THE SILAS KANE SCROLLS
An Authors & Dragons Tale
Rick Gualtieri
Copyright © 2018 Rick Gualtieri
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All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.
Edited by Megan Harris:
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Cover by Mallory Rock:
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Published by Authors & Dragons
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DEAD-END JOBS
Michael Adleberg stepped into the dusty office at the ass-end of the museum, located far from the public exhibits. Here was where the shit work took place: cleaning, cataloging, and translating barely legible works of antiquity, all for one purpose – being promoted to a better position. “How goes the translation?”
Associate archeologist Trevor Berrington looked up bleary-eyed from his desk and nodded a greeting. The scrolls displayed on his monitor had actually been discovered years earlier, locked away in a remote cave, but due to layers of bureaucratic bullshit, they’d only recently been catalogued.
A cursory analysis, though, had revealed promising clues as to their contents, enough to make the two junior researchers nearly piss themselves with anticipation. Myths and legends from the ancient world were common, but full stories were rare. Discovering a new Beowulf was the archeological equivalent of striking the motherlode. Reputations were built on such finds.
Trevor stretched and rubbed his eyes. “I thought we were onto something, but now I’m not so sure.”
“You’ve gotta be shitting me. I thought it was...”
“It’s a story, all right. I’m just not sure it’s epic. Here. I’ll show you.” Trevor pointed to the weathered parchment pictured on his screen. “‘Mark the words of Theoden Grimstrike, mortal, and mark them well.’”
“Sounds like it’s starting off pretty good.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Hold your horses.” He read some more. “‘I write this account as a warning to you of a warrior most terrible...’”
Mike took a seat. “All right. That’s kinda badass.”
“‘...the most fucking awful paladin I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.’”
“Oh.”
Trevor nodded. “Yeah. Kinda goes downhill from there. Sounds like this Theoden guy was three sheets to the wind when he wrote this. I mean, hell, he claims to be a demigod of Twareg.”
“Who?”
“Some deity he keeps mentioning over and over again, like a broken record.”
“Never heard of him.” Mike leaned in for a closer look. “Oh, hold on. I see the problem. You're reading it wrong. Look there. I think it actually says Tor...”
Trevor rounded on the other scientist. “Who are you, my fucking copyeditor? Do you want to sit here for the next week re-translating this shit? Be my guest.”
Mike backed away, hands up in a placating manner. “Relax, dude. Twareg it is. No need to get your panties in a bunch. It’s not like I'm gonna copyright the stupid thing.”
“Sorry. I get a little punchy when I’m tired.”
“It’s cool, bro. Just maybe switch to, y’know, decaf.” At the other man’s glare, Mike was quick to add, “So what else does it say?”
♦ ♦ ♦
It is only by the grace of eight cups of ale sitting in my gut that I can stomach writing this story. But even besotted to shit I can still see it all clear as day ... I can still see him.
A curse upon the name Silas Kane. Fuck him and his very existence, I say, but save the last few drops for those who filled his head with lies and unleashed him upon an unsuspecting world. May a thousand bloated camels forever piss upon their graves!
Sadly, I too must drink deep of that yellow downpour – me, the gods-damned fool who thought he could sway this madman from his path. Much of the blame lies on my head, and for that I am forever cursed.
Know my name – Theoden Grimstrike – and understand that I am nothing more than dirt, filth, a pile of shit beneath the scabbed feet of leprous beggars.
But it wasn’t always so.
Once, I was exalted among the mighty dwarven clans. For eons, I sat at the right hand of the great god Twareg, the mighty hammerer. He tasked me with dispensing earthly justice wherever it was needed while he stoked the fires of the Great Kiln – the mighty temple raised to him by his most fervent and beloved followers.
The peak of Stormstrike, home of the Kiln and tallest mountain within the Band of Steel, rang constantly with the sound of blacksmiths forging weapons and armor for the dwarven kings. But that was nothing compared to the booming thunder of my lord, constantly swirling around the mountain and serving as both protection to those within it as well as warning to the myriad enemies seeking to claim it.
But you are not here to listen to tales of greatness or the adventures of the Kiln’s many heroes, nor do I care to tell it. Innumerable are their exploits – monsters slain, maidens rescued, the kingdoms of tyrants overthrown. Their deeds serve to inspire others to greatness. This, however, is a story of madness, murder, and the stupidity that caused it all.
You see, weapons were not all that was forged within the Great Kiln. Despite my lord’s love of his people and the wisdom he shared with them, a darkness began to fester, giving birth to those who sought to twist Twareg’s words to match their own vile ambitions.
Eventually, the stain of this lunatic fringe was noticed, spreading like a fungus, and they were exiled, never to return. The outcasts marched to the east, eventually settling in a patch of hills bordering lands claimed by the long-legs – or humans, as they liked to call themselves. A stupid name, but fitting for such a ridiculous race.
There, they founded a temple which they called the Shrine of the Shattered Hammer, a stronghold from which to preach their crazed beliefs to any who would listen.
Twareg ordered me to keep watch on the shrine from afar, but it was a task I did not undertake with much seriousness. If anything, it was hard to not be flattered at their unerring belief that our lord was the god above all others and that his worship, and his alone, was to be taught.
Hell, for a time it seemed no more than harmless zealotry. Humans had no interest in the word of Twareg, and orc raiders were far more likely to eat a dwarf than talk to one. It was hard for the clerics of the shrine to spread their disease when everyone else was seemingly immune.
Due to a lack of willing converts lining up at their gates, the exiled dwarves mostly kept to themselves. They only ventured forth when the need for drinking and whoring became too great for the elders to deny. Hardly transgressions worth smiting them over ... or so I thought at the time.
♦ ♦ ♦
It was during one such pilgrimage that Coyn Copperbeard, abbot of the shrine, heard the sound of battle calling to him. Bored from their long trek, he and his followers decided to investigate, spying a family of long-legs being waylaid by bandits. Simple farmers on the way to market, they stood no chance against their armed foes, but Coyn didn’t give so much as a single shit. What concern was it to him if humans killed other humans?
The amusement of watching the slaughter was short-lived and they were about to turn away when they heard one of the thieves mockingly offer thanks to the goddess Alynthia, venerating her for the good fortune of meeting their victims when they did.
It was not so much their tone or their intent that swayed the dwarves as hearing praise being given to any other than Twareg. So poisoned were they by their own twisted dogma that they screamed out my lord’s name and charged into the fray, looking to silence the heretics’ tongues.
Soon, the forest ground was sticky with human blood and covered with a veritable feast for the forest’s many scavengers.
As they were dispatching the last of the bandits, one of the clerics heard the faint sound of laughter coming from the wreckage of the victims’ wagon. There, he discovered the lone survivor of the massacre – a human infant, giggling and happily playing with his mother’s lopped off head.
The dwarf, neither without mercy nor immune to being weirded the fuck out, raised his hammer high so as to give the child a quick death. But, in the moment before the boy’s head could be ground into oatmeal, Coyn stayed his underling’s hand. He’d been struck by inspiration.
What if they had a human champion to help spread the word – a true believer sent out among the long-legs to tirelessly preach the word of Twareg? Humans mostly dismissed dwarves, due to their short stature and bearded womenfolk, but they might not be so quick to ignore one of their own.
He ordered the child to be spared, gathering him up in his arms and telling his followers of his plan. This boy had a glorious destiny before him. He would be the shrine’s hope, their zealot, their weapon.
♦ ♦ ♦
Years passed, twenty in all – a blink of the eye for a long-lived people such as dwarves, but more than enough time to ripen the foul fruit they’d planted in the boy’s head, nurtured by the tainted mulch of their vile ideals.
The child, not overly-burdened with natural intelligence, was the perfect receptacle for their crazed dogma. He soaked up their endless sermons as if he were a sponge.
Christened Silas Kane, for little more reason than the abbot thought it might sound cool to other humans, he was taught to believe his parents were once mighty warriors of Twareg. They had fought many battles in his name, slayed numerous wicked beasts, and earned the enmity of countless non-believers. So fierce were they in their faith that, upon their deaths, the heretical kings of men ordered their names stricken from the histories and for none to ever mention them again.
Quite the convenient story, but one the dull sot of a boy never questioned.
Silas was continually reminded of their fictional sacrifice and his inability to live up to their reputation. The dwarves constantly punished him as a reminder that Twareg’s love was forever outside his grasp, yet something he should never stop striving for.
In time, he learned their ways and grew strong. The hours spent studying scripture no longer tired him; they reaffirmed his beliefs. The beatings no longer hurt; they invigorated him and made him beg for more.
Soon enough, the disciples of the Shattered Hammer got their wish. Silas became the weapon they’d hoped for. What they didn’t realize, though, was that even the dullest blade must still be handled with care, lest it cut the hand that wields it.
HERETICAL HARES
“Hurry up and put that gear down, Silas. Twareg is disgusted by your laziness.”
“Thank you, Abbot!” Silas replied eagerly, carefully stacking the gear of the dwarves who’d come along on this pilgrimage. He muttered to himself under his breath as he worked, reciting his favorite tracts from the One True Book of Twareg – revised edition, of course – and promising to whip himself extra hard that night for his pathetic inability to work faster.
I shook my head sadly as I watched all of this from above – floating invisibly over the encampment, no more detectable than a gust of wind through the trees. For years I’d spied upon the shrine, always listening but never interfering. I’d witnessed countless hours of torture inflicted upon the human lad but had never once acted, for that was my mission. Watch and observe, but do nothing unless absolutely necessary.
This was Silas’s first outing since being taken in as a baby. Abbot Coyn and his elders planned to use this pilgrimage as a test run for the boy, hoping to meet some long-legs on the road and see how well his lessons held sway in the face of others of his kind.
So far, all they’d done was use their eager pupil as little more than a pack mule, loading him down with more gear than he could carry, while they trekked ahead free of their burdens, then complaining when he couldn’t keep up.
Though my task was to observe, nothing more, I had begun to question my station in recent years. I felt a great deal of pity for Silas. For though he remained stoic in the face of the beatings, brandings, burnings, dunkings, freezings, and other assorted horrors of his training, little by little my own heart had begun to break for him. As it was, I found myself intrigued when first hearing of this journey. Though it was blasphemous to even think of disobeying my master, I considered doing just that. Perhaps there would come a chance to reach out to the boy, to open his eyes and show him all that he held true was a lie. That, though Twareg was indeed great, he did not embody the megalomaniacal ideals that Silas’s masters taught.
Coyn walked over and kicked Silas in the backside as he was setting up the party’s bedrolls, knocking him face-first into the grass. “Get a fire started, stupid boy. And set a pot of water to boil. Twareg commands it!”
Silas pulled his scarred face from the dirt and smiled broadly up at his teacher. “Shall I scorch my genitals with it?”
“If there’s anything left when we’re finished, feel free. But for now it’s so Gorlim can prepare our dinner.”
“Oh, I do love master Gorlim’s cooking.”
Coyn raised an eyebrow at the young warrior’s words.
“But not as much as I love Twareg!”
That seemed to satisfy the aged abbot. He nodded his grey-bearded head once and then walked away to confer in hushed voices with the others.
I took the opportunity to swoop lower so as to eavesdrop on them.
“We should take the boy with us,” one of the dwarves said. “Brimstoke is only a few miles to the west. If he can convert those drunken cunts to our ways, he can convert anyone.”
Coyn shook his head. “He’s not ready. What do you say, Gutspear?”
The heavily-armed dwarven warrior nodded. “Agreed. Not to mention we won’t be able to have any fun while he’s around.”
That elicited a chorus of agreement from the group.
“So what do we do? Have him stand guard outside the town? Tell him to patrol the woods for heretics?”
“Too risky,” Coyn said. “What if he gets curious as to what we’re up to? No. I don’t want him going near Brimstoke, at least not yet.”
“Afraid they’ll ruin him?”
Coyn let out a laugh and gave the other dwarf a shove. “Hardly. More afraid that he’ll burn it to the ground, leaving our throats parched and our pricks dry.”
Again, the dwarves raised their voices just enough to agree as Silas continued to work on the other side of the encampment.
Gutspear folded his muscled arms across his chest. “So are you saying we should stay away, then? Pity. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a chance to dip my javelin.”
“You mean dip your toothpick?” the party’s cook, Gorlim, joked, causing the rest to burst into muffled laughter.
“Not a chance,” Coyn said at last. “I’ll be damned before I make this journey both sober and unfucked.”
“What do you propose, Abbot?”
“Simple. We bring the festivities to us.”
“How so?” Gutspear asked.
“You and Voight head to Brimstoke. Bring back a barrel of rum, a side of pork, and enough whores to go around. That means at least two for me.”
“But what about Silas?”
“Fuck that. No who
res for the boy.”
“I meant...”
“I’ll handle him,” Coyn replied to the warrior. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s kept busy. Praise Twareg!”
This time they didn’t keep their voices low, echoing Coyn’s cry loud enough that Silas joined them, despite having no clue as to what he was praising their god for. However, it was doubtful he actually needed a reason.
♦ ♦ ♦
“How many do you want me to catch?” Silas asked, looking down at the valley ahead of them. They were a good mile east of their camp. Far below, movement could be seen as countless tiny creatures scurried about feasting on the rich grass.
“How many?” Coyn echoed, his breath coming out in an angry huff.
“Yes, master. How many rabbits do you and the others desire?”
“All of them, of course.”
“All? I’m not sure I...”
Coyn reached up and smacked a gauntleted hand upside Silas’s head, causing the young warrior to immediately blurt out, “Thank you, sir!”
“Has your stupidity made you deaf?” the dwarf asked crossly. “Do you not hear it?”
“All I hear is the wind blowing through the trees.”
“Perhaps your faith isn’t as strong as it should be then, for I hear whispers on that foul wind.”
A look of panic crossed Silas’s face. “No, sir! I meant I hear them, too.” Then, after a moment, he asked, “Um, what are the whispers saying?”
“Stupid boy! Your parents spit upon you from Twareg’s side. If they hadn’t been killed in battle, I have no doubt they’d have hung themselves in shame at seeing what a halfwit cretin their son had become.”
Silas was quick to agree. He stepped to a nearby tree, cried out, “I am a great disappointment indeed!” and then bashed his forehead into the bark.
The Silas Kane Scrolls (Authors and Dragons Origins Book 2) Page 1
