The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four)

by Ivory Autumn

  Andrew glanced behind him at the darting shadows. They stirred through the air as if in great distress at his coming. He could hear more soldiers marching down the street towards him. In a moment, they would be upon him.

  He clenched his fists, scanning the walls, looking for some means of escape. There were no dark shadows to hide himself behind. Even they had forsaken him, moving carefully away from him so he could not hide in their cover.

  Deep snow drifts hugged the edges of the walls adding to the forsaken, untouched, dreary feeling of the dead end. Andrew mused, perhaps that’s why they were so justly named. For at finding yourself at such a place, you have little chance at living.

  Andrew groped the walls and tried to pull himself up, digging his fingers into the wall. But the walls were smooth and greasy as if someone had dumped oil over its entire surface. The oil made his hands slip. He slid back down, landing in the deep snow drifts.

  He pounded the walls with his hands, and kicked a cloud of snow, in frustration. Breathing hard, he stooped over and stared down at the edge of the wall where he had kicked the snow away. Just below his feet, peeking at him through the snow was a small edge of a porthole---the remnants of a gutter nearly hidden beneath a great snowdrift.

  He glanced from side to side, then bent down and dug away the snow from the opening. The more snow he scraped away, the bigger the opening appeared. Gradually, he dug enough snow away to reveal a window grating with iron bars that had been bent back as if something trapped from the inside had been strong enough to bend the bars back.

  Andrew hesitated before he crawled through the opening. It looked very dark and unwelcoming. He shivered, wondering what terrible creatures lurked in such a gloomy place. However, the sound of soldiers marching in his direction made up his mind for him. He swiftly squeezed through the opening. Down he fell, into a shallow pool of half frozen water. He groaned, and pushed himself up. He looked around, feeling very cramped, cold and wet. The air was dark, and heavy as if thousands of shadows had crammed themselves into this hole and made the air thick and horrible to breathe. An unfriendly smell as inviting as a rotting carcass swirled around him. A rude gust of wind blew through the opening from above, showering him with snow.

  Shivering, Andrew dusted off the snow and moved a safe distance away from the opening, slogging through a sleet of cold, oily goo that ran above his ankles. He moved to a corner that was a little drier and sat down on a stone step, of sorts.

  The sounds of soldiers had started to fade, replaced by the dreary, miserable trickling of slime that ran past his feet. He leaned his back on the oily wall, hugged his one good hand to his chest, and closed his eyes. His body was filthy, covered in oil. It clung to him, making him colder and wetter than he normally would have been.

  He rubbed his dead arm in the sling, bending his fingers back and forth with his good hand, trying to get feeling back into them. But he felt nothing. The weight of his arm in the sling was as useless as a load of rocks.

  He wondered if he could handle the sword with his left hand. Something similar had happened to him, back in the battle of Romrook, when his right hand had been stabbed by Kalliope. But that had been different. He could still feel his hand and arm. Then, his task had been different. He had to handle a paintbrush with his left hand. And that was very different than a sword. Very different.

  He groaned, and rested his head in his good hand. A hundred emotions ran through is mind. He felt so alone, so helpless. So lost. What was he doing? He couldn’t remember why what he was doing was important anymore. What was the point of it all? Darkness crept in around him, filling his heart with a heavy despair that made his spirit weary and his soul feel thick and old. The doubts that had been planted in his mind began to creep and crawl out from the cracks in his mind, spinning their web that trapped him from himself.

  He felt so old and weary that it made him feel weak and feeble, and utterly powerless. Until now he had not given in to his feelings, but here, alone, resting in the quietude of this miserable dark slough, he began to see the desperate situation he was in. Freddie and Ivory, and even Croffin, were all probably dead. Everyone he cared for and loved were gone. He alone remained. He had tried. He had. He had done everything he could. Yet here he was, still. Utterly, and irrevocably alone---more alone than he had ever been in his life.

  His mind filled with the memory of his friends---their unbending trust in him. Their courage, their willingness to die for a cause nobody cared for. The battle on ice, the bodies littering the cold frozen water. His thoughts went to Talic, Gogindy, Rhapsody, his horse, and all who had given their lives for the cause. All who had been there for him. Their memories flooded his mind, made him dizzy with grief and emotion. His throat grew tight, and his eyes glistened. He sat up as if startled by all the wash of memories. His red eyes grew wide. “No, I am not alone,” he breathed, wiping his eyes. “Even in death, they are with me. No, I will not give in, though darkness overtakes me.”

  When he said those words, he remembered the letter Kesper, the hermit librarian, had given to him. He quickly rummaged through his pack until he found it. He looked at it with curious eyes. Kesper had cautioned him to only open the letter when he found himself completely alone. Having never found himself so alone, he had never opened it. Now that he was, he still did not want to open it. Somehow it would prove his aloneness. Finally, he ripped the letter open with his teeth.

  The sheet of paper inside was completely bare of words, like the letter his parents had given him in Hollyhock Hollow. He smiled faintly, knowing what to do. He touched the letter with his palm. Instantly, the white parchment turned black. Then silver writing appeared over the paper like bright stars on a dark night.

  I take it that if you are reading this letter, as only you can, that you are utterly alone. Though you don’t know me, I have seen you in dreams and visions, and I know somewhat of your struggles.

  I do not know many things. But I do know that if you are reading this, your journey has taken you far, and that you feel forsaken and lost. You are the last sojourner for your cause. A voice in the dark. A flickering candle that wishes to go out, blown by great wind, and buffeted on every side.

  Despite all this. Despite all you have been through. Despite your losses and failures. Please do not turn back. Many things that we think are futile are not. A drop of water is small. Some ripples take longer to show. Many times we act only because it is the right thing to do. And that is cause enough. Though your actions seem to go unseen, and your struggle seems for naught, there is always a reason. Always.

  You may know me as Rhapsody Rumble’s father. I told Kesper, the librarian, I was in some way related to you. As my son Rhapsody will someday be like a father to you. And by the time you read this, he too will have probably left you, to join me. This letter is merely a letter. It is not a key to some magnificent end, or a cure for the hurts that you have been inflicted with. I write to you to say that while I am here, writing, you are not. But now you are, and I am not, and it feels that all is naught, know this---many of our supposed nothings are really something!

  I, too, know what it is like to be alone. I have traveled far out into the world, a pilgrim of wisdom and a friend to the hills and valleys.

  But you will not have the green valleys to keep you company, nor the distant brooks, and the far-off cry of the gull. The elements will combine against you, the sky threaten to crush you, the shadows blind you, and all the elements threaten to consume you. But do not fear.

  I say this, not to discourage you, but to let you know that I have seen a glimpse of you. Please take heart, and know that you are never as alone as you feel. For the heroes of the distant ages have all traveled the lonely path. They will be watching. Though alone, you must know that even in your alone state you must continue onward. Though hope’s voice is silenced, and you do not see the numbers you so ardently tried to gather, heed your call---If there was one thing I would convey to you, it is this---count not the numbers. Count them n
ot. Act with faith, though you step into the darkness. For one light shines all the brighter when it is alone. And its shining will reach a darkened world the best. Only when all is asleep, can the world be startled to truly awake---by the light. So in darkness, you will find light. You will find it. A great light. A light that burns inside yourself. It is easy to stand before a foe when others stand behind you. But the true test is to stand alone, even when none are left to stand with you. That is the test. What follows makes no difference. Only that you stand. Whatever the outcome. Hold aloft the light you bear.

  And you will have won.

  Keep shining, keep ahold of the light you bear. Who knows who else will take hold when the time is right.

  Yours sincerely,

  A lonely voice from the past.

  Rimadib Rumble the Great & the Grand

  As soon as Andrew finished the letter he lowered it. “Hold aloft the light I bear?” Andrew wondered. “But how?” He quickly fell silent, hearing the sound of two strangers talking just outside the porthole. They were conversing in low, clipped tones. “Where do you think the boy is hiding?” One voice whispered.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” a gravely voice replied. “I’m tired of the endless searches, the sleepless nights. Marching, marching, always marching. The boy has been assumed dead or wounded. That’s good enough for me.”

  “Oh, then you haven’t heard?” the other speaker asked. His voice was smooth, and hushed. “The Fallen has offered a reward for those who find the boy.”

  “What kind of reward?”

  “A reward far greater than anything you and I could ever imagine. He will bestow twenty-two thousand rotmogs, upon the man who catches the brat. And enough light to see by for a lifetime when the sun is gone.”

  “What a pretty reward,” the inquirer murmured. “Worth more than any amount of gold. I saw a rotmog once. It was a pretty thing. It was dark as a moonstone, but when you picked it up and held in your hand it glowed and shone real pretty-like.”

  “Would be worth it to find the brat.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  The two speakers whispered something Andrew couldn’t hear, then slowly moved away from the opening. When they left, Andrew breathed out, causing a waft of fog to rise up around him.

  “I’m worth twenty-two thousand rotmogs and enough light to see by for a lifetime,” he told himself. “Not too bad.” He slowly stood up and moved down the damp passage, repeating the words from Kesper’s letter, “Step into the dark…That is what I’m doing right now. But I don’t see much.”

  After a long while of walking in the same direction through the oily sewage channel, the passage broke off into three directions. Andrew paused at the fork to catch his breath, shivering in the cold. He was thirsty, and his stomach growled. “Which way now?” he wondered. After studying each tunnel, he decided that he would take the passage that turned left. Not for any particular reason, only that the damp sludge on the bottom didn’t look as black and oily as the others. The further he went into this new tunnel, the smell of rotting carcasses began to lessen, and a new, albeit, horrible smell drifted up from the ground, and seeped through the cracks and bricks of the tunnel. It was a smell Andrew could not put his finger on. It was a thick, slippery smell, putrid, and almost suffocating. It reminded him of what a shadow might smell like. It smelled sooty and burnt, tar-like, oily, stale, and arrogant.

  Andrew followed this smell until the tunnel came to a dead end. “Great,” Andrew told himself, “where are you going now, Andrew?” He groped around the darkness, looking for some sign of a door or anything that could lead to a potential opening. He was about to turn back towards the other tunnels when his hand came in contact with a long, stringy root that felt like a wet worm. The root was wedged in the crevasses of the tunnel, growing in, around, and over the bricks.

  Andrew dug his fingernails into the cracks of the brick, prying up bits of the root with his fingernails. The strands of the root were rebellious and were slow to yield to his commanding touch. Finally, he managed to pull a long string of root away from the wall. Then he wrapped the root around his hand, willing his power over plants to make this root obey. He tugged hard, letting out a loud cry as dirt and rocks fell around him. He pulled harder. More dirt and rocks fell.

  Angry, and filled with a thousand pent-up emotions, he pulled again, using everything he had in him. Instantly, it was as if the root came alive. It recoiled at his touch, causing the tunnel walls and bricks to crumble. He held on to the root with his good arm letting the root draw him inward and upward. It hoisted him up through the mud, bricks, and dirt, like an earthworm pushing its way through complex passages of roots, until Andrew’s head suddenly broke through the surface of a poorly-tiled basement floor. He felt like a gopher, or a mole, digging through the earth.

  He gasped in air, expelling dirt from his mouth. The root slithered out of his hands, recoiling still further up through the basement ceiling, causing stones and loose earth to rain down upon him. He groaned, and tried to pull himself up and out of the hole. But with only one arm for support, he struggled considerably. He pressed his fingernails into the cracks of the unbroken tile, and heaved himself out of the hole.

  Andrew lay face down, panting. He was covered in damp earth, and his face and skin were stained black from the oil, and coal he had slogged through. To onlookers he looked like a dark, oily worm, a shadow, perhaps, given some form.

  “What is it?” a low voice whispered deep within the room. Its voice sounded old, and shriveled. A scraping sound like hard claws clicking against the tile ticked over the floor towards Andrew.

  “I don’t know,” another voice breathed, letting out a woeful moan.

  Andrew froze, listening.

  All sounds ceased except for the low scritch- scratch that scrapped across the floor, like metal hitting the tile. He sat upright peering through the darkness. The room was dismal, with only a small window. The moon was shining through it, but it looked like its light was having a hard time penetrating through the thick dirt and grime plastered across the glass. The light it offered was very dreary, and made everything look more frightening than even being in total darkness.

  Then the voices whispered again, harsh and resonant. Andrew whirled around, tense and unsure. A scraping sound, like knives being sharpened ensued, as several figures appeared out of the darkness, their forms, just slightly silhouetted by the gloomy light from the window. “It’s alive,” one of the creatures hissed, pointing a long finger in Andrew’s direction. “I knew it!”

  “Yes,” another squealed. “I saw it move!” It howled, its voice filling the room with a splintering cry that caused Andrew’s ears to ache.

  “If it’s alive,” another cackled, raising a barbed, rusty weapon, “it won’t be for long.”

  “Wait!” one cried, placing a bony hand out to stop the being.

  Andrew quickly stepped back, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He glanced at these fiendish creatures, and then to a rickety looking set of stairs in back of the room.

  “Perhaps it is a cave troll, a mollrat, a travelog?” one of the figures asked. “It may be useful to us.” They stepped nearer, probing him with their slimey-yellow eyes.

  “Stay back,” Andrew warned.

  “You stay back!” the one of the beings howled. “It’s human. Smell it.”

  “Human?” the one murmured, sniffing the air. Its eyes filled with alarm. “Ah, you’re right it is. It is! We should kill it!”

  “Nooo!” one howled, running towards Andrew and standing in front of him. “We mustn’t kill it.”

  Andrew scrambled back against the wall beneath the window where the small patch of moonlight shone. The creatures’ watery eyes gleamed in the darkness as they gathered in around him, standing just outside the line of moonlight. Their flat, smashed-in features were repulsive to look at. Their faces were long, pasty, and gray. Their features looked stretched out and morphed. Their hands, legs and faces that ha
d perhaps once looked human, had been pulled like soft taffy into strange contorted shapes. The skin around their eyes was sagged, like a worn out-sack, as if their large watery eyes might at any moment fall from their heads. Their mouths, noses and ears looked as if an earthquake had shaken up their original positions and left them slightly skewed.

  “Don’t be afraid,” one of them spoke, holding out a gangly hand, beckoning. “Come, come with the Withers. You are safe with us. We shan’t hurt you. No we won’t. Will we?”

  “No,” the other Wither answered.

  Andrew shook his head, and shrank away from the Wither’s outstretched hand.

  “What? You don’t trust us?” It murmured, reaching out, straining to grab Andrew. But the second the Wither’s hand came into contact with the moonlight, the skin on its hand shriveled. Still it reached, taking a brave step into the moonlight, so that its whole face started to sag and shrivel like wax under heat.

  Andrew pressed his back against the wall, just inches from the creature’s grasp, and raised his sword in his defense. “Touch me, and I swear I will kill you!” he cried. The sword felt awkward in his left hand. The hollow, empty feeling inside it still lingered. The sword felt strangely ordinary---strangely empty, used up and dry, like a body without a soul, like a glove without a hand. Though the sword had held back the fire from the lake of oil, he doubted it could hold back this mob. The sword’s light was dim, yet to the Withers, the light was brilliant to their murky eyes. All the Withers shied away from the sword and stepped back into the shadows, hiding their drippy, watery eyes from the sword’s light. “Get back!” Andrew cried, jabbing the sword at them. “I warn you!”