by Martin Gibbs
As they continued through the thick snow, the young Protector kept the sun at a specific spot on his right shoulder and gradually adjusted their path as they trudged along the snow-covered ground. There was still a hint of a trail, which he was thankful for, but he knew from experience that he could not always trust the trails here. There were countless other paths leading nowhere. This landscape seemed somehow gentler than what they had heard and read of the craggy and inhospitable Spires of Solitude—at least what they could see of it. The trail they followed was buried in snow, but there was a clear depression in the snow indicating that it, at least, led somewhere.
“So the Tunnels don’t go all the way?”
“No, it was safer to have them end a couple of miles short. In this terrain, it would be hard for anyone to get across even this short distance without knowing exactly where to go. You will have to follow me carefully.”
Soon they noticed that the northern rim of the valley was open slightly; a narrow, rocky passage cut through it—a smaller version of Gray Gorge. A sea of both green and white greeted them. While the snow was just as thick here, there was a palpable life to it—for stoic balsams and white pines rose high into the heavens. Many of their long branches were covered in a thick blanket of snow, and they bowed their branches gracefully. The narrow trail—if it could be called one—dove down through thick strands of long-needled pines and finally disappeared around a bend.
“We are not far,” the younger man was saying. “Shall we?”
“Aye,” replied the mage.
After they rounded the bend, the trees opened into a small clearing, and the Temple was finally in sight. It was as the man had described. Fanlas was surprised at the size of the structure—it was so small!
Each component of the Temple was constructed of smooth, square stone, put together to create a large box of equal height and width. The building itself took up less than a third of an acre of rocky terrain. Spruce trees towered above it, and it looked like a cozy mountain cabin nestled in the evergreens, instead of a holy place built for the sole purpose of defeating sinister forces. The roof was a steep pitch, an almost vertical wall, to discourage snow from building on the structure and compromising it. Snow from recent storms lay in large white walls along the sides of the building.
Only a few stained-glass windows were visible, each with a different letter written in glass. A small symbol was attached to the peak of the roof, reaching up to the bright winter sun. If he were here to see for himself, Qainur would have been very disappointed—it looked nothing like his trinket. There was only one small, but solid, door that they could see.
The men stopped, their chests heaving and their breath pluming into the air in great clouds. As one, they seemed to be thinking the same thought: M’Hzrut. The great Temple of M’Hzrut. Great, but small and humble.
And it still stood. A tendril of smoke rose from the chimney and the young Protector nearly squealed with delight.
“He is alive!”
They found the front door locked. No amount of pounding and yelling brought the man out to open it.
“He could be sleeping,” Fanlas offered.
“Or he has no idea I left for help.”
“But your voice?”
“He might think I’m possessed, too. I’m sure he will be very careful. We may have a hard road ahead in explaining ourselves!”
“Is there a key?” the mage wondered.
“Not for this door, but there is one for the door around back. Follow me. The service entrance is locked, but I have a key I can use.”
They arrived at the back door. There was a sled full of supplies covered in snow.
“This was yours?” Fanlas asked.
“Yes, I left it in my haste to escape. I took some things, but otherwise, I left it here.” The young Protector started digging in his pocket for the key. Soon he turned a bright purple color, almost the color of an eggplant, as he took his hands out of his pockets and shrugged.
“I lost the key,” he whispered.
The old mage could only laugh. His small chuckle grew into a raspy, heaving, all-out cackle.
Bimb’s father’s face broke into a smile. “Well, isn’t that wonderful! All the way here. And we don’t have the key! Eventually the other Protector will have to let us in—or can we break down the door?”
The color on the young Protector’s face faded slowly from eggplant to a lighter shade of red. “No, I don’t want to break the door down. We’ll have to try and force the lock.”
“I can help you there, son,” the mage replied. “Let me try something.” He bent down over the lock with a groan and a litany of creaking and popping of his old frame. “Now, it’s all in the spaces…” he muttered.
“Spaces?” Fanlas perked up.
“Yes, spaces,” the mage muttered. A soft, white light emerged between his fingers and he sent it out in tentative threads towards the lock. He gave a start when one of the threads bounced back to his finger.
“Bimb always talked about that. ‘Spaces between notes,’ he’d say. ‘That’s where my friends are.’ He was always talking to someone it seemed. In his head, that is. Hmm…spaces, huh?”
The old mage stopped for a moment and gave Bimb’s father a hard sidelong glance. Fanlas wasn’t sure what to make of it: irritation, compassion, or sadness? Mages were so hard to read!
“Ach!” the mage spat, jumping back. “None of this is working. I keep missing the tumblers, as if…yes, most likely,” he answered his own question. “Rust and age. Just an old lock that needs force over finesse.” There was one more option. The white light vanished.
“Stand back, this might make some noise,” the old mage directed the others.
The white light returned to his hands, and he muttered almost silently to himself, “This better work.” Soon the thin tendrils grew into cords the size of large worms and swirled in a seemingly random pattern around his hands. The mage brought them together as one thick thread, then projected that thread against the lock.
The thread exploded against the lock with a blinding flash. A retort like thunder echoed off the walls in the small space, deafening the three travelers. Splinters whooshed across the room and embedded themselves in the woodwork. The men ducked instinctively, covering their faces. A plume of smoke billowed from the door. When it cleared, a foot-wide hole was where the lock and frame had stood. Nothing remained of the lock or the handle.
It was the mage’s turn to color with embarrassment. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “I had no idea…seeing the rust, I gave it a little more power.”
The young Protector laughed. “I’m sure we can find some wood around here to hold it. By now the other Protector will be suspicious. Hold on…” He directed his companions to wait, while he cautiously opened the door.
“It is me!” he called. “I have brought help. We lost the key and had to break the lock off.”
“I see that,” returned a muted voice. “I apologize for not opening the door. You see, I thought you were one of them.”
“We understand.” He remained stationary with one foot inside the temple and the other still in the service area.
“That magic was not demonic. Please, come in. I’m glad you made it. It’s been a very exhausting week. I tried to sleep, but—”
“We understand. Come in.” The young man directed to his companions, who still stood speechless in the entryway.
The voice that had greeted them belonged to a small-man. He was gray and wrinkled, with dull, brown eyes, but he moved with a litheness that belonged to a man half his age.
Inside, the temple was as simple as its outward appearance. At the far northern edge stood a solid-stone altar, bare except for a white cloth, which lay across the middle of the table and fell to the floor. Atop the cloth was a type of candelabra with three tapers set in wax-covered holders. The candles flickered as a draft wafted through the room. The middle of the candelabra was shaped like the same strange symbol upon the roof—it look
ed almost like the impression of a bird’s foot, or a seed of some strange plant. In truth, it was modeled after the seed (specifically the seed scale) of the yellow birch tree. Three small “fingers” stuck outward from an oval “hand.” And from the tip of each finger, a small filament was placed, reaching only the width of a thumbnail.
“I’m glad for that fireplace,” Fanlas said, staring at the massive hearth on the western wall. A fire blazed, and vents on either side of the stone poured hot air into the room.
The young Protector eyed the four wooden stools that sat in front of the fire. “Indeed, it will be nice to sit and warm ourselves, but—”
The old Protector interrupted with a cough. “Indeed. There’s also sufficient space for sleeping in the room over there. Mainly cots. There is a kitchen, too. But that’s not important…we have much we need to discuss. I’m glad you have come because I don’t think I have the strength to ward off any more attacks on my own.” He eyed the men with a piercing glaze.
Fanlas looked at the man in the dim light of the room—the stained glass windows were painted so dark that only a dim light passed through, catching dust as it tried to illuminate the room. In the murky light, the old Protector seemed younger and fiercer somehow.
“Neither of you are true Protectors, are you?”
Fanlas started to protest, and the mage opened his mouth, but the Protector continued, “It is nothing. I welcome the help that comes; for now we must all be on guard. Rest while you can, but I expect we will face more danger. Of course, you will remain the full six months?”
The mage nodded and Fanlas sighed. Six months? He stared at the floor and balled his fists. He had sworn to this—committed to this. He could not go back. But Bimb…what would happen to him?
“I have agreed to come this far and will help,” the mage said, eyeing Fanlas.
“I—I—” he stammered, then stood up straight. “I will do what I can.”
The younger Protector spoke softly, “What happened before was a very violent attack. I hope you are prepared for that.”
“I am,” the mage said sternly. He looked at Fanlas again. “We all are.”
“Good,” the old man said softly. “Then we must wait. We must be ready for the worst, but hope for nothing.”
Chapter 31 — Descent
Do you know madness? Truly? Raw, howling, spitting, crying, tearing, biting, and ripping madness? When you look yourself in the eye and do not know anymore who stares back—that is madness. When worldly and other-worldly hopes rest upon an imbecile child—that is madness. When you believe for even a second that the world makes any sense whatsoever. That. Is. Madness.
Prophet Vron’za, IV Age
I waited. And waited. I stared out at the massive castle that sprawled along the frozen wasteland. The chestnut was good but a little bitter. I tried another. Much better. I would have to make some tea. I turned to head toward the kitchens, but his voice stopped me. Ah…what took you so long?
Why did you kill my son? he whispered, much quieter than normal.
“What?” I asked loudly.
Why did you kill my SON? he bellowed.
“I didn’t kill him. Ar’Zoth did.”
You waited. You waited until he had killed everyone before you killed him. I TOLD you to kill the warlock first! Why! WHY?
“He could not fly.”
But if you had acted when I TOLD you to, Zhy wouldn’t have been thrown over the cliff by that…by that madman.
“Ar’Zoth is dead.”
Why? Why did you let it happen?
I waited. He was very angry. Very, very, very angry. Then I spoke. I could feel him freeze at my words.
“I wanted you to go away. Permanently. Gone. I have tired of your silly machinations.”
You—wait, what? Are you there? Bimb?
I laughed. “Yes it is. It feels very nice to shed the simpleton personality at long last.”
I…I—
“Yes, it took quite the effort, though I slipped a few times...”
I’m not sure you did...
I continued as if he had not spoken. “And if you had any opportunity to read my thoughts, which I’m sure you tried, you’d have seen the façade wobble as I stared at Ar’Zoth. He spoke to me, you know, for just a brief moment. When he dropped Zhy...he said, ‘Welcome. I have been expecting you most of all,’ but I never gave him the chance to say or do anything else. He was unstable. Thanks to that poisoned sword, he was dead before he knew what had happened.”
But, how…? Your thoughts were simple and…how did you do it?
“Forget it, Lyn. It’s beyond your comprehension. I killed Ar’Zoth and I killed Zhy, by not killing Ar’Zoth first. By simply waiting. Now Zhy can at last go to you…his soul is still trapped down there, but I will release it shortly. But only after we’ve had our little chat. I suppose you want to know what happened and how I did it. And, truthfully, I am tired of acting like the village idiot and am very thankful to have had ‘help’ from Ar’Zoth.”
But…my son.
“Stop with the ‘my son’ prattle. You’ll get him back soon.”
Silence.
I sat in an over-stuffed chair that faced the fireplace. Turning, I glanced longingly out the window at the snowy landscape and finally turned back to face the fire. Anyone would have thought me truly mad, staring at the fire, talking to myself. Alas, as much as I wanted Zhy’s Fa to be gone, I relished our last moments together. Soon I would be truly alone. But I would not regret this.
“Take a seat, Lyn, this will take some time.” I could picture the man sitting at his rickety kitchen table and gently folding his hands. In my mind’s eye, I saw confusion, pain, sadness, fear, doubt, and every other possible emotion flickering across his face.
I began my tale…Lyn interrupted respectfully from time to time, but mostly I talked. In a normal voice. What a relief to talk like an adult. A smart, sophisticated adult. No longer the simple man-child, Bimb. I nearly wet myself I was so utterly relieved to be free.
“I was born simple-minded. Some said that my mother drank too much before she realized she was with child. I believed them. That was probably why she cried so much—she spent a lifetime blaming herself for my condition, and half of another drowning out her pain and her guilt; I surely blamed her for it, although the old Bimb only smiled at her and wondered why she was so sad. Fa never mentioned the reason for my condition, but even a simple-minded kid will wonder if they are responsible for their parents’ pain. And wonder I did. I had caused them both so much pain.
“Around my sixteenth birthday—oh, seven years ago?—I heard a voice in the spaces between the notes. It wasn’t your voice, but the rough and gruff voice of a very skilled warlock. Yes, I would find out later it belonged to Ar’Zoth. There had been many voices between the notes—each time I picked up the sutan, there were many. All asking for this…begging for that…can you tell my daughter this? I would talk sometimes, help them when I could. Until Ar’Zoth showed up.
“He promised he could remove my “disease” as he called it—but for a price. I would have to join him when the time was right. Until then, I would have to play the role and continue on as my old self. I had no reason not to do as he asked, especially after he showed me what one of his demonic bats could do to my face if I refused. That was enough for me.
“While boys my age were growing, drinking, and flirting with tavern waitresses, I was playing in the fields and letting Fa muss my hair. Thinking about it made me cringe—such humiliation and degradation; an enormous amount of self-deprecation that I had to endure, yet it was all for such an immense reward. And, yes, I really did love my Fa. And I still do. But more on that later.
“I was shown a vision of this castle. It was everything I had ever dreamed of—a giant manse, all to myself. Stone walls and parapets overlooking an endless range of craggy spires, snow-capped peaks and deep valleys filled with giant pine and balsam. Isolation. No more crying mothers or teasing boys. An end to mindless ti
nkering in the fields and remembering endless litanies of numbers and phrases. (Although I’m glad I was good with the numbers to enter the Tunnels of Woe.)
“Ar’Zoth had promised he would transfer much of his knowledge to me as the years went by, leaving him to vacate this place for a warm beach in the south. I could almost smell the lie a thousand miles away; he was going mad and he needed someone else to take over before he lost all control and missed the fruits of his labor. But he was missing them anyway, wasn’t he?” I chuckled. “That is the trouble, isn’t it? Even for you.”
Me?
“Yes. You saw a simple-minded man. You assumed things. Ar’Zoth was no different—he saw Bimb and, in him, a perfect target. A piece of clay, a blank slate…pick your cliché. Fill my head with magic and whatnot, step away from the demonic horde that was driving him mad, and unleash hell! In your own way, you saw me like that—after all, you convinced me to follow, to track Zhy; whoever or whatever set Zhy in motion coincided perfectly with both Ar’Zoth’s plans, and yours.”
There was a long pause. I had been trying to reach my son, just to say goodbye, but he heard nothing, of course. When he started on the journey, I could see he was in trouble…and he passed right by your farm, of course not noticing it, but it was…it was coincidence.
“You sound so convincing,” I muttered. “Such a coincidence happened to come along for Ar’Zoth as well. I think he arranged the incident at the Temple, with the demon, in order to send the Protector to our house. I know you weren’t in league with him because he mentioned that your presence was a far better help than what he planned—he was going to have me ski northward and follow above ground.” I shuddered. I would not have survived that.
“But where were we? Oh, on the dead...”
Please, Bimb, I—
“I had often talked with the departed before Ar’Zoth fixed me. Finding them between the notes was an ethereal experience I cherished at first. But it became a burden after a time, and as much as I loved playing the sutan, I had to turn many away or quickly talk them on to their next place. Wherever that was. Some were afraid to go, but a swift reminder that they would be at peace sent them going—the simple-minded voice of Bimb calmed many fears. But you…you hung on.”