Brother Richard opened his eyes with a start, realising he had been lingering too long thinking of those days. It seemed that he was always destined to lose the power given to him: the role of a Bearer, the power of a magical wish, a congregation that revered him, his beautiful church on Stratholme. Well this time it was going to be different. Marcus had a power he was incapable of using, a power that was languishing somewhere in this room. As the only senior figure from the order, it fell to Richard to liberate the tome and restore the blessed religious icon to its former glory.
He pulled himself back to his feet and looked around the cabin once again; trying to get into the mind of the youth that he was spending so much time with, a mind he had spent so long trying to impart knowledge and insight to. Prayer beads suspended from a hook in the wall gently rolled backwards and forwards to the lulling movement of the galleon, their hand polished surfaces testament to the dedication of Marcus to his religion. The sound was almost hypnotic, slide, bump, slide, bump; Richard turned away and then stopped. Why did the beads bump?
The priest moved closer, watching the beads roll and then jump, as if bouncing out from a depression in the wood. He pushed the jewellery aside, running his finger across the depression before pressing down hard into the worn knot in the plank. Could it be this easy? Secretly in his heart, he hoped it was so. The wooden panel squeaked loudly in protest then popped out, revealing a dark space hidden behind.
Richard’s heart rate quickened as he blindly reached inside, not daring to believe he had been so successful, only to snatch his hand back in pain as an electrical shock burnt his probing fingers. He sucked angrily at his singed skin then scooted up his robe to cover his hand as he delved into the shadows, this time successfully bringing Marcus’s prized book out into the open. He lay the volume down with reverence on top of the bunk and took a moment to take in the battered tome. The book had clearly seen better days, the blue cover scuffed and stained, the imprint of the monk and knights travelling across the leather surface now ingrained with dirt and grease. The locking clasps encircling the volume appeared tarnished and at one lock, there appeared to be a deep scratch as if someone had tried to tamper with the mechanism.
The priest tutted to himself; his eyes moist with tears at seeing the beautiful book mistreated in this way, it was a desecration of the worst kind. All books impart knowledge to the reader and as such, they deserved treatment of the utmost respect. Marcus clearly appeared to show no respect to the magical gift bestowed upon him. Indeed, whenever Richard had pushed Marcus to use his powers to control the volume, he had regarded the book with unmistakeable fear and loathing. The priest knew all too well the beauty and power this book contained, nestled between the battered façade of its scuffed and worn covers. He also knew that with care and devotion, all of the damage to its surface would begin to repair. It just needed to be in the right hands, wielded by someone who rightfully belonged as Bearer.
Using his stained robe to protect his fingers, Richard turned the book over examining the damage and wincing as if witnessing gaping wounds on an injured charge. He tried to open the book, testing the locking clasps only to find they resisted his attempts at entry. The priest was not disappointed, he expected Marcus would protect his book, preventing access to its pages by keeping it locked. However, what Marcus failed to know was that locking the book only prevented entry from people who had no idea how the magical tome was constructed.
Flipping the book up so the spine stood uppermost, Richard traced his fingers along the faded lettering to locate two small metal studs at either end. Several Bearers had refused to open their tomes when they returned to the monastery following journeys of discovery, addicted to the power and comfort their charges bestowed but Richard knew exactly how to access them.
Abbot Brialin had opened one once in a fit of rage, after caving in the skull of an acolyte who no longer wished to be part of the order, only to find after the novice was dead that the volume remained locked and the key lost. Consumed in his fury, the Abbot had dismantled the book as Richard had looked on, rage dulling the Abbots awareness of those around him until after the deed was complete. Richard furrowed his brow as he remembered. If he was right, he had to press just about here.
The priest pushed down hard and felt the studs beneath his fingertips depress with a click, then he slid one finger across the spine to push lightly at the edge of the uppermost locking clasp, before lightly tracing his finger down to the bottom clasp and repeating the same action. There was another soft click as something disengaged out of sight beneath the spine.
Richard smiled as memories returned to him, tapping the recessed edges of the spine where the pages met, before turning the book onto its side and pushing the original two metal studs again. The locking bars suddenly detached from the surface of the book, releasing a small cloud of dust before sliding down the ledger to clink together on the bunk, allowing the priest to lift the pages completely free from the clasps as a loose folio of work that was no longer secured and now available to open at the priest’s whim.
With feelings of great trepidation, Richard eased open the front cover and stared into the darkness of the cell painstakingly illustrated across the front page. He held his breath, waiting for the magic of the book to transform the painting into reality, his eyes absorbing every detail, every nuance of the stone cell; the discarded game pieces left on the floor, the sparse orange lichen patches growing on the stonework in the top left corner of the page, even the glistening patches of moisture on the walls under the bunk at the bottom right corner. Richard was mesmerised by the magical book, the artwork within intoxicating him with the magical and destructive power it contained. How different it was to his own volume all those years ago?
His own Bearer’s tome had depicted a large tent rather than a cell, with creamy billowing canvas rustling in the background, rich opulent rugs on the ground with fine grains of desert sand tracked in across the deep pile, leaving footprints that could be dispelled with the slightest breeze. His holy knights slept together on bedrolls placed around a smoking fire pit, over which a roasting animal was slowly being turned on a spit. When the priest was cold from exploring the tundra, he used to open the book to not only feel the warmth from the fire but to also share tales with his knights and dispel his feelings of isolation.
As far as Richard knew, there were other magical books in existence with illustrations as varied as a ship hold, a cave and even a back room in a tavern, although Richard had never been fortunate enough to glimpse them all and was sure these were but a select few of the powerful icons out there.
A pungent smell wafted up into his face as his eyes scanned the shadows looking for the knights that should have been waiting attentively within. Richard wrinkled his face with disgust, it was a smell of rotting, a stench of disease. A shuffling figure moved slowly forwards from a bunk at the back of the cell, coughing heavily and gasping loudly for breath at each step.
As the shape drew closer, the magic of the book transformed the illustration into reality, allowing Richard to hear the unmistakable rattling wheeze of a person with serious respiratory problems. The priest could not prevent himself drawing back from the book as the stench of decay washed out over him. It was foul, leaving a taste that coated the tongue and inflamed the nostrils, almost making Richard gag with its intensity.
The shadowy shape moved into the pool of light beaming down into the illustration from the open book cover and slowly lifted his head to regard the reader. Richard gasped in shock, barely recognising the face of Bartholomew as the emaciated knight blinked up at him. He looked like a corpse, his eyes sunk, hair matted, canker sores oozing across his face and neck. His tabard stained and holed, chain and plate mail spotted with corrosion.
“Bartholomew what has happened to you?” Richard groaned in horror. “How could Marcus neglect you so?”
“Is it time Brother Richard? I stand ready for my Bearer’s instructions” Bartholomew rasped, his voic
e gravelly and gasping, his eyes rapidly blinking in the brightness before opening wider when he realised there was only one member of the order standing before him. “Where is the Bearer? Where is Brother Marcus? I am sorry but he is the only one entrusted to open this book. Please explain how it can be that you are here without him? I must warn you the book will defend itself if you wish us harm.”
“Brother Marcus has deserted you.” Richard said calmly. “I am afraid he has neglected you and left you all to perish. I am here to save you.” Bartholomew shook his head sadly, his matted hair crawling with what appeared to be lice.
“No one but Abbot Brialin can break the sacred bond we hold with our Bearer.” Bartholomew stated darkly, licking his lips and scratching at a sore on his unshaven cheek. “I wish it were not so but this is the way of things. So it is written, so it is done. We must adhere to Brother Marcus’s orders unless we consider them counter to the aims and dictates of the order or if Abbot Brialin commands it so.”
“I bring sad news Bartholomew.” Richard replied, pausing as a wracking cough sounded and a feeble hand raised from one of the bunks behind the illustrated knight. He waited, weighing the words in his mind, carefully considering the consequences before continuing. “Abbot Brialin is dead. I… I am in charge now. How else do you think I could open this book and talk to you as I am.”
Bartholomew’s eyes widened and for a second, he appeared like a cornered animal, anxious for a way out of his predicament but unsure that the way offered was something much worse. Richard tried to contain his elation at the sight. The knight was clearly desperate for help; it would only take the smallest of nudges but the priest knew he had to be very careful for his plan to work.
“Marcus is off exploring the jungle miles from here, no doubt drawing his little pictures and scribbling notes in his ledger. It pains me to say this but I believe he has forsaken you and gone off in search of an exotic plant. I am as disturbed by this as yourself. He has left no instruction as to your care, neither has he dictated a route of succession if he were to fail to return.”
“No succession?” the diseased knight wobbled, putting his hand out to steady himself. “Then what happens if something unexpected were to befall him?” He looked up at Richard, his face pleading. The priest sat quietly, allowing the knight to make his own assumptions, his face moving through a series of distraught emotions. “If he has abandoned us to our fate then we are doomed.”
“I am afraid that the Abbot may have been naive in choosing Marcus as your Bearer. I understand he had been unwell at the end.” The priest stated calmly, his face a mask hiding the deceit beneath.
“I was not aware the Abbot was ill.” Bartholomew commented. “He appeared well enough when we razed the village of Stratholme.” Richard paused with his mouth open, cursing his stupidity at elaborating the tale with such foolish fantasy. How easy it had been to forget that the knights had been present during the battle at the windmill, the sacking of Stratholme and the arson of his previous home, with the Abbot at their side.
“I… I mean, he was not thinking clearly.” The priest stated, his words coming out in a rush. “The village and the church were both mine, filled with dedicated worshippers who were adding strength to our order. Clearly Marcus fed falsehoods to the Abbot’s ear to make him act in that destructive and wasteful manner.”
“I do not understand this.” The knight frowned, appearing confused and began to pace about the floor. “Did Marcus say why he has left us? I know he is a weak Bearer but he is no threat to the order and certainly not someone Brialin would have allowed to easily sway his opinion. You must be mistaken.”
Richard realised that his attempts at swaying the opinion of the knight were failing. He needed something to push his point. He looked into the book, his eyes taking in the groaning figures in the shadows, the restless emaciated figures on the bunks. All of this power wasting away, all of this magic failing! If he did not tread carefully yet another opportunity to claw back what was rightfully his, would literally slip through his fingers. He started to fidget with the hem of his robe, feeling the crackling energy of the book beneath his fingers threatening to shock him through the material. It was building in intensity as the distrust of the knight grew. He needed something, anything. Then it hit him.
“I do not believe Marcus is weak.” Richard began, a shake evident in his voice as he fought to control his emotions. “I believe he is a deceiver, a charlatan. He has been against us all from the beginning. Is it possible he was a spy sent amongst our ranks? Look at how he mistreats you. No true Bearer would ever betray the bond of trust between himself and his book. I mean, how can you fight for the order in such a pitiful condition? You face certain destruction within days, sooner if you were summoned to fight. How can you win glory for the church in this sorry condition? I am incandescent with rage at our betrayal, at how easily we have been duped. This has to stop now.”
Bartholomew stopped pacing and stared back up at Richard, still clearly unconvinced by the priest’s tale. This was infuriating! What did it take to sway this damned book and the holy knights within? Time was passing by; The party could return at any moment and Marcus would discover his underhand desperate actions. He needed the book secured and joined to him swiftly before it was too late.
“I cannot spend much longer talking to you, for I am needed elsewhere.” Richard stated, deciding that the only other option would be to feign an element of disinterest. “You need to make a decision on behalf of your men, Sir knight. Either you accept my leadership, or I will have no choice but to leave you to die. My time is limited.”
“It will mean breaking my word and my bond.” Bartholomew replied, still clearly conflicted. “Without the direct orders of Abbot Brialin I cannot remove Marcus as Bearer for there is no one that can replace him.”
“Abbot Brialin is dead!” Richard shouted, his patience at an end. “You will all be dead if you continue to delay in this pointless manner. I admire your dedication to your role but to do so at the risk to your colleagues, to cause the death of your friends. I have spent long enough talking to you, I am offering myself as Marcus’s replacement but you must act fast. I cannot linger.”
Richard grabbed the front cover of the book, feeling the angry sparks racing across the surface and smelt the scent of burning as the defensive energies of the book charred the fibres of his robe. He looked down at the illustration one more time, then moved to close the cover, the sunlight from the portal in the cabin wall slowly moving across the bottom of the page, trailing permanent darkness behind it.
“I’m so sorry.” Richard whispered, although it was not clear exactly if the priest was sorry about what he was about to do, or that he was sorry he had failed in securing the book for himself.
“Wait!” Bartholomew screamed as the shadows engulfed him. “Wait, Brother Richard. Just a moment longer I beg of you.” Richard gasped, surprising himself when he realised that he had been holding his breath. He opened the page again, carefully guarding his hands as he allowed the sunlight to stream into the book and illuminate the cell.
“If Abbot Brialin is dead and you are his successor I suppose we must arrive at some arrangement for the good of the church and the order.” The knight stated desperately. “In these exceptional circumstances, when the Bearer is absent, or in imminent danger and has not taken steps to arrange for succession the good of the order must come first.” Richard tried to hide his smile at the success of his manipulation. This was exactly what he wanted to hear.
“This is what I have been trying to tell you.” the priest replied, “I have been a Bearer in the past. I am already well versed in the care and attention you need to return this volume to its former glory. The sacred bond of Bearer must be maintained by swiftly appointing a replacement. I humbly offer myself for this position. I solemnly swear that no harm shall come to your pages. I shall pledge my time in repairing this ledger and that none shall gaze upon the image of your holy illustrations
unless it is for the glory of the order. I shall sacrifice my life before I allow anyone unworthy to observe your brilliance.”
Richard looked around the room, knowing what was needed next but not seeing the means to do it. Damn! He was so close. He was not going to let this opportunity pass due to a technicality. He placed his little finger into his own mouth and bit down hard, tasting the coppery tang of blood welling from the wound, even as he cried out in pain.
“I offer my blood to seal the bond.” Richard promised through a crimson smile. “My oath is made before you all.” He held his finger over the portrait and let it drip blood slowly into the picture from the tip of his macerated digit.
Bartholomew nodded his head solemnly, observing the priest’s actions and satisfied they were correct and true. “Then let it be shown in these pages that the book has passed, the Bearer replaced. May St Fraiser watch over us, may his words protect us and his glory guide our path.” Richard could not believe this was happening, it was like a dream. Power and meaning were coming back into his life. He could not, would not, risk losing it.
“I am proud of your dedication Sir Knight.” Brother Richard stated calmly. “May it remain so following the orders I shall give you.” Bartholomew dropped to the floor, his head held down as the words of praise fell about him. “Now let us heal your wounds, calm your souls and make this order great again.” The illustrated knight raised his head, looking up towards his saviour with relief upon his face.
“I am ready Bearer!” He replied with due reverence. “My knights are here awaiting your command.” Richard took a deep breath of relief, then pulled his robe aside, grabbing the leaves of the damaged volume with his bare hands, half expecting the powerful shock to slam him across the small cabin, only to find, much to his relief, a warm trickle of power running up his arms instead.
“Then what are we waiting for?” he replied menacingly. “Come, take my hand.”
The Labyris Knight Page 52