Ancient Voices: Into the Depths

by Allison D. Reid

  But Braeden continued to turn a cold ear toward those who proclaimed that Alazoth and his Hounds had returned. Those voices had grown louder and more persistent despite his attempts to silence them. He publically declared such views archaic, fueled by ancient superstitions rather than wisdom. He pointed out that even the Temple, the realm’s most prominent center of religious knowledge and spiritual thought, had expelled those who were unable to progress beyond the old beliefs. Still, he was sympathetic to the very human desire to understand why such terrible events were taking place. He called for a symposium that would bring together the most learned astronomers, philosophers, and men of science to explain the origin of the foul weather and the emergence of strange creatures from the depths of the wild. Surely the sharpest minds in the world could allay fear and superstition with reason, and bring humanity into a new era less reliant on the outdated ways and beliefs of its ancestors.

  Minhaven’s reaction to this announcement ranged from skepticism to outright offense. No symposium could replace the wisdom of Aviad and the Prophets, and attempting to do so would surely bring ill fortune. But Tyroc was far away, and Minhaven’s own problems more imminent. The Kinship had to face the reality that there was no way to protect all of the miners and their bloomeries from attack—the claims were too spread out along a vast and unforgiving wilderness. But they worked together with the miners and Brant’s men to devise a better system of moving and storing smelted ore so that there were not great amounts of it sitting exposed and ready for the taking. Storage pits, like those in the village, were dug into defensible places along the road with guards set to stand watch. Patrols were also increased. Miners still faced the danger of attack beyond the confines of the road, but without Tyroc’s help, little more could be done. Everyone understood that meeting Braeden’s tax demand was vital to preserving Minhaven’s independence.

  The Kinship once again went on the offensive, searching for the attackers and clearing out any camps of beasts encroaching upon the remote mining claims. Elowyn no longer hovered in the back doorway watching anxiously as the men prepared for battle. She had become comfortable enough with their routine that she went out among them, tightening girths and hanging gear and bags from saddles. The men seemed to find comfort in her quiet, steady presence. Her soul always ached a little when she watched them depart, praying fervently to Aviad that all would come home safely.

  Yet even when the men all miraculously returned and were sent home to rest, Glak remained agitated. He would hang about the village for a day or two, then slip away on his own into the mountain wilds with his shield strapped to his back. He would always come back bruised and battered, and covered in spatters of blood that were not his own. But the fire in his eye was no less diminished, his restlessness spilling over into every move he made. Watching this pattern in silence for a time, Morganne finally had enough of it and felt that it was time she dared to confront him since no one else could. So she watched, and waited. And finally she caught him, moving quietly across the field to the back of the stable under the cover of dusk. All of Wyman’s hands had already gone home for the night, but as Glak walked his horse through the wide stable doors, he was startled to find Morganne there waiting, arms crossed, with an expression of motherly disapproval on her face.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked in a demanding tone.

  “You well know,” he said gruffly, displeased to be caught off his guard.

  “I know why you fight the beasts, but I do not understand this...” she said, waving her hand over his spent, bandaged body. “You would never send any of your men out to fight alone. They are even on a rotation now, because you understand the value of resting them in between battles. Yet you will not allow yourself to rest. This is madness. You’re going to get yourself killed, and for what?”

  “I fully expect death in battle to be my eventual fate. There are no old warriors as they say...” he mocked, doing his best to brush off her concern. The result was that she became even more infuriated.

  “You are the leader of the Kinship, and Minhaven needs you. You do not have the luxury to waste your life in such a manner,” she scolded.

  He turned on her in frustration. “Would you have me send others to risk their lives for what I did, while I seek rest and solitude?” he asked in a fierce whisper.

  “Of course not,” Morganne said more gently. “I would not ask you to hide from this fight...only change your tactics.”

  “In what way?” he asked, curious as to what type of tactical advice a young woman, with no battle experience, could possibly offer him.

  “The beasts are dangerous, but they are not truly your enemy.”

  “Not my enemy? How can you say that, knowing what they did to Solis?”

  “Broaden your vision. The beasts are mindless pawns, moved and used by the Shadow at his whim. Were it possible for you to defeat every last one of them and stamp out their race, another equally dangerous threat would be sent to take their place. You cannot win this fight by your own strength. But there is a common thread woven into all of the old stories—I can see it more clearly now. The only times in history when men have been victorious over the Shadow’s armies were the times when they were led by the Ancients, through the Prophets and men like Varol.”

  “Varol is long dead, even his line is gone, and the Prophets are no more. How does this help me?”

  “The Ancients are still very much with us. Do you not believe that they would show us how to stand against our greatest enemy if we will only cry out to them, and listen for their direction? Was not Varol but a man? What made him special was that he was willing to surrender everything he had, and everything he was, to Aviad, and therefore he was blessed beyond imagining. His many victories were never truly his own. Even he understood that.”

  Glak turned away from her dismissively and began to remove the saddle from his horse. “If you are holding out hope that somehow I will become the next Varol, you will be greatly disappointed,” he said with scoffing bitterness.

  “I am not asking you to become the next Varol,” Morganne said in an exasperated tone. “I am saying that perhaps it is time to seek the advice of the only men left in this world who can claim the Prophets as their heritage. You should find the Guardians of the Ancients. They have a better grasp of the old texts and prophecies than I ever will. And if what people say is true, they have begun to receive powerful visions and new prophecies from the Ancients. These corporeal battles of ours are part of a larger spiritual war that has only just begun. Everything I have studied tells me that if men are to gain any kind of victory over the Shadow, they must first strap on the armor of the Ancients.”

  “The last time I sought help from monks...” Glak began angrily, unable to finish.

  “This time will be different,” Morganne assured him. But he did not seem convinced. He avoided her gaze, brushing down his horse with unusual vigor despite the protests of his aching limbs.

  “Will you at least consider it? That is all I ask,” she pleaded.

  “Very well. I will think on it.”

  “Pray on it,” Morganne said carefully, not wanting to push him too hard. “I shall do the same.”

  He grunted in affirmation, but would say nothing more.

  “Do you need help with anything before I go? Can I bring you some food from the kitchen, or some fresh bandages?” she offered, trying to lighten his mood.

  “No, I only want a warm fire and my bed. But thank you for the offer.”

  Morganne left him alone in the stable, wondering if her words had reached his heart, or if he was merely humoring her. Secretly she hoped that if he ever decided to seek the Guardians he would take her with him. She had so many burning questions, about the tomes, and about her own spiritual journey. Had Elowyn’s friend Einar recovered the relic and delivered it to them? And why was it so important that some of their monks had risked the dangers of the Deep Woods, and ultimately lost their lives, to find it? To have even one of these questi
ons answered would be a delicious relief to her hungry spirit. It was a dream she wished for, but dared not hope for too desperately. Glak was not any more likely than Gareth had been to take her on such a dangerous journey. And what would she do about Adelin, and her shop? Still, it was nice to dream. Somehow she felt sure that one day she would be free to seek them out... one day she would find them.

  The Rude Stranger

  Morganne was surprised when several days later Glak came into her shop. With discreet excitement, out of earshot of everyone else, she asked, “Have you considered my request?”

  “I have, but the time is not right. I cannot make such a journey now, with the beasts so near and a new yet unknown enemy emerging. Minhaven, and my men, need me here to lead this fight. Perhaps when the situation has changed for the better...”

  “Unless we seek help, it will only grow worse, not better. Do you not see?” she pleaded.

  But the resolve in his ice blue eyes was set as immovable stone.

  “What about sending someone else? Surely somewhere among the Kinship there is one who could go in your place.”

  “No!” he said in a loud, stern tone that made the girls in the shop suddenly take notice and stare with concern. In a lower voice, he continued. “That is one quest I would have to make alone...perhaps when winter comes, just before the roads are closed off. The mining road will be abandoned for the season, and Minhaven will be less vulnerable to attack by either man or beast. Until then, I must stay and honor my responsibilities, and yes, continue to fight with everything I have. But this is not why I came to see you,” he said as he handed her a heavy satchel. “Perhaps this will soothe your disappointment.”

  Morganne opened the satchel. The familiar scent of ancient leather and musty parchment met her nostrils. She gasped as she drew out three large tomes.

  “I found them in a stone chest that had been shoved into a crevice in one of the smaller caves.”

  “Thank you!” she exclaimed with genuine excitement. Her disappointment was indeed forgotten, at least for the moment. Glak smiled and bowed, slipping away quietly while she took a moment to savor the tomes’ fragile pages before getting back to her work.

  Morganne was not able to study them until later that evening. She took her meal in their room and asked Elowyn to keep Adelin occupied. The first tome seemed to be a historical chronicle. It began with a history of the western region, going back to the Era of Desolation, when there were no villages in the mountains; only the newly built Shrine of Aviad and a nearby monastery where a small group of monks sought seclusion in the harsh wilderness. As the valleys were decimated, tomes and relics were brought to the monks for safekeeping. But the monks were warned in a dream that they had not escaped the Shadow’s notice and that it was only a matter of time before the monastery would be a target. The monks pressed deep into the mountains, hiding their treasures in various locations where they thought the enemy would have difficulty finding them. A small list of tomes was cataloged in the book, but the description of their locations was vague and strangely written—perhaps in a code only other monks could decipher.

  The next section of the book was written in a different hand. It described the fall of the monastery and mourned the loss of the brothers who had stood to defend it, but it was also noted that all important objects and tomes had already been relocated. The enemy had achieved a hollow victory. The danger, however, was far from over. The Shadow and his order of dark monks continued to grow in strength. The order claimed to follow Aviad, but the rest of the monastic community was not fooled. In the ensuing battles, Emeth’s abbey and shrine were lost, and with their fall went the most treasured relic of that region—the Tome of Truth. The news that it would be preserved by the monks at Evensong was bittersweet. Those living in the shadow of the ruined shrine and abbey became determined to eventually rebuild and reclaim this significant treasure of their spiritual heritage.

  Their dream came to fruition as the Era of Desolation gave way to what would someday be recognized as the start of a new era, the Era of Varol. That section of the tome concluded with a record of Varol’s early victories and with a message of hope that Varol would be the hero of prophecy that all had been waiting for. And though the writer perhaps did not live long enough to see his predictions come true, Morganne knew that they had. The book was a pleasant one that Morganne enjoyed savoring as she finished her meal. Many of the stories about Varol were so familiar to her now, they were like old, dear friends. She did not mind reading them many times over, and indeed they soothed her weary spirit.

  She set the tome aside and nestled the next one onto her lap, opening it to the first page. Caught unprepared, her stomach suddenly tightened and she wondered if perhaps this tome was best left for daylight. The angular script scrawled out a warning that the tome’s pages were only to be read by monks who had recently gone through the rite of cleansing, and that specific prayers of repentance and protection should be made before going further.

  Morganne understood what that meant—this would be another prophetic tome, filled with dark, disturbing images. The monks of earlier eras believed that such visions, though given by Aviad to help mankind in its fight against the Shadow, were not meant for everyone. Those weak or immature in their faith, those with impure hearts in need of repentance, and those outside the monastic orders, would be left spiritually vulnerable by the knowledge they contained. Morganne had asked Jadon once before if it was safe for her to read them. He said that the present day orders no longer followed such strict requirements, but that if the readings distressed her in any way, she should set them aside for another to interpret.

  Morganne had no desire to let a single tome pass without her inspection, whether out of pride, or out of her firm belief that something important to humanity’s current battle was just on the verge of being found. And so she endured the dark tomes and tried not to allow herself to succumb to their terror. Though she had no idea what the ancient monks’ cleansing ritual might be, and did not know their prayers, she devised her own...just in case. Before opening such tomes she always prayed to Aviad for protection and guidance.

  She carefully turned the page with the warning and was confronted not with words, but a carefully dawn picture of a structure she was unfamiliar with. It appeared to be a low, circular platform made out of black stone, surrounded at regular intervals by tall pillars made of the same stone. The pillars were smooth and tapered to pointed ends that curved inward. The platform almost seemed to her like the palm of a hand, and the pillars cruelly clawed fingers. Below it were written the words, “Black Shrine.”

  Morganne turned the page to find a personal account.

  Let this writing stand as a true prophecy given to Balemar, a Prophet in the service of the Order of Emeth, witness to the sufferings of the Era of Desolation. This vision came to me one dark and moonless night. Unable to sleep, I knelt before the fire in my room to spend my wakefulness in prayer. As I stared into the flames, this vision of the Black Shrine came to me. Having never seen it before, I did not know what it was, and so I asked Aviad for clarity. I was suddenly thrust into the midst of a fierce battle. Pushing toward me was a line of terrifying creatures the likes of which I have only heard rumors of. Just the sight of them made my body shiver in terror. I wanted to fly, but my feet were rooted in place as I was only seeing through the eyes of my mind.

  Towering above all was Alazoth himself, his antlered helm and hunting staff a sickening sight. His Hounds surrounded him, teeth bared, eyes glowing red. To face them in battle was enough to make most men abandon their ranks and retreat in chaos. But to see countless other grotesque creatures from the depths of the abyss marching behind them went beyond any other imaginable terror.

  At Alazoth’s command, the beasts set upon our poor warriors without mercy. Generations of war have taken their toll on our armies. So many of them are poorly armed, and even more poorly trained. There are not enough seasoned men left, so the ranks have been filled with young men,
and even boys...boys who will not live long enough to grow into men. They are no match against such an enemy. I shall not describe the brutality of what I saw, the memory of which still haunts my nightmares. But as horrific as the scene around me became, what I saw next was the most terrifying of all.

  The battle progressed forward as our men continued to either fall, or fall back. Eventually I was left amidst the carnage, the eerie silence bringing me to my knees. I wailed aloud my prayers for the dead, sobs choking my words. I pleaded with Aviad to wake me from this vision, to take me away from that place, but He was not finished with me just yet. I remained huddled on the ground, covering my face so that I could not see the cold faces twisted in terror, or the vacant eyes of young boys staring back at me. So many losses on our side, and by comparison, so few on the enemy’s.

  The sudden sound of movement and the rattle of arms all around me caused me to look up. I could not believe my own eyes at first. The enemy’s dead were rising again, broken bones knitting, lacerations healing, limbs reforming. In but a few moments, they appeared unscathed, as though they had not yet seen battle. Paying no heed to the human bodies littered all around them, they pressed on, following their master’s trail, ready to rejoin the fight.

  The scene before me finally faded away, and I found myself in the dark. A chill wind was blowing and the air seemed thin. I was standing on rough, rocky terrain, surrounded by tall pines. A few steps ahead of me was a steep ledge. Peering over it, I saw the Black Shrine that Aviad had shown me at the start of my vision. It was lit up by torch light, surrounded by scores of monstrous beasts that had crawled out from the depths of the Rift. There were Hounds, trolls, serpents, harpies, beasts of the mountain, and all manner of other dark spirits.