Chapter 9
Beware and Be Foretold
by Daniel Olarnick
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There, in the mists it stood, the Tor, a terraced maze leading up to the top of the collapsed Mountains of Fire. At the top of the Tor, an enigmatic tower that, according to the legend, lead down to the cavern that housed the Relic.
It was a long climb. They were physically exhausted when they reached the temple on top of the Tor. “Gods lived here, scribe, did they not?”
“The temple is but an entrance to – to an underworld.” The mists closed in around them and they disappeared from sight.
***
Back in the town of Vashmak, the Gorbs feasted on the bodies of all the demons that had inhabited Vashmak. The realization of who and what they were had caused them to commit murder and suicide. None lived.
“Told you,” sang Zorb, as various shades of light accompanied each note of song, “We follow this scribe and he will provide for us, making many dead wherever he goes … for death follows him …”
The mongrel ran ahead of the scribe and Utre, circled the perimeter of the pillars that surrounded the top of the Tor. The pillars were made of the same sacred pink alabaster that the scribal priesthood was constructed of. Its color had always caused the scribe to think of the legend, that the alabaster had absorbed the blood of a mighty dragon, who sacrificed his life in order that the scribal priesthood might remain impenetrable. Oh, it was a legend, he knew, but one he believed in.
The mongrel marked each pillar, as was his nature, then darted around the center of the sacred grounds, entered the shattered walls of the temple, sniffing, stopping, pawing at the blood-colored earth.
A beam of light shot forth from the Eye of the Quest, engulfing a sacrificial ivory alter, that was stained and drenched in dried blood.
The twin moons of Odessa illuminated the temple, simultaneously the beam narrowed, revealing an engraved inscription upon the alter, “Cxarsx Rfu Xc Bysxeyqu.”
“What is meaning of this, scribe?” Asked Utre.
“It is the language of the ancients,” answered the scribe, “I cannot decipher it now. Time is of the essence. The mongrel grows weaker.”
*
The beam of light narrowed, drawing itself onto a carved engraved image that duplicated the Eye of the Quest. The scribe felt its energetic force course through his body, as he placed the Eye face down. The alabaster alter began to vibrate, moving back and forth, side to side, an inch at a time, until an underground stairway was revealed..
Utre strode down the stairs, oblivious to the darkness, his troll vision easily adapting to the dark. The scribe pulled the Eye of the Quest out of the alter, followed Utre and the mongrel, as the alter slid closed behind them.
The Eye shot a beam of light forward, again the words, “Cxarsx Rfu Cx …” the last word worn out barely visible “Bysxeyqu.”
Down the stairway into a subterranean cavern they followed the beam from Eye of the Quest, as it pulled them further downward. In the far-off distance, a humming sound could be heard, its sound beckoning.
“There, scribe, up there. What is that?” The scribe saw beams of light gleaming outward from the walls of the cavern.
“Treasure,” exclaimed Utre. “See the Coins of the Dead glow within their pouch,” as Utre held the pouch up for the scribe to see. Treasures of the Dead must be nearby, thought the scribe.
The mongrel found a small trail cut into the walls of the tor. They followed the mongrel until they reached a flattened ledge, and there, within the walls of the cavern, a fissure, its entrance sealed with bars/ of mystical energy.
Within the fissure, lying on the ground of a larger cavern, was a withered husk of a being. The scribe searched for a lever that would shut down the beams sealing the fissure, but found none.
Utre moved first, striking at the beams with his ancient war hammer, which passed through the bars of energy without shattering the hammer or recoiling Utre, much to the scribe's surprise. An illusion, perhaps, he reasoned..
“See, it is nothing,” proclaimed Utre as he strode within the cavern. The scribe followed. The mongrel whined but loyally followed the scribe into the cavern within the fissure.
*
The scribe knelt down beside the withered body. “He must have died a painful death of starvation and thirst,” said the scribe, glancing around the barren cavern that had become the tiny man's final tomb. But he must have clung to life desperately, he thought, judging by the skeleton remains of rats within the cave. They must have been his sole source of food, thought the scribe, shaking his head at the horrible thoughts of how the man had suffered and died.
“I'll say the prayers for the dead –“
“Remove his death stone. He is withered. He died a coward's death, entombed,” snarled Utre. “He should have ended his own life than die as rat food.”
The scribe began a scribal chant for the dead, wondering why this tiny being had been entombed here. Then a drop of perspiration fell from the scribe's forehead, landing on the face of the husk. The scribe thought he saw the corpse twitch, as the mummified being's skin began to take on a living presence. A moan escaped from the withered body.
“Utre, look –“
Utre stared at the being that had started to stir to life.
“Bleed on it then. Give it life with your blood!”
“Are you mad?”
Utre's taloned hand flashed out, slashing the scribe's arm, his blood dripped down upon the withered being.
“This takes too long, scribe,” said Utre. He pushed the scribe aside, began pouring a canteen of water over the body, reciting his own Trollian prayer, as he stood astride the withered body. Then, using his own talons, he opened up his own arm, and allowed his blood to mix with the water.
The mongrel howled.
*
They made a fire within the cavern. Utre hunted the cavern creatures bringing back food and water from an underground spring, while they waited for the withered body to continue its restoration.
The scribe moistened the lips of the small being, as they parted to receive the life-giving liquid.
Utre paced the cave, impatient to leave. But to go where, thought the scribe. Down further into the belly of the Tor, back to the surface. Everything seemed to lead to dead ends.
*
“No, not again,” said the now living being, looking around the cavern in stunned disbelief.
“Yes, you live,” said the scribe.
“No, no, not again.”
*
It took four endless nights before the small man raised himself on wobbly legs, supported by the scribe. “There,” he pointed to the cavern wall, “There is the entrance to the Valley of Fire.”
“There is nothing there but rock. Come let's leave this place. It was your tomb,” said the scribe, trying to comfort the obviously confused man.
“I cannot leave. The bars hold me in.”
“No, we passed right through them. They are an illusion, nothing more.”
They gathered the tiny man underneath his arms and went forward towards the cavern entrance. A hum of power sounded, and the bars of imprisonment went up. Utre swung his war hammer towards the mystical bars, but this time they held.
“We're trapped,” said Utre, “Kill that miserable being and the cavern will let us go, scribe. He's cursed.”
“There, in the valley, is where I saw Accundus,” mumbled the unknown man, obviously still delirious. He pointed towards the darkened walls of the cavern. The scribe held the Eye of the Quest before him. A beam of light shot out and seemed to melt the walls of the cavern away, revealing yet another dimension. A lush valley appeared before them.
They gathered up the man, carried him out into the valley floor. They stopped at a running stream, followed it downriver. It leads them to another cavern. And there the beam of the Eye blinked to a close.
The tiny man collapsed in the scribe's arms and slipped into delirium.
*
“Thank you. I owe you my life. I am forever indebted. My name is Ebon Grupe –“
“Ebon Grupe?” gasped the scribe. “Ebon Grupe died thousands of years ago. He failed the entire world. He disgraced the Society of Dragon Slayers. Surely, you cannot be Ebon Grupe. Pick a better name to go under.”
“I am he. How can that be? I have never failed in my duties. I am a Dragon Slayer, much honored in my village,” declared Grupe.
“Your people are no more. They fled into the mountains -- because of your deeds -- they were hunted down, fleeing to parts unknown,” said the scribe, as a matter of ancient history. You must be delusional.”
“Why was I cursed so?” asked Ebon.
“You failed to return the soul-stones of your comrades to the Pool of Life. Thus, you and yours were cursed. For now the Dragon-Gods rule.” But the scribe was perplexed. Only those in the Scribal Priesthood knew the ancient tale of how the Dragon-Gods had punished a man called Ebon Grupe; how he had been cursed to wander the world, forever, friendless.
“It is not so,” said Ebon Grupe, “Their soul-stones are still with me.”
Ebon Grupe held forth a knife that had lay hidden beneath his tattered clothes. “See, here they are,” said Ebon, unscrewing the knife's handle, allowing ancient soul stones to tumble into his open hand.
“I was captured by the Dragon Accundus. He held me prisoner in the cavern. And then I saw it … it was horrible … a crystalline mist seemed to form within this very valley. It was massive. My eyes burned from the sight of it. I thought I was going mad. It coalesced into a giant dragon – bigger than any dragon you have ever seen, as big as a mountain, I tell you.”
“He's a madman, scribe,” snarled Utre. “Ignore him. Let us be on our way.
“Go on,” said the scribe, “I'll inscribe what you say into this Stone of Truth,” said the scribe, producing a bloodstone from within his pouch of gems. “Speak the truth of your tale or this stone will burn through your hand,” said the scribe as he placed the bloodstone within the hand of the man called Ebon Grupe.
“I have no fear,” said Ebon Grupe, as he told his tale, unheard of in the annals of the scribal priesthood.
“Accundus bowed down in front of this crystalline cloud, grunting in a language that I had never heard before, if it was even a language. I don't know. I doubt I was meant to hear or see what I was witnessing. The mist formed into that of a Dragon-God. Not like anything I have ever seen before – a true God – or something beyond my understanding – not like a living being – something different.
“Accundus made an offering of soul-stones. And this mist … this Dragon-God ate them. I heard the moans coming from the stones, begging not to be consumed. The Dragon-God ate and ate. It pointed to me. Accundus nodded. He came to the cavern where you found me, demanded that I go forth and sing his praise and that of the Dragon-Gods.”
*
The tiny man woke, his mind still blank, remembering nothing of his delusion.
*
The mongrel howled and raced into the cave.
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