by Ulff Lehmann
“Danthair,” the boy said. “I understand things!” he declared, his small chest filling with pride.
Knowing the little Librarian could not see his features, Lloreanthoran allowed himself a smile. So, the Chief Librarian had sent his replacement to escort him to the temple. “I am certain you do,” he said.
“Shall we?” Despite his apparent youth, Danthair exuded the authority of a well-learned sage.
“Certainly.” Taking one more look at the massive pillar and stairs construction, Lloreanthoran followed his young guide across the plaza and into an even more shadowy side street which, he was informed, led right to the Temple of Traghnalach. They headed for the entrance, and he allowed himself a brief pause to marvel, for the first time in well over a century, at the simplicity of the construction.
Every wall was kept simple, no sculptures adored the plain pillars that held the overlapping roof, and in contrast to other human and elven temples no fresco or picture indicated that this was a house of worship; apart from one thing: a pair of hands holding an open book, the symbol of Traghnalach carved from the finest marble, rested on top of its flat roof.
They hurried through the entrance and Danthair pushed on, deeper inside. Lloreanthoran recalled the temple’s layout, and remembered they were heading to Chief Librarian’s room. It wasn’t. The chamber, he remembered as the administrative heart of the temple, had been turned into a scriptorium.
Through the open door Lloreanthoran saw a score of priests hunched over their writing desks, scribbling meticulously. As Danthair turned away from the room, the child glanced back at him, saw his obvious confusion, and smiled. “We changed it a few decades ago,” he explained. “Like the King himself declared that nobility must shoulder the common man, Chief Librarian Grannath decided to dedicate his office to recordkeeping; a smaller office suffices, he says.”
Had man surpassed their former masters in wisdom, Lloreanthoran wondered. Not that there was much wisdom in the elves of Gathran these days. He followed the young priest. They were now closing in on a very plain looking door. No ornament, not even a sign adorned the wood, and just before they arrived, it swung open, revealing an elderly man.
“I thought I would never see the likes of you again,” the man croaked, his voice parched from age far beyond that of any human he’d ever encountered.
He scrutinized the speaker, a huddled semblance of a man. Danthair sketched a quick bow and left. This had to be Chief Librarian Grannath. The priest’s age stunned Lloreanthoran. This man looked older than it seemed possible for a human. His skin was pallid, brittle, and appeared ready to break any moment. Despite his obvious ancientness, this human was still perceptive and aware of his environment, and he had most certainly discerned his origin, by his posture. “Who are you?” he asked, merely to confirm his assumption.
The old man chucked, “There, there, shouldn’t I ask who you are, elf?”
“How did you know what I am?”
“As if you didn’t already know the answer, pointy ears. You people move like no human ever could, and your haughty bearing is even more perfected than any of the lesser nobles, lesser human nobles that is.”
“So, who are you?” Lloreanthoran inquired again.
“Ah, ah. Now, aren’t you a great example for your race’s arrogance? You entered my home, so you answer my questions first.” The old man took a deep, rasping breath. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, who are you and what are you doing here? Especially the latter interests me, and while you’re at it tell me how you came from beyond the Veil of Dreams?”
The last question caused him to lose composure. “What?” he blurted out, not comprehending how a human could know about his people’s secret hiding place? Their refuge.
“Ah, now I’ve got your attention, eh?” the old man sniggered, then the look on his face turned thoughtful. “Hey, I do remember you, elf. You were the concerned one, the seeker as my old master called you. He used to make fun of you because you came here sometimes to unearth some knowledge your kinfolk didn’t know yet.”
The elven wizard became even more confused now. He had always prided himself on having an almost flawless memory, but this old man proved him wrong. He could not remember him.
“Lloreanthoran, correct? You’re Lloreanthoran.”
“Yes,” he mumbled, dumbfounded. “Yes, I am,” he said then, more forcefully, as to remind himself who he was. “And who are you?”
“You may, and I am Grannath, Chief Librarian,” the old man said, smiling an almost toothless grin. “And how may I help you, Lloreanthoran? On second thought, we shouldn't talk about whatever it is out here in the open, so please follow me.” He turned around and walked slowly into his office. Looking over his shoulder the Librarian found Lloreanthoran still standing at the same spot. “You’re going to grow roots if you keep standing there, and birds will nest in your mouth if you don’t shut it.”
Finally, he regained his senses and followed the wizened, old man, still pondering the revelations. Some humans knew about the elven refuge. Was his race threatened by this knowledge, or would this help him convince his brethren to leave their created home and return to Gathran? Maybe, this was just something Grannath knew because of his proximity to his god, and the old man had kept it to himself.
They were in a small room, its only furniture a huge table and several, cushioned chairs. “Have a seat, mage. It might not be much, compared to what you’re used to, but it is all you’ll get, so you might as well appreciate it, and from the look of your clothes you’ve been sleeping on the floor.”
Numbly, Lloreanthoran sat down on one of the chairs and looked at Grannath. “How is it that you still remember me? The last time I have been to the library was well two hundred years ago.”
“Ah, a good question, although not the most important one on your mind, but it’s easy to answer. When my master and predecessor died, I took over as High Priest and Chief Librarian, and Traghnalach blessed me by giving me more time to learn and help him guard and guide knowledge. And, well, here I am, a bit gray around the ears but still alive and doing what my god wanted me to do.” The old librarian smiled at him, making the elf fear that his brittle skin would finally be torn asunder under the stress. “Also, finding a successor is somewhat difficult.”
“I am here on a very important mission, and to accomplish it I need to know as much as possible about the Demon-War,” he said after a brief silence. “Forgive my abruptness on this, but if you knew what had transpired days ago, you’d understand my lack of interest in idle talk.”
“The Demon-War, eh?” the old man chuckled. “So, you elves finally want to pick up the pieces of the mess you left behind? A little late for that, but the time you choose to undo your mistakes isn’t of my concern. Before I start recounting the entire war and possibly wasting your time and mine, I would like you to be more specific about what you want to know.”
He concluded that the old librarian knew more about the hidden shame of the elves and his people than he had thought possible but this man was, after all, the High Priest of the God of Wisdom and Knowledge. His own information regarding the time of the Demon-War was slim, mainly based on what Bright-Eyes had told him and his own deductions, so it was best to ask for a short wrap up of the war before asking his specific questions. “I need to know what generally happened in the Demon-War, how it was started, and how it ended.”
Grannath looked at him for a moment and then closed his eyes. “The Demon-War, eh? Or shall we call it the elven initiated mess?” he chuckled. “Well, it all started with your people leaving Honas Graigh and the shattered remains of your kingdom to hide behind the Veil of Dreams, as you call it. You took almost everything with you, and the one thing you forgot, you had quite literally wanted to forget over the last few centuries.”
Grannath drew a deep breath and looked at Lloreanthoran shifting uncomfortably on his chair. “As it was, Chanastardh had invaded what was still standing of the three kingdoms Gathran, Dargh, and Janaga
st Shortly afterwards, those realms were given to Halmond of Greyrock who was crowned king of Danastaer, named after Halmond’s chief advisor Danachamain.”
Lloreanthoran flinched when he heard the familiar, nightmarish name, but Grannath ignored his unease and went on. “Danachamain, the little twit, wasn’t satisfied with the advent of a new kingdom, he wanted more. Knowledge, power, you name it, he wanted everything. And he suspected the key to all this lay in Honas Graigh.” The old man looked at him, and shook his head. “Ironic, isn’t it, you left the world because of the havoc humans had wrought and yet left the biggest danger behind.”
“The Tomes of Darkness,” Lloreanthoran whispered, even though he knew those vile books had been responsible for the demonic war, the fact that humans were aware of the elves’ failure, and that it wasn’t just one person’s or a certain group’s mistake, but the failings of the entire populace of Gathran, was almost too much for him to bear. “You humans must despise us,” he finally said.
“Oh, no, we don’t despise your kind, but most here, who never venture to other parts of the world, view the elves as a part of a past that should best remain that way.”
“But the Heir-War,” Lloreanthoran stuttered.
“Now this particular war was bad, but, you must understand, it was only a small group of humans who started it and this fraction has been obliterated; people didn’t have anyone left to blame. In the Demon-War case,” he muttered, his scrawny hands wiping across his face. “Well, let’s put it this way, you people unwittingly left the tools behind when you fled into your dream domain, and for those who know about it, which are still many, you are the initiators and cause of this war.” Grannath raised his hand before Lloreanthoran could intervene. “And even if you say that such things were never meant for human hands, one must ask oneself why you left it behind in the first place. Out of sight does not mean out of mind, at least not in case of the Tomes of Darkness and the Stone.”
It astonished Lloreanthoran to agree with this wizened human. At the time of his people’s Grand Departure, the scars and fears of the Heir-War had been too fresh and the horrors of what had happened had preoccupied the minds of every single elf. The Tomes of Darkness had, since they were stored in the Aerant C’lain, simply been forgotten. It was the elves’ mistake to leave them behind, far worse that his ancestors hadn’t destroyed those books after the initial contact with the realm of demons and the brief, but violent, battle that had ensued to force the demonic hordes back into their own lands after the Stone of Blood had opened the portal. The elves back then had believed all knowledge to be sacred.
“I… I have to… agree,” he finally said. “The books should never have survived into this age; we should have destroyed them a long time ago.”
“And risked that some foolish Phoenix Wizard started to dwell in the same area again?” Grannath asked mockingly. “Knowledge once discovered and retained is quite difficult to discover again, and if it is, the people who discovered it in the first place could halt any further destruction.” He smirked. “Well, that might be the ideal situation anyway, and today no one really bothers with such things anymore, especially your people. But your ancestors weren’t like that. The Aerant C’lain had two purposes, in case you didn’t know.”
Two purposes? Lloreanthoran became even more attentive.
“The first was to store those books and keep them from harm, or better yet, to keep anyone else from harm by not allowing anyone near them. The second, and this is the one everyone has forgotten about, was to prevent anyone from rediscovering the knowledge held within the Tomes of Darkness. Basically, that meant, should anyone discover the mysteries of the demonic again, the Aerant C’lain would smite this person down, well, not the building but the magic within the building’s structure.” Again, the old man grinned. “Astonishing that the elves of old weren’t the scheming misers we know, isn’t it?”
“But how could this Danachamain gain access to the Aerant C’lain when it would have slain him for rediscovering the knowledge?”
Grannath chuckled again, clapping his hands. “Now that’s an easy question to answer. The protections were for people discovering the knowledge through research, not for someone who read what elves had found out ages ago. Your ancestors foresaw a great many things, but not that their heirs would leave their ancestral homes. The Forbidden Chamber wasn’t sealed and it was not guarded against people entering; for all we know your forefathers wanted people to study the dangers in order to fight them. When you elves left, you left the biggest and most dangerous arsenal behind: The Tomes.”
“My people made a grave mistake, I know,” Lloreanthoran agreed. “And I am here to correct this error.”
“Well, good luck then,” Grannath snickered.
“You can spare me the sarcasm, before you is one elf who does care,” Lloreanthoran spat.
Leaning back in his chair, looking at him, Grannath sighed, “It’s sad to see that only one has the courage and sense of responsibility, even after almost a century, to actually come down here and try to clean up a mess his entire people are responsible for, don’t you think?”
“Who gave you the right to judge?”
“Oh, I don’t judge, I just state what should be going on in your mind as well,” Grannath replied calmly.
Hanging his head in resignation, he had to agree, his people had escaped the world so they weren’t forced to adapt to the changes the Heir-War had wrought. They still were the bickering, intrigue loving people they had been one hundred years ago. “You are right, my people’s values are twisted,” he finally said.
“But I am not here to give you a lesson on morals. You needed to know something specific,” Grannath said, changing the subject immediately. From being the teacher lecturing a helpless pupil he turned into the librarian ready to help one who searched for knowledge. “What do you need to know?”
“Are there remnants of Danachamain’s followers who might still roam the face of the world?” he asked, astonished at the speed the priest changed subjects, glad the lecture was over.
“I should think so, otherwise the Sons of Traksor would be foolish to stick around after all these years,” Grannath replied.
“You have no specific information in that regard?” Lloreanthoran leaned forward, folding his hands, looking anxiously at the High Priest.
“Before his death, Danachamain was given the power to hide his doings from the prying eyes of the gods, and thus even Traghnalach can't see what he or his followers were and might still be doing.”
“You mentioned the Sons of Traksor,” the wizard said. “Who are they?”
“Oh, that is easy to answer. Tral of the Royal House of Kassor, heir to the Kalduuhnean throne, had been exiled because of his love for a woman born a commoner and thus unsuited for marriage. He went into the wilderness of Gathran, taking the name Traksor, and lived there until the Demon-War. When the hordes of fiends stormed the lands, he was visited by Lesganagh and given a sword with the power to drive the demonic hordes back. He gathered many outlaws living in the woodland into a small warband that faced the demons, but it was he alone who sacrificed his life while defeating the mightiest of them, the Archdemon Turuuk, and thus winning the Demon-War. The remnants of his army formed an order, the Sons of Traksor, dedicated to countering any demonic moves in this part of the world. They are dedicated to Lesganagh, naturally, and are under his protection, as far as I know. If you seek more answers you might as well ask them.”
“Where can I find them?” the elf asked.
“They rule a fief that covers the northern reaches bordering to Danastaer, and their center of power is the Eye of Traksor; they pay their taxes duly and take good care of their villeins. If you have further questions you might as well ask them.” Grannath rose and smiled at him.
“Two more questions, your worship.”
“Yes?”
“How do you remember all this?”
“Oh, well, I remember everything. Why do you think I was chos
en as High Priest,” Grannath chuckled. “And the other?”
“Might I peruse the library? I would like to learn more about what has happened in the last century.”
“Certainly, what knowledge we may share is yours, wizard.”
Lloreanthoran bowed. “Thank you.”
“Now, off you go; I’ll find out if you succeed.”
To be continued in:
SHATTERED HOPES
Light in the Dark, Book 2