The Sons of Animus Letum

by Andrew Whittle

  “Serich’s final gift,” Symin prayed.

  He knew he needed to save the man. He knew he needed to answer the call. After a deep breath, Symin drew the hood on his robe over his head, and without a second thought, he darted down the path.

  As he delved deeper into the blaze, the flames slashed his frame with sporadic bursts of fire. However, there seemed to be a barrier around the path. As the young Sight cut determinedly down the untouched path, fending off the burning heat with his sleeve, it seemed that some power was holding the flames at bay. Symin’s quick feet rapidly rushed him near the stone, and as he moved within range of the man, he leapt the final few yards and landed at the man’s side. With focused eyes, the young Sight made a quick survey of the man’s condition. His body was badly burned, leaving only strips of cloth to hide the many whip marks on his torso, and his hands and feet had been bound with a fine gold wire.

  “I am here to help!” Symin shouted, as he reached for the man’s shoulder. “I can get you out of here!”

  With a scream, the man twisted away from Symin, doing his best to keep distance between them.

  As Symin again reached for the man, he got a closer view of the man’s bound legs and arms. The wire that surrounded them was cutting deeply and forcing a trail of blood down the man’s limbs. Symin could also see that there was an orange orb wired into the man’s hands.

  “I can cut you loose!” Symin cried as he retrieved the dagger from his belt.

  As Symin reached for the man’s hands, the man wrenched them away.

  The fire and smoke were growing more intense and Symin knew that the window of time was closing.

  “Damn it!” he screamed. “You don’t need to die!”

  The man finally turned to face Symin. Cut in the center of his forehead was a gory letter F. More blood spilled from the man’s mouth as his lips turned to a broken smile.

  Whatever words he had intended were indecipherable. And as he leaned back onto the stone and his voice turned into a haunting laugh, his unintelligible speech was explained: his tongue had been cut entirely from his mouth. Symin was shaken by the man’s unsettling laugh, but even so, he persisted.

  “We’re getting out of here!” he commanded.

  With authority, Symin grabbed the man by his shoulders and tried to lift him to his feet, but the man would not assist in the rescue. Finally, Symin angrily grabbed the man by the ankles and began to drag him out of the fire. As Symin looked back, he could see that his path was beginning to close. As he tried harder to drag the man, the heat of the flames scorched his skin, and as he yelped, the man began a fit of relentless kicking and bucking.

  “I am with Serich!” Symin finally yelled. “I was sent to find you!”

  The man stopped in his tracks, his eyes bulging with terror. He began to swing his arms, shaking his head furiously as he screamed in protest. With even more vigour, the man began to buck away from Symin. The man’s fierce struggle caused Symin to lose his grip on his ankles, and as Symin stumbled into a fall, the man bucked back towards the stone.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Symin shouted from the ground. “You don’t need to die!”

  As Symin climbed back to his feet, he guarded his face from the flames and tried to advance for another rescue.

  This time the man screamed even more wildly, bucking and crawling desperately away from the young Sight.

  As the man’s wild screams continued to scold Symin, suddenly one name cut through the garble, and Symin halted his steps.

  “Forneus?” Symin asked.

  The man’s eyes took to on intense urgency, and he began fervently to nod his head yes.

  “What of Forneus?” Symin yelled against the ferocious flame.

  The man rose to his knees and offered his bound hands to the young Sight. The man’s eyes were trying to speak, but Symin could not understand.

  “The orb?” he asked.

  The man nodded his head yes as if he was in fever. However, before the man could offer any further explanation, a violent burst of fire rocked the canopy roof, and several large branches crashed heavily onto his back. The weight was immense, and within seconds the man was sprawled on the earth of the Sanctus Donum. Symin cried out to the man to catch his attention, but the man remained motionless. With a quick dive, Symin landed at the man’s side, but as he shook his body, the man’s limp torso and bloody ears confirmed his death.

  With panic, Symin glanced around the burning clearing, each of his senses hissing with the effects of the wild blaze. The path was almost completely gone. As Symin glanced back to the man, he knew he couldn’t let these events be in vain. He again drew his dagger, and with a quick cut, he sliced the wire around the man’s lifeless hands. After cutting out the orange orb, Symin tucked it in a pouch on his belt and began his sprint out of the Sanctus Donum. The fire curled and slashed at his path, but the young Sight drew his hood even tighter and powerfully barrelled through the exploding flames. With a final lunge, Symin leapt out of the fire and tumbled back onto the path he had used to reach the Sanctus Donum.

  Symin made a concentrated effort to catch his breath. He gazed once more into the fire, regretting the man’s fate, but he determined nevertheless to deliver the orb to Igallik. Forcing himself up with his hands, Symin rose back to his feet, took a deep breath, and then raced back to the monastery.

  As he reached the gates to the Throne’s Eye, the Sights from his company were waiting.

  “What did you find?” a Sight named Craine asked.

  Symin broke from his sprint and hunched over, exhausted.

  “This,” he said as he held out the orange orb.

  Craine and the other Sights leaned in to examine the discovery.

  “What is it?” Craine asked.

  “I don’t know,” Symin admitted. “But I’m sure Igallik will. Does he know I made contact?”

  “I told him” Craine reported. “He’s been in the High Temple ever since.”

  Symin nodded, and allowed himself to catch his breath fully. As he rose back up to full posture, he broke into a look of disbelief.

  “You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get this.”

  Craine grabbed Symin’s wrist and raised his arm into the air.

  “Behold brothers!” he joked. “Our fellow Sight, the noble and mighty Symin, puts us all to shame! Greatness has but one name to speak on this day,” he cried to his laughing brothers. “And that name is Symin! Onward soldier! First to Igallik, and then to the pages of legend.”

  After Craine had released Symin, the other Sights patted Symin on the back, and in merry spirits they began their walk to the High Temple.

  The news of Symin’s discovery traveled quickly, and as the young Sight reached the base of the staircase to the High Temple, a congregation of monks formed around him. Symin calmly nodded to his brothers, and with a surge of confidence, he began his ascent to Igallik. As he reached the top of the staircase, he could see, through the open doors to the High Temple that Igallik and the monks of the Order had been waiting.

  At first sight of Symin, Igallik hurriedly stepped out to meet him. Palis quickly followed.

  Symin smiled proudly to them.

  “I made contact,” he announced. “And discovery.”

  The young Sight continued to beam, eagerly awaiting his due praise.

  None would come.

  “Was your discovery made in the Sanctus Donum?” Igallik asked sternly.

  “It was, sir,” Symin replied, confused with Igallik’s tone.

  The head monk and Palis looked very concerned.

  “Of what condition was the Sanctus Donum when you arrived?” Palis asked.

  “It was completely aflame” Symin answered. “I was able to make it to the stone. There was a man there, I tried to save…”

  Palis stopped him there.

  “Did the man have an F cut somewhere into his body?”

  “Yes,” Symin said, “on his forehead.”

  “Did he say an
ything to you?” Igallik asked.

  “Well, no,” Symin paused. “His tongue was cut out.”

  Igallik and Palis turned their backs to Symin and whispered to one another, but the young Sight didn’t understand.

  “I wasn’t able to save him,” he said, “and I’m deeply sorry for that. But I did manage to save this from the fire.” Symin reached nervously into the pouch on his belt and presented the orb.

  Palis and Igallik were barely paying attention. As Igallik finally turned back to the young Sight, and he saw what Symin was holding in his hands, his voice immediately sounded in panic.

  “Throw it away, Symin!”

  Palis turned back in alarm. He too, began to scream for Symin to get rid of it.

  Symin was stunned. He froze. As Igallik and Palis continued to yell, Symin was too panicked to respond.

  Suddenly, with a loud hiss, several small sharp needles shot out of the orb. With a yelp, Symin flinched from the pricks, the pain stinging him enough that he dropped the orb. After a few more winces and curses, the young Sight – not knowing what he had done wrong – tried to offer the Order monks an apology.

  However, the Order monks were much more concerned with Symin’s hand. Helpfully, Symin held up his hand so they could inspect the damage.

  There were small punctures, but no cause for concern.

  “I think its fine. I think I’m OK ...” Symin said.

  As Symin began to calm himself, the veins in his right hand suddenly began to glow orange and pulse out of his skin. Symin looked on perplexed, until his hand, not by his will, reached for the dagger on his belt. Symin was confused at first, but as he realized what was happening, fear consumed his eyes.

  “It’s not me!” he shrieked. “Igallik! My hand! I’m not doing this! I’m not in control!”

  “He’s been hexed,” Igallik yelled out. “Brothers! Hold him down!”

  Igallik and Palis latched onto Symin’s right hand, hoping to overpower whatever spell had possessed it, but they could not hold it back. In quick seconds, the Order monks arrived and tried to assist, but the dagger in Symin’s hand was gripped too strongly. The dagger cut quickly through the piece of robe covering Symin’s stomach, and then with wild arcs it began to slice rapidly at Symin’s abdomen. The young Sight fell onto his back screaming, crying for help as the dagger cut numerous lacerations into his open flesh. As blood sprayed like a geyser, Igallik and the other Order monks tried to stop the dagger, but it seemed no use. Even with more Throne’s Eye monks ascending the staircase to help, the dagger could not be stopped. As Symin writhed and cried, the dagger continued to cut maliciously into his skin.

  Then, suddenly, the dagger rose up to Symin’s throat.

  “Please, no,” Igallik pled.

  “Igallik,” Symin whimpered. “Please stop it! Please!”

  Every monk within reach latched onto Symin’s hand, hoping to save their young brother.

  Their efforts were in vain.

  With a quick and direct plunge, the dagger shot down into the center of Symin’s throat. Amid bloody coughs and spit, Symin shook wildly. Igallik used his hands to try to stop the bleeding, but it was too late.

  Symin’s hand fell to his side, and the dagger dropped to the floor – Symin was dead.

  With a yell, Igallik turned furiously from Symin’s body, throwing his hands up in futility as he screamed and cursed the young Sight’s fate. The other monks, Palis included, had never seen such anger in their head monk. Understanding Igallik’s heavy guilt, they turned their heads away and began to bless Symin’s deceased body. Igallik soon joined them, but the monks’ minds were too scattered to bless Symin properly. No words or ritual could convey their apology. Symin never deserved such a fate. With grief, Igallik offered Symin’s body a Throne’s Eye prayer.

  “The vow of time is not eternity. Nor is it a life without despair. Our promise is that in the opposition of pain we can hold moments greater than forever. Farewell Symin,” the head monk said, “the vow was held.”

  With a slow hand, Igallik closed Symin’s eyes and performed the final blessing over his body.

  “Brothers,” he whispered, “if you would, please bring our young Symin’s body into the High Temple. We must prepare him for our final respects.”

  The monks surrounding Symin nodded in understanding, and after they lifted his bloody body into their arms, they began to carry him into the High Temple.

  Igallik followed and was quickly joined by Palis.

  “This is an unexpected and dangerous move,” Palis whispered.

  “Yes, it is,” Igallik said angrily. “I fear Symin’s misfortune is but a glimpse of what Forneus has planned.”

  The head monk paused to allow the monks carrying Symin to enter the High Temple.

  “What I can’t comprehend is what purpose lies in this attack,” he said.

  After entering the Temple, the Order monks stopped and observed for a moment while Symin’s body was set down. With a grimace, Igallik watched as the other monks began to wash the blood from Symin’s abdomen.

  Palis shook his head in disbelief.

  “There is barely a lesson here” he said in frustration. “What truth belongs to Symin’s death? Why Symin?”

  “I pray that time will unfold that mystery” Igallik said. “But for now we must concentrate on the task at hand. Evidently, Forneus knows our exact location.”

  “What can we do though?” Palis asked. “We have no idea when he’ll come. Our waiting is his venom: the longer it persists the wearier we become.”

  Igallik nodded in regretful agreement.

  “He will come,” he assured. “We must be prepared.”

  As Igallik dropped his head, suddenly one of the monk’s voices cried out from where Symin’s body was placed at rest.

  “Holy hell!” the monk shrieked.

  Igallik and Palis immediately rushed to Symin’s body.

  As they arrived, and then looked down at the wounds on Symin’s abdomen, a sick feeling grew in their guts.

  “Damn you,” Igallik cursed.

  The blood from Symin’s stomach wounds had been washed, and now only a series of methodical slashes were left. The slashes carved out a gory message:

  I COME TONIGHT –

  FORNEUS

  20

  The vileness of the Serpent King’s message had been a mistake. Forneus had sent his message, but for it, he would pay. The Serpent sought to inspire fear. He had accomplished the opposite. Given Symin’s ghastly fate, the Throne’s Eye promised vengeance on Forneus’s militia. Each and every brother committed himself to one purpose: they would crush Forneus’s first realm Scale. In the swell of their determined vengeance, the monks had become deadly focused. War was the monastery’s expert craft, and for Symin, they would showcase their mastery.

  All but three monks from the Throne’s Eye were to hold guard against the impending assault. The three exceptions were Haren, Odin, and Galian. As Igallik had planned, Haren and the boys would seek refuge in the High Temple. This strategy was met with great opposition by Odin, who begged Igallik to let him fight. In spite of Odin’s spirit, Igallik resolved that the truth of Odin and Galian’s asylum at the Throne’s Eye could not be forfeited – the sons were simply too important.

  With the hour of war suspended ominously over the monastery, Haren ushered Odin and Galian into the High Temple. Galian bobbed in with his usual walk, but Odin paced in dejectedly, his head sunk and his eyes brimming with anger. As they entered, Raine stood just inside the door, armed with his final instruction. Like nearly all of the monks, Raine was donned in his red and gold armor.

  As the boys reached him, the old warrior tightened the front of his helmet up.

  “Listen closely,” he said. “The following three rules are for your protection. You must abide by them.”

  Raine paused and allowed his eyes to emphasize the critical importance of his order.

  “First, at no point, circumstance, or emergency are you to unlock or
open the doors to this Temple.”

  Galian nodded in understanding, but Odin ignored his mentor and began to pace at the back of the Temple.

  “Odin,” Raine finally barked, “you have no choice in this matter. At the very least, show some respect.”

  Odin cast back an irate stare. “What do you expect me to do?” he seared. “I need to fight. I need to help. You know I can help avenge Symin.”

  “You’re damned right you could,” Raine said. “But if the Scale realize who you are, every god-damned thing we’ve done to protect you and your brother is lost. Your father’s sacrifice would be for nought. Use your head, Odin. You can’t be in this one.”

  Odin halted his strides, and stabbed his hand wildly into the Temple air.

  “You expect us to hide!” he yelled. “You expect us to hide while our brothers die!”

  “The second rule,” Raine said as he ignored Odin’s ire, “is that Haren is in charge. You will do exactly what she says.”

  Exhaling with irritation, Odin paced again at the back of the Temple, throwing his arms up in frustration.