Journey to Aviad

by Allison D. Reid

  Other things were much harder to forget. When she let her mind wander, she found herself re-living the horror of the execution she had witnessed. She could hear the sound of the arrow as it pierced its victim, binding him to the tree. She could hear his labored breathing, the rattle of excruciating pain in his lungs. She could see the cold, seething anger in Einar’s eyes. It was a look she had never suspected him to be capable of, and never wanted to see again. She did not really know him as well as she thought—he frightened her now. Einar had saved her life, yet callously taken another. He had purposely avoided telling her who he was, while at the same time he was using her to gather information. How could she ever trust him again?

  Two nights after Elowyn had returned home she dreamt that she was the man tied to the tree. Shadowy figures of men in robes cast dark colored stones at her feet. She cried out, asking what she had done, but no one would answer. Einar stood before her, his venomous stare eating through to her very soul, yet his voice was the one she knew. “I apologize, little maiden … perhaps if the times were different I would offer you better hospitality. But as things are, I am afraid I have little choice …” He bowed to her graciously then raised his bow, so that the black tip of his arrow was pointed directly at her heart. She awoke screaming and drenched in perspiration, with Morganne and her mother both leaning over her, shaking her awake. Morganne looked concerned. Her mother scowled at her, unhappy that she had been disturbed in the night.

  Elowyn felt a cool hand pressed against her forehead, and heard Morganne’s voice swimming around her. “She is burning up with fever.” An afternoon soaked through with rain and cold, followed soon after by a harrowing night on the run were enough to test the strength of Elowyn’s young body. The emotional duress of watching Einar execute a man, and the way in which the event had haunted her every thought, only weakened her further.

  Elowyn felt Morganne’s arms around her chest, pulling her away from the hearth to the coolest corner of the room. Violent chills shook her. She felt so unbelievably cold, she could not understand why Morganne was laying wet rags across her, drenching her with cool water directly from the rain barrel. Elowyn gasped with the shock of it and struggled against her, but did not have the strength to do much beyond flailing her limbs about and whimpering. A hot drink that smelled of chamomile and willow bark was pressed to her lips. She drank what she could of it, enjoying the warmth, though not the taste.

  Through the night, Elowyn passed in and out of wakefulness, vaguely aware of Morganne’s form always just within reach. Each time she fell asleep again, her dreams were restless and disturbing. Something dark was chasing her. No matter how fast she ran, it was always just behind, so that if she stumbled, even for a second, it would be on top of her. At times the fever was high enough to make her delirious, and she saw visions of people standing in the cottage staring at her. Morganne caught snippets of incoherent conversations Elowyn seemed to be having with the empty air and worried that her sister was near death. Morganne tended to her carefully, attempting to lower the fever with more cool rags and herbal remedies. She was much relieved when two nights later the fever finally broke and Elowyn fell into a restful sleep.

  For several more days, Elowyn was alert but very weak. Morganne went back to her sewing with renewed ferocity to make up for time lost. There was nothing for Elowyn to do but lay back and watch the rhythm of her daily routine. It was so well rehearsed that Morganne and their mother had no need for words. At first, Elowyn welcomed the silence and found it to be peaceful. But as time went on, she began to feel the unmistakable tension seething beneath. Theirs was a silence that was building up, layer upon layer, ready to ignite at the slightest spark. It ate away at Elowyn until she could hardly bear it. The moment she was well enough to dress and go outside, she sought refuge in her garden. She longed for the woodlands, and surprisingly for the Temple ruins where she had come to feel at home in the short time she had known them. But she could not go there again, not with the chance that Einar would be there waiting for her.

  The people of Tyroc, especially those on the outskirts, soon took notice of the presence of the Hounds, though few knew what they truly were. Most had only heard them after dark and were too alarmed by the sounds and the size and number of the tracks to investigate. A very few had reported seeing them from a distance—mainly guards held high and secure by the outer walls of the city. Their descriptions were hazy at best. Only one man had reportedly stood toe to toe with the Hounds and lived to tell about it. He was an old farmer whose wife had passed on some years ago, and whose children had all grown and gone. He lived alone, save the company of his faithful servant and the hired hands who came during the daytime to help him in the fields. He was a great believer in the Ancients and the old ways, much to the amusement of his neighbors. He had often borne ridicule for his stubborn belief in all the old tales and superstitions.

  As the story went, he heard a disturbance among his animals one night, put on his hat, tucked a knife in his belt, and went out to see what was bothering them. He saw a great host coming at him from across the field. A tall man, shrouded in darkness and wearing a horned helm, was in the midst of the Hounds. In his hand he carried a staff or hunting pole of some sort. The farmer described the Hounds themselves as being as large as lions, with great red glowing eyes, and horns growing out of their heads. They breathed fire, and from them came a horrible smell like the depths of the eternal abyss. The farmer’s animals had gone crazy with fear, trapped as they were in their pens.

  The farmer, thinking that this was to be his end, stood between the Hounds and his animals, and did the only thing he knew how. He threw down his knife, knelt on the ground, and prayed to the Ancients, waiting to be devoured. After a few moments when nothing had happened, he opened his eyes and found that the entire host had vanished. They had either passed him by, or disappeared. He and his animals were all unharmed. He rushed in and told his servant what had happened, and his servant said with trembling voice that he must go straight away to the Temple in the morning to tell the High Priest his story, and to give thanks to the Ancients with an offering.

  The farmer took this advice, but found the High Priest to be somewhat skeptical. So he began to tell anyone who would listen, causing such a stir among the crowds that he was eventually hustled back to his farm by two burly soldiers who thought he had lost his mind. The last thing they wanted was some strange old man stirring up fear and causing a riot.

  Those inside the city gates still felt relatively secure, but their concern was growing by the day as more and more tales reached them from the outside. Though the Sovereign’s youngest son tried to make light of the matter in public, he ordered the number of men on night watch to be doubled, and everyone in his court was advised to travel only by day, and with great caution. Those whose homes and farms lay beyond the walls, along the roads, or in the southern farmlands, felt the most vulnerable. Doors and windows were barred by dusk, weapons clenched more tightly in the fist. The authorities assured the population that the unusual migration of what they called “wolves” would pass, and things would be back to normal soon. What actually happened was that the precautions against the Hounds became normal, until the freedom people had enjoyed before the Hounds’ appearance became a distant and pleasant memory, then ceased to be thought of all together.

  The changing events in Tyroc brought a visitor knocking at the cottage door one quiet afternoon. Morganne opened it to find her old tutor, Gareth, standing on the step in his traveling robe with a book in his hand. Their mother looked up from her loom with an irritated curiosity.

  The young scholar addressed her respectfully, “Mistress Morgan, it is good to see you so well and prosperous.”

  “And what might you want of me?” She looked at Gareth’s time worn clothes and said gruffly, “If it is a new robe that you desire, you shall have to speak with Morganne. I’ve not the time for it.”

  “Aye, you have guessed it,” he said in a relieved tone. “But on th
is, the eve of our Summer Rogation days, I am not permitted to enter any house that has not been cleansed by the High Priest. Would your daughter be permitted to take my order and measurements outside?”

  Morgan shrugged and went back to her weaving. She had no use for holy men and took even less interest in their rules and rituals. Morganne, with some suspicion, stepped outside and half closed the door behind her. She began to take his measurements, and then said loudly enough for her mother to hear, “Step this way, please, where the ground will be more even under your feet.” She then whispered, “You didn’t really come here for a robe, did you.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Nay. And may the Ancients forgive me for the falsehood I just spoke to your mother, but I feared that she would not allow me to see you otherwise, and my time is short. I am leaving Tyroc.”

  “Leaving? But why?”

  “The reasons are complicated, and your mother will be suspicious if we tarry long out here. The short of it is, my mentor and I, and several others, have been asked to leave because we have had a … disagreement … with the leaders of the Temple. More than that I cannot tell you here and now. But I have written what I can in a letter, which you must destroy in the fire as soon as you have read it. Do you swear it?”

  Morganne nodded.

  Gareth thrust the book he was carrying into her hands. “The letter is inside. The book is one I want you to have, and keep well, as I will not be able to carry it. My load will be heavy enough with the things I need to survive the journey, which will take us quite far from here. No one left at the Temple is more worthy of this gift than you, and I want you to have something more wholesome than contracts by which to practice your reading.”

  He looked at her with a tormented expression. “You have the gift inside of you, and you have the spirit to use it. If only you had been permitted to study at the Temple a while longer …” He shook his head wistfully. “Somehow, some way, you are destined to follow the ways of the Prophets. With faith, I know you will find your path.” He then took from his pouch a handful of copper coins. “Give these to your mother for the robe I told her I was ordering. It is all that I can spare. Do not worry about actually making it. I know the time is too short.”

  “I can manage it,” Morganne said. “You’ll need something to keep you warm and dry. The robe you are wearing is more fit for the rag pile than a long journey. It is the least I can do to repay your years of kindness to me. You shall have the robe before you leave.”

  Gareth backed away from her and bowed sadly, ready to turn back toward Tyroc. “Stay safe. Open the door to no one after dark, and go not into the wood. May the Ancients bless you and watch over you.”

  Morganne was left feeling distressed by what he had said, especially the last part. She wondered what the letter might contain, and what sort of disagreement had caused her tutor’s expulsion from the Temple. She walked back into the cottage and was given an inquisitive look by her mother. Morganne laid down the coins in front of her.

  “He had to barter for the robe. All he had to spare were these coins and one of his books.” Morganne knew she had to play this moment very carefully.

  “I’ve no interest in books. You should have consulted with me before accepting it.”

  “He is not a man of means, Mother, the Temple requires poverty. I did not want to offend him by taking the coins and refusing the book.” She took the silver coin her mother had given her and placed it with the copper ones. “Take this to cover the rest of the cost, and I will keep the book … to practice my reading with.”

  Morgan grumbled that she was a fool, but took the money and went back to her loom. Morganne was greatly relieved, and quickly went to work making the finest quality robe she could manage with the time she had. Elowyn had seen her sister work fast before, and she had seen the care and perfection that went into every task Morganne undertook. But there was something personal about this robe, and about that book. She did not completely believe the nonchalant demeanor that Morganne had displayed in front of their mother. Of course Elowyn also knew of the books that continuously changed hands between Morganne and their old tutor. She had tried to read some of them herself, but often found them too laborious and flowery, and heavily laden with allegory. They did not read like children’s tales and were not meant to. Elowyn was curious, more because she was trying to figure out why Morganne was so fascinated by them than because she had an interest herself.

  Morganne worked on the robe until Morgan had gone to bed. When she was certain that their mother was asleep, she dropped her work and grabbed the book with an anxious fervor. Morganne held the book before the firelight and withdrew from it a letter, sealed with the mark of the Temple, and written in the hand of their long-beloved tutor. Elowyn looked at her with questioning eyes.

  “Gareth is leaving Tyroc,” Morganne blurted out in a whisper. “I don’t know why, he couldn’t tell me. He just said it would all be explained in the letter.”

  Morganne opened it with care, smoothed out the parchment on her lap, and read aloud softly.

  To Morganne and Elowyn, my two dearest students of whom I have such fond memory. I write to you with a heavy, yet hopeful heart. By now you know that I must leave Tyroc. I realize that you have little cause to follow the politics of the Temple, and there is much that I do not have the time to explain. But to be plain, it is my belief, and that of several others, that the leadership has lost its way and fallen prey to the lures of wealth and prestige.

  No doubt you have heard the howlings and bayings by nightfall, and have been assured that the beasts that utter them pose no true threat. We have searched and prayed, read through prophecy, and endured frightening visions that tell us otherwise. We believe these creatures to be the Hounds of Alazoth (whose name we rarely speak, and then only with great caution, for our enemies are ever listening). Their appearance is a most ominous sign, for their Master, Alazoth, was banished into a great Rift and left prisoner there more than a thousand years ago when the Prophets still lived among us. It was thought that he would never again emerge, but it is apparent that something, or someone, has set him free to torment humanity once again.

  Alazoth is the Master of Destruction. His Hounds have always come before him, ushering in the first wave of his endless, unstoppable calamities. They bring with them all sorts of evils, pestilence, plague, and strife. As you were taught when you were under my study, there are the three Good Ancients, Aviad the Lord of Life and the Creator, Immar the Lord of Divine Love and Mercy, and Emeth the Lord of Truth. These are the Three whom we serve as the Prophets did before us, and to whom our spirits will someday return. I have also told you, that while we recognize them separately in name, Immar and Emeth are born of Aviad and yet have been with him from the beginning. Thus the Creator, Divine Love and Mercy, and Truth are truly One.

  But there are also the three Shadow spirits whose overwhelming desire is to take that which belongs to the Ancients and make it their own. They are ever trying to deceive us, to lead us away from the Divine and into eternal darkness. They are Death, whose true name is unknown to us, Tieced, the Dark Lord of Deceit, and lastly, Alazoth, the Dark Lord of Destruction. They would have us believe that they are also One, but they have done nothing more than create a false mockery of the Divine. They desire to twist the Truth, to destroy Aviad’s creation and enslave His children into the misery that is their vision for this world. They have great power, but unlike Aviad, they are not all-powerful. Therein lies our hope that their victory is not inevitable so long as we continue to recognize their influence and stand against them.

  Their circle of power has been weakened ever since Destruction was sealed in the Rift. We have never before had to battle their full force without the aid of the Prophets and the heroes of old. And now the times are changed. Many people have fallen away from the Temple. They no longer make pilgrimages to the shrines of power, or call upon the Ancients in daily prayer. Those who still believe do so more with their mouths than with th
eir lives.

  We spoke our concerns to the Temple leadership and they have turned us away, calling us blasphemers and trouble makers. They are more interested in pleasing the Sovereign’s sons than in remembering their duties to the Ancients and to the people of Tyroc. I, along with my mentor, and the others who have followed him in this matter, have been asked to leave. We are going far from here, to the region that was once the home of the Prophets of Emeth, the Ancient of Truth. There is a monastery which, as we have heard it told, remains devoted to the old ways, and has preserved many of the sacred texts. As dark as the days are, and as dark as they are likely to become, I shall probably never return to Tyroc. This is a bitter farewell. Yet I make it with the hope that we can look into these happenings with the monastery’s assistance, and learn whether Destruction has truly been released upon the world once again. If it is true, then I fear greatly for all of us, and pray that the hearts of men are strong enough to resist what is sure to come.

  I say these things not to frighten you. Still, it would be far more cruel to withhold what I know, for knowledge is our greatest weapon against the Shadow Spirits, far greater than the sword could ever be. Always remember that. It is probably the greatest piece of wisdom I can offer you. I am sorry to say that there will be no one left willing to loan you books from our library. Treasure this book, for it was given to me by my mentor when I entered the Temple as a youth. May you find comfort in it, and remember all that I have taught you, for we both know that your most important lessons were not how to form letters with a pen, or how to read the words on a page. Believe and remember. The journey begins!