Chapter 3
The Scribe with No Name
by Daniel Olarnick
(Previous chapter's conclusion:)
Ebon glanced up at the sky, which had now turned into a
golden-gray. Storm clouds filled the valley; sounds of mystical
thunderbolts filled the air.
"One," Ebon shouted, as he propelled himself
up onto the top of the mountain, and froze in terror at
what he observed. The wizard, Zar Qu, stood transfixed,
as bolts of energy that had left his hands now radiated
back him, surrounding his body, rendering him immobile.
Accundus had countered Zar Qu's spell.
Accundus claw-like hand reached out and grasped Ebon about
his body, imprisoning him in a death-like grip, Ebon's magical
knife immobilized against his body, a useless weapon against
an invincible adversary.
A burst of flame shot forth from the dragon's gaping maw,
engulfing Zar-Qu and reducing him to ashes. Only Zar-Qu's
blazing death stone remained where the once mighty wizard
stood. Accundus reached down onto the smoldering remains
of the finest wizard Ebon had ever known, and plucked Zar
Qu's gleaming green death gem up, then flew off towards
the Mountains of Fire.
As Ebon lost consciousness he heard the dragon telepathically
cry out, "Victory!"
***
"Is it that time, already?" asked Fallows, the
head scribal priest, of his second-in-command, Gazine.
"Yes, sadly it is," replied Gazine.
"And the accursed one, is he prepared?"
"Of course, your eminence. He has been groomed for
this quest since he was brought here," said Gazine,
reassuring Fallows.
"Groomed for failure," sighed Fallows. "But
that is the way of the world, is it not," the High
Priest said, more of a pronouncement rather than a question.
"Yes, of course. But we lose nothing by sacrificing
the nameless one. He is but an experiment, a human, trained
in the ways of the scribal priesthood. A foolish attempt
at being benevolent."
"True. And it is a command from the Court of Moultrance.
Part of our tontine, so to speak." Agreed Fallows.
"A tontine?" gasped Gazine. "I didn't know
such a document existed between the Scribal Priesthood and
the Court of Moultrance."
"Well, when and if you assume my position, many things
will be revealed to you. Now bring the accursed one to my
chambers. I wish to have words with him."
"Yes, your Eminence," said Gazine, bowing his
head, as he backed out of the high priest's chambers. "When
and if" thought Gazine "There shall be
no if."
***
An unnamed scribe sat crossed-legged in the Cave of the
Shattered Stones. His eyes are closed, his mind open and
receptive. He listens and understands the tale a fractured
and accursed gemstone sings to him. Their song is of an
ancient time; of perhaps an ancient world or dimension that
seemingly can no longer exists, but its picture is vivid
in the mind of the scribe with no name.
The gemstone sang its sad refrain: "I should have
known better, but it was my desire, my wish to be witness
to the Armageddon, the ultimate battle between good and
evil!
Yes, I should have known better.
How this came about is difficult to say, but suffice
it to say, it has come about.
I find myself traveling through infinite space. I am
a passenger, amongst thousands of like souls, on a vessel
that is named, and rightly so, "The Infinity of Time."
It is a ship unlike anything that I have ever imagined.
I will not bore you with the details.
I am The Witness, The Scribe of this battle. These are
not titles that I have given unto myself, but titles that
have been bestowed upon me. By whom, I am forbidden to say,
but it was done.
The words force themselves into my now advanced and
altered mind: "Battle, victory, collective angelic
powers, triumphant prominence. "
The concept of triumph rings true to my thought process
-- if ever I have truly possessed a thought process.
Numbers pass in front of my eyes. Yes, I still have
eyes to see with, to help me delve into a process that a
mortal human mind can no longer understand, but they are
here:
666, the frightful number that we have been raised with;
the seven seals. I grasp the last seal, the one I so desired
and open it.
I should have known better.
Symbols that were so secretive in my youth flash through
my mind. They are crystal clear now. They should have remained
shrouded in mystery for all of man's existence: "The
Books of Daniel; The Revelation; The Beast; the Dragon;
The Kingdom of God; The Mark of the Beast; The Sickle, The
Sword, again, the Seven Seals, and, at last, Armageddon!
The horror is too much to comprehend. It is truly merciful
that I am no longer a mere fragile human.
It is a battle of men's souls or spiritual energy, of
horsemen, and their messengers, opposing forces, angels
of Michael and The Dragon.
Here I am, the Witness, the Scribe! I know I do not
belong among these soon-to-be legends, but I am forced to
remain, to stay, to witness, and to write of the events
as I see them unfold.
An "arrow" flashes through the air. It strikes
down one of the golden angels. I weep. How can this happen?
The Brazen Dragon appears. He is everywhere. His speed
is blinding. His bite is deadly. He swallows armies of angels
on both sides!
The Bottomless Pit appears.
The horror is incomprehensible. All is lost.
Then He appears. He is glorious in his majesty, in his
grandeur and splendor.
One of our chosen are selected.
I look down upon the valley. I have slain thousands
yet they continue to advance.
I am but The Scribe. How can I live while the true warriors
and heroes were slain? No mortal could possibly have survived.
Am I now immortal?
It is the moment of infinite reckoning. We are all intoxicated
with the doctrines, with pleasure, with our influence.
The judgment is pronounced: Surrender or perish!
There shall be only one survivor. His magnificent horns
are docked down to the skull; his tail is cropped; his wings
are clipped. He is made into the image of the Leader, the
great Accuser.
Now Final Judgment is at hand: " … You shall
have your worshippers … they shall be in your own image
… their sins shall be burned out of their minds with
this holy fire … you may be the fornicators you desired
to be…"
Our great leader's head is bloodied but unbowed. He
chants words that will start it all again, a never-ending
fable of deceit, as our minds are cleansed of all that has
been witnessed.
We hear the incantation, "In the Beginning…"
Then all is blank!
***
As Gazine watched the dimwitted human scribe, within the
Cave of Forgetfulness, he laughed aloud at the abject stupidity,
the uselessness of the intense concentration he witnessed,
as the living gemstones spun their apocrypha song. For untold
centuries the stones have sung their song, but no one -
and certainly not a mere human - has been able to hear or
see their message - or, at least remember it.
Pitiful scribe … shameful how he stares as the gemstones,
as if he actually could see their message…
"Scribe, awaken. High-Priest Fallows wishes to speak
to you," commanded Gazine, as he grabbed the young
man's shoulders, shaking him into wakefulness.
"I obey," said the scribe.
"Did you see anything?" asked Gazine, a statement
he made only because he was required to do by ancient ritual
- surely no mere human could have heard, much less seen
the past or, perhaps, the future.
"How could I see what you could not visualize?"
answered the scribe.
"Of course, you could not. You have no gem,"
mocked Gazine, poking his forefinger into the forehead of
the scribe. "After all, you are human and mortal -"
"Odan the Scribe was human -" said the scribe.
Gazine's hand flashed out, smacking the man-child. "That
name is forbidden!"
The scribe reeled backwards, his face smarting, tears welling
up in his eyes. "Yes, I beg forgiveness." Yet
an image passed before his eyes, a horrible image, that
he would seek vengeance, that he could hurt the man that
struck him.
"Forgiveness is granted," said Gazine, reluctantly.
"Come Fallows awaits you. You are to be - to be honored."
***
"Enter," commanded the headmaster --a bitter
taste of bile ran through Fallows' mouth as Gazine and the
scribe entered the chambers of the head scribe.
The secret chambers stood in the second tower of the scribal
priesthood's fortress of knowledge. The view of the distant
valleys filled the skies with a rich array of blues, gold,
white and blood red valleys. A magical golden waterfall
filled a mountain lake with its pools of liquid gold.
"I bring you the scribe," said Gazine, in his
most formal of tones, well aware that a scribal singing
stone was recording this moment for posterity. "He
was in the Cave of Forgetfulness, despite being unable to
understand the simplest of messages."
"And the stones, of course, revealed nothing to you,
young scribe," asked Fallows.
"I am a mere human, possessing no gem stone. If the
jeweled priests cannot interpret the songs, how could I?"
"True," sighed Fallows. "Now you are to
be honored. Twenty-five years ago, you were left in our
cavern doorway. Your time with us is at an end. You now
have to fulfill your duty. We have a quest for you. You
are to retrieve The Relic!"
"The Relic," gasped the scribe in astonishment,
his sense of honor at being asked to achieve the impossible.
A death quest the thought flashed through his mind
and then passed away, forgotten.
"And this scribal troll will accompany you,"
gestured Fallows, pointing to the corner of the scribal
library, housing a green-gray troll named Utre. "Should
you fail or attempt to flee from this honorable quest, once
in the outside world, he will kill you and dine on your
marrow. Am I understood?"
"Yes, my master. I am honored that you have chosen
me for so noble a quest."
"Do not fail us. And for the sake of the dragon-gods,
choose a damn name - and do not choose the name you are
not permitted to speak aloud of. Am I understood?"
"Did you know, in our library, there is a book called,
'The Care and Feeding of Dragons.' Strange, is it not, if
the gods created the Dragons in their own image."
Fallows hesitated. The scribe was irritating, even to the
point of being infuriating, but what can you expect from
a species of beings that were born without a gemstone within
their forehead.
Poor, pitiful imbeciles. he thought. I must control
my anger.
The scribe knelt down in the corner and introduced himself
to the troll. "I am told your name is Utre. I am the
scribe without name. You may call me, 'Scribe.' We shall
be the best of companions."
Art by Dan Mills
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