The Shadow Tome (Ch. 6 & 7)

Chapter Six
The Library of Leodoria

Becken gazed at the still figure of the girl as she slept against the grassy knoll, wrapped tightly in his cloak. He wept quietly to himself, for the pain they had all endured. What was it all for. Of this, he knew not, and could only hope that they would live to hear the truth of their pains.
         The morning rays of the sun crept through the forest canopy as the young man thought, alone in his musings. It had been four days since their violent escape from the doomed city, and they had talked little since then. Throughout their trek north they had been hunted relentlessly. Their unknown enemy tracked them, and Becken knew, for whatever reason, that they would follow him to the ends of the earth. It all seemed so meaningless.
         A ray of golden sun shined upon Leneia’s face. Becken smiled as she stirred in the cloak, making small, tired moans as the rising sun awoke her.
         After their departure from Cyrinth Myriad, Romand had used his magic to heal the poor girls injuries. Her physical ones at least, for their was no magic to cure the poison that now seduced her heart and mind. They all felt the pain of loss, but she alone had been there when it happened. She alone had seen it. She had felt the evil against her, and inside of her. She would never be the same, Becken knew, but he would love her all the same.
         Her eyes flickered open weakly, and met with his. It was all she could do to smile at him, and he smiled back, warmly. “Good morning,” he said gently. With out touching her, he bent over and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
         He would not touch her, for it was her to decide when she would be ready. Becken knew that such a time may never come. He would wait for her. For how long, it mattered not. He would wait.
         “Is it morning already?” She asked sleepily, as she stirred in the cloak.
         “Aye, it is. We must prepare to go. Soon, we will come upon the library, and then, maybe our questions will be answered.”
         Yawning, Leneia rose from the gentle slope of the knoll, discarding the heavy cloak that had blanketed her. It was fortunate that Matthew, in packing his provisions, had brought some extra clothing as well. Leneia now wore a white, ruffled shirt and black trousers that bunched at the ankles. It was a mans attire, of course, but Becken thought she still looked radiant, and he yearned to mend her heart, and ease her pain. Perhaps, she would take his pain away as well. Only time would tell.
         As Leneia rose, Becken woke the others, sleeping about the camp against trees and rocks, and other precarious places. They had saved the best place for her. They all rose, stretching their stiff, sore joints. Matthew walked to the small sack he had brought with him, and produced the last pieces of dried salted pork, and some wild berries. They were fortunate that the bags contents were not destroyed in the rain storm, and Romand was able to thoroughly dry them with his magic. Matthew then passed around the last of the water they had. He had rationed their supplies for a four day journey. How he hoped they would arrive today.
         Mortimer spoke, as he crouched on his haunches, packing his pipe with crushed leaves.
“So Beck, they did not come last night?” Becken shook his head.
         “No, they did not. It was a quiet night.”
         Becken had taken second watch, and Mortimer the first. Every night they had been stirred to wake for the shadows moved around them, and the enemy neared. For the first time, they had slept undisturbed.
         “I wonder,” spoke Matthew. There was silence for a moment, before the high cleric spoke.
         “They wait, now. Lysander is no fool. He knows the light of Aurorai fades from this place, and very soon, I will no longer be able to use it to hide our path from the enemy. Nothing has changed, for we must still make for The Historian. Otherwise, all will be lost.”
         Having packed the remaining provisions back into the sack, he swung it over his shoulder, and began walking away.
         “Well,” he said. We had best get going then.” The others followed suit, and soon, the rustling of leaves could be heard as they plodded their way through the forest.
         It was nearly nightfall when the small company saw the large stone edifice rising through the trees. The regular pine trees of Dellwood were now replaced by huge redwood trees, the tallest in the north, and they seemed to reach to the heavens.
         Below the forest canopy sat the ancient library, nestled closely to the base of the mountain. Columns of grey stone encircled the out wall, giving to the old place, an almost Romanesque appearance.
         They climbed up the staircase that led to the mouth of the library. Before the gateway sat two gryphons, carved of bronze, the great beasts of the northern mountains.
         As they crossed the threshold, they looked in astonishment at the main library hall.
         The hall was filled with shelves that reached nearly twenty feet in height. They ran perpendicular across the room, creating a main walkway to the rear of the room. They walked by aisle after aisle of oak bookcases, each filled to the top with leather bound books and scrolls of parchment. The main hall was lit by torches that ringed the walls, but also ran down the main hall. Above the, hung chandeliers of bronze, dozens sprawling across the ceiling, illuminating the stone hall.
         As they plodded down the stone floor, it was Romand who spoke.
         “Astounding, is it not? The knowledge of the world, here, within these walls.”
         Becken replied, “All the history of our world is recorded here?” He dusted off the cover a thick book, and sifted through its pages.
         “And more even. Not only is the history here, but literature as well. Every other from every era. No where else in the world will you find such things.”
         “And where is the knowledge that we seek, Romand,” Matthew asked. The high cleric gestured towards the floor.
         “It lies in the vaults below the library, watched over by the historian himself. It is forbidden knowledge, and only the one whom can claim the right to it may have it.” Matthew nodded in understanding.
         The others gazed at the ancient tomes in reverence as they continued towards the back of the library.
         As they reached the rear of the building, they saw a small archway leading into another room. “That is the way to the ancient one,” declared Romand, speaking to Matthew more than the others, for it was the young mans destiny to be there.
         They crossed the threshold of the arch and entered a thin hallway that led to a spiral staircase that descended into the floor.
         “There lies the vaults of the Historian of Leodoria,” declared the high cleric. Matthew, wearing a face of fierce determination, took a step forward before turning again to his companions.
         “My friends, much have we endured together over these past few days, and as far as we have already come, I fear our journey has just begun. Words cannot express the gratitude I feel for having such great companionship in this endeavor, but I can ask no more of you. Once I descend those stairs, there will be no turning back.”
         It was Mortimer who spoke then. “And where, lad, would we go back to. The world is crumbling around us. Soon all will be swarmed in darkness. There is no hope beyond these walls.” Mortimer paused for a moment before continuing. “No, sir, we cannot go back.” They all nodded in agreement.
         Matthew gave a meek smile. “Well, I’m happy to have you all with me, here at the beginning.”
         Then, he turned towards the stairs. Together, the five companions descended into the vaults of the ancient historian.
*    *    *    *    *
         “Unacceptable!” A chair splintered against the mortared stone wall. The enraged king stomped his boot heels against the floor vigorously. He seethed vehemently as Lucious spoke to him.
         “My lord, we scoured the forest for them, but never could we come close enough. The clerics magic hid their wake from us.”
         Lysander paced around the room again. His gesticulation darkened.
         “No doubt they have reached the ancient one by now. There is no doubt in my mind that the boy is the one of the prophecy. He will unlock the chains that bind the knowledge of the master, and he will seek the tome.”
         Then, in all its darkness, it came to him and the lord of Cyrinth Myriad smiled menacingly.
         “And there it is, Lucious.”
         “My lord?” The other asked, puzzled.
         “The boy will show us the way. The light of Aurorai darkens, and the cleric will no longer sense our presence. Yes, the chosen will seek out the tome, and he will find it.”
         “And when he does find it?” Lucious asked. Lysander turned to the captain, and malice danced in his eyes. “Then, captain, you will kill them.”
         Then, he laughed.
*    *    *    *    *
         The flames jumped from the candlestick, illuminating the small room within the ancient vaults of the library. It sat upon an ancient desk of Elvynwood, an object constructed in the first age of Leodoria. Endowed with the power of the four, the secrets of the world were confined here.
         Giahamas Elyvwyn sat beside it, his back hunched over the ancient wooden panels of the furniture piece. His hand flicked a stylus upon the pages of a thick, leather bound book, pressing the figures into the page with a precise delicacy. It was a strong hand, although dry as paper and heavily calloused.
         They did not call him the ancient one for not. He was the Historian, the eldest of all the immortal beings of Leodoria. He had been the first, created by the hands of the Four, to record the history of the land. He made known what must be known, and kept that which must by unknown. He was the keeper of secrets, and the giver of knowledge. He had been, and always would be, for his life was tied to that of the Four, and his light would never dim lest there was a shred of power upon the world.
         He looked to the door at the back of his study. “So,” he mused to himself. “He has come, at last, to my door.”
         The historian etched another line upon the page. Satisfied with his work, he closed the great, leather book.
         The wooden door slowly creaked open.
         “And so the son has come to sow the seed of hope, or to smite it with a blazing sword.” And at that, he turned to face them.
*    *    *    *    *
         Matthew stood face to face with the historian of Leodoria.
         His round face was lined with age and shrouded by strands of silky, snow white hair, and a thick beared crawled down from his chin, falling below his waist and mingled with strands of hair. His aged appearance was not complimented by his intense gaze. Matthew knew this man was strong. His deep, blue eyes were as windows to a trove of knowledge, and there was compassion upon his face. Matthew felt as if he had met his grandfather for the first time.
         Romand came forward now, and gave a formal bow to the historian.
         “Oh, ancient one. Far have we come to beseech you of your knowledge and wisdom,” he spoke eloquently. Giahamas continued to only gaze upon the five travelers. Their appearance was ragged, and they were tired and broken. He could feel their brokeness, but also their burning passion that dwelled deep within each of them.
         They were, perhaps, stronger in spirit then he had first thought.
The five companions waited quietly in the light of the candle, as the historian prepared to speak.
         “I know why you have come,” he said at last. His voice was soft and comforting.
         He turned to the high cleric. “It is good to see you again, Romand Sohm.
         Romand responded. “It is the same for me, wise one.” The high cleric and the historian smiled then, and exchanged simple bows.
         Giahamas then turned to Matthew and looked into his eyes. The blue eyes cut through his defenses, and he felt as if his whole spirit was displayed for all to see, so great was the historian’s gaze. And yet, never did he feel threatened or afraid. Shame gripped him, for this man knew all their was to know about him, and his embarrassment was emblazoned upon his brow.
         Giahamas spoke to him then.
         “I know why you have come, Matthew of Xavious. Our meeting was predestined to be in many centuries passed. The dark days that now consume you were set into motion seven thousand years ago, at the beginning of our time.”
         Matthew responded. “Then you will give me the knowledge of what I seek?”
         The historians face darkened.
         “No, I will not. What you seek, my son, is not mine to freely give.”
         Matthew came forward now. Drawing his sword, he dropped to his knee and struck the point of the blade to the stone floor. The clash of steel echoed in the fire lit room.
         “Oh ancient one,” he said. “I beseech you, the knowledge of the secret faith. Reveal to me the dark one in the shadows.”
         The historian was silent, deep in thought. After a moment he answered.
         “Are you prepared, son of Aurorai, to bear this burden upon yourself. Are you ready to carry the yoke of destiny to the gates of evil itself if the need arises?”
         Matthew gave a grave nod. “What would you have me do?”
         And so, Giahamas Elyvwyn, the ancient one, told him what he must do.

Chapter Seven
The Gears of War

         The Elder’s chamber had erupted in cacophony. The seven council seats were abandoned now, there former occupiers long having risen to their feat along with the other men in the chamber hall. They were engaged in intense debate, and quarreled among one another.
         Evyan Fandorius, captain of the guard, sat in his seat with his face in his hands. Fear and uncertainty now reigned among them.
         It had been four days since the messengers had arrived bearing news of the slaughter that had taken place at their neighboring city of Auron. Since then, news had come that Cyrinth Myriad, crown city of the north, had befallen the same fate. The captain’s thoughts dwelled on the strange visit he had received from the mysterious Aragothan. He remembered his chilling words. “The time of blood comes quickly on the swift wings of death itself.”
         The captain was pulled from his musings by the voice of the first elder, trying to restore order to the pandemonium.“Gentlemen please,” he shouted. “Our wits is what is required now. Elders, take your seats. Cool heads we must have, if we are to expect rational decisions to be made here.”
         Slowly, the chamber began to quiet as frustrated men found their seats and the seven elders returned to their places upon the platform. Once all were seated, the first elder addressed the council.
         “I understand that events have transpired in these last few days that has bewildered us all, and many are concerned for the very safety of our homeland. However, I remind you men, that Laeriana, giver of life, has only ever watched over us and protected us. Whatever ill that now beleaguers the Auroran people is not stronger than the power of the goddess of life.”
         Evyan rose to speak.
         “Elder, if I may?” The old man gestured to him with a hand, relinquishing the floor. “The force that over powered the Aurorans was of no small significance. They were over run in one night. Aurorai was of no help to them.”
         The members of the council gasped at his words.
         “Here me brothers, for I speak no blasphemy. It is some unknown evil that now threatens the peace of our lands, and that while our faith is strong, we must not give way to foolishness over confidence.”
         Twyn, the fourth counselor, rose from his seat in rage. “How dare you, sir! You would speak such things against our divine lady, who’s words have always rung true!”
         “You old fool!” Evyan retorted angrily. “How beset in your ancient ways are you to ignore such obvious shifts of our world. It cannot be denied that an ancient secret, long hidden from our eyes, has revealed itself upon the face of Leodoria, and now, we must be prepared for when they come for us. If Aurorai was unable to save her children from such a face, then it is complete asininity to expect that, as great as our benevolent goddess is, that she will be able to lift us from such an end.”
         In disbelieve, and then rage, the fourth counselor spat back at him. “You would have us believe, captain, that not all has been revealed to us by Her divine wisdom. Ha, sir! The world is not such ways! Things are as they always have been since the Four summoned our world into being.”
         Evyan retorted. “Honored elder, if things are as you say, then explain to me why it is that the greatest city in the north was overpowered in one night, and there was no army that besieged it?” The counselor was taken back by the captains word, but stayed his ground.
         “Im sure that all will be explained in due time, soldier. Our scholars. . .”
         “Damn your scholars, Twyn!”
         The men in the chamber gasped at the captains use of the fourth counselors first name. Such was an insult in open council.
         “Silence!” The first counselor commanded. “Such bickering will send us only to a swifter passing.” He turned to look Evyan in the eyes. “Captain Fandorius is right I’m afraid. The times have changed, and they have changed swiftly. Our scouts bring word that Aurorai no longer commands the armies of the north. It is a fools folly to believe that such happening will end there. The power of our lady is strong, but I fear it alone will not save us from this cloak of darkness.”
         The fourth counselor looked at the first in disbelief. “You cannot be serious, honored one. The captain speaks lies and half truths. Perhaps the darkness permeates his heart as well!” There were many that nodded in agreement, and they shouted “blasphemer” at Evyan.
         He defended himself. “You would accuse me, fool, of allegiance with the darkness? I have not walked through lakes of blood upon the field of battle to submit to such words! My eyes do set upon Laeriana alone, and I do bow to her wisdom. But also I listen to reason.”
         “Enough, brothers,” declared the first counselor. He turned back to the fourth counselor. “Twyn, take your seat. While I respect your decision to speak your mind, I’m afraid I must command your silence now.” Turning back to Evyan, he spoke. “What is the status of your troops, captain?”
         “Fat and bored, I’m afraid. I called the reserve guard to active duty this morning, sir. We have three companies battle ready now, and the reserve will probably be armed and assembled by the end of this week. Lieutenants Qynra, Tyran, and Hythras command those active, and I have assigned sergeant Tyboth to the reserves.”
         Third counselor Hym-Thane, the defense marshal, took the floor. “Captain, has an enlistment board been assembled to organize conscriptions should the need arise?”
         Evyan frowned in displeasure. “Aye it has,” he answered. “But I do not think that such measures will be necessary.”
         The defense marshal responded. “Captain, please. You are not so naive as to think such a thing. The strongest city in the north has fallen during one night, assailed by an unknown enemy. You intend to defeat them with what> Some two-thousand men? Half of them have never seen the field of battle. Please spare us, sir. We will need numbers if we are to see the end of these things.”
         Evyan stood his ground. “Marshal, your words speak true enough, but the boys here, they are not soldiers. You know as well as I what will happen should they cross blades with battle heartened soldiers. Their hearts are strong, sir, but that alone will not conquer steel.”
         Evyan had never much cared for the marshal. He thought him a fool, always too eager to depend upon strength of numbers. He cared not for the innocence of youth, for he himself had lived over a hundred years. He looked a mere sixty.
         The marshal gave a smug look at the captain. “Evyan, I greave as you do, for our young boys, but it is war that we look to now, and it is never an easy thing, to send our sons and brothers to the field of battle, but if that is what must be done, then so be it. I will not let the sanctity of our land fall into the hands of the wicked!”
         “But will such things be necessary? Surely the kings army will come to the battle.”
         Hym-Thane shook his head. “No captain, we can expect little or no aid from the army of Laovwyn. They will stay and safe guard the crown city. If it is as the messengers have said, then they will need to be ready, should the attack come from within.”
         The sixth elder rose. “Gentlemen, are we even sure that they will come?”
         Evyan spoke with certainty. “They will come. Of this I have no doubt. The dark steward of Auron has long missed the bloody fields of war, and he will be eager to meet us on it.”
         They all shivered at his words.
         They had forgotten of him.
*    *    *    *    *
         It was blood that he craved. Hot and pulsing. He had no other pleasure, next to that of a beating heart, the internal flesh that would feed his hunger. It was blood that dripped from the dark steward’s mouth each night, and bits of flesh that spattered upon the stone.
         He was a monster, a deviant sacrilege, an abomination of the race of men. His human image all but gone, the bones of his face had warped, creating jagged edges. His teeth had sharpened into canines, and his face protruded outwards into a snout like shape. His black hair was disheveled and hung all about him, and thick filaments sprouted from his calloused body. The hands had warped and black claw like nails jutted from his finger tips.
         It had not always been this way. There was a time, it seemed so long ago now, that he did not obey his carnal instincts, and feed upon the flesh of the living. But such a time was gone to him. He was a man, once, many years ago. His name had been Tandalar Dor’Mer, a follower of the good path, devout servant of Aurorai herself. She had given him all he had desired. He remembered the small feet that padded against the carpet floor of the place he had once called home. The feet had voices, a boy and girl, giggling and playing by the fire. There was a woman as well. As fair as the morning sun and a voice like silk. He recalled the essence of sweet scented perfume that wafted in the air, announcing her arrival and curled locks of golden hair that had commanded his obeisance. She was his lady, he knew. Years ago. Tamara was her name. And the children that played by the fire. He could not remember their names. He had no need for them now, for that man had died with them. Aurorai had given him the world, and as she gave, she would take away.
         Her words had commanded the destruction of that which was evil, and so he had rode out to smite it in her name. It was her war, and it would be fought by her children. Such was the curse the Four had bestowed upon their children. He had sought out her foes and put them to the sword, and throughout the land he was heralded as ‘Her Knight, and ‘Guardian of her Children’.
         He spat at the memory of her.
         For his pains, her enemies came to him in the night. It was her name that brought them to his door.
         Everything she gave, she could take away. After all his life’s service, she repaid in blood.
         He remembered how they had ravaged Tamara’s body and spilled her blood upon the ground, and the children had screamed as they were crucified upon the door frames. His eyes had beheld their suffering, and Aurorai the good, just, and merciful would not be found.
         Her name brought death.
         They let him live, broken and despaired, but he would repay them no such favor. He denounced the name of Aurorai then, and as her blessings surged out from his body, they intertwined with his rage. In madness did he kill them with his hands, and he drank their flesh and he desecrated their bodies, eating their flesh.
         It was then that he left behind the race of men, and half mad, he fled from faith and humanity and lived as an animal upon the land, and dwelled with the beasts of the earth. He feasted on flesh and blood and became a stalker of the night, lurking in dark corners, awaiting a poor soul to fall into his hands. He lived only for himself.
         And then, in all his madness, he heard the voice, black as death, and filled with hatred. It beckoned him to come. Each night did the voice speak in his bestial dreams, and it drew him away from the lands of the north, and into the dark land of Mulden Mord, where the children of Aragoth dwelled.
         In that new land did the voice sooth his crazed mind, and he knew that he must find his new master, the one who calmed his turbulent soul. His desire led him to Jaileth, the Death Crafter of Leodoria.
         The Death Crafter had been since the first life was given to the world. He was the last of the four magic crafters of Leodoria, who had once wielded the powers of the Four, and molded the magic to suit their own wills.
         It was Jaileth who led him to the master, and it was the master who offered him a sound mind, power, and immortality. Greater still, however, he offered vengeance.
         He pledged himself to the master, and his mind was made whole. A new power swept through him, and he became the creature of nightmare. He was man, and he was beast. His desire for blood intensified, and he would no longer age and die with men. His soul burned with vengeance from the hands of the master himself, and he left Jaileth, and returned to the race of men, and with his new life he was given a new name. Tandalar Dor’Mer was dead. 
         He was Razar Bloodfang, the dark steward.
         The master had sent him to Auron, where his servant Lysander appointed him to the stewardship of the city. There, Razar ruled as steward of Auron, preparing for the return of the master.
         Razar turned from his musings, and back to the bloody platter on the table before him. Having finished his meal, he brushed the dish from him and it clamored on the floor.
         The beginning was finished now, of course. It was the master who now claimed lordship over Auron. Decades ago it had been set into motion, and now that all but one of the master’s books had been recovered, it was time for their emergence.
         The insurrection of Auron had been much like the events at Cyrinth Myriad. Blood had pooled in the streets, and the screams of the living had permeated the air. Razar was pleasantly surprised at the unforeseen weakness of the Auroran soldiers. At the point of a sword, one in three had sworn themselves to the master and thus were now eternally bound to him.
         Razar had sneered at Lysander, whom he reviled. The king had given him nothing, for it was the master that had renewed him. The arrogant king had been far to eager to kill the sons of Aurorai. Razar knew the hearts of men and he knew that fear and pain, if wielded correctly, would be enough to sway the strongest of faiths.
         It had destroyed his.
         Razar rose from his chair at the table and plodded over to the window.
         His private chambers were nestled on the highest level of the keep of Auron. From here he could view the whole of the city, and from here he shaped it to the master’s will. Since he had ruled the city, the unknowing people of Auron had never once seen the dark steward, and of this there was good reason. There was an incident when a young woman had stumbled upon the warped lord.
         He had enjoyed the taste of her blood.
         Of course, now there was no need for his hiding, for the city belonged to the master. Already he had ventured forth from the stone fortress and inspected the city. He had spoken with his captains, and had over looked the sweeping of the city. It was tiresome work, discarding the mass of bodies that laid strewn about. There were thousands of rotting corpses, and it took days for his men to cart the bodies out of the city on wagons. He had, of course, kept a few select corpses for his own delight.
         Such was a lords privilege.
         Razar turned away from the window and towards the back wall of his chambers. An enormous map of Leodoria was sprawled upon the stone face. With one, clawed finger he traced around the area of the city of Enwyn, border town to the Laerian kingdom. He knew they would be organizing by now, preparing for the battle that would come. Razar smiled at the thought of open battle. He tired of the slaughter of the helpless and longed to cross blades with another and bathe in a field of victory.
         Razar left the map and returned to the table, where he had left a stack of papers. He sifted through the army reports and roster lists, keeping an inventory in his mind.
         “So, captain,” he mused to himself. “Soon, we will meet on the field of battle.” Razar plodded over to the other window, opposite from the city, and looked down onto the plains before the walls.
         He smiled menacingly as he looked down upon an army of thousands.