The Prophecies of Andrapaal
The Eleventh Tome
Chapter VIII
written by: Tim Law
Year 513 of the Kingdom of Thuraen
Fredrickson the Third is King
Vladimir the Young is Chief Sage
The palace was especially quiet at this time of night. It was the king’s favourite time, a time when all his kingly duties were complete and he could dedicate his whole self to his wife, and she to him. Lately, due to her changing body’s demands upon her, the queen had been spending much of her time at rest. It was now, at the stroke of the tenth hour, that Queen Catherine was settled in the royal chamber, tucked up in bed.
As Fredrickson entered the chamber the queen yawned.
“Henry,” she stated, through the obvious sign of her exhaustion. The name was almost lost on the ears of the king, but for the fact that he was used to such late night conversation.
“And I suppose you would suggest Henrietta, if our faith in the truth should see fit to send us a girl?” the king laughed.
“Of course!” the queen replied with a playful smirk across her rosebud lips. Being a miller’s daughter had possessed Catherine with a great sense of humour. It was something that she had made quite sure her husband possessed also, very early on in their courtship.
“Your father would be mortified, if we were to pass on his name to a little girl,” the king continued.
“What then of your father’s name? Shall we name her Fredricksdaughter?” the queen replied with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.
Fredrickson enjoyed these parts of the day greatest because they allowed him to see that his wife glowed with the responsibility of the royalty that grew within her. These same hours also allowed him to see that no matter the child, no matter the life, Catherine the miller’s daughter would always be herself. The queen would always be Fredrickson’s rock; honest, supportive, and most importantly loving. It was the times that he spent alone with Catherine which reminded Fredrickson of who he was, and that such a person was allowed to exist. They were special times. They were times that all the staff knew he hated to have interrupted.
Fear cramped in Raven’s stomach and thumped against his chest. It was not fear for himself. It was fear for the city, the citizens, the very kingdom itself, and most of all it was fear for the sylva maiden, Paechra. This is what had Raven dashing unarmed and without a plan, through the dark streets of Andrapaal.
‘I must find Paechra! But, where could she be?’ his panicking mind thought over and over again. At each heavy footfall he tried to remember all of the places that the sylva had visited with him by her side, and also what places she had seen without him.
“Some friend I have become…” he said aloud as he turned mid-stride and chose to follow down a sudden right hand side street and ran further away from the blacksmith’s forge. It frustrated Raven more than anything that of all the possible places Paechra may had vanished to, Raven could only recall the forge. It had been their shared home for the whole time they had spent in the city. Paechra had not been at the forge. Gregory made it quite clear should Paechra arrive anywhere near the forge, the smithy would make certain Raven and Paechra never ever meet again.
Raven tried to curse away his confusion. He ran on, with each new stride he added another choice cuss word. Many such words he’d picked up from his first and only truth keeper’s quest, the quest that had made him who he was. Now he knew the truth about those many deaths. It had been a confusing and frustrating evening, but he tried to keep focused upon the important things. Finding Paechra was his first objective. Beyond that, Raven was unsure but he knew he had to reveal to the city the true identity of the silver sashed sage.
A strange figure rushed as fast through the backstreets of Andrapaal’s slums as his changing body allowed him to travel. It was Vladimir, but at some points it was a replica of Raven, and then at other times the young ambitious boy Morthos ran on young, fresh, and free limbs. The dark magicks of the lupine vorsurk polluted his very self, but it was fading from him fast. The sage had the strangest feeling of being three people at once while only having the body and mind to cope with one. All who stumbled across the racing figure in the darkness of the winding alleyways yelled out in alarm and leapt out the figure’s way instantly. As the strange figure burst into the light of one of the streets near the palace he finally settled on the figure of the old man. His pace slowed, as did Vladimir’s thoughts. The next few hours were crucial. In the sage’s mind he cursed his ill luck. The young rogue truth keeper had refused to join him, had refused offered glories and security. The one known as Raven had been a perfect pawn to use then, to rid Vladimir of the old sylva. That the sylva’s daughter was witness to the event only made Vladimir’s smile broader. It was such luck, ingeniously stumbled upon. It seemed such a reversal of fortune to suddenly have the only one who might truly speak out on the boy’s behalf, so turned against him. Vladimir had left Paechra in Sarah’s arms, weeping and babbling incomprehensibly about what she had witnessed. Vladimir felt the truth keeper’s blade slapping against him. It was heavy, a strange burden that the sage was certainly not built to carry for long. The frame of the old man Vladimir made the sword seem so much more the heavier.
‘Best to be rid of the evil blade,’ Vladimir thought to himself. He cried out in surprise as he felt a familiar tingling in the back of his mind.
“Not now… Surely not from this far away…” Vladimir whispered, in total disbelief.
‘Surely you do not believe that you wanted the blade to just kill one sylva?’ the voice of the tome laughed, the twisted cackle made Vladimir smile too. Not once did he ponder upon the wasted life of the elder sylva. In his mind he justified the killing as the only way to cover his tracks. This was the only way to get what he wanted, to give the very kingdom what it needed. With one death justified, it was not difficult to justify another.
‘This is my chance to do away with the king and the royal line. Perfect…’ Vladimir thought. As the idea took hold in the sage’s mind the feeling of the presence of the tome faded. As the sage drew forth the blade it felt heavy in his hands, but to Vladimir it was the weight of destiny. Everything was going according to plan. Everything followed the plan of Vladimir.
Thur, the air spirit floated above the city watching the progress of the truth keeper Raven and the sage Vladimir. Thur felt the urgency of Aiera, as the light spirit made contact.
THUR! THUR, SEEK OUT THE HUMAN. I FEEL HIS PANIC, HIS CONFUSION. WHY WERE YOU NOT KEEPING A CLOSER WATCH UPON HIM? Aiera scolded.
AIERA, FOR SUCH A SMALL THING YOU DO MOTHER SO. THE HUMAN ALWAYS FEELS ME WATCHING OVER HIS SHOULDER. I AM WIND… I AM AIR… HE COULD ASK FOR NO BETTER FRIEND, replied the spirit of air
AND YET STILL I FEEL THAT HE IS LOST, immediately responded the light spirit, not impressed with the reply Thur gave.
A gust of wind, a sigh of air rustled through the streets following in the footsteps of the running Raven.
GIVE ME A SIGN THEN AIERA. HELP ME TO HELP HIM.
AS YOU WISH, sent Aiera before Thur felt the light spirit leave.
Raven stopped running as a glimmer of light caught his eye. It was Paechra. Raven was certain that it had been Paechra. Just out of the corner of his eye, he had seen her. Slowly, ever so slowly in case his mind had played tricks on him, Raven retraced the last of his steps. The light had gone but there was definitely a figure moving slowly away from him. It was a figure that looked as though it was searching for something, or someone.
“Paechra! Paechra is that you?” Raven called. The figure turned to look his way but then continued with its search.
“Paechra!!” the human called again, this time with a touch of annoyance. The figure did not reply to his calling, instead disappearing from Raven’s sight by passing down another side street. The light flashed again, almost like a lantern was guiding Raven, magically. It was something that worried him greatly.
“Raven you fool! Come off the streets!” called a voice, someone who definitely was not Paechra.
The winding, maze of Andrapaal’s dark streets were impossible to navigate, especially where Raven was, far away from the palace. Although Raven could see very little in the darkness of the night, he knew the voice that called to him. It was Thomas. Raven had wandered blindly to the door of the butcher.
King Fredrickson lay beside his wife listening to her slumber. He had heard the city herself cry out the tenth hour and was patiently waiting for the sounding of the eleventh. It seemed strange to Fredrickson that since he had been told the news of the impending birth of the prince or princess, Catherine had seemed to sleep so soundly. He, on the other hand, had seen his own sleep vanish. New thoughts and new worries seemed to be stealing sleep from him like a thief in the night. Would he make a good father? Would his child be able to live the life it was born into? Would the name he and the queen bestowed upon the child suit it? These were questions that worried any new parent-to-be, but they seemed a far greater worry for someone so much in the public eye. Once the child was born, boy or girl, it would be royalty, and it would belong to the kingdom and the quest for truth as much as the king was. It never ceased to amaze the king just how well the miller’s daughter embraced her role as both wife and queen, married to the kingdom as much as the man. Catherine assured Fredrickson day after day that their child had nothing to fear. Fredrickson wished that just once he could immerse himself in Catherine’s confidence, feel all the worries fade away, and find peaceful slumber.
Almost silently, totally at peace, Catherine slept beside him.
“Fredricksdaughter…” she sighed, a slight smile forming on her rosebud lips.
***
In one clawed hand Zerrick held the dark skinned tome of Drakonia, book seven of the eleven holy books of dark magik. Drakonia was a book that had been passed down to him from his father, and his father’s father to him, for eight generations. Zerrick had already chosen Sebas, his twenty-eighth son, to inherit such a powerful arcane artifact, along with three others of the eleven tomes. Zerrick held three of the tomes in his immediate possession, and had knowledge of who had current possession of book eleven, Necron-Blaith. The eleventh and most powerful tome would also be his when he confronted Thurzuk, wherever it was that Jaerakon’s apprentice had disappeared to. In his other, the more deformed of his claws, Zerrick tentatively held the Sextet Hydra, the six-headed serpent whip of Muzzi-ih, the dark spirit of torture. Zerrick planned to use this unpredictable artifact, part weapon and part monster to summon to his side the demon of the same name. It was a great risk but the sorcerer felt physically and magically ready to question Muzzi-ih where the renegade thief Thurzuk had taken the tome, and what it was that the young fool planned to do with Necron-Blaith. It was Zerrick’s belief that Thurzuk could not have had a chance to understand the possibilities of such an item of power.
The human slave that Zerrick planned to give as an offering to the demon gave an almost inaudible whimper, so the master sorcerer carefully struck the boy again with the whip. Four of the six heads found targets in the slave’s naked flesh and drank a small mouthful of blood each. The two that missed their marks wriggled and hissed in fury, striking out at their feeding sisters and stealing the crimson liquid that sprang forth. Zerrick snapped the whip in midair to control the chaos. The vorsurk master of dark runes felt the first of the words of power slither up his throat and along his tongue like a gigantic, slimy eel. His mouth felt so full that he could not help but blurt forth unceremoniously the syllables of magick. The snake heads of the whip hissed hungrily as they thirsted for more human blood. The slave boy screamed for the briefest of instants as the strange whip lashed out in a wicked frenzy. While the serpent heads fed upon the slave, the vorsurk sorcerer cleared his mind and prepared to chant the old word for blood. Muzzi-ih would come at his bidding and all the secrets and mysteries of the world would be Zerrick’s to unravel. Soon, so soon, the tome would be within his grasp.
***
“What in the blue blood of the greatest of truths do you believe you are doing this evening truth keeper?!” Thomas spat, his cheeks crimson and blue lined as the veins stood out, partly from the drink and partly from his anger. “You are out so late, wandering the city streets!”
“I seek Paechra, my friend. It is of great importance to me that she is found,” Raven replied, agitated both by the delay in his search and the obvious intoxication of his friend.
“I could not care less about the sylva. She used magic in the city! If the master was to hear of that! Well… But no! The little seamstress thinks she is my mother! She thinks she is everyone’s mother!!” Thomas shouted, turning his bloodshot eyes accusingly toward Raven.
“What do you mean, magic?” Raven asked in alarm, totally ignoring the look that the butcher gave him.
“Magic! Hocus pocus! Suddenly, he wants to work again!!” garbled Thomas, his hands waving erratically about him.
“Who? What? What in truth’s name are you trying to say?”
“Me! What am I trying to…? What of you?! Bring that trouble-making witch into our fair city, why don’t you? Tell an old man you have lost your faith, why don’t you?! And how did poor Gregory take such a blow? The big man idolized you, Raven. He would talk to us others of the eleven about nothing else,” said Thomas, pausing for breath only when his energetic ranting had brought him nose to nose with Raven.
“Thomas! Thomas, listen carefully to me. The sylva is not the criminal,” Raven stated, not backing down. “The one you call master is using vorsurk spells to deceive us all, I fear what it is that sage plans for our kingdom.”
“I would expect something like that to come from you,” the butcher laughed.
“Seriously Thomas, Paechra’s magic is the least of our worries at this time. The one you call master is master of more than just the written word. He is the evil magician. Vladimir, or Morthos, or whoever he really is.”
“Has Paechra cast a hex on you?” Thomas spat in disbelief.
“No magic has tainted what I know, what truth I have learnt. The unwritten truth has been revealed to me when the magician’s spell ended prematurely.”
“Explain your story, faithless worm,” Thomas whispered, Raven’s accusations against Vladimir sobering the butcher.
“I was there the day that the real Vladimir was killed. Dead alongside so many of my fellow soldiers. It was a small vorsurk force that did the killing, of that I am certain. It was your master that gathered them there to do it though. He has used forbidden spells, the very hexes that you accuse Paechra of casting. Who knows just how often the sage who falsely wears the silver sash was using such spells against the other sages? Who knows when the wizard used his hexes on you?!” Raven stated.
At such words Thomas paled. He pushed Raven toward the cellar door and threw it wide open.
“Hide in here until I have had a chance to think about this. What is one butcher supposed to do with such information?” said Thomas, frightened at the thought of ever being under a spell. “Raven, believe you or not there is nothing I can do either way.”
“You are in no fit condition to do much now,” agreed Raven. “Sober up, Thomas, and together we can find Paechra. The sylva is sure to know what to do against barbaric spells.”
The truth keeper heard his friend stumble away. So drunk was Thomas that even in his own home the butcher moved in an awkward, uncertain shuffle.
“I knew it!” Raven could hear Thomas mumble. As the distance between them slowly increased, the rambling became worse.
“First time I met him I could smell wizard… Bear-Heart was too smart to appoint a man supposed to be older than himself as successor. Sold my soul to be a wizard’s man, and for what…? For stinking nothing but a lie! Unless… Unless the truth keeper is the liar! I need something, something to make things clearer. A drink will do it…” Thomas added.
Raven sighed; to him everything was starting to look difficult. He took the creaky stairs with great caution. The darkness of the room below, mixed with the slippery nature of the blood smeared stairs made them dangerous to tackle.
Once he had reached the bottom safely, Raven found that the darkness seemed to deepen. There was no moonlight; street lanterns did not shine, there was no source of light at all. The smell of blood and fresh dead bodies caused Raven to shiver. He fought back the memories that threatened to overwhelm him, humming a childhood song instead. It was one of his mother’s favourites, and Raven berated himself for not remembering more of the words. The dripping sides of beef surrounded him on every side, like captured giants flayed and hanged for unknown crimes. As he pushed his way past each one, it swayed like the black birds had already begun to search the bodies for carrion. Raven cried out as more horrible memories began knocking at the door of his mind, demanding entrance, demanding to be seen. Images of his mother singing, telling stories, and thoughts of more innocent times came to Raven in an instant, and he sighed with obvious relief. High above him, Raven heard the great bells of Andrapaal chime for the eleventh hour. It had been a strange evening. He found the closest thing he could to comfort in the chilled cellar, and then closed his eyes tightly shut; searching for anything at all that represented slumber. Raven thought for a moment that he’d prefer peaceful, dreamless sleep. That was not to be.
Catherine screamed again. She shook her husband, not believing yet that he had been stolen from her. The young page that had come to announce the late night visitor looked back, through lifeless eyes at the macabre scene. Blood seemed to be everywhere. The room seemed filled with blood, death, a promise of eternal emptiness. Another truth keeper entered the room and Catherine screamed the cry of hysteria. At first it seemed the same crazed knight of truth had broken into the palace again and had come to claim her life and that of the baby. When Catherine was able to see through her tears that this truth keeper wore a silver sash, she found she could not stop her screams.
“Tend to the queen,” Anton barked as two other soldiers of truth entered into the room behind him. Instantly their faces twisted in horror.
“Move! Do as you were bid…” Anton barked again. Straight away the soldiers tore their eyes from the aftermath of violence and took Catherine from the bed, leading her out of the chamber and into the palace. Here a small group of servants took her by the hands and gently led her away.
Anton slid the blade free from the king’s still, lifeless form and checked the weapon for an insignia.
“I know the blade. Sadly, I know it well. Vladimir will not like this. Neither will the boy’s father. Michael will not like this one bit,” the old truth keeper sighed.
The blood that coated the truth keeper sword left all but the emblem tarnished. Anton sighed a final time before he wrapped the offending weapon in a sheet and went in search of the head of all the sages. Each of his foot falls coincided with the toll of the eleventh hour.
Vladimir put down the wet quill and tried to settle his shaking hands with another sip of dark liquor. He looked through ancient eyes that were both tired, and glazed, examining the lettering he had just completed. Vladimir could only sigh. He had made such a mess of this parchment. It was all there, the record of the pure and total truth of his tasks of the evening. Times, dates, all accurately portrayed as his faith in the truth and in human history demanded. The lettering was almost illegible, the shaking of his old body and the adrenaline of the evening’s events had made it impossible to scribe neatly. The chief sage tore the pages from the tome and offered them like a purging sacrifice to the hearth fire that heated his cell. Not even the most acute of eyes could have picked that a page had been removed. Vladimir had become quite talented at such a task. The bells tolled the twelfth hour as his quill began a fresh page. Now that the truth had been recorded, it was time to pen the history. He had much to write, but the story was already forming in his mind. In a separate section of his thoughts, Vladimir noted that his brothers would need to be alerted. In fact this was something that the entire kingdom should be made aware of. Not only had the kingdom lost a great mind whose thoughts on the prophecy had unlocked a wealth of information. Not only had they lost a young but wise king, one whose guidance would no longer be heard or recorded again. Amongst such sadness had sprung forth reason for joy. A true leader, an ambitious and eager leader, a leader of high intellect and clear for-thought, was to soon take the throne.
“Who was that man? And for what reason did he want me dead?” King Fredrickson asked, observing Anton at his task. He had remained behind to comfort his wife, but nothing he tried had any positive effect.
“That man is one you knew and trusted,” a booming, powerful voice replied.
At such a sound Fredrickson’s form spun about on the spot, without actually physically moving.
“King of the people, I am Therdous Lightheart, a sage of your kingdom for a brief period. The man that killed you killed me also this evening. I am at an advantage though, since my people seem to have a second sense for strange things,” the voice added cryptically. From behind the king, the figure of Therdous Lightheart emerged, a shining light which King Fredrickson thought looked like an ignited spirit, one ablaze with the holy wisdom of truth.
“What must I do then? How can I protect my people? How can I protect my wife and our future?” Fredrickson stammered. He looked at his own figure and discovered it was no longer flesh and blood, now a faint opaque outline of his former living self.
“The future of this kingdom, these people, these child spirits of the earth enfleshed, this and all your other duties of life are no longer of importance to you. No longer are you guided by the words of the past. I come to help you make the first of the many steps you will on your third leg of the journey. Death does not mean the end, human. It is only another point of reference along the way. Come, follow and I will explain some more. Remain here and the continuation of your purpose will only be delayed,” Therdous Lightheart stated kindly. At that, the spirit of the old sylva embraced the image of Fredrickson and the scene of the bloodied sleeping chamber faded from sight.
“Stop!” Fredrickson stated firmly, the lack of panic in the human spirit’s tone making Therdous pause. Then the sylva felt the same sensation. It was a mixture of longing, fear, and a desperate need for understanding.
“Paechra…” the sylva whispered.
“Your daughter, I am guessing?” Fredrickson asked with a ghostly smile.
“With your permission, perhaps we will stay a moment longer in this place between… places,” Therdous murmured apologetically.
“Permission granted, but you must let me help. What aid we can grant your daughter, perhaps we can pass also to my wife and child…” Fredrickson replied, hope filling his voice.
“That shall be decided by our future selves, not us,” replied Therdous mysteriously, his smile that of a content cat.
As the human nodded his consent, a worried look plastered across his features, the sylva’s smile grew larger.
“Come then, follow king of humans. We must hurry,” Therdous cried. As King Fredrickson caught his words the sylva’s brightly burning image had already floated a long way ahead.
Sarah the seamstress held the limp figure of Paechra tightly against her. To Sarah, Paechra could easily have been dead, except that occasionally the seamstress would catch a muffled, faint whimper. It seemed to the seamstress such a crime that a vibrant spirit like Paechra’s should be brought to such a state.
“Who did this to you, my friend? If I were to be the one to catch them, the price that I’d be inflicting upon their vagabond flesh would be felt as quite a sting even by the very vorsork dog gods that they’d must surely worship,” the seamstress vowed.
“Ra… Ven…” the sylva sobbed, looking up at Sarah with eyes full of sorrow. Once the word was out, Paechra buried her blonde locks back into the comfort of Sarah, howling out another round of anguish accompanied by a storm cloud’s worth of teardrops.
“No…” whispered the seamstress in disbelief.
Paechra did not look up and respond. As her sobs grew louder and harsher, Sarah began to comfort her anew.
Vladimir’s quill remained in the ink well, mid-dunk as the sage froze in his actions. Slowly Vladimir swiveled his head sideways, looking away from the unfinished work on his desk and instead to his door. The runes of protection that he had cast there had evaporated. There was a moment of panic as the sage listed off in his mind, all the possible visitors he could be receiving at such a late hour.
‘This can surely not be a brother sage? The hour is well beyond the time of rest for such old men. Even the citizens of fair Andrapaal, with grievances aplenty, would not approach my door after the stroke of midnight. The enemy that is so close to striking would not be bold enough to penetrate my chamber. In truth, they would use arcane knowledge to try to achieve such a task. It cannot be any of these three…’ Vladimir thought to himself. That meant it could only be one man. The familiar knock confirmed his suspicions.
“Come forth, Anton. Your disturbance is once again ill-timed,” the sage cried out sourly.
“I do apologise, Your Wisdom,” the head truth keeper murmured as he hurried in and closed the door behind him.
‘I must reset those sigils,’ Vladimir noted as he released the quill and gave Anton his complete attention.
“There has been a death. The blade I have here belongs to Johannas Stormsong. The emblem confirms it. It is my thinking that this boy has been away, living with the vorsurk and has come back to kill the king. King Fredrickson is dead, sir. The royal sleeping chamber looks as though a great wave of gore fresh from a butcher’s slaughterhouse has washed over it. The king still had the blade stuck in him when I arrived at the scene…” the truth keeper began to ramble.
“Yes, thank you Anton. You have managed to make your point quite clear,” Vladimir cut in. “I understand that the king is dead.”
“Thanks, Your Wisdom. I have got the greatest respect for your ability to just accept such news. It is sobering to see such an example.”
“Yes thank you. Take the blade and store it as evidence. Form up a small squad of your finest and seek out the boy. I did see him earlier this evening and he was acting quite oddly.”
“Truth shall be written then, Your Wisdom. It is your lucky day that only one death is on this Raven’s hands,” Anton whistled, in disbelief at his master’s supposed luck.
“Such truth is always written, Anton. Now leave and do my bidding, before you delay my records any longer. I now have an important announcement to script, and then make,” Vladimir stated dismissively, his words tainted with obvious agitation.
“Shall the sages be woken, notified?” replied Anton dutifully.
“Nay, there is no time for it. This murderer must be caught, and caught quickly. Have a squad out immediately, and then tend to the body of our king. Finally check the lower chamber of the city for signs of Therdous the sylva scholar. I have heard through various sources that his daughter still seeks him out.”
“It shall be as you wish, Your Wisdom,” Anton replied with a brief bow.
‘I do hope so,’ Vladimir thought, silently.
As soon as the truth keeper left, Vladimir returned to his parchment and sighed. If only Anton had visited a paragraph earlier. The story about a vorsurk trained assassin could have been useful.
***
In the darkness of Thomas’ cellar, Raven slept fitfully. He dreamed of his past, an innocent moment recalled from his childhood, a moment that troubled the dark-haired truth keeper now that he knew dark magic was at work within the city.
A very young Johannas bounced flat pebbles across the surface of his garden pond. He counted the ringlets of ripples under his breath until the stone completed its journey and sank.
“Very good, young master,” the gardener commented, “Eight true strikes of the stone upon the surface with a single throw is quite an achievement. Careful, the other boys do not accuse you of knowing dark magicks.”
Raven recalled that the first of those comments had made his heart swell with pride. The latter one, though, had made his stomach clench. The two other boys he had been with, Sam-Michael and Peter de Boar, had laughed away such an odd comment. Neither of the two boys could get close to Johannas’ skill with skimming those rocks that day.
As the dream shifted to the most recent scene of his meeting alone with Vladimir in the Great Hall, Raven realised that he had seen such dark magicks first hand, which the gardener had warned him of. Raven awoke with a cry that reverberated off the cellar walls. The carcasses muffled the shout, making it sound like a scream from far away, not something that Raven had emanated himself, only seconds before. The Vladimir in Raven’s dream began as the old man with a frail form, but at the end of their discussion he had become a gigantic vorsurk warrior. His six arms were equipped with shiny new blades fresh from Gregory’s forge and the frightful figure was crashing his way without thought, through the streets of the city, searching for Raven, howling his name.
***
Anton checked his men over, sheathing and unsheathing some of the new blades that the blacksmith Gregory had finished forging only that very day. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he squared up to the sixteen that faced him.
“Keep quiet about what you know until the official announcement. Such news as our king’s passing could cause havoc and chaos, and aid Johannas in making an escape. He must be caught tonight! I stress too, he must be taken alive! Another corpse is no good to us. Found guilty, the boy will pay for such crimes as he is accused. It is not our task to judge, especially not one of our own brothers. He bore the blade that you carry. He must be captured, if only so we can ask the question why, why was such a sacred weapon used so disrespectfully, so heinously, for such a selfish purpose?”
Sixteen paladins stared back at Anton, listening respectfully.
“Pair up. Find him. Bring him to me.”
“Yes, sir,” sixteen voices answered in unison.
As Anton began to issue out areas for the truth keepers to search, he smiled inwardly, grimly. None of these men had been trained by Michael, Johannas’ father. Some, like Anton himself, had fought beside Michael. None, though had the blind, foolish respect that a pupil had for their mentor. Additionally, the number of searchers would not be eleven as Vladimir had ordered. Anton did not feel right about such things. In his mind such a number stank of evil, magic, silly superstition. These men that he had selected for this task, this night felt like the right number, the right men.
“Repeat back to me your orders, just to be clear,” commanded Anton.
“We seek out the accused at the home of Gregory the Blacksmith,” four voices announced.
“Our orders are to search the home and cellar of Thomas the Butcher,” another four stated.
“The home and workplace of Sarah the Seamstress is where we begin our search,” replied the third group of four.
The final group was starting their search at the arena, a tough location since Michael Stormsong was bound to be there.
“The boy’s father will try to ask questions… may even offer to help you search… Until the announcement is made by Vladimir, you can reveal nothing,” Anton commanded.
“As you order,” stated four voices.
As the sixteen began their search, Anton wished he could have been with all of the groups. He had his own order to follow though. Vladimir had to be obeyed.
At the twelfth strike for the twelfth hour, Raven made his way slowly up the stairs again. The smell of fresh meat was having an uncomfortable effect upon his dreams.
“Thomas? Thomas?” Raven had called when he arrived at the top step. At first there was silence, and then the soft sounds of slumber.
“At least someone under this roof can find rest,” Raven grumbled as he crept quietly out of the butcher’s home and closed the front entrance behind him. It was then that he heard the announcement, Vladimir’s voice traveling right across the city. This was something else new to Raven, another surprise that Andrapaal kept at her breast seemingly until the final card had been dealt.
Vladimir climbed the small flight of stone steps that led from the palace to the amphitheatre, the tunnel-like corridor leading to the balcony causing his steps to resonate as a lonely shadow of his confident footfalls. The time he had spent in penning the history of the evening had enabled the sage to settle his nerves and write through any uncertainty. To the settled, unsuspecting night, the words of Vladimir carried across the whole of the city. As the old man’s voice spread his message, Vladimir admired just how well his circular addition to the palace had worked. It had been one of the other sages of the blue robes who had suggested the need for a way to carry official announcements quickly and instantly to the whole of the city. Vladimir had jumped instantly at the idea, convinced the king, a freshly crowned Fredrickson, that it had been important, and rushed through the planning and construction phases of the project. In his almost eleven years of service to Andrapaal and the Kingdom of Thuraen as Chief of the Sages, Vladimir had seen the balcony and amphitheatre used just twice before he took the steps that evening. The first occasion was to announce the completion of the structure, the other to make official Anton’s appointment. On both of those occasions the theatre was full, full of sages and dignitaries, and other citizens of great importance. Regrettably, this time the circular seating would be empty, but Vladimir reflected, the whole of the city would be his audience by the end of his first sentence.
“Good people of Andrapaal, your king is dead!” Vladimir called, with a strong clear voice. He smiled with satisfaction as he listened to the words spread. Then he took on a proper, mournful pose, smiling inside as the summer night breeze played with his robes dramatically.
“Johannas Stormsong, son of Michael the trainer of Truth Keepers, stands accused of the crime. Known to some few as Raven, his blade was found at the scene, his very self was seen entering and leaving the palace at the time of the murder. Raven is wanted in regard to the whereabouts of the sage Therdous Lightheart. This man, Raven, still walks our streets. He is a danger to you all. Keep within your homes; do not dare to walk the streets. The Truth Keepers will deal with this faithless killer. Await the toll of thirteen bells to sound out that the streets are safe again. That is all.”
As Vladimir heard the last words fade away, he turned on his heels and left the podium. The hour was indeed late, but he realised that such an announcement would mean he’d not see slumber for a good while yet. After the audience with his brother sages, Vladimir needed to properly address the people, try a murderer, not to mention the organisation of official ceremonies. By the same time the next day, Vladimir planned to be sworn in as ruler.
As Vladimir’s announcement echoed across Andrapaal, Raven chose to run. The maze of deep dark streets, were indeed just that, confusing, strange to his feet, but they were preferable to the rat hole that was Thomas’ cellar. There his brother truth keepers, would find him easily.
“So the magician has played his cards quickly. I was an idiot to leave my sword behind,” Raven panted as he rushed away from the butcher’s. “I am no longer surprised that the blacksmith Gregory turned against me…”
As the exact words of Vladimir the sage filtered into the thoughts of the fleeing Raven he stopped.
‘Lightheart? Lightheart? Paechra’s father?’ he thought to himself, mad panic suddenly gripping him. ‘Paechra…’ Raven added as his unfocused running suddenly had a plan. If the sylva was neither at the blacksmith’s or the butcher’s, that only left the seamstress Sarah as a possibility of where Paechra may have gone.
Paechra broke away from Sarah’s motherly embrace and shook her head in disbelief at what she had heard.
“He was there! That man was there when my father died!! How could he justify announcing such falsities!”
“Calm yourself, Paechra,” Sarah stated, but then cursed that very next moment when she realised just what she had said.
“I’ll not be told to stay calm when one human that I thought was my friend kills my father, and another human that your entire kingdom trusts to speak the truth lies without blinking,” the sylva maiden yelled, her puffy eyes narrowing threateningly as they turned upon Sarah. A strange blue light enveloped the sylva, a light that Sarah associated with healing and greatness. This night though, this very moment, as Paechra focused her grief and anger into her special powers, Sarah had a sudden sinking feeling that this blue light would have less than pleasant results. The seamstress could make out the she-bear claws, weapons that looked to her like they could kill without a second thought. They seemed out of place on the peaceful sylva whom Sarah had befriended.
“Sarah, breathe,” Paechra growled.
The seamstress released the breath she had not even realised that she was holding.
The blue light that surrounded the sylva evaporated as the power seeped back into the earth and the plant life where it had been drawn from. Simultaneously the anger vanished from Paechra’s face, her exotic features showing a soft, sad, almost defeated side of Paechra. Sarah was not sure which face caused her greater alarm.
“I apologise, Sarah. You are my friend, one of the only friends I have in this place. I must admit to never feeling such grief, such pain, such an extreme sense of loss. For all your comfort, I offer only to inflict my pain upon you. It is unfair and foolish of me. I acted without thought, illogically and without cause.”
“Indeed girl, you did give me quite the scare there. I would agree that you’d be pointing that grief like a blade at the wrong throat,” Sarah said, slowly, eyeing the sylva warily as she spoke each word. As Paechra nodded her agreement, the seamstress regained her confidence enough to speak frankly, as she always did.
“Paechra, I’d be as much a fool if I’d not be telling you an important piece of advice. Sure as sure you could be turning your sweet self into a demon and scaring the life from any and all. What with our laws governing magic I’d be suggesting that it would go poorly for you. Only I alone witnessed the amazing feat you did to bring that young butcher back from the next life…”
“What do I do then, Sarah? What do you suggest?” Paechra begged. Her eagerness to see something done shone in the druid’s eyes.
“Find the boy…” Sarah began.
“Thank you, Sarah. This sad day has indeed clouded my thoughts,” Paechra murmured as she turned swiftly upon her heels and made for the street. “I shall mark Raven out so that his brothers may find him, capture him. Their job shall be made simple.”
“Find the boy, and speak with him,” Sarah sighed to herself as she listened to the slap of Paechra’s sandaled feet rushing away.
“I doubt me that this is what the master had in mind,” the seamstress added, sadly.
For another few minutes she kept vigil at the door, hoping that Paechra would come to her senses and get off the streets. When it seemed obvious that the sylva was gone, Sarah closed and bolted the door and began to hide any evidence that the sylva had ever been there.
Anton hated this work. His men were out scouring the city for a dangerous, wanted man, alleged murderer of the king. A pair had already reported back from the blacksmith Gregory’s forge stating that the boy had been there earlier in the night but was certainly not there now. Anton had sent that pair to the home of Sarah the Seamstress to search for Paechra, hoping that Raven had gone there. Awaiting further reports the leader of the truth keepers was now wandering lost through a rabbit’s warren of tunnels looking for another sylva. What the head of sages had wanted with the old sylva sage was beyond the mind of Anton. The old truth keeper who wore the silver sash had served his time on the dusty, chaotic border that kept the vorsurk hordes at bay. He had also served many a year keeping Andrapaal’s streets clear and clean of ruffians and other kinds of trouble, just as dangerous kinds of beings as the wolf-like monsters. Vladimir had brought Anton back from retirement but ever since that day, he felt he was like one of those stringed puppets. Dark thoughts plagued Anton as he marched through the tunnels, sword in one hand and torch in the other, uncertain as to which was the more important tool. His bones ached as did his pride. The only thing that did not yet hurt was his soldierly dedication to duty and orders. Coming around a corner that he had not yet tried, Anton’s torch found etchings in the stone of the walls. As a soldier and not a sage, the truth keeper dismissed them immediately as beyond his understanding. What he did know about though was bodies. Where the trail of carvings continued to lead him, there was a lifeless figure.
“Please don’t be the sylva,” Anton mumbled, a feeling of uncertainty playing on his loyalty to Vladimir. As the torch passed over the body, the truth keeper cursed. Aside from one tear shaped eye, it was impossible to tell what race the body had once been, or that it had ever been a living thing.
“If this too was the work of Stormsong, I am sorry he was once a truth keeper,” Anton mumbled, an apology of sorts to the silent corpse.
“How, though did Vladimir know you were here..?” the truth keeper added, voicing his thought to fill the silence. Anton frowned then. It was questions like that one which started trouble. Anton had enough trouble with Johannas still loose. He would report the news of the sylva’s murder to Vladimir and see what happened next.
Raven looked about him, lost again in the dark maze of Andrapaal’s back alleys. He cursed quietly under his breath. He had to keep moving, staying ahead of the paladins that searched for him. Vladimir had done well; the sage had obviously planned far further than Raven could have hoped to. It had been as Gregory had said; Andrapaal was not the city that Raven knew. The city was an enemy, walls rising up to block his path, cobbled stones echoing each and every footfall that Raven made. In his mind, Raven was certain that the city he thought he loved was conspiring to keep Paechra from him. He was certain that it was helping the truth keepers to find him and capture him. Raven feared what it was that Vladimir would consider justice. Raven feared being found.
“Thur, Aiera, spirits of the air and light! Answer my call, I beg this of thee!” Paechra called as she ran. The spirit of light answered the call first, instantly. The sudden burst of brilliance stopped the sylva in her tracks. It shrank to a pinprick of light before Paechra heard the spirit’s voice.
WHY DO YOU CALL US SYLVA ONE? WE HAVE WATCHED THE HUMAN AS YOU REQUESTED AND DO NOT SHIRK THIS DUTY, the spirit laughed.
“Have you not heard of my father’s death? Can you not sense my sadness? He has been stolen from me and by a friend’s betrayal no less. You say that you watched the human as I requested. How could you just watch as he stole my father’s life? Did you lead him to the city beneath?” Paechra accused, her anger at her father’s death flaring up once more.
WE WATCH AND WE SEE NONE OF THIS DAUGHTER. THE ONE THAT YOU REQUESTED WE KEEP IN OUR SIGHTS HAS DONE NONE OF WHICH YOU DECLARE.
“I know what it is that I saw with my own two eyes, spirit. Do you suggest I dismiss what my eyes have told me?” Paechra growled in reply.
WHAT YOUR EYES TELL YOU AND WHAT YOUR HEART BELIEVES IS NOT ONE. YOU MUST DETERMINE IF YOU TRUST WHAT YOU HAVE SEEN, OR WHAT ALL OTHERS TELL YOU IS TRUTH.
“You are obviously not watching him now! How can I trust that you have kept such a vigil? How can I believe the words of such a fleeting substance as that of light, or of air?”
THUR IS WITH THE HUMAN. SHALL THUR DRIVE HIM TO YOU, OR WILL YOU MEET THE HUMAN AT A DIFFERENT LOCATION?
“I will see Raven wherever it is that Thur has him now,” Paechra replied, icily.
SUCH A FLATTERING LANGUAGE WE WOULD ASSOCIATE MORE WITH THE DARK ONES, DAUGHTER. NOT YOUR FAIRER KIND, the light spirit stated.
Paechra gave no reply.
COME DAUGHTER, FOLLOW THE LIGHT, Aiera instructed before the pinprick of light sped away. The sylva ran after it.
Raven paused mid-stride, luckily hidden from the midnight moonlight by a strange shadow.
“Shine that lantern a little more to the left there!” a gruff voice ordered. It was a command that was quickly obeyed. The light flashed almost inches away from where Raven was only partially hidden. Then the strange shadow that was Raven’s only source of cover, disappeared.
“There! Check over there!” the commanding voice ordered with urgency.
The light flashed away from where Raven stood, not daring to breathe. A black shadow suddenly rushed forth from where the lantern light shone. The barking that accompanied the shadow made Raven think instantly of a dog, but the shape of the creature looked not like a dog at all. In Raven’s mind it was almost as if someone, or something that had seen dogs, from far away, had decided to dress up just like the dog that they had seen.
“In the name of truth what was that thing?!” the one holding the lantern cried out in alarm. The light source swung about erratically as the man tried to find the beast again. It had vanished.
Martha, the head kitchen hand, shook her head to clear it. The rabbit stew that she had been ordered to keep watch over had burnt away an hour or two before. Her simple mind was not on cooking at that late hour though. She had seen the chief of all the sages walking the corridors of the palace brandishing a sword. Then she had seen a truth keeper covered in blood without a weapon walking back along the same path. There would always be more rabbits; the forest around Andrapaal was full of them. This golden gossip though was a once in a lifetime opportunity, as soon as she was able to make sense of what had occurred. The announcement of the king’s death worried her greatly. Martha wondered just what role that Vladimir played, and just how much anyone would believe from a kitchen hand.
Thurzuk let his cruel blade work swiftly. Under the cover of the late hour he tore viciously and bloodily the number of hearts he needed for his spell out from his kindred’s chests. Now the number of his party was right and true. Eleven was soon to turn into so many more.
Raven almost cried out in alarm as the dragon flew within an inch of his nose.
FEAR NOT, HUMAN! I AM NOT THE SCALED MONSTER YOU BELIEVE ME TO BE, the dragon laughed.
“What are you then?” Raven whispered, uncertain whether to believe what he saw before him more than the voice he heard in his mind.
A SPIRIT, A FRIEND OF A FRIEND, SOMETHING THAT HAS BEEN WATCHING OVER YOU, Thur replied.
“Why take such a horrifying form then? If you are not a monster, why disguise yourself as one?” Raven asked, still a little shaken.
YOU BELIEVE THIS DRAGON’S SKIN IS THE IMAGE OF A MONSTER?! I WOULD HAVE YOU KNOW, IN THE CULTURE OF YOUR SYLVA FRIEND THE DRAGON IS A CREATURE VENERATED FOR THEIR WISDOM AND THEIR EXTREME INTELLECT, the dragon huffed, the smoke that wisped from the creature’s nostrils glassing Raven’s eyes.
“In our history the dragon has been recorded as a murderous beast, and as a creature merely imagined. I would be justified in considering myself mad for speaking with a dragon,” Raven replied.
WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT THE CONCEPT OF A DRAGON COULD HAVE SUCH CONTRADICTIONS CONCERNING ITS NATURE? WELL, BEFORE WE BEGIN DEBATING WHOSE BELIEF IS CORRECT, IF EITHER IS, WOULD THIS FORM BE MORE ACCEPTABLE..? The dragon rumbled as green light flickered across its form, transforming it into the image of a short, sleek sylva warrior.
“That reminds me of a friend,” Raven stated in reply. “Is your shape shifting a form of sylva magic?”
SYLVA?! I BE NO SYLVA, FRIEND… I AM THE AIR, THE BREEZE, YOUR VERY BREATH. ALL OF THOSE AND MORE AM I. THUR AM I, AIR SPIRIT, AND A PLEASURE TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE. THE FIRST HUMAN EVER I HAVE SPOKEN TO, FOLLOWED, BEFRIENDED.
Raven tried to understand, to believe in the existence of spirits that he had been taught all of his life did not exist. Seeing it all real and in front of him was confronting for the truth keeper. Rather than troubling him though, Raven felt growing stronger his belief in things he had been taught could not be real. Spirits and Gods were real and Paechra was the only one that Raven knew he could speak to about such things. The more he spoke with the spirits, the more he wanted to have the sylva nearby.
COME HUMAN, FOLLOW THE WIND. THE SYLVA GIRL SEEKS YOU OUT AND I HAVE THE HONOUR TO TAKE YOU TO HER.
The sylva form of the air spirit wandered away like a ghostly figure. Raven stood for a few moments, watching mesmerised, before he realised that this strange thing was actually walking those streets he so feared, and Thur was walking straight to the one person he needed to see. So long as Paechra was near, Raven felt sure that this night would not end badly. Once she heard what Raven had to say, her intelligence and understanding would stop his whole world from falling apart.
Vladimir held up his hand for silence. The room was awash with reds, greens, and most importantly blues. At his announcement of the deaths of the evening, the sages of the great city had flocked to his side. Vladimir had been found in his room, moved through the corridors of the palace with a coloured army at his back, and eventually arrived at the great hall. The oaken double doors had flown open as Vladimir entered, and the gigantic room had filled to capacity in mere moments.
“Welcome, my brothers of the truth! Write, record, once more, Vladimir the Young is prepared to lead you bravely into the future,” the sage with the silver sash boomed over the hubbub.
A sea full of old, concerned faces stared up at their leader. The sudden silence surprised Vladimir. The sage expecting that his words would result in cries of anguish for the king’s passing, perhaps a cheer at his taking up the mantle of ruler of the kingdom, did not expect the empty silence from the crowd of sages.
“Bring forth your quills and fill the tomes with my wisdom. For does it not say in the pages of our wondrous past, the words of truth must be recorded. The words of truth must be recalled,” Vladimir stated, calm, prepared.
As the sound of quill and parchment interrupted the silent room, Vladimir cleared his thoughts and began his speech.
“The king is dead! The one whose blade committed the heinous act still walks our sacred streets. Anton has been marked with the duty to bring before us the one known to many as Raven. Son of Michael the trainer, Johannas Stormsong is wanted for murder. Until the silver sash is officially inducted into the role of Sage King, the Kingdom of Thuraen is without ruler.”
Ink recorded Vladimir’s first few words, but as he continued his speech the quills suddenly stopped scratching. Only the blue-robed sages spoke, but the whole room listened.
“Is this the boy that we were to meet this evening?”
“What need did he have to see the king?”
“Why would such a boy come to the city to commit such a crime?”
“Some of us have heard rumor of a vorsurk trained assassin, do we know of where this boy Johannas has been and just how long he has been away?”
As the questions continued to flow, Vladimir’s face paled and then flushed red with anger.
“Our ruler is dead!! Our kingdom is without direction!!” Vladimir cried out, exasperated.
The quills of the red and yellow robed sages continued scratching, frantically to capture the elusive words that they had missed.
“Yes, we all heard your announcement, Vladimir. We all heard that the boy, Johannas, stands accused. You have a room full of colleagues that you are addressing. What more do you have to say?”
“Let us research the process for a sage to become king!” Vladimir roared.
“What of the queen? Do we know how Queen Catherine fairs? She was with child, was she not?” one of the blue-robed sages asked. The room erupted once again into a zoo-like racket that was loud, but simultaneously indistinguishable for anyone not directly involved. Vladimir sighed to himself, and then prepared to raise his voice again. For the head sage it had been a long and very busy day. Much needed sleep still seemed so far away.
Paechra heard Raven before she saw him.
“Stop! Wait!” he panted, his booted feet heralding his arrival.
SEE, THE HUMAN ARRIVES… Thur in his shadowy sylva form stated plainly in a quiet voice, giving Paechra a cheeky bow before the spirit vanished. A whirling wind played lightly with the sylva maiden’s blonde locks before it died down and left Paechra and Raven alone.
The sylva stepped out from where she waited so that the moonlight illuminated her figure. Raven could clearly see the anger and rage that radiated from her features.
“You are a brave one to show your face, especially to me, human!” Paechra stated angrily.
“What you heard from that man cannot be believed as truth,” Raven began, stepping toward the sylva. Paechra stood her ground and locked eyes with Raven, searching his face for signs he was lying. As she stared at the strange blue light that surrounded her.
“What man? Do you mean my father? You should know what his last words were, for I saw you there as he breathed his last breath!” the sylva continued, the forbidden magic that highlighted her figure only adding to the formidable image.
“Never have I met the man, sadly so if Vladimir’s words are to be believed,” Raven replied, gently, as slowly as he trusted his voice to speak.
“I am sorry Raven, if what you say is true. I must trust my own eyes and believe what it is that I witnessed in the city beneath,” Paechra whispered, so quietly it was almost impossible for Raven to hear. The sylva’s eyes softened, glistening as a tear formed and ran down her right cheek.
The magic flew away from her form like a thrown off cloak. It hung in the air for what seemed like forever. Raven watched, wide-eyed and holding his breath as the cloud of luminance suddenly floated down and wrapped itself about him.
Raven coughed in surprise, a mix of a cry and a grunt.
“What in the name of truth..?!” came a curse from the top of the alleyway.
“Truth Keepers,” Paechra stated coldly. “If you are indeed as innocent as you say, try running now,” she stated.
Raven needed no other encouragement. He turned and fled from the scene. The cloud of Paechra’s creation remained about him, a beacon leading the truth keepers straight to their target.
Paechra shrank back into the shadows as three truth keepers ran after Raven, calling out in alarm at what it was they witnessed.
“Catch him… Catch him…” Paechra repeated, over and over like a mantra, hoping to hear the sounds of the one she still thought had murdered her father caught in the truth keepers’ clutches. In the back of her mind though, her father’s last words continued to plague her, frustrate her with its simple but strange message.
She ignored her subconscious attempting to enlighten her, instead choosing to watch the figure of Raven flee until even the blue magic light could no longer be seen. Then she listened as the three soldiers of the city ran over the top of her companion and knocked him down.
Raven cried out in a chaotic mix of anger, confusion and fear as he struggled with his captors. In the brief battle of three trained soldiers against one, it was the trio that was always going to succeed.
“Take him! Keep him secure!” the voice of another of the truth keepers boomed over any uncertainty the trio may have had. In an instant, the struggling and shouting Raven was grasped tightly and fell silent. The group of four nodded to each other silently as Raven was bound tight, his arms behind his back. One of the three that had caught Raven then marched their prisoner off into the night. Paechra watched as her friend was taken away, right past the shadow she hid within. Her magic still coated the one she had called friend. A single, silent tear appeared and was quickly wiped away. Paechra was not sure if she cried for Raven, her father, or herself. Until she knew for sure she refused to shed another droplet.
After only a few moments of silence, the bells of the city rang thirteen times. The bird of the prophecy had been caught. Soon he would be caged.
“At last, your men have succeeded greatly in their mission,” Vladimir purred, the sound of thirteen bells as clear in its message to the sage as it was to his visitor.
Anton merely bowed, refusing to meet the sage’s eyes. The question of how Vladimir knew of the body in the tunnels was burning fresh in the truth keeper’s thoughts.
‘He is the chief of all knowledge, how could he not know things like that?’ Anton asked himself, it was a weakly asked query though and easily dismissed by a new feeling of dread. Both feelings, that of loyalty, and that of uncertainty, had to be ignored for now.
“The scene of the murder of the old sylva sage looks quite similar to the murder scene of the king, Your Wisdom,” Anton began, speaking with great caution and guarding every one of his selected words.
Vladimir ignored him, dismissed his uncertainty with a confident wave of a hand.
‘So much like a gypsy magician. Someone who takes your eyes away from what is the truth so he can show you something entirely different,’ thought Anton noticing for the first time this trait of Vladimir’s, flushing guiltily as he compared the great sage before him with an entertainer, a marketplace conjurer.
“Deal with the boy first, then send some of your soldiers to take the body of Therdous and place him with that of the king. I’ll not be dealing with either until both crimes are paid for in full,” Vladimir stated firmly.
Anton bowed stiffly and hurried away to begin the questions he had to ask. That one question he did not wish he knew, the question of how it was that Vladimir already knew so much hovered in his thoughts, refusing to be dismissed.
The streets of Andrapaal, even at the darkest of night, were easily navigated by the spirits of Therdous and Fredrickson. They came across Paechra deep in thought, trying to trace back over her actions from when she saw her father slain. It was a task she found impossible to achieve without the interference of her emotions, her sadness at her loss, and the anger at Raven whom she blamed for the deed.
Paechra hissed as the two spirits appeared beside her. As a druid, Paechra had a secondary sense for such spirits, she was not caught unawares as the two approached, but their identity she did not know at first. In her icy stillness the sylva maiden barked out her greeting.
“What of you?” she asked, firmly.
“Daughter, has death changed me truly that much?” Therdous replied gently with a question of his own.
Paechra openly wept at having her father before her again, this time at peace, but still worried for his daughter. The brilliant figure had none of the physical qualities of the man she had known, but the spirit still retained her father’s characteristics and thus it was obvious to Paechra who this figure that addressed her was.
“Nay father, you are as I had always remembered you. You continue to be wise, caring, and spirit blessed with that slight element of impish mischief. I feel like your little girl again about to embark on a linguistic enigma,” Paechra whispered.
Hearing those words, Fredrickson felt he was out of place.
“Daughter Paechra, you did not flee. Did you not hear clearly my last wishes? That one you pleaded with on my behalf was not the friend, the human you know. Could you not smell the evil in the air, the choking dark magic? Even in death my spirit can still sense it. It grates against my skin like sand and stone.”
“Father I could not understand you, my senses were confused, finding you at last and then losing you so quickly…”
“Of course daughter, I understand. You must heed your father now though, for still you are not safe. Vladimir has plans to twist this city to his own purpose. I sense too a fear in him, a stronger bitter smell in the air that could not just be the magic of the vorsurk. It must be evidence of the brutes themselves.”
At her father’s warning, Paechra wiped the silent tears from her eyes and tested the night air. It did indeed smell strongly of the bitter enemy of her race. The barbaric monsters were close, but not great in numbers.
“If I may ask one final request, a final act as this kingdom’s ruler…” the spirit of Fredrickson began, his uncertainty as obvious in his tone as on his facial features.
“Of course,” both the druid and the spirit of the old sage answered simultaneously, with identical smiles.
“Keep safe my wife,” King Fredrickson pleaded. “Find her and get her away from here.”
“Paechra we sense in the weave of the world an event that will lead to chaos. Open your mind to the world’s spirit and sense what we sense,” Therdous urged.
Paechra did as her father bid her to do, fully trusting that such an action would be for her benefit.
It had been many decades of years passed by when Paechra had last tackled such a mammoth magical undertaking. Opening her eyes to the spirit of one, a person or animal was difficult, and often left her dazed with what she had seen. Seeking Raven’s spirit had granted Paechra insight on their journey together, but had not always granted her a clear picture of what the human had been thinking, or what it was he planned to do. Now she opened her eyes to the spirit of the world around her.
As Paechra closed her eyes and opened her druid sight to view the very spirit of the world around her she suddenly found her vision flooded with brilliant white light. It was an instant illumination more pure than sunlight. Beside her stood her father and the human king, whole again, neither of them touched by Raven’s blade. Therdous strode over to where Paechra stood. His robe of blue billowed in a silent wind that also played lightly with Paechra’s hair and ruffled the simple travel clothes she had worn since leaving her people in search of her father. Therdous kissed his daughter once on both cheeks and then in the middle of her forehead.
“I am sorry I left you. I love you,” he said.
The light that surrounded them filled with images, images of the past, the present, and the future. Paechra saw how she had ignored the clues that Vladimir had foolishly left her. She had missed the obvious traces of the vile vorsurk, only to betray and condemn a friend in her anger to find someone to blame for her loss. The city around her turned to chaos as a river formed of cruel lupine soldiers broke its banks and swallowed Andrapaal in gaping jaws. The rampaging river continued to spread until it threatened her own land, the land of the sylva people. Half drowning and half afloat was a human woman heavy with child. The figure of the human king lunged to aid this woman, but her attempt to grasp his outstretched hands would never succeed. The one called Vladimir appeared breaking forth from the rapids, first appearing as a young ambitious boy, but his limbs were on strings like another was controlling him, and he was forced back beneath the waters that now churned with crimson and bodies whose screams and howls of anguish beat painfully upon Paechra’s ears. Vladimir appeared again, this time an ancient husk of a man whose thirst for power had drained him dry. Finally, the figure rose up as a mix of the old and the young with Raven’s face and the truth keeper’s weapon raised to strike.
“Fare well my daughter. I shall await your arrival at the next place…” Therdous called, his faint words causing ripples in the vision, breaking the spell.
Then there was the darkness of the city street again, and but for the images that scarred her mind, Paechra was alone.
In the darkness of his prison cell, Owen of Ocean’s View rubbed his hands gleefully. With the king dead, there would be no way possible that the executions scheduled for the eleventh day of this month could go ahead. The one known as The Librarian had been spared for a few weeks more. There would be more opportunity to teach. Owen hoped that he and Johannas would one day cross paths; he wanted to thank the boy for such a gift as time. Owen planned to use every second he had left fighting in his own way to bring literacy to those denied it. To the Librarian it was the restriction of learning that was the greatest crime.
***
The low prince took up a fistful of the farm’s rich soil. The heads of corn were ripe and ready for harvest, but only the birds, lazy and dark feathered crows as well as the swift wild sparrows, tended to the bountiful crop. The soil smelt of blood and stank of the vorsurk that the sylva hunter tracked so proficiently. Once more Athun found no sign that his Paechra had been this way. It seemed that his Paechra had mysteriously wandered this land of the simple humans without a single one of her delicate feet marking that magicless earth at all. The only evidence Athun had found at all of the passing of the one whom he so desperately sought were random acts of kindness that a strange girl matching Paechra’s description had completed. Instead of pleasing the low prince, these occasions when Paechra had shown kindness to the humans merely confused the prince. Athun left the farm site and continued following the path of vorsurk caused random destruction. Such a trail was almost too simplified for a hunter of such prowess as the low prince to allow himself to follow. Athun knew though that soon his druidess would also discover the presence of the horde. The tales of kindness led Athun to believe that wherever the wolf-like beasts struck next, there he would discover his lioness. In the height of the battle between the humans and the vorsurk-kind, he Athun, low prince of the Spiritgrove sylva would reclaim his property and return Paechra to her own people. Her father was bound to understand, for according to Athun it was not Paechra’s destiny to help the humans or the forests, nor the land. She was destined to be a princess. Paechra was destined to be Athun’s princess. For with Paechra’s powers beside him, Athun knew he was destined to be more than just Spiritgrove’s low prince. With such power available to him, Athun planned to be a high prince of all the sylva clans.
- The Eleventh Tome – Chapter VIII - March 18, 2025
- The Eleventh Tome – Chapter VII - February 3, 2025
- Ashleigh’s Prayer - December 26, 2024
