by Robe
Acknowledgements
To my mother, for getting me through the early parts of my life,
To my father, for his steadfast dedication to my dreams,
To my sister, for being my closest ally,
To all of my friends, for keeping me sane through the years,
To John, whose artwork blew me away,
To my brother and oldest sister, without which this book could never have come to be,
To my fourth grade teacher, who told me to never stop writing.
Thank you all. I would be nowhere without you.
I dedicate this book to you, Mrs. Walcott. I’ve thought about your words of optimism and encouragement more times than I can count. My mind often bounces back to those stories you used to tell us, the lessons I learned from your teachings. Many of the ideals I hold dear today were instilled by your wisdom and grace. I wish you the very best.
Author’s Note
I wrote this story. It’s not true, and it makes no attempt to be. Every word you read is from the mind of the author, a filter through which the inspiration of real life events and people have been sifted. The world can be an ugly place; there is more violence, hatred, and fear than in anything I could cook up. In reality, I despise despair. I couldn’t hurt a fly, and when I watch someone else swat one, it takes a toll on me (a very small toll, but a toll nonetheless). The stories I weave are full of violence, hatred, and fear. They make for interesting scenarios. I love violence when it’s fake, fabricated.
When reading from the Ages of Argainen series, you must keep in mind that none of the events are taking place on Earth. The characters are not humans, although I think of them as being something very similar, if not exact copies. When I write, I imagine the characters speaking in English, but it would be quite a coincidence that the people, starting on another planet in a wholly different pattern from ours, would be doing so. The words they speak I have translated so that we may understand.
Thank you for reading my ramblings thus far. I do hope you continue to read and enjoy as the ramblings continue.
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
Prologue
Average and underappreciated, overlooked, and at the heart of it, miserably bored; Weston was a boy of few talents. The scrolls, etched upon by his father, were his sole companions as he carried them to and from the archives beneath the College. Being the son of an all-knowing scholar of Lon Gairdas was an honor with which he preferred not to be associated. The College, a building with the purpose of distributing and storing wisdom, was a fortress filled with high intellects who either wanted to teach you, or belittle you. As Weston desired neither knowledge of the sciences nor scrutiny for his lack of intellectual passion, the College wasn’t a particularly endearing place in which to grow up.
Nalut Revidious, Weston’s father, was a kind man, but his unwitting and constant apathy toward his son was unbearable. Unlike the other scientists at the College, Nalut, in all of his worldly understanding, could not comprehend how his son wasn’t rendered giddy by the ever-unlocking secrets of the New World. Weston’s mother was an acceptable mother, but just that. She provided Weston with everything he needed, but at the end of the day, she cared more about her own desires than Weston’s. It was Weston’s belief his father’s money was the only thing which could have gotten a wedding band on the finger of Mrs. Revidious.
Weston had friends, mostly the offspring of the other philosophers and scientists working within the confines of the College. They were few, though. None of them worked alongside their parents as Weston did, so his days were doomed to be filled with the page duties that accompanied servitude in the College.
On especially unbearable days, Weston would hide in the underground archives to escape being looked down upon, and read the scrolls written by his father and those before him. As Mr. Revidious’ passion lay in the history of Lon Gairdas, the scrolls he scribed were tales of how the country came to be, and in his work was but one story that fascinated Weston: the tale of a serpent god that was sealed away to protect the people from its evil. It was like nothing else his father had written, and when Weston inquired about it, his father would nod his head quickly and wave his hand up and down.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Revidious would reply, having been asked about the subject many times before. “The story tells that a demon god ran rampant through the land until a group of valiant champions cast him down and trapped his soul within a powerful vessel.”
“Father, I know how the story goes. I’ve read it a hundred times,” Weston would say. “I’m asking if you know if it’s true.”
“According to the evidence I’ve gathered, it would seem the tale is true, but something so outlandish is rarely spoken of in the College, and so I would advise you not to focus on it, Weston. Why not read this scroll when I’m finished with it? It’s about the realm of Rathelstat as an effective anarchy before the rise of Teridus Manulin and the new monarchy!”
Unconvinced by his father’s testimony, Weston searched every scroll in the archive, trying to find any hint that the story of the Evil God was true, but he uncovered nothing. It was not until he examined the documents older than the College itself that he discovered what he sought. There it was, so amazing to Weston that his breath left him as he lifted it: a stone tablet with words carved into it as clearly as could be, Vessel of the God of Evil. The stone was incredibly dusty, and Weston’s nose itched when he blew the debris away, revealing a diagram engraved in the pearl-white rock of what looked like a fancy urn.
A chill went up his spine as he read: Year 332 Observed, a great power is demanded for the containment of the great evil within; on a day when dark wings flap like thunder, and where the lips can touch the clouds, after blood is spilt, the soul of the God of Evil is sealed within the jar, and to unseal it will release his power upon us all again. May the King help us should a day so fierce be wrought.
Weston rushed up the rigid staircase out of the archives and thrust the tablet upon his father’s desk.
“This is very intriguing, Weston. I haven’t seen this piece in years,” Mr. Revidious said. “What has sparked this sudden interest of yours?”
“It’s an enchanting story, Father. I wish to know more,” Weston said. “Are there more documents, tablets, anything related to these records in the archive?”
Mr. Revidious squinted. “I think I know of one other item that might interest you, Weston. Follow me.” He led the way out of his office and down the steps to the archive. Weston shuffled excitedly as his father rummaged through scrolls and papers until he pulled out what he was looking for. He held it up to the candle light, and Weston saw it was a map. He took the fragile parchment from his father and gazed at what it had to show. The map traced the borders of the three major providences of the old world: Lon Gairdas, Rathelstat, and the Kingdom of Martin. Weston dated it pre-400s based on what he’d picked up working for the history department for the majority of his life; the Harou, the people of the north, were not marked on the map, giving away that the parchment was older than the discovery of their existence. There was a notation between the village of Rode and the City of Por Amur that read “Crypt of the Evil God.”
“Suppo
sedly, the urn would still be locked away within the crypt,” Mr. Revidious said. “That is presuming the temple has not been pillaged by thieves. It would be a shame to lose such an incredible artifact of our history. Even if the story is not as unnatural as it seems, the urn would be priceless.”
“And within the vessel?” Weston spoke, examining the location of the temple in relation to the Village of Rode. “What would be the price of a deity whose power is unspeakable?”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Weston,” Mr. Revidious said. “Best get back to work. We’ve had our heads in the clouds long enough already.” As Nalut Revidious shuffled back up the steps of the archive, Weston stood thinking. If the story were true, he would be known throughout Lon Gairdas and the New World for recovering the urn. Weston watched his father’s feet disappear as the man traversed farther up the stairs. He snatched a travel pack from one of the nearby shelves and hurriedly stored the documents within before buckling it tightly and stashing it behind a sculpture. He would later return and pick up the bag, smuggling it out of the College without anyone ever knowing the items were gone.
-
Three days and three nights later, Weston found himself entering the Cursed Forest where the Crypt of the Evil God rested. The same day he had discovered the location of the crypt, he had set off on his journey, telling his parents he was taking the horse out for an evening ride. They would be worried about him, but once he returned to the College with the vessel of evil itself in his hands, he would be the one looking down his nose.
Weston smirked as he entered the Cursed Forest; he always knew it was named improperly, as tales of its beauty were common from travelers who had seen it. Viewing it for himself, he saw nothing impressive, but he enjoyed the irony of being the one to unearth a relic in a place so named. He tucked the map back into his knapsack beside the tablet and the story scroll.
The trees were tall, far taller than any he had seen before, and much of the sunlight was blocked by the canopy as he pressed thicker into the woods. Several hours passed with his horse trotting along, and he looked about swivel-headed for any sign of the temple. The trees changed as he drew deeper, many of them looking sickly in comparison to the strong wood on the outskirts of the forest. Some of the plants had bark that looked as if the color had been drained from it, and their limbs drooped glumly.
Weston consulted the map and figured he would encounter the crypt before much longer, so he dismounted his horse and unpacked lunch. He tied the steed to one of the healthier-looking trees to ensure the horse, barely older than a colt, would not be spooked away by anything.
As he bit into a fruit he had packed, he imagined returning to the College, a hero to the simple minds of the philosophers, and a gallant man to the eyes of the women who heard of his tale. He hung on the picture as he chewed, but the sound of a snapping twig nearby alerted him. Looking around, his eyes strained for any movement. He was about to attribute the sound to a falling branch when he spotted it; something crouched a ways away, watching him. He froze, and the fruit tumbled from his hand. Swiftly, he slid behind the tree to which his horse was tied and began to rationalize the situation. The figure looked humanoid in shape, but in stature it looked far more beastly. He peered out from behind the tree and was so startled he felt as if his heart were leaping into his throat. The being was making its way toward him, but it was indeed far from human. It crawled on all fours, and its back legs hinged outward instead of in. Its feet were bony with grizzly claws tipping the end of each toe, but the face was what truly horrified Weston. Bloodshot, humanlike eyes stared unblinkingly ahead, and its mouth hung open, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. It was not staring at Weston, but at his horse, and after several more moments, the horse also became aware of the creature’s presence.
Weston’s steed whinnied and reared back on its hind legs, and the monster lunged forward, howling in a shrill, eerie pitch that drowned out the horse’s cries. Weston cursed himself for not having brought anything to defend himself with. He only watched for a moment to see if his horse stood a chance against the horrific creature, and when he saw its nails rake into the flesh of his steed, he knew there was no hope and fled further into the Cursed Forest.
Weston had run until he could run no more, and he collapsed, panting as if he were dying, upon the soft floor of the forest. Once he caught his breath, he looked around, examining everything twice as long to ensure it was not a beast stalking him. He confirmed it was safe enough for him to rest, and he slammed his fist on the ground, cursing himself again. He felt it was likely he would not make it out of the forest alive; if he were not torn apart by savage monstrosities, he would starve. All of his supplies were back with his steed, and he quickly turned down the notion of returning to the spot later in the evening to recover his gear. He was about to despair when he looked up to see a crumbling stone structure ahead of him.
A spark of hope flared up inside of Weston, and he pushed himself from the ground and walked toward the ruin. It was a vast temple, much like Weston had imagined it to be, but the stones were crumbling, and what appeared to be a gargoyle was lying in front of the entrance. Weston stepped over the statue, assuming it must have toppled from above where it had once guarded this most important place.
The halls were very dark, and Weston had to feel his way through, sliding his fingers against the grainy stone wall to guide him. Feeling something soft and tangly wrap around his hand, Weston jumped back and tried to rid himself of a creature that scurried up his arm. Regaining his composure, Weston weighed his fear of small things with fangs against his desire to find what he’d traveled so far for, and he forced onward.
Finally, Weston saw a source of light through the blackness of the labyrinth. He hurriedly approached it and looked up to see a square-shaped opening had been left in the stone ceiling, allowing light to pour in upon a stone scripture: Open these doors and you undo all we sacrificed so much to achieve. Within these walls lies the Evil God of our world. Unseal his tomb and his fury shall be unleashed upon the world in a magnitude so great, fire will rain from the sky.
Weston ran his hands along the wall on either side of the scripture until he found an opening, and he tumbled through the decrepit stone into the main chamber.
1
A man lay whimpering on the ground. He was breathing frantically and looked as if he had seen a ghost. Veese had seen the look before; this man had encountered the Raugen. He was dangerously close to the temple, close enough to see it, but Veese could not move from his post, for the Raugen were very near. He could smell them, much as they had grown used to looking up into the trees to find him. By now, they knew they could not catch him, but he knew also that if he could smell them, the ground was not a safe place for him to be. They were far faster than he, and only by traveling from tree to tree could he keep a safe distance.
Veese watched in alarm as the man spotted the temple and began making his way toward it. He must have slipped through Veese’s outer patrol. Unlucky, Veese thought, this is the consequence of my laziness. One man had made it into the temple before, but Veese had been able to cut him off before he did any harm. That was last year, though, and the Raugen had become uncharacteristically active the past few months. Veese watched as the Raugen he scented crept into view. It glanced up at him and he waved to it. Chales was the name he had given this particular Raugen, as he had named each of the beasts. There were nine Raugen in total, and Veese strived to know the location of each one at any given point in the day. Only Chales would be this close to the temple; the others were smart enough to be repelled by the evil it contained. Chales was ignorant though, and he seemed to enjoy pestering Veese while he stood guard.
“Go away, Chales. I have no time for your nonsense,” Veese called down to the ugly creature, but it simply showed him its hind quarters and then flopped down for an afternoon nap. Veese groaned. Chales would fall asleep, and then Veese could try to make it to the temple to intercept the man, but the forester shu
ffled uncomfortably at the thought of waiting idly while the stranger grew nearer to the center of the tomb.
Finally, the beast lying below began to snore, and Veese carefully crept along the branches of the tree until he was close enough to leap to the next. He landed neatly, making less noise than a feather falling to the forest floor. He knew the trees well and maneuvered through them easily, branch to branch, tree to tree. Looking back to see the sleeping form of Chales, Veese deemed it safe to touch the ground and jumped to a clear patch of grass where his landing would be most subtle. Almost in reach of the ruins, he dashed silently through the temple doors, knowing he put himself at great risk in doing so.
The crypt grew nearly too dark for even Veese’s toned eyesight to manage as he navigated the long and confusing hallways. Veese had only set foot within the temple several times, but he had memorized the design of the structure in case of emergencies such as this.
There was no sign of the man throughout any of the hallways or rooms, and Veese felt anxious as he approached the central chamber. The light from the window in the ceiling illuminated the room, and Veese could see that one of the walls had collapsed since last he’d been there. Voices could be heard talking just on the other side of the wall. Cautiously, Veese looked through the opening and saw he was too late.
-
Argain glanced up in surprise as someone stumbled into his chamber. The intruder was a young man with dark hair and round, brown eyes. He looked possibly more surprised than Argain at what he saw. Manifesting himself outside of his prison, Argain appeared as a transparent man, older, with little hair, seated cross-legged on the pedestal behind the magic vessel. He wore modest robes, and his feet were bare.
“Please, enter, and do not be afraid,” Argain spoke to the man, who stood wide-eyed, ready to faint. The man squeezed his eyes shut and took control of himself, and then he approached. “And who are you who has wandered into my corner of the world?”