“HETHENS’S BREATH UPON US!” he roared and two hundred voices joined him as he repeated the invocation three times as was tradition.
“HETHENS’S BREATH UPON US!”
The incantation reverberated through the woods and momentarily overcame the omnipresent sound of the falling rain.
“HETHENS’S BREATH UPON US!” the voices of the men thundered as one, purposeful and resolved.
Today they would gladly die for they had been given a reason.
Chapter Seventeen
At the end of the long, earthy tunnel, the prince reached a door. Light from the other side escaped from a thin gap at its bottom and radiated in shifting colors through the darkness surrounding him. He pushed his senses for any hint of what might await on the other side, but in vain. He carefully felt around the door and found a small ring of a handle that hung almost indiscernibly on the wood. He pulled on it and, with a loud snapping sound that resounded harshly in the deep silence of the tunnel, a lock slid out of its socket. Tension suddenly high in his throat, the prince waited for a reaction from behind the door. But no sound followed and he slowly pulled the door open. It creaked painfully on its hinges and a flood of light poured into the tunnel. He instinctively backed away, sword at the ready, his eyes narrowed. When no dark shadow surged at him from the torrent of light, he relaxed a little. The contour of the door and the room beyond slowly dimmed into focus. The room was small and, just like every other room in the monastery, its walls were made of stones. Opposite from where the prince stood, in the right corner, was a hearth. There, a small fire burnt with a single flame, in turn bright yellow, blue-green, and red-orange.
“Not a natural fire,” the prince thought.
To the left of the hearth was a pile of wood and directly next to it was another wooden door. On the left side of the room the prince could see a stool and part of a round table. Despite the dimness in which the room was plunged, there was no missing the layer of thick dust which covered the walls and the floor and reflected the light of the lone flame in a muted glow. The prince stepped in. The room smelled ancient with a faint hint of rot. The layer of dust on the table was greatly disturbed and strange-looking tools and bowls covered with crusty residues of various nauseating colors were strewn about the tabletop. Racks ran the length of the wall opposite the table with dirty glass jars disorderly stored about the shelves alongside ancient-looking book. The content of the jars looked suspicious and they did not inspire the prince to linger on them. After taking in the room, he walked to the closed door. In the flashing colors of the flame he rotated the door’s handle and his sword at the ready he carefully pushed it open. The doorway led to another lightless tunnel, one that was walled with stones as opposed to the earthy one he had just come from. Once more, despite the tension tightening in his throat, nothing jumped at him. He could not hear a sound beside his own breathing and the fast drumming of his heartbeat. He waited a moment longer, probing at the darkness with all his might. He was aware of an almost imperceptible uneasiness making its way into his fingers, hinting at some vague threat ahead. When it appeared that nothing hid in the darkness, he grabbed one of the smaller logs from the wood pile and lit it at the shifting flame. A radiant torch in hand, he then stepped out of the room. That second tunnel was cooler than the one he had just crossed, and larger too, roughly twelve feet wide, and about as high. It appeared to stretch endlessly into the gloom before him. The prince cautiously headed forward, intently trying to peer through the darkness ahead. His sense of uneasiness not letting down, he walked for a couple minutes until a raised stone caught his foot and he tripped. The flickering light of his torch came close to the wall to his right and from the corner of his eye he saw grooves. He stepped to the wall and brought his torch to it. The lines he saw in the swaying torchlight were carvings. Every stone that made up the wall was finely carved. Each was about two feet long and between one and two feet wide and each depicted a unique scene. Some represented monstrosities not unlike the ones he fought at the foot of the Holy Mount. Some were scenes of battle full of death and gore. Others depicted lovers in various acts of shameless abandon. Each carving was accompanied by what could only be writings, myriad of eerily slanted lines etched into the stone. As he inspected a carving on one of the lower stones, he realized that the stones that made up the floor of the tunnel were also etched. And when he brought his torch up toward the ceiling he found more carvings above him. There were hundreds of engravings all around and in the ever-changing light of his torch the expressions of the carved figures seemed to change as well, giving them a disquieting life-like quality.
His uneasiness grew into an eerie feeling that made his skin crawl. He was being spied on, he was sure of it; thousands of tiny figures were observing him through chiseled-out hungry eyes. He felt surrounded by a miniature, hostile mob. The silence around him turned oppressive. He started walking down the passageway faster than he would have liked; all too aware of the faces peering at him from the corners of his vision. As he hurried forward, whispers seemed to rise from the stones. With every step he took more inquisitive figures flashed by. Their open mouths gaped at him, their faces tight grimaces or strangely aroused curved hollows that berated him. They slithered on the walls alongside him, oozing questions he could not understand. His chest tightened and his heartbeat grew faster with every passing second. From the grooves on the stones, tiny hands suddenly seemed to reach out for him and thousands of frozen mouths called out his name angrily. He broke into a cold sweat and his breath turned short and jerky. He sped onward, his unwelcomed escort gliding after him with vacant eyes that seemed to accuse him of things he knew nothing of. Their voices grew stronger with every step, angry and demanding; their calling more and more insistent, their hands, claws, and hooks ever closer to grabbing him. Unable to quell the fear that surged in him, he rushed down the tunnel frantically, pointlessly trying to run away from the ravenous clutches of the nightmarish horde. When he finally reached another door at the end of the tunnel, he was running as fast as he could with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. Panic pushed him mindlessly forward and, forgetting caution in his wake, he rushed for the door. Without even a thought about what might lay in wait behind it, he fumbled for the ring handle, pulled at it awkwardly, and rushed in. He slammed the door shut behind him, effectively locking out the oppressive stares and the maddening voices. Out of breath, he leaned against the door, his forehead to the wood, thankful for the reprieve from the tension. His mind was a nervous jumble. His heart pounded hard in his chest and his throbbing nerves struggled to still themselves. Eyes closed he reached inward for solace and grounding. But before he could find his center, the door rippled and cracked loudly as it fused with its frame. Before the prince could understand what was happening, a deep voice resounded behind him.
“So you came, son of Ky-tra!” it half greeted, half threatened him.
Startled, the prince gasped away from the door and turned around. Despite a surge of tension pulling his nerves to new levels of tightness, he managed to get into a defensive stance, both sword and torch at the ready. Some thirty feet away, in the middle of a large room that was mostly shrouded in darkness, stood the old man that had called himself Silvius, the carekeeper. Five blood-red orbs glowed menacingly above him and he was surrounded by troughs aligned in rows that stretched out of view into the dark corners of the room. The tubs were filled with a dark liquid that absorbed rather than reflected the orbs’ light.
“You!” the prince let out, failing to understand what he was seeing. “What is this?”
“This, traveler, is the work of God!” the carekeeper said raising his arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “I see that you have defeated Milus and Sitis,” he continued. “Very impressive, indeed.”
“And sad,” he pouted.
His voice took a sickly, sweet turn.
“They had been with us for a long time. A pity that is.”
He brushed the tubs on either side of him with h
is fingers in an unexpectedly sensual gesture that greatly distressed the prince.
“But I sensed it in you, as the child undoubtedly did. You’ve been touched by Kytra. And you escaped the Hall of Souls, equally impressive. There are qualities to you that I will enjoy studying.”
The old man smiled. His beard opened up widely onto threatening teeth and his upper lip retracted like a worm upon being touched. His nose thinned under the pull of his face, and his leathery skin rippled around his features. There was madness lurking beneath the surface. But more disquieting to the prince was the disturbingly sharp and still light that shone in his eyes.
“Are you the Father of fathers?” the prince asked as he forced himself to take a step forward.
“That I am, and much more, son of Kytra.”
“Answer me one question. That is all I am here for.”
“YOU WILL NOT!” the old man shouted.
As if responding to his scream, the orbs above him flashed angrily. In a burst of light they lit up the room before the prince prior to blinding him and the picture they forced onto his retinas was one of grotesque horror. Gore was everywhere. Tables against the walls were scattered with fleshy morsel-covered bones, old volumes, and blood-encrusted tools. Above those, shelves were packed with faces stretched over wooden frames or swaying from hooks like dirty rags that peered at the prince through empty, sagging sockets and warned him of things untold. The tubs surrounding the carekeeper were coated with a thick green matter and had gelatinous, shiny blobs precariously hanging from their sides. The liquid in the tubs was dark, and it rippled and shivered like something alive. The room appeared in all its nausea-inducing horror and then was flooded by the light of the orbs. His vision a star-strewn crimson blur, the prince reeled back while the one he had sought for so long roared in anger.
“THE WORK OF GOD SUFFERS NO QUESTIONING. YOU HAVE BEEN TOUCHED AND YET YOU KNOW NOTHING!” the carekeeper screamed, pointing an accusing finger the prince could not see.
“I WILL SEND YOU BEYOND, TRAVELER, FURTHER THAN YOU EVER KNEW WAS POSSIBLE!”
The prince’s mind was swirling with images of the butchery that had just been revealed to him. Red pain stung his eyes, and the harsh pounding of the old man’s voice pushed his senses into a confused mess. A nauseating smell filled his nostrils, and his heart drummed away crazily in his chest. Through the chaos threatening to overtake him a single thought steadied him.
“The word, I need the word!”
A green film started spreading over his watering eyes as the world once again was pushed away from him. Once more it dimmed, and once more sounds and smells faded away. The steadying warmth made itself felt at his neck again and his breathing and heartbeat slowed. But before he could fully anchor himself in the quiet radiance, a sharp pull tugged at his core. The warmth vanished at once and the world brutally returned to him, its turmoil further burdened by a new alarm. As the last dash of warmth disappeared, a frightening emptiness bloomed at his core, an emptiness which felt familiar in a remote kind of way, that was his but at the same time not, which was him even, but that he could not acknowledge as such. It quietly made its presence known, like a long forgotten fact resurfacing in one’s mind. It did not demand anything of him like the Night did. It simply was, like an organ one rarely thinks about, but that is nonetheless ever present, ever a part of you. The emptiness revealed itself for an instant only to be hidden again by a thin, emerald veil. The carekeeper’s voice boomed around him and the sickly-sweet smell emanating from the room coated the prince’s mouth and throat. Blotched with red spots his vision slowly returned only to reveal the carekeeper making his way toward him.
“I WILL SHOW YOU HOW SPACE AND TIME ARE NOTHING BUT PAGES IN THE BOOK OF KYTRA,” the carekeeper was screaming.
He was smiling again, a voracious smile. The orbs followed him and discharged jerky pulses of light as they moved in cadence with his steps.
“PAGES TO BE FOLDED, TWISTED AND TORN AT WILL. AND YOU, TRAVELER, ARE NOTHING BUT A MINUSCULE DROP OF INK ON SUCH A PAGE!”
The carekeeper stopped a few yards from the prince and closed his eyes. He brought his hands in front of himself and formed a series of signs, folding and stretching his fingers in rapid succession. His lips moved as well but no words came from them. The prince felt an excruciating pressure in his innards, as if hands had gotten a hold of his insides and were savagely trying to pull them out of him. He let out a cry that died painfully in his throat. Cold sweat washed over him as panic further dug its fangs into him. Something twisted in his gut and the pain threatened to topple him. He brought his hands to his stomach only to realize that he was still holding his sword and the torch with the colorful flame. With a jerky twitch of his body he threw the torch at the carekeeper. The torch missed its mark and flew past the old man as another painful squeeze of his insides tore a muted scream out of the prince and brought him to his knees. Fists planted on the stone floor, the prince pulled his head down between his shoulders. His stone dangled dark and cold below his chin. It did not radiate anything anymore. It did not bring him any comfort or provide him with any guidance. It hung like a dead-weight at his neck and when a voice rose in his mind it was not the reassuring and grounding voice of old. It was his; small, childish, and fearful.
“I just wanted the word,” it uselessly pleaded.
Another tug shook him as his nails dug deep into the palms of his hands, and his face contorted into a twisted grimace atop his painfully clenched jaws. Then there was a loud whoosh followed by a scream. Its pitch was high. Its inflections were raw and unrestrained and it vibrated with the unmistakable abandon of excruciating pain. At once the grip on the prince’s insides relented, leaving him gasping for air and fighting to still his stomach. When he looked up, the carekeeper had his back turned to him. The torch he had thrown had landed in one of the tubs behind the old man and a deformed creature had emerged from the burning liquid. It flayed about madly, its skin aflame. Its three mouths were wide open and its remotely human features were contorted in pain as its flesh melted. The thick, burning liquid splashed over the rim of the tub and set another trough on fire. Another creature emerged from that one as well and through the flames the prince thought he recognized it. It was a slimmer version of the creature he had run away from on his first day on the Holy Mount, the one the boy had somehow disposed of in the night.
“NO!” the carekeeper yelled.
The old man’s tension shifted completely as he focused on the fiery tubs. The orbs above him dimmed as the flames from the first tub receded suddenly. But as that fire was being controlled, three more tubs caught fire. Before the prince had time to get back on his feet, more tubs were ablaze and the room resounded with a multitude of maddening shrieks and hysterical spattering. He needed to find an exit. There was no going back the way he had come. But the room was now alight and the prince could see a door on the far back wall, beyond the tubs and past a messy altar-looking table. Most of the burning tubs were to his right. He could run by the tables against the wall on the left and make it to the door before the fire spread further and blocked his way. Hopefully it would lead him back to the monastery itself and was not a cupboard or a side room. He sheathed his sword and started toward the exit when he froze in place.
“The word, I need the word. The Father of fathers…”
The old man still had his back to the prince. He was deeply absorbed in containing the flames that now rose half way up to the ceiling. The prince hesitated. He needed him but had no means of coercing him into coming along. Before he could figure out what to do, the Father of fathers howled. In the blink of an eye his cloth was devoured by flames. His beard sizzled and then was gone. The orbs crashed to the ground. They shattered around him, and released fat-like globules and a thick, red fluid. As the Father of fathers writhed, the fires in the tubs redoubled and sent flames up to the ceiling some twenty feet above. The prince removed his shirt and rushed toward the old man. He pulled him away from the tubs, threw him un
ceremoniously to the floor, and feverishly swat at the flames. The carekeeper flailed madly, making extinguishing the flames dancing over him difficult. The prince managed to get hold of his robe and tore the burning rag off him. By the time he had put out the flames the Father of fathers was barely moving. His body was a charred, bloody mess that oozed and cracked when the prince pulled him over his shoulder. The room was saturated with the crackling of the fires and the shrieks of the creatures. The smell of burning fluid and flesh was unbearable. It stuck to the prince’s throat, clotted in his lungs and singed his eyes. He hobbled past the tubs, keeping his face away from the blaze as best he could, his head getting lighter with every step. When he reached the altar at the end of the room, his throat was a bloody mess and his incessant coughing brought mucousy clumps up to his lips. The door behind the altar was unlocked and the Father of fathers on his shoulders, he pushed through it. The freshness of the space beyond it made his skin crawl. He quickly kicked the door closed behind him. On the wall to his left, a torch burnt weakly. In its light he could see a small, stone staircase winding up into darkness. He plucked it from the wall and coughing heavily stumbled up the stairs as fast as he could.
After a long and difficult climb, he reached a small door that was no more than four feet high. He awkwardly tried to push it open with his foot but ended up collapsing into it instead. And it was in the brouhaha of rolling logs and breaking kitchenware that he landed heavily on the floor of the room where the carekeeper had prepared his last meal what seemed like an eternity ago.
Chapter Eighteen
Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.
Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age
Fall Passing Festival, One day prior.
It was early and Hob was unenthusiastically dressing in his chamber. A small army of candles, randomly placed on the furniture, spread his shadow around him in various shades of black. He had awoken in a bad mood, anxious and angry. Something about a hand rummaged at the outskirt of his thoughts, but try as he might he could not recollect what it was about. All he knew was that he did not like it; it left a bitter taste in his mouth and an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
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