“I don’t know what I’ll find,” he admitted. “I only know what I hope to find. I have read secondhand accounts of the lore housed in this place, but it has not been touched for many hundreds of years. How much is intact, I cannot say.” He was prepared to say more, but only if forced.
“But you seek something in particular.”
“I do.”
Nicolas stared at him, waiting. So did Lima, and Pim. Only Jak’s companions knew what was coming, and only Kluber approved.
“I wish to summon a devil.”
He did not know what Nicolas’s response would be, but Jak thought he had considered every possibility. Nevertheless, he was caught off-guard as the king stood, grim-faced, and moved around the desk. Despite himself, Jak took a step back before he could stop. Then he swallowed nervously as they locked eyes.
“Why?”
Jak become intensely aware that the king and his entourage were all armed, while he and his friends were defenseless. Perhaps he had pushed his luck too far.
“I have a message for them.”
“What message?”
The lunacy of the plan struck Jak as squarely as a blow. There were so many inherent perils, so many things that could go wrong. Yet he had convinced himself that this was his task to perform in life. And he had made a vow, one that still burned painfully within.
“I want to kill one.”
“Tell me more. Tell me everything.”
“To strike fear in the others. To tell them their time is coming to an end.”
“Why?”
The words streamed out of Jak’s mouth like madness, emotions getting the best of rationality. He was glad the king pressed him, because he needed to say these things aloud, just once.
“They…destroyed my home. Killed my friends…a loved one.” His voice choked, but he forced the rest out. “I failed her. Them. I need to make up for that.” The tent had become oppressively stuffy, devoid of air. He was running out of breath, but continued to speak; felt a hot wetness on his cheek, but was not embarrassed. He focused on the eyes staring into his, swallowed, and composed himself. “It sounds impossible, but I can do it.”
“How?”
Jak felt his breath returning to normal. He shook his head. “That is why I need to enter the chantry.”
The king nodded, slowly. Thoughtfully. A good sign, Jak believed.
Then Nicolas reached out, planting a hand on Jak’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for that, but this request is not as simple as it might seem. On small decisions does the future turn, for better or worse. And we don’t know which until too late.”
The king let go. “Well, my friend, no one can accuse you of lacking steel. I’m of a mind to grant your request, with one exception. Or rather, addition—I’m coming along. I have unfinished business there.”
He turned back to the desk. “I have a few things to do, first. Meet me at the gates in one hour.”
One hour would give them time to eat a small meal, which suddenly struck Jak as an excellent idea. A bit of nourishment was just what he needed, for he suddenly felt quite drained.
Nourishment—and perhaps a little time alone with Calla.
He turned to her, smiling with relief. He knew she disapproved of the journey he was on, but he also knew she would support him along the way. At least, Jak hoped so. He was counting on it.
They were committed now, for better or worse—just as Nicolas had said. Jak felt an inner calmness, but knew she very well might not feel the same.
The look on her face was difficult to interpret. Neither disapproval nor pleasure, but wide-eyed amazement. As she opened her mouth to speak, he honestly had no idea what she would say.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, as though a conspiracy was brewing.
“Jak, did a king just call you ‘friend?’”
Nicolas and Pim were already engaged in conversation when the other three arrived. Jak wished he could know what the two men from opposite stations—one a nobleman, the other born a thrall—talked about as though they were equals. Alas, as the two groups merged, the quiet soldier moved into a silent, watchful position a short distance away.
How the two of them could wear their heavy chain armor in temperatures like these, Jak had no idea. The mere thought intensified the discomfort of his own profuse sweat, and he wore little but a lightweight tunic and breeches. Perhaps there were advantages to being a nobody, neither soldier nor noble.
Unsurprisingly, Calla and Kluber were as quiet as Pim, still overwhelmed by the speeding pace of events. Jak, too, was uncertain how to behave, and was relieved when the king began the proceedings.
“Greetings, everyone. I believe our friends here welcome us, in their way.” With a tilt of the head he motioned upward, where a pair of stone gargoyles stared down on the intruders in the courtyard, informing them all that they were anything but welcome.
The building itself did not look any more inviting. Constructed of aged dark stone, different in color and cut than anything else in the city, the wide front entrance bore a strong resemblance to the ruined structures of Ra’Cheka. In Jak’s mind, this scene intermingled with a host of unwelcome memories.
The sun above had reached its scorching peak, but the thought of going inside promised anything but a comforting escape from the heat.
“Still wish to go through with this, Henrikson?”
“I do, My King.”
The other man chuckled. “For being so brilliant, Jak, you sure are a slow learner. If you’re going to play a role in this war, we need to teach you some basic etiquette. I’m only ‘My King’ to Akenbergers. Use ‘King Nicolas,’ if you wish to show respect, or when someone who cares is listening. But I prefer simply ‘Nico.’” He said all this absently, while staring up at the great edifice before them. “Now, is everyone ready?”
Jak looked at his companions. Worry on one face, determination on the other. “We are, Nico.”
The self-inflicted cuts and burns on Jak’s left hand had long since healed, but he began to feel a dull pain once more as the five of them stepped through the entrance. He shrugged away the ache, hoping it would fade away as quickly as it came.
Another gargoyle of sorts met them in the shadowy interior, where high slits on the walls allowed thin shafts of sun to angle through the dust and gloom. One beam illuminated the statue in the square chamber’s center, revealing a grotesqueness not often envisioned by those who carved with skill and artistry.
This particular figure was cut from the same dark rock as the building itself, and though smoother than the crude stone of the walls gave no real glory to its sculptor. Nearly as tall as Kluber, the tallest of the group, but hunched, vaguely humanoid, some parts symmetrical and some distorted. Three tentacular arms, three feetless legs, and three giant eyes spaced evenly around the misshapen globe that served as its head.
The sight was unappealing, if not downright disturbing, and Jak pried his eyes away in search of some other object to distract his attention. Then he immediately pulled them back, having perceived what he thought was the faintest of movements in the stone. When he stared at the statue, there clearly was none, but a few repetitions reinforced the illusion.
Darkness and doubt played frightful games with the mind, Jak reminded himself.
He instinctively gave the thing a wide berth as he moved around the room to the opposite side, where an open doorway revealed a second chamber much larger than this first.
He was not alone in avoiding the stone figure. So, too, did most of the others, though he watched in mild surprise as Calla alone approached it, turning her head then body in an effort to study its features more closely. As she did, Jak realized his first impressions had been entirely wrong, for it was barely larger than her petite stature, nor was it so hunched as he first thought.
“Calla,” Kluber hissed. “What are you doing?”
“I thought it moved.” She looked at her friends. “I swear it moved.”
Kluber scowled. “Nonsense.
It’s just dark in here.”
“Jak?” she said, looking at him for help.
“I thought so, too, but I’m really not sure. I think our imaginations are playing tricks.”
The other two were watching the exchange from the junction to the next room. King Nicolas took charge. “Pim, stand guard here, if you would.” Then, turning to Calla, he asked, “are you all right to proceed?”
“Aye, My King.”
He smiled, then led the way through. To everyone’s surprise, the floor was more earth than stone, and covered in places with dead leaves that had absolutely no business being there.
The walls were rounded, forming an immense circle, and the ceiling high and domed. Though no windows were visible anywhere, the whole place was illuminated by weak sunlight the strength of early morn or late eve.
“It’s this, the mystery of this chamber, that keeps the chantry under guard,” Nicolas explained. “I’ve been inside once before, the benefits of being a prince. Me, and my brother.” He paused while his cheek twitched.
Then, pointing to the left side, he went on. “The old library is through that doorway, though all the books are rotted, as we said. I believe the portal you seek is that direction, down a stairway at the end of a hall. I’ve informed the guards to let you in and out at your discretion, though I encourage you to leave before dark.”
“Are you not coming with us, Nico?” Calla asked.
He grinned. “You learn faster than your friend. No, Calla, I am not. You saw the tower, outside, stretching far above the city? Its stairs are this way.” He aimed his thumb in the opposite direction of the way he had previously pointed. “I mean to climb it.”
Kluber coughed, politely interrupting. When he had their attention, he pointed out an obvious oversight. “None of us brought a weapon. We don’t know what we’ll find down there.”
Jak was astonished at his friend’s brazenness, but Nicolas took no offense. “A fine point. Though this one’s finer. Here.” He drew his sword from its scabbard, and handed it to Kluber. “I trust you’ll give that back later today.”
“Without a scratch. Thank you, King Nicolas.”
The Archives of Allstatte were smaller than those of the Pantheon in Ra’Cheka, but no less impressive.
Just as King Nicolas had directed, the three Everdawners had ventured down stairs and through a winding passage until they reached a very familiar-looking portal. And just as Jak had expected, it opened with the three-charm key Kleo had once mistaken for jewelry.
While his companions were stunned to silence by the grandiosity of the ornate chambers beyond, Jak was far more taken with the writings contained within. He could easily spend a lifetime in such a place, reading and learning of every topic known to woman and man—and Chekik. Yet that same multitude worried him, for he needed to locate exactly what he was looking for before it was too late, and that would be no simple task.
At least he had, from past experience, some knowledge of how the Archives were organized. Matters of the divine would be separate from the mundane, so what they really needed to do was locate that particular section as quickly as possible.
Leading the way between massive rows of shelves and stores, Jak kept an eye on his friends. Particularly Calla, who was clearly the more uncomfortable. “How can these rooms be so big?” she asked. He thought of her personal experience, with her father Henrik, in the much smaller Archives that he tended back home. Naturally, these would seem enormous by comparison.
“Allstatte is much larger than Everdawn,” Kluber pointed out.
“Nay, not that. From the outside, the chantry is big…but not this big. How is this possible?”
“We’re underground,” Jak said. Just saying it aloud brought back to mind the countless terrible tendays spent in the underworld, following their sudden flight from home.
Calla stopped, forcing them all to. “Oh, Jak. I don’t like it here. Can’t we go?”
She was holding both hands gently on her belly, its swelling still masked by the loose clothing she wore. He realized that the pain in his hand was increasing, and wondered whether she felt a similar discomfort.
She was right, of course. They did not belong here. He had no choice, but they did. “You two should go back. I can do this alone.” His words sounded more like a dismissal than he wanted, and he was glad when they rejected the suggestion.
“Nonsense,” Kluber said.
“Not again,” Calla agreed.
Jak winced as he recalled his neglect of them during their time at the Temple of Versatz Tempus, the devil Reglaku. Neglect of these two, and of Kleo.
“Thank you. I’m glad you’re with me.” He attempted a feeble smile, then led them farther into the library.
Even without reading the captions beneath, giant wall murals told them when they found the right chamber. Jak had long since become familiar enough with Chekik symbology to recognize the depictions of their gods. There was Bellugug, the scorpion with two tails, emerging from a mound of white rock, surrounded by worshippers both humanoid and alien. There was Shuberath, pictured as a snake with many legs, consuming one of his own Chekik priests during a ceremony while others cheered and waited their turn.
And there was a tall being of black rock, not altogether dissimilar to a man but for reptilian scales and giant wings. This painted version was smaller than actual size, but even so loomed so large, and appeared so lifelike, that one could easily imagine him flying off the wall to attack.
Jak shuddered, and not only because this was Nagnuaqua, Versatz Yagos, the being who destroyed Jak’s home. For all around the devil on the mural were dozens of half-human, half-bat flying creatures. The sight of so many velbats vividly conjured mental images of an unnatural eclipse of the moon and the carnage that ensued.
Jak’s hand throbbed terribly, and he felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beside him, Calla sobbed, no doubt thinking of her lost father whose injured leg had prevented him from outrunning the danger. Even Kluber bowed his head, lost in his own sorrows. He had lost just as much as Jak and Calla—perhaps more, for they still had each other.
Jak elected not to read the caption of this particular mural, written as they all were in large fancy letters of antique script. But he looked at the next—a painting of shadowy beings with sunbeams on the left and fire on the right.
Retrieving his most precious possession from its pouch, Jak allowed himself one quick glance at the writing through its opaque brown surface, and the meaning became clear. Then he tucked the gemstone away, hoping the others had not seen it. Calla disapproved of the device, and though she must know he would use it down here, he did not wish to antagonize her any more than necessary.
Kluber joined him at the new mural. “What does it mean?”
Jak hesitated, for the discovery was already turning his mind in new directions—though he dared not let it drift too far without confirmation. He could share a little, but he would voice this germ of an idea only after it grew to maturity.
“These all show some sort of war between the elements. Air and earth, fire and water, shadow and light…I’m sure there are more. This one gives an account of a shadow-child, driven from the darkness of night by the heat of flame, then destroyed by sunlight at dawn.”
“Does that tell us anything important?”
“I think perhaps it does.”
“But you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I will. I value your advice, you know. But I need to do more research.”
“Just make sure that research leads to action, Jak. You have a way of getting lost in your books.”
Jak had begun to see Kluber as an important influence, a voice of conscience that kept Jak pointed in the right direction. Considering the tenuous start of their relationship, this was a most unforeseeable outcome. But he had learned to value help from any quarter, and Kluber had long since proven himself indispensable.
“I promise.” Jak looked toward Calla, and raised his voice. “Do you t
wo want to explore some more, while I search these books? It may take a while.”
“Not a chance,” Calla said firmly. “You get into trouble when left alone. We’ll wait then drag you away when suppertime comes.”
He was glad they waited, for he soon found something so exciting that he felt compelled to share. He picked the most relevant passage and read aloud, oblivious to the fact that he was using the Eye of Orkus in front of them.
And so the Chekiks communed with the forces of nature, the boundless elements, for these were holy and alive. The sacred earth provided all, and demanded much in return. These erudite mortals learned that without this communion, the Chekican communion, they were truly nothing, for they owed all power to the living rock, the breathing flame, the angry wind, and all divine void between.
And these clerics picked the strongest of their own to focus on these forces of matter, to harness their infinite energies, to command their power for the glory of the communion.
And these select few became the Archons, sorcerers of such magicks that all who opposed the communion crumbled and dispersed like dust and ash. Yet these same magicks were raw and primitive, as deadly to wielder as quarry.
And so the Archons harnessed the ancient magicks to form the avatars, attuned to the elemental planes, bestowed with powers to give and take, dominate and submit. They became the conduits between mortal and divine, between man and nature, vulnerable once removed from their plane, but within all-powerful.
And so the children of nature served, and the Archons mastered, and the masses bowed and trembled. As befit their position, each Archon took one avatar as his own Familiar, a direct connection to the planes, giving a piece of themselves in return, a contract of strength and of weakness, to forge an unbreakable bond. But for others the Archons had ever higher aspirations, creating strict ceremonies of adoration and sacrifice.
And so the greatest of the avatars became as gods, no longer children, drawing vitality from worship, bestowing blessing and curse as their whims provided, until their power exceeded that of the Archons themselves.
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