Sapling: The Broken Halls Read online

  A History of Artifacts: Ancient and Noble. Shien’s eyebrow raised slightly. He turned open the first pages to find small writing, occasional diagrams and facsimiles. The written words were both fluid and precise and the detail in the illustrations were impeccable. How he wished within his heart that he could have been at these Halls when they thrived and accepted all humble seekers of knowledge. Here, near the mountains’ heights, a man could truly learn about himself and the world. Now to stay here would surely mean an ignominious death.

  Sadly shaking his head, he closed the book slowly. As the young man approached the shelf to replace the volume, his heart was filled with respect for the chamber. He suddenly felt a thought enter his mind, an invitation to share in the knowledge around him. He chided the notion, “I am not a lowly thief. That is the reason the sentinels were here, and those bones were most likely the remains of looters. I would not dishonour the founders of these works by taking anything away from here.”

  The thought persisted; he was worthy to share the knowledge as a fellow academic and learned mind. Shien deliberated for many moments and at last conceded to the persuasive thought. What use was all this knowledge stored here in this cold dark grave for so many lifetimes to come? He would be able to learn from it and take that knowledge to the land, even pass it on. He breathed out slowly and looked all around at the endless treasures. He determined to take only two, for he could not carry much more, nor would he dare abuse the hospitality of the past masters.

  He shifted his stance and felt the stab of pain from his leg. There will be no climbing this day. He sighed, his selections would be significantly limited. He looked to where his hand rested and considered the book. ‘Certainly I have earned the right to this one for the trouble it caused' he thought ruefully. He placed it inside the pack.

  He took a moment carrying Isil as a bright white torch to peruse the rest of the floor. His gaze fell across a worn, almost dilapidated book on the lowest shelf. Laying Isil upon the shelf ledge he withdrew the book from the shelf and inspected it closely. There was no discernible title for it was long worn away. He opened the ragged cover and his eyes caught an inscription in the inside cover.

  Unfettering the Mind.

  Shien considered it for a moment and then placed it carefully in his pack. Moving the pack to his shoulder and recovering his original sword, he took up Isil and managed to locate his flint; however, the torch was gone, likely consumed in the conflict. Shien stole one last long look at a sight he would likely never see again in his lifetime. There was significant damage to the lower levels to which only he could be blamed. This was the price of meddling. Despite the destruction, the grandeur of the room was undiminished. Volume after volume pervaded far overhead until finally melding into shadow. He felt a strange sense of modesty overcome him and he bowed humbly to the walls within the chamber in honour of the past scholars.

  “Thank you. I shall remember your works. Tales shall be sung of the Lost Library of the Order.” Turning and holding Isil ahead, Shien hobbled slowly out of the chamber.

  “What a wondrous morning to scour the toilet cascades! Don’t gripe, Seeker, there are more challenging tasks in life. Take, for instance, when you must stand firm in the face of scathing false accusation. Can you stand alone, when all your friends turn into bitter enemies? Could you hold onto an ideal when it is dashed upon the rocks of doubt? Suddenly, the menial moments seem less daunting, don’t they? If such a time comes, plant the root - no, not that Root - the root deep within, that of courage and stalwart belief. You will not bend under the slings and arrows of detractors. Now as one! Scrub!”

  The Servant: Keeper of the Scepter of Power, Steward of Nexism

  Chores

  The Awakening

  THE ANCIENT TREE stood nobly amongst its younger offspring. Its aged form was gnarled and bent under the weight of countless years and seasons. It held the accumulated wisdom of the ages mystically within its lofty branches. Now in the Darkwood season, much of it was bare in anticipation of the snows that would be coming. Upon the rough bark exterior were the scars of many encounters with many of Mother’s creatures, both evil and benevolent. The magnificent oak bore those stripes and honours of the past as proof of its undying connection to the Mother of all that lived. No living soul knew how many seasons the tree had witnessed; it had always been there, for those who knew of its existence. So many journeys and many departings, the gnarled branches recalled them all. Mother's weaves entwined about the roots and brought forth a presence in the Darkwood encasement. So it was that it fulfilled its great role in the wild, the awakening of Mother’s servants.

  The journey through the woods had been ethereal and wondrous. The flowing dress of the mystical woman slid as a curtain of white around the trees. Firah might have followed her for countless hours, so enticing was the beauty of the strange guide. Now in her absence the girl was cast into a void of deepest black, far from any semblance of light. Darkness folded all around her upon the disappearance of the mystical woman.

  The wind blew her hair about her face and brushed across her face and arms. She stood before the ancient oak with a sense of uncertainty. She was hesitant to move for she was hopelessly lost within a labyrinth of shadows and sounds.

  Her eyes had adjusted as best they could as the night waned, with the slim crescent moon dipping lower on the horizon, and she could make out small details of the tree just in front of her. Still she resisted the urge to touch it, for something inside grew unsettled when she considered the marks of countless cycles before her. She knew with some strange wisdom that if she did such a thing, her life would change in a significant way. Slowly kneeling she rested at the base of the tree and wondered what to do.

  Firah thought about the last few weeks of her life. Everything had changed so suddenly, like the seasons upon the land. She had been content to live off of the streets of Lenhir indefinitely. Then her dreams came. Nothing had consumed her thoughts like the shadows which began haunting her dreams. Strangely, while she was repulsed by the overwhelming shadows at first, she noted that she no longer ran from them. Rather, she longed to be part of them. The strange animal that stalked her dreams no longer came to rescue her from the brink of despair. Now she was always alone. It was as if she was losing a part of her soul each time.

  More unusual were the strange desires that leapt up inside her mind at that very moment. These feelings were as unfamiliar and perplexing as the dreams had been. Also, it was difficult to determine when she started to experience the hunger, but it came after the battle between the White Guard and their foe. Ever since, from deep within, she felt a longing to be somewhere other than this place. Something was beckoning her, just like the dazzling woman had except it was a dark, lustful desire. She could feel where it was that she needed to go, and yet she had no foreknowledge of the place. It was more a pull in a direction than a destination. Her mind ached painfully from the conflicting logic; it was simple reason versus consuming desire. The strange conflict made her mind swim dizzily and she lay down upon the comforting, grassy bed at the foot of the tree. She rolled upon her back while grasping her lithe body for warmth.

  Firah brushed a hand across her face and removed the dark locks of hair that impeded her vision of the sky. She felt comfort in those stars, steady and constant. She could think of nothing now, as her memory seemed to slip away from her like a breeze across her face. Her eyes blinked and small tears formed at the corners, gently flowing down the sides of her cheeks. She was not sad or filled with despair. It was a strange thing. Perhaps the wind was causing them to water.

  The girl’s tears dripped upon the roots of the tree like thin sap. Where the drops landed, there echoed a mystical peal. She could hear it, like the clear tones of the chimes that hung from her porch in Lenhir wood. The chimes mingled and grew, and as she looked upward, she could see a sparkling of lights within the branches of the tree. The glimmering seemed to run all through the tree and down the twisted trunk. She blinked again as if t
o dispel the effect that mesmerized her mind. She turned and rested an arm under her head next to a large root. Slowly, her other arm stretched out toward the tree. Her fingers brushed lightly against the still bark, causing a strange tingling in her fingertips. Her eyes began to close as the gleams of the branches lay imprinted upon her eyes. Gently, she was carried away with the memories of the ancient tree. Thousands of moments in time floated like the Darkwood leaves through the glade.

  The battle was waxing sore. High atop the last defense wall, Alay’sh cursed as the bane of all civilization, the wretched Hyrlacs, swarmed over the outer defense perimeter. The sturdy warrior had watched as her homeland slowly slipped under the unending wave of these merciless creatures. They were a strange breed, twisted and corrupt. They tore the innocent and vile apart equally without as much as a thought of mercy. They were also intelligent; there was little doubt of that.

  Weighing upon the commander’s mind was the fate of her daughter Kor’rynn. She had sent her away with a Sentry of Six just before the capital was overrun. She had no way to know if she had escaped the tide which swept undeterred over their nation. It was all Alay’sh could do to maintain her center and focus upon her task.

  She had been sent upon many skirmishes against them and been outmanoeuvred by the battle-crazed abominations each time. She watched as comrade after comrade fell under the biting sting of their lashing tendrils flowing down their spines. The attack was devastating, as they literally whipped about and the naturally razor-sharp cords that flowed along their nimble but wiry bodies sliced flesh from steel. There was no explanation why armor was insufficient against their brutal attacks. Yet, Alay’sh had seen so many of her kind fall to the Hyrlac breed and their dance of death. She gnashed her teeth in anger and frustration. She replaced her wing-crested helm, feeling the weight of the gleaming Deepstone metal upon her shoulders. It was the weight of a failing nation.

  “Load the last ballista!” she roared at her squad. Liquid fire was hurriedly poured into the narrow shaft that would be ignited and explode upon impact. At least the strange substance was something that seemed to hurt them. They had set the creatures’ cursed woodlands aflame to burn them out, which only seemed to infuriate the already merciless beasts. The Firelords were slick in sweat and the splashing of liquid fire. Strange twisting skin-art snaked upward from their feet to the tips of their fingers. Truly they were a force to be reckoned with. Every one of them moved with such efficiency, as they had all battle, acting as one mind. Here upon the inner defence wall, they had performed to perfection. Indeed, all of the ballista units were honed to deadly and precise ability.

  She looked on in pride to the last remaining squad. Some of them had taken grievous wounds in previous assaults, yet the squad bore its burdens without question or complaint. The rest of their house lay fallen and scattered upon the high ledges of the defence wall. Their demise was at the hands of the other deadly attack of the enemy below, the terrifying black rain. The source was great lumbering beasts, akin to their smaller counterparts, flinging their black spines in the thousands across wide swinging arcs upon the Symian defence. ‘Spiners’ they were called. Thousands of arrow shafts paled in comparison to the deadly force and penetration of the needle like spines. She looked to the wall below as a hefty red cartridge was set within the launch channel of the ballista. The stone fortifications were riddled with black spiny blades, embedded firmly by the force of attack. Alas, the Firelords fell prey to their one weakness. They could not afford the boon of armour, in order to move as swiftly as they did. They were agile and deadly hand to hand combatants but the enemy did not even afford them the dignity of melee combat. They had been slaughtered indiscriminately upon the wall while the enemy plodded far away. It was infuriating to the proud woman of war.

  “Ballista ready!” the Firelords shouted in unison. Alay’sh grabbed the handles of the death machine roughly and brought the sites to bear upon one of the closing Spiners. The ballista floated upon its support with ease and she soon locked in the target. Stepping back quickly, she raised her arm. The Firelords slipped seamlessly into position to fire the weapon.

  “Release!” The woman’s voice sang out. One of the squad raised his arms heavenward and made the sound of calling. The mantra of burning … it would be a swift and impressive display.

  “Huhhhhhh.” The sound came low and quick from within the Firelord’s belly. The ballista charge was launched with a loud cracking sound as the engine recoiled against its supports. At once, great twisting flames coursed from the skies and wrapped around the waiting arms of the Firelord. He flexed the arms backward and then cast the flames toward the flying ornate cartridge. The flames danced through the air in a heartbeat, faster than the eye could detect. The red gilded cylinder met with the flames and ‘spiner’ tissue in a great conflagration of heat and ash. It made Alay’sh’s stout heart flutter as the fire plumed majestically and rolled across the open ground, sweeping aside the cursed Hyrlacs in its path. The ground was quite scorched from earlier exchanges. When the wind cleared the smoke, there remained naught but smears of black tar upon the ground. Alay’sh raised her spiked gauntlet to the sky and roared with great fervour. The heads of the Firelords were bowed in deep respect to their gods of fire and flesh. In that one moment, the warrior’s heart swelled with pride for her homeland. Even here, pushed to the last haven and with the winds of the sea upon her back, her heart was moved with a love for her land.

  “Black rain! Black rain!” She heard a distant sentry cry out. Cursing in her mother tongue, she barked orders knowing they were in vain. The Firelords were stubborn to a fault. They would never abandon their posts. She watched in great sadness as the whipping razors sliced over their resolute forms. For many moments she could not see anything but blackness. In her ears echoed the sound of great rushing water, even as she grasped the wall while blocking the eyelets to her helm. The sheer weight of the onslaught nearly carried her over the brink, yet she clung to the stone. It was her land … her mantle.

  As the last of the needles pinged off her battered armour she unveiled her eyes to see the flank of Hyrlacs burst from the forest near the wall. She stepped over the bodies of her dead squad and moved to check the enemy advance. The last rush of black rain had destroyed the guard at the ramparts. The enemy would soon gain the wall.

  Alay’sh breathed in deeply, and gently leaning her head back she closed her eyes. How she wished that she could see Shai’ur again, and see the green fields of the Tur’ym homestead. It was set high upon the north range and caught the sun as it set low into the deep. She had watched countless sunsets with him; making secret vows with whispered breaths. His body was not far away, buried under the carnage of war. Her daughter could not have survived such madness.

  Alay’sh supressed a sudden tremor within her breast. The feeling lashed out at her resolve, striving to be born in the cries of anguish and despair. She slammed her gauntleted hand down hard upon the stone, crushing the unwelcome emotion. Her Symian defenses would hold at least against the forces within. Soon, all things would pass as the waves upon the near shore.

  She gripped the massive winged hilt of the Royal blade of the Symian First Circle. It felt comforting in her grasp. Sliding it slowly from the scabbard, it glistened in the low setting sun. The end had come and all there was left was the comforting moments of combat.

  Slowly, she took long measured strides across the wall, past downed comrades and endless black needles that snapped under Deepstone sabatons. The shredded token of House Tur’ym of the First Circle, Winged Llian of Light, fluttered from her armoured shoulders. Long flowing golden hair tussled about her helm in the dying breeze.

  She began to sing the haunting melody of her land as the twisting dark forms gained the wall. She turned to not see the remainder of the Symian guard buckle below. Hoisting the great blade high overhead she sang the dirge of her country. Slaughtered to the last woman.

  Firah’s spirit wept for the woman even as the memory faded and
the wall and combatants flowed into mist. She felt completely weightless upon the winds of memory and streaks of rain fell from her mystical eyes. Why? Why had she been shown this terrible, awful scene of suffering? Was not the onslaught of the demon Ahtol enough? Now she had to watch the ending of a great people to mindless creatures of hate. She had watched as they tore the men and women apart … creatures of rage with no thought of compassion. She wept for Sym and its entire people … for Alay’sh.

  She felt drawn again upon the winds of memory, diving down and down toward the misted land and the green lush floor that lay upon it.

  The rift pool was still and the spirits rested quietly within. All was green and lush around her.

  She ran a taloned appendage down her back to preen her flowing mane. Without care, the tendrils would fray and break and at her age, personal grooming was always a priority. At least for her, maintaining the long filaments had always been for beauty, not for war. Niive dipped her head sadly and glanced about. The others had not arrived, and time was short. Within the sacred wood, the Hyrlac Sage sat and gazed upon her reflection. Shimmering silver eyes stared back at her. She quietly pondered upon the great mystery. It was a problem which every Hyrlac considered in quiet reflection. Where did the Hyrlac go after the passing? Only the spirits knew and they jealously guarded their secrets. The Sage had dwelt upon these things more often than usual recently. She had seen so many depart in the Great War.