The Keeper of Tales

by Jonathon Mast

  I nodded. “Very well. We have much to do. We must find all that there is written about these Kaerun. If there is anything written. Failing that, we must find what there might be written about the very nature of stories themselves. If these Blue Riders were once the same fables we speak, we may find some weakness there.” And if we found a way to conquer or tame the Kaerun, perhaps I could use that in my new mission to tame all the tales.

  Most of the Chariisi Archivers busily moved scrolls deeper into the cliff, but three approached us. They knew we needed guides and led us into the great shelves.

  I could see.

  They came under the light of a pale moon. Waves of goblins charged the city, each moving quickly on arms and legs. They wore little armor, and their darker flesh blended with the shadows cast by the trees. They carried no weapons in their hands but raced as fast as they could toward the lit streets of Chariis.

  A Cassuni spotted them first, shouting a warning as he loosed the first bolt from his crossbow. A goblin fell as it raced from the cover of a tree. A hail of bolts followed that first one. A band of Spiremen on the ground below hurled harpoons into the enemy that survived the deadly hails. None of the first assault reached the cobbled streets. The spellcasters were not needed to speak their wall here. Not yet.

  I shook. “We must hurry.”

  We divided and began our search.

  I did not attempt to talk to my guide other than to tell him what we sought. The Archivers had taken vows of silence, so that they might better hear each story they encountered. They wrote each out in whatever language it was spoken and filed it away. Only two Archivers had spoken in the last five hundred harvests, and they were both the subject of many tales of their own.

  Those tales were surely somewhere here in the Library. The collection seemed nearly endless. The ceiling seemed to be a hundred paces above my head, and the stone shelves that held volume after volume touched that ceiling. The shelves themselves were the same white stone that made all the buildings of Chariis; I suspected that they had been carved out of the stone where they now stood.

  Each shelf was filled with writings of one kind or another: sometimes stone tablets, sometimes engraved metal sheets, sometimes scrolls. Most often they were books in the conventional sense, paper bound in wood or hide or even metal.

  My guide led me deep into the bowels of the Library.

  I knew little of how the Library was organized. The closer to the entrance, the more potent the tale. The farther from the sun’s rays, the less used the story was, regardless of age. The Archivers kept the most-told stories farthest forward, since they would likely be of most use.

  We moved deeper and deeper, past rows and rows of shelves. I could not determine where the light came from, but there was enough that I could read any titles that were written on the binding of the books we passed. I glanced at a few.

  “The Final Voyage of Shradisar”

  “The Plains of Glass”

  “Panadir and the Eight-Legged Serpent”

  I did not know these tales. The immensity of the Library struck me again. Tales surrounded me. All these stories. Countless volumes. Yet I recognized none of them. We were farther back than I had ever come. Far enough back, I guessed, that it was likely no one had recited these stories in generations. They were forgotten. What power did they still have? Had they still twisted the form of my life, and I didn’t even know it?

  Still, we walked on. How deep into the cliffs did the Library go? We had passed so many shelves. The battle outside had faded from my ears long ago.

  At last we reached an end of the shelves. The cavern opened and stone desks filled the expanse before me. Each was lit by a single lamp. There were hundreds of them, and many of them were occupied.

  I withheld a gasp of shock. White goblins scurried everywhere. The light of the lamps on the white forms made it appear as if the room was peopled by glowing librarians and researchers. They bore books. They read. Some marked findings on parchments that lay on the desks.

  One came to me. “You are master, and master you shall be. We serve you all, do we. I am called Degat by those with tongues to speak. We shall search for whatever it is you seek.” It bowed to me.

  I glanced at the Chariisi who had been guiding me. There seemed to be a slight smile on his face.

  Degat waited for me to respond. “I think you already know what I want.”

  “We search for the Riders Blue. We search the same as you.”

  “Degat, how long have the white goblins served here?”

  “Some have stayed since the Deluge of old. Some have served in ways less bold.”

  “I thought the goblins had gone east, away from their former masters.”

  “Some went east, I know not where. Some stayed here, with those who cared.”

  And so, I learned more about this world in which I lived. It was possible still to surprise old men, it seemed. I turned to more pressing matters. “Have you found anything?”

  “Yes.”

  It led me to an unoccupied desk. A mountain of books towered on it. Degat gestured and then scampered away.

  I sat and began poring over the tomes, scanning as quickly as I could. I wished I had more time to delve into them and explore their secrets. The goblins had marked pertinent pages, though I went back a bit to make sure I understood the context of what I was reading.

  In truth, they had found nothing on “Blue Riders.” However, they had found references to the Kaerun, which was what Garethen had named them. It was an ancient, ancient name. All the references dated to before the Deluge. And they all referenced Ydarion, the one who had thought to usurp Garethen. And what I found there would change the world.

  As I researched, I saw more visions of the battle.

  The next assault came from the south. About two hundred goblins burst from the trees. These, like the first, were quickly felled. Again, from the east and from the west. The same style of sortie. They were testing us, to see if we were prepared on every side. The real battle was yet to begin. We successfully turned aside each attack. Thus far.

  I saw what I needed to see to tell the story later. I was not omniscient. I could not control what was important to know; I simply saw what was necessary.

  Soon, it was time to rejoin my companions in the light. Degat led me back past all the shelves. Past the secret power of the world. Past the tales that united kingdoms and divided families. Past the stories that bound old enemies together and taught men how to love and how to hate. Tales that wove the truths of our lives.

  I rejoined my companions at a ring of couches. Yolian watched the triage unit. More had joined the injured there, but the elf knew that he was needed here. The yellowed griffin was still moving from paw to paw. His eyes were wide, and his beak was opening and shutting rather quickly, as if he could not wait to speak. Degat left us.

  “Were all our searches fruitful?”

  Before either Yolian or the griffin could answer, the vision took me.

  Chapter Sixty

  Abani stood on the south side of a building. Goblin bodies full of arrows laid on the ground. Her blade had yet to taste blood this day. Her hands twitched as she held her curved sword. Soldiers positioned around her kept their distance. She saw the blue light flickering in the forest.

  A single Blue Rider rode forward from under the trees. The flames flickered so brightly around it now. It stopped just short of the archers’ range, surveying its opposition. The soldiers tensed.

  It whispered, “There is one here who knows me. Abani of Parvia, step forth. I would speak with you.”

  Abani did not hesitate. She moved to the front row of soldiers, still well out of reach of any weapon the Blue Rider might have. Both her hands gripped the hilt of her blade. “Speak.”

  “We have seen how a tale battles with you as an ally. We can control that story. We can remake him. We are the masters of tales, for we are tales ourselves. We have the power to breathe a tale back into a dead body. Like the body of B
adani. Like the man who has danced with you for so long.”

  Abani’s sword fell an inch before rising again. “No.”

  The Rider was about to speak again, but the Parvian interrupted it. “No. All stories must end. His was too short, it’s true. But you cannot make a short tale longer. It cheapens the tale.”

  The rider did not answer.

  “You cannot enter Chariis.”

  “No. But my servants can.”

  “Then we have nothing to fear from you. Let your servants come.”

  “Very well, Parvian. Let your battle begin.” There was a sucking sound, and it spoke again. “The walls here were weak and easily toppled.”

  A scream. An elf cried out. “The story! The wall! There is no wall here!”

  The Blue Rider continued to sit, its horse’s flank facing the troops, its hands crossed casually over the horn of the saddle. From the darkness behind him a sudden roar shook the ground. Goblins charged. Their short, dark swords shone in the torchlight. They screamed like dogs.

  Behind them, larger dark forms moved in the night.

  Arrows rained down on the horde, felling many of them. Some reached the front line, and Abani welcomed them with her blade and a grim smile. She spun into them, bringing the sword up. A dagger appeared in her other hand. A man danced with her, his every move complimenting hers.

  The battle raged. Arrows rained down. Soldiers stood against the rush of goblins, striking with sword and mace. Spellcasters started telling tales of goblins fearing the valiant strength of men. Sometimes the stories worked.

  The large black forms of four behemoths moved among the goblins. Arrows pelted into their dark skin, but they did not notice. Poisoned bolts stuck into their flesh, but they did not slow. They barreled over goblins, crushing their own allies, until the giants reached the front line.

  The front one reached Abani first. It wielded a sword longer than the Parvian was tall. It brought the blade up and crashed it down with a speed greater than I could comprehend. Abani leaped out of the way, landing and spinning gracefully and then leaping again as the blade swept under her.

  The other three generals reached the front line moments later. Their blades created a swath of death. Each swing seemed to fell at least two of our troops.

  All around, troops fought and died. The goblins started climbing the walls of buildings, necessitating the archers stationed there to shoot straight down. Soon piles of rank corpses lined the buildings closest to the battle.

  Abani continued dancing around the behemoth’s blade. She danced farther and farther from the front line of the battle, out into the sea of goblins, so every sweep of the enemy general caused more damage to his own forces. When she leaped, her ghostly counterpart would drop to the ground, joining her again when she had landed. He was always at her back, protecting it. I could see no good he was doing; he did not harm the goblins nor stave off any attacks, but he was there. And that seemed to be all that mattered.

  The general raised his sword and swung it down onto the earth, striking bare ground and embedding the blade into the dirt. Abani leaped onto the blunted edge of the blade, raced up, and slashed down onto the dark hands that wielded it. She leaped toward its face while its hands were still on the hilt of the sword. She buried a dagger into an eye and used that as leverage to flip herself up. She flew into the air and landed on its head, and as she did, she drove her sword down through skull and brains. The general fell. Abani leaped and landed.

  Another dark general finally fell to countless arrows that had sprouted all over his body. The third was hamstrung from behind by a brave Northerner. A Habrini soldier struck the fourth in the head with a great mace. He also fell.

  Through this all, the Blue Rider sat and watched.

  The griffin let out a short screech. “Yes, yes, oh, yes.” His wings flapped in his excitement. Yolian looked on with amusement.

  I was back in the Library. My vision had ended. I shook myself. If I saw what was happening here, this was what was necessary for the story. I needed to keep my thoughts here, then, at least for now.

  Yolian addressed the feathered one, “Friend griffin, do you have a name now?”

  He realized he was not among his own people. He put a regal mask on over his quaking joy. “Yes. I am Kae’A. And I have discovered things that are worth mentioning.”

  I prompted, “Then tell us quickly, please.”

  “Yes, Keeper of Tales.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “I found a tale of long ago, before Chariis was founded. The Archiver directed me to fly deep into the bowels of this place, searching for a story whose wind had not carried a reader for many clutches. I spread my wings at his command, flying where none of my brothers could because their wingspans are so much greater than mine. The Archiver showed me a great shelf of books, very dusty and far from the light of moon or sun.

  “I could not read the scratchings on the skins within the book. So, I took it in my beak and flew to where a white goblin stood waiting, and it read it to me. And this is what it said.”

  Kae’A seemed to clear his throat with a strange screeching and then recited from memory:

  What once we told for our enjoyment

  Now has caused us great dismay.

  What once we sang for our remembrance

  Now has come to make us pay.

  The words once used to bring us freedom

  Bind us now to this our land.

  They take our breath in simple stories

  Writing lives until their end.

  What once we told to make us stronger

  Seek to cause our very death.

  The blue ones seek to rule us solely

  Steal the tales upon our breath.

  Now to the deep we flee in sorrow

  Wash our hands in depths below,

  “Now reaching out with ancient stories

  Seek creation’s ebbing flow.

  What once we told for our enjoyment now has caused us great dismay? That sounded like me. I had loved the tales, but now I saw how great their weight was. I nodded. “Good. This may be a mention of the Blue Riders. Did it say anything about how they were defeated?”

  The yellowed flier looked down to his paws, crestfallen. “I saw nothing there, and neither my guide nor my reader knew of any other winds upon which we could glide. The next stories were all about the Deluge and what led to it.”

  “Thank you, Kae’A.”

  The vision returned to me.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Daragen and Lazul were stationed near the flowing stream I had crossed so long ago. The Steward of the Stream maintained his watch. A large contingent of elves from Fahalla hid in the high branches above the water. Soldiers from all the lands were on the ground, including not a few of Lazul’s own people. They were betting on who would take the most goblin heads home to be made into stew or trophies. It seemed to be a game to them, imagining the most creative and repulsive uses of goblin heads.

  Lazul spoke with Daragen. “So, are you Garrendai or Habrini?”

  The short man smiled. “Yes.”

  “Care to explain?”

  “No.”

  The dwarf shook his head. “You people always insist on being mysterious. You think it will earn you some sort of respect when all it does is annoy us. And annoying a dwarf is not a safe thing to do.”

  “Well, take out your aggression on the fools that are coming here to attack the Fabled City.”

  “Aye. And with my leftover energy, I’ll shake a few answers loose from you.”

  “If we both still stand when the battle is over, and Chariis remains, I will tell you all the secrets of both my peoples. But, then again, I have a feeling the first goblin to find you will take you.”

  “Impudent—”

  And then a Blue Rider came out of the darkness. This one’s flames also burned brighter.

  Lazul bit off what he was going to say, clenching his axe tightly in both fists. All around, dwarves did the same. Above, Fahalla elves pul
led their bowstrings taut, taking careful aim at the Kaerun. It looked only at the Steward.

  The whisper. “Watcher, let me pass.”

  The brenevai that stood in the waters answered, “You cannot enter this city, slayer of tales. No welcome is granted to you or any of your kind.”

  “I will enter over your fallen body.”

  “No. You shall not. I am the Steward of the Stream.” The stream around him flowed faster and higher. “You are a tale that can be told or untold.”

  “I am a tale that has long been forgotten. I no longer need to be told. Nor do such tellings hold any power over me. And I also have many others with me who will not fear your little stream of running water.”

  “Let them come.”

  “So be it. Did you ever hear the tale of the stream that bit into the walls of a city and made that protection fall?”

  Again, the scream of the spellcasters. Again, the toppling of a tale.

  As it had been on the other side of the city, so was it here. Goblins streamed, howling, from the darkness. They also raced along the branches, attacking the elves.

  On the ground, the dwarves crouched down and braced for the charge that would break over them like a wave on the shore. And as the wave must surely return to the sea broken, so the dwarves were sure the goblins would return broken, or not at all.

  The Watcher let the goblins pass without comment, to be broken on that rocky shore. His eyes remained on the Blue Rider, and its on him. They waged a silent duel.

  Daragen had his daggers out and ready. He stood behind Lazul, letting him break the worst of the tide. The smaller man would serve as cleanup.

  Lazul swung wide once, twice, a third time, each blow severing goblins from their weapons or from their heads. He grunted with every swing, and he laughed each time he split a foe from its life. His strokes were quick and brutal. There was little finesse, but it accomplished the task. All around him, the other dwarves did the same.