak whisper.
“Father!” Paechra cried. Her strong and loud shout scared her as it bounced about the caverns of the city beneath. She ran to the man and reached out to touch him. As she drew this close to her father, Paechra could see the perspiration that dampened his forehead. She reached within the evil circle, enchanted with vorsurk syllables and felt its sudden sharp, needle like pain burn along her hand. She did not need to see her hand to know that her life-blood was rising to the surface. Two tears brimmed at each corner of Paechra’s eyes as she whisked her hand free from the cursed arc. As she looked back up at her father she saw that he too had begun to weep.
“It pains us. It is the curse of our enemies,” Therdous sighed. This time it was a true whisper, but the dire nature of his words made them carry as clearly to his daughter’s ears as if he had spoke them with his rich voice from the past.
“Sarah, why did you have to leave?” Paechra sobbed. From her father’s simple explanation the druid suddenly realise that the spell which kept her father captive would only affect those with the blood of the sylva. The seamstress could have passed through the vorsurk circle and possibly aided the captive held within.
“Daughter it comforts me and saddens me simultaneously to have you so close in my final moments,” Therdous Lightheart announced.
“Do not speak so, father,” Paechra begged. “I shall find a way to fight this magic.”
“I have been captive here too long, daughter,” murmured the old sylva. “I doubt that there is any part of my current state that is worth saving.”
His daughter opened her druid sight and looked beyond the torn and soiled blue robe. The spirit of her father was just as frayed as the robe he wore.
“Who…? Who has done this too you father?” Paechra whispered as she forced back the tears that threatened to pour forth from her eyes.
“It is the silver sash, my Lioness. Open your eyes and see that it is the sage who calls himself Vladimir the Young,” Therdous sighed. “He is the one who has imprisoned me so.”
Paechra had no time to digest this. The moment she looked deeply into her father’s eyes again he was staring beyond her.
“Morthos!” the old sylva announced. Paechra could see his figure shake as the old sylva gathered the strength and the courage to speak again. “You come before me tonight dressed as a Truth Keeper! A keeper of truth is a role you are not worthy to even imitate,” Therdous rumbled. “Daughter Paechra, flee! This man is not your friend,” finished the elder sylva, the urgency in his tone made Paechra turn away from him and fearfully face the silent arrival. The druid saw her friend, the young human with the short and spiked black hair, with whom she had traveled many miles of the road. She felt suddenly euphoric, for seeing someone who she was sure was Raven, there in the city beneath at that moment made all of her worries vanished. The darkness of the cavern made it difficult to see all his features clearly, but the truth keeper that stood before the pair of sylva was in Paechra’s eyes definitely Raven.
“My daughter, flee! This man has me captive and means you no good,” Therdous urged, this time there was an element of anger or frustration tainting his cracked voice.
“Father, please look again. I traveled here with this man he is called Raven and I know he means neither you nor I harm,” Paechra laughed. Raven could reach her father. Somehow maybe the truth keeper would make this whole strange…
“Look beyond the vision my child and sense the truth,” ordered Therdous of his daughter. Paechra stood dumbfounded, uncertain and wrapped in her confusion.
“Old man you have said enough. You sages have driven me to madness. Your life ends here!” Raven roared, and then, like a puppet upon strings he strode forward. Raven streamlined for the two before him. His blade was unsheathed, held in a two handed grip ready to strike a killing blow.
“Raven stop! My father! Why do you do this?! Stop…” Paechra pleaded, rushing towards the sword wielder.
“Flee daughter! Flee now! You… are… not… safe… here!” Therdous urged as he thrust himself against the boundary of crimson that imprisoned him.
The armored Raven knocked the pleading girl aside and strode unhindered to stand beside the elder sylva. After a brief, hollow smile from the sword wielder, the blade fell. There was a sickening thud and a scream before Paechra realised what it was that had just taken place. As the tears ran unchecked, the sylvan girl leapt into life. Like a flushed rabbit she fled with no path in mind. The darkness was consuming and confusing. As quick as her flight began, Paechra found she had fallen. The hard stone stung her hands and her knees. It felt cold and lifeless against her skin.
“Therdous?! Are you there?!” came a cry, echoing about the stone passageways.
“Your wisdom! It is just… awful. It was Raven… He…” Paechra cried out. She quickly tried to wipe away the signs of her sadness. For the first time in her life she felt embarrassed of her emotions. This made her feel even more frightened. It was a relief for the sylva, when she did not have to explain herself any further. In her sadness the sylva did not see anything unusual with the sage’s knowledge.
“I have seen the blade and I know it’s barer. He will be caught… Of that I can promise you,” Vladimir soothed. The old sage hobbled with a sword strapped beneath his robes. Paechra though saw none of this. All that the gentle sylva knew was her grief.
Sarah clicked her tongue and sighed as she met Vladimir upon her stoop and took Paechra from him. Vladimir disappeared into the shadows of the slums. The hour was late, but still he had a thousand tasks before him. The bells rang out with gusto, the tenth hour of the night.
- The Eleventh Tome – Chapter VII - February 3, 2025
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