The Order of the Trident: Speculum (Eldarlands Book 2)

by Samuel Rikard

  Krenin felt the chains go taunt, yanking him into a jog. Pacing himself, he caught up. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, threatening to drip from him. Reaching the open terrain he stole a quick glance at the shrinking city walls. In the distance he spotted a familiar face among the top of the wall, watching him fade away.

  ***

  Demetrix studied the retreating shipment of orcs. This just got complicated. His attention mainly on his friend he glanced around, making sure he wasn't being watched. Pulling his hood overhead, he jumped from the wall and stepped onto the dust-covered road. Carefully making his way through the row of lingering orcs he followed after the wagon, watching it shrink in the distance. He had to let it go for the time being. Once he was free of the city's eyes he could move much quicker. Until then, he had to play it safe.

  ***

  Snowflakes fell from the sky, piling atop the already accumulated mass. Demetrix watched the caravan from the distance. Several of the orcs had died and were being replaced by the few that were loaded up from the occasional towns they stopped in. He couldn't risk going into them. It wouldn't serve anybody if he were to get caught. Time was beginning to lose its bearing on him. He'd followed them for upwards of sixty days having lost track a few weeks ago. Despite the frigid temperatures, Krenin seemed to be holding strong. He'd gotten to the edge of the encampment in hopes of freeing his friend once or twice, but each time he had to retreat due to the wargs they'd picked up in the last village. He pulled his cloak tight, locking out the biting winds.

  The caravan trudged through the frozen northlands, headed for Idenfal.

  ***

  Krenin listened to the crunch of snow beneath his booted feet. He was fortunate. Most of the orcs were bare foot, wearing nothing but loin cloths. He hadn't had much time to talk to any of them, the wagon master having put a stop to it the few times he'd tried. Best he could tell most of them were being taken to Idenfal for punishment. He hadn't learned the details, but it seemed they were all guilty of disobedience in one way or another. He tried not to think of what their fates would be, though a few of them had suggested public execution. He found it strange they would go through so much effort to transport them if they were simply going to kill them. It seemed so much more convenient to simply execute them on site, but he'd never understand these orcs. They were a different breed than those he was used to. The howl of the wargs drew his attention.

  ***

  Demetrix caught a brief shadow out the corner of his eye. Searching, he noticed a few figures standing just past the edge of the tree line. From this distance he couldn't make out their features, but there had to have been at least twenty of them. As best he could tell they were watching something.

  Redirecting his attention to the caravan he noticed a few of the figures lying in the snow, waiting for the caravan to near. Excitement gripped him. If they were ambushing the caravan, this could be his chance to free Krenin and return to his brothers. He strung his bow and readied an arrow. Watching, refusing to betray his position to anyone, he waited.

  ***

  Shouts echoed all around. Krenin watched in surprise as several humans and alfar popped out of the snow. In seconds, they'd completely surrounded them. They struck with precision, tearing into any orc they saw. Krenin dodged one of the alfar, seeing him charge. Bringing his shackles up he blocked the strike.

  The alfar recovered and struck again.

  Krenin watched the orc ahead of him fall. Using the added slack he threw the chains around his attacker’s sword, wrapping it up. He pulled as hard as he could, ripping the blade out of its master's grip. Drawing a dagger, the alfar continued pressing his attack.

  Krenin stared in wonder as an arrow plunged into the side of the alfar's neck. It exploded out of the other side, dropping him to the red-stained snow. He stared at the fletching. They looked familiar. He'd seen their design before, but the details escaped him. He searched the white hills hoping to find its source, but the chaos around him was too distracting.

  Krenin felt something hit him in the back. It burned like nothing he'd felt before. Looking down he saw a spearhead protruding from his chest. A gentle flow of red fluid trickled from the wound. He probed the injury, curious to how he wasn't dead. It seemed he'd gotten lucky. The spear rested just below his collar bone barely missing his lungs.

  ***

  Demetrix grabbed another arrow and nocked it. Taking aim he released, watching the arrow spin through the flurries. It arched and struck his target, sending the human into the powdery precipitation. He hated having to kill them, but they were going after the wrong target. A horn echoed in the distance. Looking to the horizon he saw the strangest thing. An army of orcs approached, fast. They were riding what appeared to be giant wolves. Another horn sounded, less guttural than the first. The collection of humans and alfar scurried to retreat into the trees. Demetrix searched for the figures he'd seen moments before, but couldn't see them. It was as if they'd simply vanished.

  The wargs closed the gap surrounding the caravan, while the second wave charged after the ambushers. They caught up in a matter of minutes, tearing into them in the most gruesome fashion.

  Demetrix couldn't bear to watch. Nobody deserved to die like that. There was something horrendous about being eaten alive. A snap echoed behind him, too close and loud to have been an accident. He cupped his bow in his open hand and slowly raised them, showing himself as no threat.

  “Good boy.”

  Demetrix felt a blade against the back of his neck. One of the alfaren scouts stepped into view to take his bow and quiver while another patted him down, ensuring he didn't have any other weapons. Stealing a final glance at the caravan, his heart sank. Krenin was hunched over, lying in the snow. A pool of blood expanded around him.

  ***

  Stepping from the darkened alleyway Ravion approached the edge of the market square, recalled the exact location he'd met Krizere. Looking around, he was happy to see they were all alone. The orc patrols seemed to be focused elsewhere, granting him a bit of comfort in the dread inspiring night. Pulling the rod from the bag he held it up, watching the golden studs reflect a nonexistent light. A dull white light flared from the studs, forming a single beam that burned the darkness away. Taking a deep breath he stepped into the alley, watching the walls brighten from the unnatural torch. Reaching the middle it faded, leaving him alone in the dark.

  A thin orange line appeared in the wall beside him. It opened wider revealing a doorway. Firelight flickered on the other side, illuminating an elderly man in the shadow. Ravion was lost in his appearance. Despite his age he was surrounded by the familiar glow he'd grown accustomed to seeing, although this man wasn't like Demetrix or Gareth. He had a white glow about him, seeming divine in such a dark place. A gentle voice escaped the man, comforting him in the strangest of ways. “Summon your friend. I can feel him lurking in the shadows.”

  Ravion smiled at the ruse. Turning back the direction he'd come he gave a quick wave, signaling Gareth over. The stocky warrior emerged from the shadows and stepped into sight.

  The door opened fully, exposing the man to the warriors. He was dressed in white and silver robes and carried a gnarled staff that seemed to match the man in both age and texture. He was exceptionally spry despite his elderly appearance. “Come in before you’re spotted.” He stepped aside, granting them to entry.

  They stepped into the small room, taking position in the open center. The hovel was furnished enough to show someone held occupancy and little more. There was a single bed and a small table set with a wooden cup and platter. A kettle hung just over the fireplace, removed from the heat. A pair of dirt stained stockings rested above the mantle.

  The old man sealed the door and quickly secured the heavy latch. Lifting a thick beam he set it in the hooks. He slid a rod through them to keep it from coming out, while reinforcing it.

  They found it a bit extreme, but considering this man was supposedly hiding what was believed to be one of the last lib
raries it was understandable why he went through such precautions.

  Finishing his routine the old man quickly moved past them, using his staff to balance his weight. He reached the far wall and pushed gently against the nearly empty shelf. It slid quietly to the side exposing a stairwell leading into the underground. Refusing to wait for them he stepped through the opening and disappeared behind the wall.

  Ravion and Gareth followed after. The architecture was beyond amazing. It had to have been constructed when the city was built. There was no other logical reasoning for the sheer brilliance the stones depicted. Not to mention how difficult it would have been to build such a place in private. They knew that one from experience during the construction of their keep. Caution had to be taken to ensure no one person learned too much about any particular part of the structure. That would have led to a weakness in its defenses. Instead they hired each one for a small part, keeping any of them from truly learning any key developments. Reaching the bottom of the stairs they paused, awaiting the man.

  He retrieved a brass key ring that was secured to his waist by a thin, silver chain. Fumbling through the keys, he sought one made of an onyx material. Placing it gently into the lock he twisted, hearing the door click. It sprang open revealing darkness on the other side. “Welcome to the last library of Irayth. If you’d be so kind.” He held out his bony hand, covered in wrinkles from age.

  Ravion hesitantly extended the rod, unsure if he was making the correct choice. But what options did he have? Answers could be granted here. That was more than worth the risk.

  The old man took the scepter and held it up as if he were inspecting the etched details. The glowing beam of light reemerged, only this time it flowed away from the head forming into a solid orb of light. It hovered in front of them burning away the shadow in all directions. The old man gave a simple gesture, watching it float away from them. It slowly made its way past the first rows of shelves. The orb split into three smaller spheres. The two break offs shot into basins resting along the side walls. The area came to life illuminating thousands of books untouched for years. The remaining orb continued on repeating the process again, and again; lighting each section as it passed. Reaching the far wall the final slither flew higher than ever, taking position in the middle of the curved ceiling. A blanket of white light spread over the massive chamber, forming a dome over everything.

  The sheer size of the library had them trapped in a sense of awe. There were so many books here, all hidden away. There was no way any single man could hope to read even a fraction of them in twenty lifetimes.

  Ravion shook himself from the possibilities this library contained. Focusing on his task, he turned to face the man. “We’ve come for—”.

  “I know why you’ve come. You’re the travelers from the realm of gods, Ur I believe you call it. Your arrival has been long foretold. It has been passed down from guardian to apprentice since the library was built.” He walked to an empty podium and inserted one of the strange looking keys into the locked drawer. A resounding collection of clicks echoed out. Watching the retainer bars retract and sink into the sides of the stand, the drawer sprung open. He reached inside and removed a sleek, red bag trimmed in black. Laying it to rest atop the stand he untied the drawstring and pulled a book free. “You’ll need this where you’re going. But I warn you, do not let it fall in with the agents of shadow. If they get their hands on it, your world will be forfeit.”

  “We understand.” Ravion stepped forward, examining the book. Unlike the other this one was covered in runes, tooled into the cover. It was bound in dark, red leather and the pages looked to be edged in gold. He ran his fingers along the runes tracing them out. “These aren’t like the other book.”

  “I’d imagine not. The guardian books were created to track key elements in each of the nine realms. This realm was not supposed to be inhabited. Therefore a book was not made for it. But things don't always go as planned. Izaryle's corruption took hold quicker than any could have anticipated. The creators fell, many of them rising to become the first Order of Sharliets. They used their magics to establish rule, trapping the rest of us in this life. Those few that resisted came together knowing one day the binds would weaken. They created this book, recording everything that had happened, and everything that must happen. One of the creators was chosen to protect the book at all cost. That one became the keeper, collecting books and hiding them away for the day that order would be restored. Unfortunately, I fear it's far too late for that. This realm has been too long in darkness. The best we can hope for is a bloody war that weakens both sides. Perhaps, many years after that, some semblance of peace can be had.”

  Gareth waited impatiently, uncaring about the ancient tomes of knowledge surrounding him. “Where can we find the mirror?”

  “Why Idenfal, of course. It’s located in the lowest levels of the nightking’s castle. But you can't just walk in. It's the strongest bastion of shadow this side of the icelands. You'd never make it inside.”

  “Has anyone ever tried?” Gareth asked, challenging the glowing man's statement.

  “Well… No. Most don't have the courage to try. And those that do rarely make it out of the city alive.”

  Ravion shot a glare to Gareth. He had to learn to choose his battles. It wouldn't serve them to pick a fight with their only ally. “Do you happen to have a map to Idenfal and possibly the layout of the castle?”

  “I can help you with direction to Idenfal, but I’m afraid the castle is unknown to me. To my knowledge nobody who’s gone in has ever made it back out. Though I suppose you have one benefit over the rest. If you succeed you won't have to worry about making it out.” The man hobbled to a standing case. Opening the door he reached in and retrieved a large piece of worn parchment. Rolling it up, he handed it to Ravion. “That'll get you there. Keep the mountains to your left. If you do that, you'll be heading north.

  Ravion stuffed the book and scroll into his pack. “We understand. Thank you for your assistance. Should the tides ever change and you’re able to leave this place, you can seek refuge in a land called Marbayne. You’re debt will be repaid.” He gave a respectful bow. Turning around he made for the stairway, Gareth at his heels

  The keeper watched them leave. Placing the scepter in a bronze holder he closed the drawer, speaking to himself. “If the tides ever turn I fear my purpose here will be long finished.” Sealing the door he followed them up the stairs. Removing the locks he opened the door, allowing them escape. “Good luck. I hope you’re able to accomplish what you came for, but a word of caution. Regardless of what happens there must always be a nightking.”

  Chapter XVIII

  Lost Time

  The forest held a gloomy comfort to it. It wasn't so much the outstretched limbs overhead, blocking out what little light made it through the constant roll of clouds and continual downfall. It was more an eerie presence, like he was being watched. Of course he knew he was, but that wasn't the point. There was something else, something ancient and powerful. It felt tranquil, yet deadly at the same time. Putting the feeling at the back of his mind Demetrix stepped through the wall of thorns, watching them pass by as if they weren't really there. On the other side he looked out over the most serene and beautiful city he'd ever seen.

  It was elevated off the forest floor by hundreds of thick, stilt looking beams carved from the still living trees at their base. Luscious, green ivy stretched across the white beams climbing its way to the elegant rails. The suspended platforms stretched out in four teardrop shaped balconies. A white series of towers stood in the center, arched and contoured perfectly between one another. If a fortress city could be described as perfect, this one qualified.

  Lost in the sight Demetrix felt one of captors push against his shoulder, forcing him onward. He obeyed, continuing toward the magnificent structure. They led him under one of the towering rises and approached the thickest of pillars. It was as if the low light was playing tricks on him. Out of nowhere a spiraling ramp a
ppeared, wrapping its way up and disappearing into the underside of the ceiling.

  Reaching the top, the elegance grew on him. Not only was it a sight to behold from afar, but up close it rivaled no other. The city glowed white in the land of dark. Every beam, pillar, and wall was pearl white, unmarred by a single smudge of out of place dirt. The platform was lined in manicured gardens, forming walkways between the smoothed buildings he hadn't seen from the ground. Every so often pearl white vines grew from the emerald green grass intertwining around each other and separating at the top, forming an odd cage of sorts. A glowing blue orb floated freely inside each one, illuminating the landscape in all directions. Lost in the sheer magnificence of it all Demetrix hadn't noticed the group of alfar approach him.

  “Captain Taroul, what have we here?”

  Demetrix turned, hearing a voice made of honey. As beautiful as the city was, it didn't hold a candle to her radiance. A thin white dress covered her slender frame, revealing much of her shoulders and back. The long, pointed ears shot through her straightened brown hair. She carried no weapons, yet her muscle tone suggested she was familiar with a blade. He felt his heart race beneath his chest, finding it hard to be in her presence.

  “My Lady Elalon, we found this one in the Fields of Shanar. We ambushed an orc caravan headed for Idenfal. He killed two of our men from Kenoar Pass.”

  “Kenoar Pass?”

  “Yes, My Lady.”

  She arched her eyebrow, looking him over. “Let me see his bow.”

  One of the alfar stepped forward, handing her the wooden instrument. The limbs were wrapped in a runed, brown leather held in place by tightly wrapped forest green sinew. The braided string matched the sinew, strung on one end.