by David
“Wow!” Kelvion exclaimed. “Look, Loric, look!”
Loric did not need the boy to tell him to do that. In fact, it was hard to take his eyes from the phenomenon.
The wizened old man hobbled up to the door, opened it and entered. Four men haltingly followed him into the unlikely tower, while Kelvion urged greater and greater haste from them.
Loric took in his new surroundings as his host barred the door. To his surprise, it was more spacious than it appeared from without.
Loric and company were in a capacious room that served as both kitchen and living area.
Off to the left, there was a small wooden table surrounded by chairs. To the right, there were two rockers with a small table set between them. Straight ahead, there was a staircase ascending to the upper level. As the wispy-haired old man lit the oil lamp on the table, Loric noticed that countless shelves of books lined the walls. Finely woven rugs covered the wooden floor for warmth. As a whole, the place was neat and tidy, almost homely.
The host motioned for his guests to sit in the dining room, near the hearth. The old man joined them at the head of the table and pointed to a tattered book at its center. The book was of ordinary dimensions. Bound in a worn leather jacket, it bore no title.
Loric sat opposite the aged fellow and reached for the book with an unsteady hand. He drew it close before him and set his fingers to the cover. When Loric flipped the book open, the pages were blank. He fanned through it to discover that it was a collection of empty leaves, whereupon he frowned at his unusual host and asked, “What game do you play at?”
A trace smile broke on the old man’s face as he pointed back to the book. Loric glanced down to see words forming on its pages, as if by magic. There was no quill, no hand, just ink bleeding onto the page from an unseen source. Loric drew back his hand from those bound leaves, as if from a den of asps. What do you know of the Father of the Forest? the book demanded.
Loric looked up from the magical writing and answered, “My father, Palen--Sir Palendar, that is--wrote in his knightly log that, ....the Father of the Forest holds a keeper, and the keeper keeps a secret.”
“Sir Palendar,” Barag murmured in disbelief. He stared at Loric as one betrayed. “The bravest knight of Sir Logant’s line, save perhaps Logant himself.... He was dwelling amongst us commoners in tiny Taeglin,” he mused. “This is the first I have heard of this. It doesn’t make any sense to me. To think that a legendary figure, such as he came to dwell among farm folk....” The bulky warrior wagged his head, refusing to accept the illogic of it.
The old man’s eyes tightened as they darted toward the book, bidding Loric to read. Sir Palendar sent you? it questioned.
“No,” Loric answered without hesitation. “I came to finish what my father started,” he explained. “I came to do what he left unfinished for my sake.”
The weight of that truth made the burden of Loric’s task heavy to bear. This was the first time he had thought about the sacrifice that Sir Palendar had made to see him grown in relative safety. His father had given up his quest for the greatest of all treasures to try to keep him safe.
Now Sir Palendar was dead, betrayed by Loric’s sense of right and the nobleman he had angered in protecting Marblin, one Garrett son of Garrick, the Prince of Durbansdan.
The silent elder nodded toward the book. Has your father abandoned his quest then?
“Nay,” Loric answered. The truth stuck in the back of his throat. “A noble lord, lacking both nobility and honor, murdered him, along with all of my people,” he answered.
Again, there was no reaction from the old man. Loric checked the page before him. There were more words. Therefore, you have taken it upon yourself to finish his work?
“Yes,” Loric replied.
What is your reason for doing this? the book wrote.
“I would recover the Great King’s Sword, the one known as the Sword of the Dragon’s Eye, the Sword of Kings, and sometimes the Fire of Kings, that I might place it in capable hands that would set Beledon to rights,” Loric answered sincerely. “The kingdom bleeds,” he went on, his eyes flooding with pains of war and death, tragedy and suffering, “and great lords revel in slaughter, while common folk surrender everything to gain nothing. It frustrates me!” he growled.
A creepy half-smile formed on the old man’s countenance, so Loric eyed the writing on the pages. Who is worthy of this sword, Loric son of Palendar? Whom would you have as your king?
Loric considered the lords he had met in his travels. Garrick had shown terrible weakness in the face of great tragedy and he lacked a suitable heir to continue his line, even before Garrett fell. Aldric was exceedingly cunning, but he barely showed honor above King Hadregeon, with his tangle of lies ever to be distrusted. Hadregeon was treacherous and King Turtioc was downright wicked. Loric despaired of finding a worthy suitor for the Sword of the Dragon’s Eye.
“I cannot think of a single deserving candidate,” the Knight of Shimmermir and Taeglin said aloud. “The answer to that question is a quest of greater challenge than the one upon which I have already set myself, but I am no less willing to pursue it to its ultimate end. There are lords I have not yet met. Surely, there is someone worthy of this great honor. I would continue my search for this man; and when I find him, I would make him king.”
Can you think of no one? the book questioned.
“There is not one nobleman I know who is worthy of kingship!” Loric declared.
Each of his companions named his respective lord as deserving of said honor, but Loric disregarded the argument he had started to say, “They have all fallen into petty squabbles and dishonorable deeds.” Loric’s companions stifled, as they realized they were mirroring actions of their leaders. Loric felt shame for his ignoble acts. He had disobeyed his father’s wishes, stolen his knightly gear and allowed others to believe countless numbers of Aldric’s lies about him.
The old man frowned disagreement with him. You look much like your father. Pray, tell me: have you taken on his mantle?
“As best I may,” Loric replied. “I fear I have failed him in many respects, but I hope to do better for the memory of his name.”
An honorable goal, to be sure, the book commended him. Perhaps there is hope for the kingdom, after all.
“May I ask how you knew my father?” Loric inquired.
Sir Palendar came to me in great need, long ago, said the book. He told me that Knights of Beledon had betrayed him. I, detached from intrigues at court, as I am, did not hold his lie against him. Moreover, I helped him hide. Then I became the first keeper of his secret. You must dig between the two great north-facing roots of this tree to unearth what I keep. What you find there will lead you to the second keeper.
Loric held onto his questions about his father’s lie for the time being, instead repeating,
“Second keeper?”
Dig for your answers, Loric, advised the book.
With that door closing in his face, Loric knocked on another, begging, “Pray tell me: what lie did my father speak?” The son of Palendar studied the page in anticipation of his answer, but there was no writing there. He looked back to the old man, who only shook his head in reply.
“Please, won’t you tell me?” Loric pleaded.
Words scrolled onto the page, saying, Why should I give you answers about your father’s past when you could go to the source?
“I already told you,” Loric fired back angrily, “my father is dead!”
The wizened man nodded toward the book, where Loric read, I think not.
A sense of hope unlooked for made Loric’s heart flutter. “How do you know this?” he
insisted.
It does not matter HOW I know, Loric of Taeglin, answered the aged enchanter, through his ensorcelled medium, what matters is THAT I know your father still walks the land of the living.
Loric felt a tingle in his spine. His host was unearthly creepy. Only his father’s written clues had brought him here and only h
is father’s knightly log kept him from leaving on the instant. If the old man really knew Sir Palendar was alive, when there was no natural way for Loric to know of it.... that was cause to feel troubled. If the old fellow only pretended to know, then he was insane.
“Who are you to know what you claim to know?” Loric demanded. “By what dark powers
do you hold knowledge of the living and the dead, far away in Taeglin?”
The old man had a hard edge to his eyes as he nodded toward the book. Loric glanced down and read, I am Nimshar the Old. As for how I know this; that is of no matter to you or your companions. You have passed my challenge of your noble worth. You may proceed to the second keeper with my blessing. You are welcome to stay the night in my humble abode, under the watchful Father of the Forest, who will keep you safe from terrors of Dimwood. Then you MUST
leave.
Loric sensed a coming farewell. He could not say why, but the countenance of Nimshar
bespoke it. Loric knew he had to ask his favor of the old sorcerer before he left, so he began,
“This boy-”
Nimshar pointed to the book before Loric could say more. I know all about this boy! He is dangerous, for he cannot control the spirit that has invaded his body. Loric knocked his chair over in his attempt to lift the book from Kelvion’s view, for he did not know whether the lad could read.
“Hey!” Warnyck protested.
Loric shot the scout a condemning look, whereupon he folded his hands at his waist and smashed his lips together. Loric read on, Only your bloodline protects you from the full wrath of this abominable curse. In you, there is strength to overcome the evil nature of this poison. You have the dragon eyes, as promised by scribes of old. I daresay you have acquired the dragon senses and sorceries to adjoin your new look. You may yet hold to your sanity and do good, against all of the evil nature that seeks to control you. This boy, however, is befouled by the taint of the dragon water, with no such hope. He is destined to work wickedness, like the Spirit Men inhabiting this wood. They too were once common folk, who craved legendary powers of dragons. They drank of the Enchanted River to partake of its sorcery. Alas, they have found power, but it rules over them with iron claws of torment. As it is with the Spirit Men, so shall it be with this boy. Beware the Spirit Men, who lurk in these woods. Beware their spells. Most of all, beware the boy!
Loric shivered despite the warmth of his anger. “Then you cannot help in this matter?” he questioned calmly, for Kelvion’s sake. “Or will you not help us?”
I will not help him, scrolled onto the page. My help would make the boy more powerful, and so doom the world! He is perilous to everyone he meets. No good can come from this boy.
Loric was furious. He drew a deep breath to get control of his rage. Nimshar is being unreasonable. How could anyone, most especially a man of aged wisdom, write off the potential of any young lad to affect his world in a positive way? It was an unfair judgment, which led to unfair condemnation.
“Very well,” Loric responded. It took him a moment to calm his breathing. “Since it is up to me to help Kelvion, I will keep him with me and take him to squire.”
Kelvion cheered loudly.
The old man looked gravely concerned. You risk much, Loric son of Palendar.
“This lad has much to offer the kingdom,” Loric stubbornly returned. “It is in the hands of lads like this that the future of Beledon rests, for good or ill. How can we hope for the former if we would readily discard him amongst the latter? It is my responsibility to this boy, and his father and mother, to show him the good he can do.”
Understood, Nimshar wrote. Be warned: you walk with danger. May goodness preserve you.
“Thank you for all that you have done for us,” Loric offered stiffly. He gently guided Kelvion toward the door as he went on, saying, “Now I must seek my answers and take leave of this place. My soul tires of this evil wood!”
Nimshar pointed to the book. Loric puffed a frustrated sigh and followed the words there written. The Father of the Forest and I offer you sanctuary for the night, for Dimwood IS evil.
The cupboards are full. Help yourselves to what you find within them. This is the last help I can give to you. I beg you; take it! Do not let bitter feelings stand in the way of what I freely offer you. If you would be so rash, I fear I have erred as keeper and should oppose your quest.
Loric disliked the old sorcerer’s threatening tone. Furthermore, he was angry that Nimshar was right. Even though Loric wanted to dig up the secret and be on his way, it would be foolhardy for him to lead his party to another fretful night outdoors when they could enjoy a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.
The knight turned to his friends, hoping to justify his instinctive anger, but that was a vain hope. Warnyck and Barag were settled and content. Marblin seemed comfortable for the first time in days, seeing how Nimshar had not tried to eat his soul. “Must we leave?” Warnyck asked. “A night indoors would be welcome relief, if our host would have us,” he added hopefully.
Nimshar nodded a bow.
“It’s settled!” Barag thumped with his fist. “Food and four walls!” he cheered.
Loric offered his townsman a wry smile and turned to Nimshar to share his decision. He was gone.
“Where did he go?” Loric asked.
Warnyck shrugged, unconcerned. “What does it matter? Our host has given us leave to stay the night.”
“Let’s find the food!” Barag urged. “Racing through the woods, chopping vines every step of the way is hungry work.”
The companions searched the house. In a tall pantry in the dining area, they found a basket heaped with walnuts and another piled with sunflower seeds. They also discovered leaf-wrapped cakes and jugs of ale. There was plenty of firewood, and there was room enough for them to sleep comfortably. Those were excellent finds for hungry, tired men in barren woodlands.
Barag wanted to feast right away, but Loric insisted that they had come to this place with a purpose, which was to find the keeper’s secret. They had to unearth whatever was hidden beneath the two great north-facing roots of the tree. Out back, Warnyck spotted a spade, which he passed to Marblin.
The Moonwatcher frowned. “If only you had given me this before I ruined my sword....”
Warnyck slapped him on the arm and said, “I thought of you first.”
It only took Marblin a matter of minutes to strike something hard and metallic in the ground.
Loric brushed away loose dirt with his hands, until a blackened, rusted box was free. It was roughly ten inches by twelve, and six inches deep. It was also locked.
Loric puzzled over the lock for a minute, before Barag suggested bashing it open with a large stone or a fireplace log. Loric put up a hand to that idea. Warnyck was less kind, saying,
“You can’t do that, you big oaf! We don’t know what’s in there. Sure, you could easily break in with a rock, but you might destroy what’s inside.”
Marblin suggested, “It might be wise to pry it open with a sword point,” The idea did not seem nearly as good to him when he drew his sword and looked woefully at its broken tip. “If I had one, that is.”
In the end, Warnyck picked the lock with small tools from an inner pocket of his cloak. The scout resisted the urge to have the first look, instead handing the box to Loric, to whom it belonged by rights.
Loric opened the lid to a book bound in brown leather. “The Complete Guide to
Knighthood,” he read aloud. “What kind of secret is this?” he questioned for all to hear.
“Perhaps your father left more clues within,” Warnyck hinted.
“Open it, lad,” Marblin encouraged him anxiously.
Kelvion frowned at the book with his lips puckered, as by lemons.
“Good luck with your reading,” Barag told them, dismissing the idea “I’ll be at the table when you find out what we’re supposed to do next.”
Loric looked questioningly at Warnyck and Marblin, the latter o
f whom was gaping at food baskets, with his tongue pressed to his lower lip. “You two may as well join him,” Loric told them, as he resignedly cradled the manual in his forearm.
Marblin was quick to join Barag at feast, but Warnyck said, “I wouldn’t miss this for all the tavern’s ale!”
Loric shrugged and flipped back the front cover of the book. He drew a sharp breath. The interior of the pages was hollow. Lying within the manual was a rolled scroll of animal hide.
Loric let the volume rest on his knees, while he took that furled piece of stained leather between his fingers and spread it.
“What have we here?” Warnyck asked. Before Loric could clearly discern the meaning of hasty sketches and slanted handwriting on leather, the scout exclaimed, “Kings and queens! It’s a map.”
Marblin stopped in the doorway, his interest suddenly piqued. “A map to what?” he
wondered.
“Yes,” Barag agreed, making his way out to rejoin them. “A map to what?”
Loric ignored his companions, lost as he was in his own thoughts. Why had his father gone to such lengths to have Nimshar hide this map for him? What secret did it hold that he had felt the need to keep it from others? Loric never took his eyes from the crudely drawn sketch of Dimwood and the surrounding countryside as he reasoned, Something of great value. He thought his queries through again, this time gathering stray facts, like the knowledge that Knights of Beledon had hunted his father, almost to his death. They had done this because he had located something invaluable to the history, the present and the future of the shattered kingdom in which they lived. As the truth struck him, Loric excitedly shared, “This map must show where father hid the Dragon’s Eye, after he recovered it from the Wyrm Mountains.”
“Yes-s-s!” Warnyck hissed. “That makes sense to me.” The scout moved closer to Loric’s worthy find, genuinely intrigued by its implications.
“The Dragon’s Eye?” Barag roared over Warnyck, causing the others to stab him with