Startled, Lynol turned toward her father’s voice, embarrassed and irritated, realizing more time than she thought had elapsed. She had been replaying the events from earlier over and over in her mind, particularly what had occurred at the Sylvar Stone, trying to make sense of what had happened. Her mind was full of questions; most, she knew, would remain unanswered.
“I was just wondering why no one believes in Malcon and Gilmreth anymore,” replied Lynol, rising to get a sharp knife from the cabinet to cut the cheese and bread.
“It has been many years since Malcon’s time, Lynol,” Damon replied patiently, taking his seat and watching as Lynol expertly cut the cheese and bread into slices.
He let his eyes rest on Lynol; she was so young and reminded him so much of his wife. He wished she were here to help guide Lynol through this troubled time. He could well remember what it had been like to be a teenager; being a Sylvar made it even harder.
“Even in the village library there is no mention of either. It’s almost as if all the records of that time were carefully removed and erased from our history. How can events so significant and heroic not be written down? I don’t understand,” spoke Lynol, frowning. She sat back down across from her father, trying to mask her anxiety and sound light and casual. She knew she wasn’t succeeding very well.
Lynol took up her spoon in her right hand and took a cautious bite of the stew. She closed her eyes briefly, enjoying the different tastes that rolled across her tongue. She took a small bite of bread followed by some of the flavorful cheese, then shifted her gaze back to her father.
-
Damon looked at his daughter with tender understanding. There was much of the family history that was normally passed down from father to son and had been for untold generations. Damon’s father had passed on the secret family history to him during many long winter evenings in front of the warming flames of the fireplace in this very house. His father would tell a story, and then Damon would repeat it back carefully word for word. It was then that Damon learned fully of the awesome responsibility of the Sylvars, a responsibility that Lynol knew a little about, but not everything, for there was much he hadn’t told her.
There was a lot of knowledge about the Sylvars that Lynol didn’t know, that he had protected her from finding out. One thousand years was a long time. That was how long since sorcery of any consequence had existed. He knew that even Lynol sometimes had a hard time fully believing some of the stories he told her; he could see it in her eyes. He could also spot the small glimmer of doubt and the questions she wanted to ask. The stories seemed so fantastic even Damon sometimes wondered if, over the years, they might have been embellished somewhat as they were handed down from generation to generation.
Damon had always planned to pass his knowledge down to his son, but his wife had died two short years after Lynol was born. Kathryn had fallen victim to a deadly burning fever, which had swept uncontrolled through the village and surrounding countryside. The fever had taken many precious lives before the healers found a cure. His wife’s body, along with so many others, had been burned to stop the spread of the deadly plague. There wasn’t even a grave to mark the passing of his beloved wife. Scarcely a day passed that Damon didn’t think about Kathryn. It had been difficult raising Lynol without her mother.
Lynol reminded him so much of Kathryn. As Lynol had gotten older, the resemblance between the two had become uncanny. He hesitated, paralyzed by indecision. For several months now, the thought had been weighing heavily on his mind about the secret family history. It was already far past the time for the teachings to have begun. He knew that since he had no son, Lynol would have to bear the responsibility that was normally the obligation of the oldest son in the Sylvar family.
He knew why there were no books or references in the village library about those dangerous, ancient times. The Sylvar family had taken meticulous care in the distant past to remove all mention of those events from Galvin and all the other neighboring villages' libraries. That knowledge could have been catastrophically dangerous in the wrong hands.
Possibly, on the far side of the mountain, a few scattered forgotten books and scrolls may have managed to survive the methodical searches of the past. If so, Damon wasn’t aware of any, and no one else in the Sylvar family had ever become aware of such.
Damon toyed with his food, his appetite waning slightly. He took a bite of bread and cheese and washed it down with some cool water as his mind raced. The absence of all the books and scrolls was another reason why it was so difficult for people to accept the story of Malcon and Gilmreth. Damon knew that Lynol had searched intensely for them, but he had also known she wouldn’t find anything.
Damon was aware that Lynol was remarkably different from other girls her own age. He suspected that some of Malcon Sylvar’s ancient gifts might have reappeared in his young highly spirited daughter. He had secretly watched her antics with the animals and the faraway look she would get when she was interacting with them. From what he had been taught, this was one of the early signs of sorcery, the ability to interact with wild animals, particularly with birds and the smaller animals.
This was the first occurrence of sorcery since the legendary age of Malcon himself. The family had been watchful for these signs for generations knowing what it might signal, the danger it might imply. It was believed Malcon himself had done something to restrict sorcery. One of the prophecies said that only with the awakening of Gilmreth would sorcery reappear. The ancient prophecies and teachings were meant to prepare the coming Sylvar sorceress for that dangerous event.
If he was right about his daughter’s fledgling powers, then it could indeed be time for Gilmreth to awaken. It would certainly explain all the rumbling coming from the mountain, and it might be time for the Sylvar family to take up that awful burden, the dreaded responsibility for Gilmreth, which was part of the Sylvar legacy.
He knew no other Sylvar for generations had shown any signs of possessing the old power. Why Lynol; why now? He wondered worriedly, fearing with all his heart the future that might be waiting for his only daughter. How could this innocent child be expected to face Gilmreth?
Malcon Sylvar himself had died putting the great dragon to sleep. Malcon had been the greatest sorcerer the Sylvar family had ever produced in its long, colorful history. For weeks now, Damon’s apprehension had been slowly growing. Since the mountain started rumbling, he had tried to repudiate in his mind what he feared was the inescapable truth. Was his young daughter the powerful sorceress spoken of in the ancient family prophecies?
He found the thought frightening, the danger that Lynol would be in, the danger they all would be in if the dragon was indeed awakening. He shifted his weight uneasily in his chair, weighing his decision as he forced himself to eat several more spoonfuls of the flavorful stew.
Damon had been pondering this moment for weeks and struggling with the decision that he knew must be made. Damon understood from the ancient teachings what must be done. There could be no chances taken where Gilmreth was involved. The risk was too great! The ancient teachings were extremely explicit. It was what all the Sylvars for generations had been watching for, had been waiting for. It was their destiny as put forth by Malcon Sylvar himself and the ancient sorcerers before him.
-
“What are you thinking about, Father?” Lynol asked in her soft, contralto voice, seeing the pained distant look on her father’s weather beaten face. Had she done something wrong; had her questions upset her father?
Lynol had already eaten about half of her stew and was beginning to feel full. They had always been very close, and her father had always been extremely protective. She seldom left the farm without him accompanying her, unless it was to the Gors who were their closest neighbor. Whatever was bothering her father, she wanted to hear it. Perhaps she could put him at ease.
“It’s time to continue your education in another direction,” Damon said slowly, taking a bite of bread, eying her through strained eyes,
and wishing that what he suspected wasn’t true.
This was the family legacy, their heritage, what he had sworn to uphold, as had every Sylvar before him since the ancient time of Malcon. He could be wrong, and he hoped that he was, but he dare not take the chance. Lynol’s young life, as well as numerous others, might depend upon it. He felt the weight of countless generations settle heavily upon his shoulders.
Lynol shook her head, feeling confused. “I don’t understand. We can’t afford for me to go to one of the larger towns to continue my education, the distance is just too great. There’s too much for me to do around here helping you with the farm.”
Their farm was the most productive farm in the Galvin community. It took her father and her many long, arduous hours each day to complete all the chores the farm required. Many days they worked nearly nonstop from dawn until dusk to complete all the work. The Sylvar land extended unobstructed to the very base of Firestorm Mountain itself, although presently only that land in the immediate vicinity of their home was fertile enough to grow crops and furnish feed for their animals.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” Damon replied with a heavy sigh.
Damon laid down his spoon and pushed the half-eaten bowl of stew away, his appetite momentarily forgotten. Taking a moment, he stared out the window at the old mountain, which was now nearly hidden in shadows as the darkness began to cover its slopes and what he knew lay waiting ominously beneath. Silently, he swore to himself that Gilmreth would never have his daughter; damn their heritage anyway! He was familiar with what the prophecies foretold about the awakening of Gilmreth and what lay in store for Lynol, if she was indeed the sorceress of which the prophecies spoke.
Damon motioned for Lynol to stay seated. “There are many things you don’t understand about Malcon and Gilmreth that I’ve never spoken of,” Damon began, slowly. He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“I don’t understand,” Lynol said. She wondered with growing curiosity what her father was trying to say. She thought he had told her nearly everything he knew about Malcon and Gilmreth. Why was her father telling her this now?
“When Malcon Sylvar put Gilmreth to sleep, much of the countryside for hundreds of miles around had been laid to waste from years of ceaseless depredations from the dragon. Many villages and towns had been destroyed, and their people driven out to hide in the countryside, living in constant fear of the dragon. The soil, poisoned from his fiery foul breath, would no longer raise crops,” Damon spoke softly, his brows wrinkling in memory, going over the part of the legend that Lynol already knew.
Lynol was quiet, listening to her father, and her breathing had quickened as she waited for him to continue. She wondered what he was trying to tell her.
“Even much of our own land near the mountain was poisoned, no longer suitable to farm,” Damon continued, taking a deep breath. “Plants that grew there were misshapen, and the animals that ventured there for any length of time sickened and died.” Pausing, he considered carefully what he was about to say. Mentally fortifying himself, he looked at Lynol. She was so young, so innocent; he hated laying this heavy burden upon her shoulders.
“Some of this you have told me before,” responded Lynol, listening carefully to her father’s words. “Gilmreth and his fiery breath was a scourge to everything it touched.”
“Yes, but I haven’t told you everything; there is much more,” Damon said, his dark brown eyes looking into his daughter’s light blue ones.
Lynol held her breath and her pulse quickened. Her father had captured her imagination and intrigued her. What was he about to say? She had suspected her father knew more about Gilmreth and the Sylvar sorcerers than he had let on. He had taught her only a few of the old stories and legends. When she had inquired if there were more, he had smiled in that fatherly fashion and told her that she would have to wait until she was older. She looked at him inquisitively. Was he also worried about the rumblings from the mountain?
“What no one knew, but Malcon strongly suspected and had kept secret for years, was that Gilmreth drew the bulk of his power from the young girls he fed upon,” said Damon hesitatingly, knowing that once he began he wouldn’t be able to stop. Lynol’s insatiable curiosity wouldn’t allow it.
“Young girls? I don’t understand,” Lynol interrupted, feeling confused.
“Let me explain it better,” replied Damon, feeling acutely uneasy about what he was about to reveal to Lynol. “Perhaps it was their very souls that he tore from their defenseless bodies. Others said it was only the blood of his victims that he craved. While the dragon would feed upon any human that he found, he continuously took young, innocent girls to feed upon whenever possible. The villagers and townspeople of that time finally realized this, much to Malcon’s dismay. They began to take several young virgin girls regularly to the sacrificial rock at the base of the mountain and leave them there for Gilmreth.”
“They did what?” Lynol asked, shocked at this revelation, her eyes growing wide in disbelief. She couldn’t believe what her father had just said. Surely she had misunderstood!
“It’s true. They sacrificed young, innocent girls to the dragon,” Damon said, carefully choosing his words. “The life force or power the dragon drained from these young girls was so strong that the dragon would fall into an intoxicated stupor in his lair for weeks.”
“That’s horrible!” Lynol said, the words barely escaping her mouth. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“The villagers believed they were feeding the dragon his preferred food of choice, that it was the young girl’s youthful flesh and blood the dragon so craved,” Damon spoke, shaking his head sadly. “The dragon would stay in his lair for weeks, sometimes for months, until the affects of his feeding began to diminish, rekindling his hunger and driving him out to seek more innocent victims.”
Lynol was staring at her father, her mouth open in astonishment and consternation. She was nearly speechless.
“Why haven’t I heard of this before?” Lynol asked horrified at the unspeakable terror of human sacrifice her father was describing. She began to understand the distress in her father’s eyes.
Lynol had heard rumors of a sacrificial rock at the base of Firestorm Mountain, but she had never actually believed them. Human sacrifice of young girls; just the thought angered Lynol as she realized what Gilmreth had driven the ancient villagers to do. She wondered what else had been hidden from her; what else her father had failed to tell her.
“Then the stories of the sacrificial rock are true, girls were taken there to be sacrificed to the dragon?” Lynol spoke, her face a mask of anger at what had been done to appease Gilmreth. “How could the villagers do such a thing, sacrifice their own daughters?”
She couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to live back in those times. What the chosen families must have gone through when their daughters were taken for the sacrifice. She shuddered at just the thought. The room seemed much colder than it had just a few minutes earlier.
Damon’s brow furrowed, and he gazed at the top of the table, slowly shaking his head. This was a story he had hoped he would never have to tell Lynol. However, with the rumbling coming from the mountain, he knew that he had no choice. He raised his eyes and looked into Lynol’s light blue eyes, seeing the anger and shock there.
“We Sylvars tried to play down the story over the years just in case the sacrificial rock was ever discovered,” spoke Damon, pausing to take a long drink of water, and then continued. “The horror of what happened at the altar was so deeply entrenched that to hide its secret entirely would have been next to impossible, particularly during the early years. As to why, it was a desperate and dangerous time, Lynol. People will do the unspeakable if their minds are clouded by fear and it means their continued survival.”
“This was all Gilmreth’s fault!” Lynol blurted out, shaking her head in disbelief, her stomach queasy as she thought about the sacrifices. She took a deep breath and a sip of water and
looked back at her father.
“Yes,” Damon replied in a pained voice. “They felt in order to survive, they had no choice. It was a very desperate and horrible time to live in. The dragon was killing people by the hundreds; some of the legends say by the thousands. Distressed people will often resort to actions that most sane people would find utterly unacceptable in normal times, just to survive. By resorting to the sacrifices, they managed to control the depredations of the dragon. The villages and towns were no longer attacked. The people began to live normal lives again, except for the occasional sacrifices that were being made to the dragon. They found a way to survive.”
“Kalvin claimed there were human sacrifices to Gilmreth long ago,” murmured Lynol, remembering their conversation from several months back and feeling revulsion at what had been done. “I didn’t believe him. I thought he was just making it all up to scare Dresdia and me.” Lynol remembered scoffing at Kalvin, telling him that people wouldn’t do such a horrible thing. She realized now just how naïve she had been.
“Some of the Sylvar history is only passed down from father to son; it has been so through countless generations,” explained Damon, looking into Lynol’s questioning eyes. “The family dared not write anything down lest the records ever be discovered. Since I have no son, the knowledge I have will be passed on to you and from you to your son someday.”
Lynol was staring at him, her eyes wide in surprise, and her mind racing, realizing that her father might have the answers to many of her unanswered questions. Wanting him to continue, she looked at him expectantly. She leaned forward, her arms resting on the table, an air of expectation filling the room, her half-eaten bowl of stew forgotten. At last she was about to find out more, perhaps even a precious clue about her fledgling abilities; maybe her father knew where some books on sorcery or the Sylvar sorcerers might be.
Gilmreth the Awakening Page 4