The Sons of Animus Letum

by Andrew Whittle

  “Remove the drapery,” he instructed.

  Haren met Igallik’s eyes with a puzzled expression.

  “The drapery,” Igallik reiterated. “Remove it.”

  After wiping her eyes, Haren did as she was told.

  As she pulled the thick golden cloth off from the top of the altar and revealed the glass container underneath it, her feet stumbled backwards. Inside the giant rectangular glass box were two massive red orbs. The red orbs seemed to have what looked like orange pulsating veins wrapped around their surface.

  “These aren’t ...” Haren stammered.

  “The eyes of Malum Ludus?” Igallik said. “You’ll never know how many times I’ve wished they weren’t. Yet, here they are.”

  Haren waded even further back, raking her fingers though her thick hair as she searched for what to think or say. She quickly settled on the obvious.

  “How?”

  “The answer is sacrifice,” Igallik replied.

  Haren’s confused eyes solicited more explanation.

  “Pay close attention,” Igallik said, “because I will neither repeat what I am about to say, nor will I ever again admit to sharing this conversation. Do you understand?”

  Haren, still shocked by Malum Ludus’s eyes, managed to nod her head.

  “You recall, quite apparently, the story of Malum Ludus,” Igallik said. “But please, in service to my curiosity, recount what you think you know.”

  After another look at the eyes, Haren managed to compose herself.

  “From what I understand,” she said, “Ludus was born of no mother nor father. His existence – the very inception of his breath – was conceived in the depths of human fear. He survives and thrives on the fear of souls in the second realm. It was understood that Ludus’s eyes were the receptors by which he interpreted fear. If his eyes looked on another soul, he would immediately know what breeds its worst terror.”

  Haren hesitated a moment, waiting for Igallik’s confirmation.

  “Go on,” the head monk said.

  With a deep breath, Haren continued.

  “Ludus had been an irritation to every king’s reign in Animus Letum,” she said. “His infamous indulgence was always torture. He constructed numerous labyrinths, using the fear of souls in the second realm as the inspiration for his designs. But because his great strength remained his ability to grow on and manipulate fear, his only weakness was the courage of his prey. For this reason, Malum Ludus was never a great opposition to the Lyran house. Their bravery proved his bane. A few details are still unclear, but it is understood that a Lyran king stopped Ludus before he could complete his master labyrinth – Ludus’s eyes were torn right from his skull.”

  “An accurate portrait,” Igallik said. “Most here at the Throne’s Eye are unaware that it was Serich who tore out his eyes.”

  Haren acknowledged the small revelation while Igallik held to his reserve.

  “Now,” the head monk forewarned, “I am going to give you information that only the other Order monks have been privileged to.”

  Haren awarded all of her attention to the head monk. With careful hands, Igallik pulled the drapery back over the altar, placed the crown back down, and then scouted the rest of the Temple. After confirming their privacy, he turned to Haren.

  “I brought Malum Ludus’s eyes here,” he said.

  Haren was puzzled.

  “That can’t be,” she argued. “Ludus was defeated nearly three hundred years ago… in Animus Letum”

  “Actually,” Igallik corrected matter-of-factly, “three hundred and nineteen years ago.”

  “That’s impossible,” Haren protested.

  “Not quite,” Igallik replied. “Nearly three hundred years ago, I performed a great favour to my king – a sacrifice. I, through Serich’s great will, was able to cross realms and bring Ludus’s eyes where he could never reach them.”

  Haren shook her head in confusion.

  “How could that be true? How could you hide such an act?”

  The head monk smiled. “It was intended to be hidden. Just like the queen bringing the crown, Malum Ludus’s eyes needed to be escorted by a living soul. I was that soul.”

  “You’re serious,” Haren realized.

  “These are Ludus’s eyes,” Igallik pointed out.

  Haren began to understand.

  “So that would mean you can never cross back. By law your soul can never again enter Animus Letum.”

  Igallik nodded again, this time with solemn eyes.

  “That, Haren, is the weight of my sacrifice.”

  “But you remain immortal on earth?”

  “Not immortal,” Igallik said with a smile. “I would say, preserved by time. Death, for me, still remains an adversary.”

  Haren took in all the information she had been given. She was floored, speechless, even intimidated.

  Seeing her tongue-tied, Igallik placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “Do you know why I have told you this?” he asked.

  Haren shook her head.

  “Because,” the head monk said, “I needed you to understand that sacrifice is the handmaiden of our victory. I need you to sacrifice tonight. I need you to sacrifice your pride.”

  Haren met Igallik’s stare. “My pride?” she blurted. “The five reeds are an insult, not a sacrifice.”

  “Don’t be petty,” Igallik said. “If Forneus sends his army, many of our brothers will pay a far greater price than five reeds.”

  Haren lowered her gaze. “You know I don’t mean to insult them,” she said. “I would gladly give my life for our cause.”

  “I know, Haren. But I don’t need you to. In truth, I need you to take your five reeds so that we can prepare you for something worse.”

  “Worse?” Haren faltered.

  “As you requested at the beginning of the hearing,” the head monk said, “I do recognize the potency of your heart. I have trust in you, and that faith is not merely given. It has been earned in the care you’ve shown for the twins.”

  Haren distrusted the moment. “Where are you going with this?” she asked.

  “Towards a request,” Igallik said. “We are all in agreement that Forneus’s faithful will come for the crown. His followers are ruthless. They will bring violence and madness to our gates. At the first sign of war, I am asking that you and the twins withdraw here, to this Temple.”

  Haren eyed the head monk suspiciously.

  “Is this the Order’s will?” she asked.

  Igallik shook his head. “This is mine. This is a plan I have thought on for seventeen years. I am not giving you a mere task, Haren: I am giving you an appointment. I am removing you from battle, because if we lose, I want you to survive. I want you and the boys to be able to escape.”

  “Lose?” she repeated. “Escape? To where?”

  “To wherever you deem fit,” Igallik replied. “I am asking you to be the boys’ guardian. If the Throne’s Eye is defeated, it is likely that you and the twins will be our last survivors. You will be our last hope of victory.”

  Haren turned away, remembering what Igallik had said about sacrifice.

  “So I am to be the handmaiden,” she said.

  “Yes,” Igallik said. “If we lose this battle, you will hear us die – each of us. The Scale will claim our home and our knowledge, and with it, they will become more powerful than is right. Your burden is that you must let them. And make no mistake, even if we destroy the Scale, they will come again. As long as we have the crown, the Scale will never stop testing us. If at any time we fail that test, you must flee with the twins. You will be fugitives in yet another world ruled by the Serpent King.”

  Haren tugged at her collar as she thought. “Why are you asking me?” she said finally.

  “There are many reasons,” Igallik said. “But there is one in particular. Do you remember what Serich’s voice said when you were jailed in your village?”

  Haren could never forget. “Follow the heron,” she repeated.


  Igallik offered a gentle smile. “We heard the very same message,” he said, “though we don’t believe that the Great King was talking about a bird.”

  The words were potent and heavy. Years earlier, in her village, Haren had known that a world awaited her. She just never believed that the world would demand so much.

  “I’ll be honest,” she said, “this is becoming a heavy load to bear.”

  “Is it too heavy?” Igallik asked plainly.

  Haren’s eyes strayed from the head monk, searching the Temple for a moment before they landed on the crown of Animus Letum.

  “I can think of heavier,” she said.

  “That is not an answer,” the head monk replied.

  Haren was quiet for a moment, an image of Galian and Odin flashing in her mind.

  “If I must,” she said, “I can carry this weight. I can for the men who are destined to carry more.”

  “So you will take your five reeds?”

  “For them,” Haren said, “I will.”

  “Then let us move as we should,” Igallik said. “Tonight there will be reeds. But soon there will be war.”

  The words were imposing.

  “How soon?” Haren asked.

  “The first moment Forneus gets a chance.”

  As the head monk’s grim prescience hung in the Temple, Igallik began to usher Haren to the door.

  However, as they walked, their steps were disparate in spirit.

  Igallik believed that he had solved a problem. Haren knew that it had become hers.

  That night Haren was served her five reeds. Each left a long tear on her naked back. The first and second stung deep into the body, so deep that the remaining three seemed to strike the soul.

  As Haren laid broken in the infirmary, her violet eyes caught a glimpse of a giant blue bird flying by. Strange, she thought, for a heron to fly by now. But just like so many years before, the bird seemed to spur something in Haren. And soon, Igallik’s words began to echo through her mind.

  “As long as we have the crown,” he had said, “the Scale will never stop testing us.”

  Haren turned the words over and over, until suddenly it was clear.

  Her pain had crystalized a thought.

  Suddenly, a darker path had become the way.

  18

  In Animus Letum, a Scale ascended the royal staircase to the Throne Room. The Soul Cauldron burned its evil orange as the Scale reached the throne.

  “Sire,” the Scale said as he reached Forneus, “the faction has been dismantled.”

  From beneath his hood the Serpent hissed back his reply. “To what extent?”

  “As you wished, my king: completely. The accused met their punishments. Their families – every soul bound by blood or amity – were gathered into the faction’s headquarters, which we then burned in the audience of the traitors. As you requested we branded each traitor’s body with your initial. They are now being held in our prison. They await your judgement.”

  “Very good,” Forneus snarled.

  With his eyes avoiding Forneus’s stare, the Scale began to fumble nervously with his sleeve.

  “There was one detail though, my Lord.”

  Forneus’s emotionless eyes invited the news.

  “We believe that the faction was able to send word to the Throne’s Eye.”

  The Scale cowered, certain of his impending punishment.

  The Serpent King only grinned. “The Throne’s Eye,” he mused, “Serich’s great secret.”

  The Dark King stopped for a moment and then grinned again in contentment.

  “Bring me one of our traitors,” he ordered. “I will find for him a great purpose.”

  19

  The Throne’s Eye monks were bound by an unbreakable pledge. It was a vow that called them to fight for each other – even it cost them their lives. With Haren’s news that Forneus had discovered the location of Serich’s crown, the monks knew that their vow would be tested. There was no doubt that Forneus would come.

  As the monks stood guard, tense in the preparation for war, many days soon passed. The monks knew that the curtain of battle would be drawn. But it seemed that only Forneus knew when. The Serpent had struck without striking, oozing a venom into the monastery that was draining more of the monks’ energy each passing day. Even the mightiest of men will lose their vigour to time. In an attempt to revitalize his brothers, Igallik began to take advantage of the time that the monastery had been given. By the head monk’s command, Raine led units of Torches out across the Throne’s Eye acreage to set up scouting posts, while Raeman and other high ranking Sights set upon the task of helping junior monks receive word from Animus Letum.

  In Raeman’s unit, a young Sight named Symin eagerly took to the task of holding audience with the second realm. Symin was a tall and awkward boy with brown hair and freckles. He was highly intelligent, but generally unsure of himself. He, like so many of us, believed that he was only one event away from proving his worth. A grand feat – he knew – would earn his peers’ respect.

  Like the other Sights in his company, Symin had found only madness between the two realms. The sound was like one thousand fires burning all at once. But even with no success, Symin was committed. He, like all Sights, was well lessoned in the story of Haren. Because of her discovery of Rhea, Haren was endowed with a great level of respect and admiration by the monastery’s junior monks. As the tale was recorded, Haren was barely at the age of seventeen when she found Rhea. Furthermore, she had come from an unexceptional background. These details now stood as inspiration to the Sights. In Symin’s eyes, Haren was a living legend. She was the proof of a humble birth rising to greatness.

  No words could argue Symin out of his admiration.

  The very moment he was taught how to hail the afterlife, Symin swelled with hope. Holding tightly to Haren’s legend, he launched himself into his task, hunting and hoping that the second realm would offer him a similar chance.

  By Raeman’s order, Symin and his company remained in a specific chapel while they attempted communication. The physical and mental stress that is caused by crossing realms is taxing. To cross the divide between earth and Animus Letum and then hold a line between both is like trying to focus your senses amid the cacophony of ten thousand screaming voices. And picking up a single word is like hearing a humming bird’s wings amid a thunderstorm.

  As midday bowed to dusk, the endurance of Symin’s company gave way – first to rest, then to extended absence. But Symin would not deviate from what he believed to be a rare chance. As time passed, the number of Sights in Symin’s chapel began slowly to decrease. It wasn’t long until Symin was the only remaining monk. The sun was falling when Symin’s stamina finally pled rest. The young Sight conceded, and after a deep exhalation, he tried to stretch off his fatigue. As he walked, flexing his lanky limbs upon every stride, the young Sight ambled slowly through the chapel. His eyes were looking, but his mind was not in the moment. As he continued to saunter, suddenly there was a loud hiss, and an orange glow overtook Symin’s vision. The phenomenon snapped Symin back to alertness, and as the orange glow smouldered around him, he crouched, surveying the chapel with cautious eyes. Strangely, the light source was one of the stained glass windows. With a slow creep, Symin approached the window. The young Sight quickly realized that the window was a portrait of Serich; however, as he leaned in and examined the window’s lines, a sudden realization startled him backwards. The lines on the glass were moving like a living plane, meandering on the glass surface like snakes through grass. As the lines slid and stretched, Symin leaned in, fascinated by the fire scene that was burning behind the image of Serich. Stunned but brave, Symin began to examine the window. As he inched forward, his skin began to singe, his hair fraying and hissing from the intense heat that was radiating off the window. Even so, he was undeterred. The young Sight approached even closer, watching as the fire scene took on the decipherable form of a figure sprawled over a giant stone. As Symin
studied the flaming image, something about it seemed familiar. The heat was becoming unbearable, but with gritted teeth, Symin neared even closer. He knew he had seen the image. The trees, the stone, the branches overhead, the swaying grass – Symin didn’t just recognize it, he knew that he had been there. Then, in a sudden flash, he placed it. It was the Sanctus Donum – the clearing where Haren had discovered Rhea. Certain that there was great purpose in the image, Symin withdrew none of his attention from the window. As the flames within the window swayed in eerie unison, the figure on the stone sat up in pain and seemed to be clutching something with both of his hands. As Symin tried to call out to the man, the fiery image in the window unexpectedly froze and a hollow whisper resounded from the glass.

  “Serich’s final gift…” the voice spoke.

  With another hiss, a distinct cold swept through the chapel, and with a loud crash the stained-glass window cracked and exploded into one hundred fragments.

  In an instant, the orange glow was gone and the room swept back into its previous solemnity.

  Symin, however, could not.

  “Serich’s final gift,” he repeated.

  The possibility of a new discovery for the Throne’s Eye was great. The young Sight’s mind began to leap further and further to hope. As Symin’s excitement grew, he seemed to forget the reason that he and the other Sights had been searching the second realm. With a boyish leap, he raced zealously out of the chapel, passing some other Sights who had been alerted by the sound of the crashing window.

  “Symin!” one yelled. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back!” Symin called back as he began his sprint to Sanctus Donum. “Tell Igallik I’ve made contact!”

  Overtaken by blind ambition, Symin sliced his way through the forest on his way to the Sanctus Donum. As he neared, his thoughts raced with the great possibility that could befall him. This, for Symin, could be a discovery rivalling Haren’s. It could be the moment that all Sights hope for. Finally, out of breath but high in hopes, Symin was within sight of the Sanctus Donum. In the distance, he could see a wavering and haunting orange glow at the entrance to the clearing. In fact he could hear it. The sinister crackle of fire became more and more audible as he closed in. As he drew within forty yards of the Sanctus Donum, he knew without a doubt that the clearing had been consumed with fire. As he reached the entrance, he peered fearlessly into the inferno. With his sleeve guarding his face from the intense heat, Symin searched desperately for the man he had seen in the window. As he stared into the blaze, he realized that there was only one part of the meadow that had not been touched by flame. Surrounded by the raging flames, there was a path of earth leading to center of the Sanctus Donum. The clearing was chaos. The meadow’s grass was swirling in violent gusts of fire and the branched canopy roof was falling in pieces of smouldering ash, but amid the feral bursts of fiery bedlam, somehow, someway, there was still an untouched path. In one moment, in one break of the flurried blaze, Symin’s eyes were able to follow the path to the center of the meadow. There, on the clearing’s center stone was the man. His feet and hands were bound together, but between his hands he seemed to be clutching something.