The Sons of Animus Letum

by Andrew Whittle

  “What am I to make of this?” he demanded.

  With the bloodied Galian cradled against her, Haren snapped back her response.

  “Which part?” she seared back. “The attempted rape? Or the beating?”

  “Rape?” Igallik blurted. His eyes turned fearsome. “Who?” he demanded.

  “Tyrik,” Haren said coldly. “With a helping hand from Jasil, Lizin, and Cole.”

  With anger brimming in his eyes, Igallik turned to Wylak. The head monk’s voice was disturbingly steady.

  “Wake Tyrik and Cole,” he said firmly.

  With a nod, the herbalist retrieved the appropriate herbs. Igallik pressed his own palms together, his eyes smouldering forward as he made a concentrated effort to compose himself.

  “And Odin fended them off?” he asked, his body rigid with anger.

  “Yes,” Haren answered flatly.

  The Justice totem, Raeman, threw his hands up. He had heard enough. “This is slander,” he protested. “It is but one voice.”

  The look that Igallik returned to the Justice totem could have silenced the wind.

  As Raeman wisely chose quiet, Igallik looked back to Wylak.

  “Are they up?” he asked.

  Wylak looked back with heavy eyes. “Tyrik will be in a moment,” he said. The herbalist paused for a long moment. “As for Cole…,” he said finally, “…Cole’s dead.”

  Somehow the courtyard became even quieter. The punishment for killing another monk was ten reeds to the back. There were no exceptions.

  As if strings were pulling their heads, every monk in the courtyard turned slowly back to Odin. There was no doubt that he had been Cole’s killer.

  Raine, who was still hugging Odin in restraint, looked pleadingly over Odin’s shoulder.

  “Igallik,” he protested, “ten will break him. He’s too young. Too small.”

  Igallik knew that the old warrior was right. Ten could kill him. Even so, a murder could not be swept away.

  “There will be a hearing,” Igallik said.

  It was the best he could do.

  As murmurs spread throughout the courtyard, Tyrik began to wake. The hulk sat up slowly, cradling his head in his palm as he rocked in a small arc. With only a look, Igallik ordered Lizin and Jasil to help the hulk to his feet. Amid the stares of every monk present, Lizin and Jasil had no choice but to move fast. As they reached Tyrik, they tucked their shoulders under his arms and propped the hulk up between them.

  Igallik walked slowly to their front.

  “Welcome back,” he said, as Tyrik looked groggily forward. “How are you feeling? Like a bashed nail, I’m sure.”

  The tone was too pleasant, like a smile before the guillotine.

  “Are you with us?” Igallik asked.

  Tyrik nodded, forcing a grunt as affirmation.

  “Good,” the head monk said. “You know, I never asked before, but now seems an opportune time. What’s the furthest you’ve been from the monastery?”

  Tyrik’s head bobbed. “Northton,” he grumbled.

  Igallik nodded and then addressed Lizin and Jasil. “And you two?” he asked. “How far?”

  “Northton,” they said in unison.

  “Very well,” Igallik said.

  With a quick hand, Igallik grabbed Jasil’s wrist, and after a squeeze, Lizin, Tyrik, and Jasil fell unconscious like a line of dominoes.

  The head monk turned calmly back to Raine.

  “After Odin returns to some level of calm, pack these three in a carriage and drop them past Northton. Far enough that they never find their way home.”

  Raeman immediately muscled his way into the head monk’s space, shouting wildly in protest.

  “There are rules!” he yelled. “There are hearings! You have no right!”

  Igallik met Raeman with stern eyes. “If you see a snake, Raeman, you kill it. You don’t debate the pattern of its scales.”

  Furiously, Raeman took aim at the only weakness in Igallik’s makeup – his position as the Order’s Chancellor.

  “I’ll have your throne for this!” he threatened. “This is whim, not order!”

  “Why wait?” Igallik fired back. “We’ll vote right now.” The head monk turned emphatically to the other three Order monks. “Brothers, is Raeman right? Has my ruling cost me my throne?”

  Typically, such a vote would have been cast in the High Temple. However, as Igallik’s fiery eyes called them to action, Palis, Bysin, and Nile each signified a vote of no. By majority, Igallik retained his chancellorship.

  Igallik seared his eyes onto Raeman. “Is there anything else?”

  The Justice totem returned a cold stare. “Apparently not.”

  “Very well,” Igallik said.

  After returning his mind to the bloody mess of the courtyard, Igallik raised his voice to all monks present.

  “This night has fallen,” he said, “and with it, a mockery of our ways. Retire,” the head monk ordered. “Retire from the day.”

  With heaviness in his eyes the head monk turned to Odin.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “we will deal our justice.”

  Upon Igallik’s orders, the monks of the courtyard filed out. As a few of the monks lifted Cole’s dead body and began to carry him to the infirmary, Haren helped Galian back to his feet.

  “Are you alright?” she asked.

  Galian nodded. “Beaten, not broken.”

  Haren kissed his forehead. “I know the feeling.”

  As she braced her arm under Galian’s shoulder and her torn robe compressed between them, suddenly Haren’s eyes grew wide with panic. With abandon, Haren threw off her robe and knelt naked above it, urgently searching its different folds. With no success, her eyes rose to the courtyard, hunting for what she had lost.

  “Someone took it,” she whispered fearfully. “Someone’s taken the page.”

  Galian retrieved Haren’s robe and threw it back over her shoulder.

  “There was no page,” he signed sternly. His eyes were pleading for Haren’s cooperation.

  Haren’s looked frantically left and right, her mind searching desperately for her best option.

  “There was no page,” she said finally.

  As Haren met Galian’s stare, their eyes made a pact. It was a lie they would hold to even if it cost them their lives.

  But there was a page… and it was in the wrong hands.

  12

  The morning after Cole’s murder, Odin was called to the High Temple. The Order awaited, and a sentence was impending.

  A rainstorm had laid claim to the morning, and as Odin ascended the final steps to the golden Temple, he marched slowly under the downpour, his clothes and blonde hair drenched against him. Raine was at the door, soaked and standing guard as he always did.

  As Odin grew close, Raine tilted his head up, forcing a stream of water down his nose. “How are you feeling?” the old warrior asked.

  Odin threw his blonde hair out of his eyes. “No worse for wear,” he replied. As he ambled under the wet and wind-swept cherry blossoms, Odin’s calm walk seemed to vouch for his words

  “You know what’s coming, don’t you?” Raine said.

  “I’m expecting ten,” Odin replied.

  Raine shook his head, scattering rain drops from his brow. “Expected or not, ten reeds could kill you.”

  Odin remained unfazed.

  With worry, the old warrior forfeited his formal pose. “Odin, you need to formulate a defence. You need to realize…”

  “Raine,” Odin interrupted. “I know what I did last night, and I know what I will do within those doors. I will not lie, and I will not ask for forgiveness.”

  Odin’s unabashed honesty troubled the old warrior. As Raine began to campaign once more, Odin nodded sternly through him.

  “Can you open the doors?” he asked. “I am expected.”

  The tone did not offend Raine – it brought more worry. It was too composed. Too cool.

  Knowing no other recourse, R
aine finally obliged, and drew open the doors.

  “You should know,” he said as the rain splashed between them, “it is not weak to ask for mercy.”

  As he walked past Raine, Odin’s words cut over the storm. “If I wanted it, I’d ask.”

  Without another word, Odin proceeded coolly into the Temple.

  As was customary for a hearing, the five totems were present: Justice, Mercy, Logic, and Instinct each sat in his throne, and at their center, Igallik sat stoically.

  The five watched Odin intently, somewhat struck by his unruffled demeanour.

  As Odin approached, he bowed to the crown of Animus Letum on the altar, and then sat down in the foremost pew. The young Lyran threw the rain from his hair, and after a deep breath, he looked fearlessly up at the Order. With all parties present, Igallik took a puff from his tobacco hookah, exhaled, and commenced the hearing.

  “Let it be understood, the verdict for this hearing will be final unless an exceptional force decrees otherwise. Because the verdict is final, the totems of the Order shall be permitted any length of time to make their verdict. However, if a totem is uncertain about a verdict – even in the least – he will defer his vote to another totem’s speciality.”

  Igallik looked to the Order monks on his left and right, and after receiving each of their affirmations of understanding, he took another puff from his hookah.

  “It is pledged.”

  The head monk turned to Odin. “You understand why we are here?” he presumed.

  “I do,” Odin replied.

  “Have you anything to say?”

  “That depends,” Odin said.

  “On what?” Igallik asked.

  “Whether you want to excuse my actions or understand them.”

  Nile adjusted his glasses, raising an eyebrow as he looked over their frame. “I see no reason why we can’t do both,” he said. “One should lead to the other.”

  “Then you don’t understand my actions,” Odin replied.

  Nile looked down the line of thrones, and then back to Odin. “Please, enlighten us.”

  Odin stood from the pew, his eyes and posture as calm as ever. “Cole’s death was not an accident,” he said. “It was not a crime of hot blood.”

  The words confounded the Order: Igallik more than anyone.

  “You mean to destroy your one hope at mercy?” he asked.

  “If it based upon a lie,” Odin said, “then, yes.”

  “And what is the truth?” Igallik asked.

  “Cole’s murder is a warning,” Odin declared.

  The head monk was shocked, jostling on in his throne before he leaned intently to its edge. “To whom?” he demanded.

  “Anyone,” Odin replied. “Anyone who would ever think to hurt my brother.”

  With even more shock, the Order stared in silence.

  As Odin stared daringly back, Palis, the Mercy totem, leapt to Odin’s defence.

  “Brothers, let us take these words with a grain of salt,” he said. “I don’t think that Odin is completely present today. He is still fuming with the fire of last night.”

  “You are mistaken,” Odin said calmly. “I am merely giving you the truth.”

  As the Order monks turned and began to consult with each other, Odin raised his voice to break their huddle.

  “I am my brother’s keeper,” he said commandingly. “Know this now and forever. Fate divided our strengths at birth, but make no mistake, his is the greater. Galian met with me before I came here this morning,” Odin said. “He told me why we raced yesterday. Obviously, if you have elected him as the heir and leader of the Forge, you know his worth. He is greater than the five of you. Greater than me. And know this: I am not burdened by him being the successor – I am fuelled by it. I was given a body so that I could defend his heart. You may have made a decision to make him heir, but it is my mission to make it so. Serve me your ten reeds.” Odin said. “Serve twenty, if you must. My bones will break far sooner than my word.”

  Igallik pressed his fingers hard into his temples. “You do not leave us with much choice,” he said. “And worse, you seem proud of your actions.”

  “I am not proud,” Odin said. “But I did kill Cole, and I meant to do it.”

  With his hands clasped together, Palis studied Odin with a grave seriousness.

  “You court more than reeds,” he said finally. “I will be honest with you, Odin. Your lack of remorse raises very unsettling questions.”

  “Feel free to ask them,” Odin replied.

  Raeman, who had purposely chosen to remain quiet the entire hearing, began to rap his knuckles against his steel throne.

  “It was a murder,” he said. “Plain and simple. He will be served ten reeds. No more, no less.”

  Nile agreed. “Ten it is. The punishment shall not be amended.”

  For a majority ruling, only one more totem had to agree.

  “Ten,” Igallik approved. “At this eve’s close.”

  The head monk’s ruling seemed to hang within the Temple, lingering like the words of a hurting father. Even so, Odin remained unfazed.

  As Igallik met Odin’s unflinching stare, the head monk took a final puff from his hookah.

  “Brothers,” he said, “We are adjourned. You may return to your quarters.”

  Odin turned, and before any of the Order monks had even stood from their thrones, he had left the Temple.

  As the Order began to filter out, Igallik called Bysin aside. The head monk allowed the Temple to empty, and after arranging his own thoughts, he looked intently into the Instinct totem’s eyes.

  “What do you make of him?” Igallik asked.

  “He was honest,” Bysin said matter-of-factly.

  “But was he – as Palis suggested – burning with the fires of last night?”

  “He was,” Bysin said.

  “So he should come back to his senses?”

  Bysin scratched his head and then shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t say that. Nor did I say that the fire was a bad thing.”

  Igallik tilted his neck back. As if to remind Bysin of Odin’s behaviour, he pointed back to the Temple’s foremost pew.

  “He was livid,” Igallik said. “Scary, even. No man, especially a Lyran, should live with such an edge.”

  “I do not sense that this edge is a weakness,” Bysin said. “For a moment, just feel. Feel how his fire burns. And then feel why it burns. This a blaze of love, Igallik. Imagine this fire at the forefront of the Forge – it could reclaim Animus Letum – almost by itself. At the very least, we will need it soon.”

  Igallik’s eyes grew with alarm. “Soon?” he repeated. “Why? What do you sense?”

  “Something happened last night,” Bysin said, “something with Haren that is still guised in secret. Worse, I sense that this secret will bring Death to our monastery.”

  “You have facts?”

  “Only feeling,” Bysin replied. “Strong feeling.”

  Igallik brushed his hand through his beard. “So what do we do?” he asked. “How do you feel we should proceed?”

  “For starters,” Bysin said, “we make sure that no other monk hurts Galian.”

  Igallik nodded gravely. “That aside.”

  “That aside,” Bysin said, “We are limited. If I am right about this impending doom, I believe that our only move is to surround Odin’s fire with tar. If we can do that, when he truly erupts, his fire will become unstoppable.”

  “The Forge is in place,” Igallik reminded. “It is now nearly two-hundred monks strong. I don’t know if there is much else to surround Odin with.”

  “We must surround him with more than an army of me,” Bysin said. “The Forge is sound, there is no doubt. But we must surround Odin with an army of skills. If Odin can become great without the fire, then he can become godly with it.”

  Although he still felt some concern with regard to Odin, Igallik saw promise in Bysin’s instinct. With a small sense of relief, the head monk patted Bysin’s shoulder.<
br />
  “So I gather ten reeds won’t extinguish the fire,” he said.

  “He’ll survive,” Bysin replied.

  Igallik nodded. “After the breaking, we will start the building.”

  That night, as the sun fell, Odin was served ten reeds. The first was taken with a grunt and gritted teeth. The second was followed with a whimper. The third, fourth, and fifth forced a shrill scream. The sixth and seventh broke his ribs. And the remaining three bashed him into a broken heap.

  After the tenth reed, Death had circled. He had done so in vain. Underneath Odin’s broken body was an unbreakable spirit. Even the hunter of life had to bow.

  But Death would return – soon and in far greater form.

  Bysin was right about the impending doom.

  The day of the Blood Cael was looming.

  13

  Death is the great thief of your realm – the uncatchable and unforeseeable bandit of breath. However, Death should not draw your ire. Instead, your ire should find his accomplices. It should be those who force his hand. If Death is called on, he arrives – consistent and unbiased. The Great Reaper does not choose his victims: he is dealt onto them. Death has the regrettable duty of attending all tragedy. I beg you: pity the servant whose arrival brings heartbreak.

  On the day of the Blood Cael, Death was dealt one hundred and forty-six times. The only victory by any monk witness to that day’s horror was that he survived. The day of the Blood Cael was one of the most violent attacks on the Throne’s Eye in the monastery’s history. It was devised by hands foreign to the first realm, and carried out just the same. The number of monks that held guard that day was in the hundreds. Half of them died. My breath turns short and cold remembering that day’s death-dealer, for there was only one. One hundred and forty-six monks were killed by the beast owning title to that day: the Blood Cael.

  The day of the Blood Cael began in storm. The dark billowing skies churned above the monastery, commanding the moment, and stealing the monks from their routines. With sheets of rain and lightning falling from the skies, the monks took cover, attuning their eyes to nature’s great ire.

  As the thunder growled above the monastery, Usis emerged from one of the monastery’s chapels, and with the wind and rain abusing his balance, he sprinted across the courtyard. As he grew close to Odin and Galian’s quarters, the door opened slightly, and with a nimble slide, Usis sleeked through. Once inside, Usis shook the rain from his hair and clothes, and as he looked to Galian who was crouched fifteen feet away at the window, he nodded in appreciation. Galian smiled and then with a nod of his head the door closed shut.