Izaryle's Prison

by Levi Samuel

  “What the hell was that?” Ravion snatched up the parchment, searching the night for witnesses. He could hear the patrols in the distance. There was no way they didn't hear the crash. “Why’d you kill him?”

  Gareth picked himself up, dusting the dirt from his clothing. “He was gonna stab you when you took the note.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know. It's one of those things that's been happening. I could hear his thoughts, feel his emotion. He was nervous. Afraid he wasn’t going to be quick enough. I just ensured he wasn’t.”

  Demetrix stepped out, looking at the body. “We need to get out of here. There's no time to hide him, and I'm afraid the door is beyond repair.”

  Ravion sighed. “We're being playing. Nobody should have known where to find us.” Breaking the seal he unrolled the blood-soaked letter and read aloud. “Ravion, I’m afraid I won’t be able to meet you tonight. I’ve fallen in with a bad crowd and don’t think I’ll be around long enough to accomplish our mutual goal. I can’t risk my captor’s coming across this missive and discovering what you seek. If you receive this, take the key to the place we first met. You’ll find your way from there. The final message from, Krizere of Tulgar.”

  Demetrix quickly rummaged through the dead man's pouch looking for anything that might aid them. “Guys, look at this.” He pulled the man's sleeve back so they could see his arm. The flesh was charred and blistered, as if he'd been recently branded. The mark nearly covered the width of his arm, depicting a horned head looking out over the world.

  Gareth surveyed the jagged brand studying the contours. “What do you suppose that is?”

  Ravion rolled the missive and stuffed it into his waistline. “I remember seeing it in the book. It's the mark of Izaryle, though it doesn't matter. We've been compromised. I'll grab the scepter. Gareth and I will find the library. Demetrix, keep watch over Krenin. If they move him, follow suit. We’ll catch up when we can.”

  “Wake up, green-skin!”

  Krenin felt a boot rocket into his ribs. The sharp pain threatened to rob the air from his lungs. He opened his eyes to see one of the orcs standing over him. “Kick me again and I’ll rip your leg off and beat you with it.” He was surprised he'd fallen asleep, yet he couldn't deny that he felt better than he had in weeks.

  “Ha! Puny orc think he so strong. You not scare Kull.” The orc laughed. “Get ready for travel. You goin’ to Idenfal. Gonna be trained like an orc.”

  Pulling against the shackles Krenin sat up. “I’ll never be like you!” Working his way up the post, he got to his feet.

  “You no have choice.” Kull grabbed the chains and gave them a sturdy whip, dislodging them from their hold. Pulling the half-breed away from the post he approached a caravan. Several orcs stood in-line, chained to the one in front of them.

  Krenin couldn't help but notice the difference in these orcs. They weren't seasoned warriors. Most of them were starved and under clothed. He tried to fight against the orc's hold, but something worked against him. His legs move of their own accord, making him follow suit. He felt a watchful presence. Glancing around, he saw the man from the night before. He stood at the gate, his hood overhead. Despite the gloomy, morning light the man seemed the have an unnatural shadow around him. Krenin’s eyes shot to the jagged sword hanging loosely at his hip. He knew it intimately, recalling the man's promise to him.

  The larger orc drug him into position. Krenin glanced at an orc lying in the dirt. Judging by the thin bits of skin clinging to his mutilated form he'd been drug for miles, probably dying somewhere along the way.

  His escort removed the shackles from the deceased orc, kicking him to the side. The malnourished body easily rolled out of the way. Kull pulled the half-orc into the gap and fixed the shackles to him. Sinking the pins in the holes he locked a large pair of tongs around the sides and squeezed, pressing them into place. Kull yanked against the chains, ensuring they were set. “Stay on your feet or you get drug. We won’t stop until nightfall.” Grabbing the next section he repeated the routine, ensuring all the orcs were secure. Making his way to the coach, Kull climbed onto the bench and released the brake. Bringing his whip around, he cracked it behind the horses. They broke into a trot causing the wagon to lurch forward.

  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.” Attention mainly on his friend he glanced around, making sure he wasn't being watched. Pulling his hood overhead, Demetrix jumped from the wall, landing the dust-covered road. Carefully making his way through the row of lingering orcs he followed after the wagon, watching it shrink into 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, caution was needed.

  Snowflakes fell from the sky, piling atop the already accumulated mass. On the outskirts of a small village, the orc leading the caravan detached the dead orcs and shortened the chains. He attached a few new additions in place and prepared to move again.

  Demetrix watched the caravan from the distance. He couldn't risk going into town. The further they traveled, the less friendly people seemed, not that they were friendly in the first place. It wouldn't serve anybody if he were to get caught. Time was beginning to lose its bearing. He'd followed them for upward of sixty days, having lost track a few weeks ago. Despite the frigid temperatures, Krenin seemed to be holding strong. Demetrix had reached the edge of their encampment a few nights ago in hopes of freeing his friend, but had been forced to retreat due to the wargs they'd picked up in the last village. He was running out of time and his rations were getting low. He’d already resorted to hunting small game and melting snow for water, but the orc presence was growing. He wouldn’t be able to stay with the caravan, undiscovered, much longer. Pulling his cloak tight to block out the biting winds, Demetrix prepared for the next stretch of the journey.

  The crack of a whip set the horses in motion and the caravan pulled away, dragging its cargo with it. It trudged along, deeper into the frozen northlands. Next stop Idenfal.

  Krenin listened to the crunch of snow beneath his booted feet. He was fortunate. Most of the prisoners were barefoot and wearing nothing but loin cloths. He hadn't had much time to talk to any of them. And the wagon master 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 if dead was their fate. 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, this could be his chance to free Krenin and return to his brothers. Stringing his bow, Demetrix readied an arrow. Watching, refusing to betray his position to anyone, he waited.

  Commotion echoed all around. The caravan was in chaos. Krenin hastened his pace, trying to keep with the panicked horses. Several humans and alfar appeared from the snow, catching him off guard. In seconds, they'd completely surrounded the wagon, halting the horses. The
re was too much going on. Krenin couldn’t see if they killed them or simply cut the harness. But one thing was certain. The wagon wasn’t going any further until this was over with.

  The assortment of men and alfar 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, knocking the blade wide.

  The alfar recovered and struck again.

  Krenin saw the orc ahead of him fall. Using the added slack he threw the chains around his attacker’s sword, wrapping it up. Pulling as hard as he could, he ripped the weapon free of its master's grip.

  Wasting no time, the alfar pulled a dagger and pressed again.

  Krenin stared in wonder, hearing the thud. An arrow plunged into the side of the alfar's neck and exploded out of the other side. The alfar collapsed into the snow, staining it red. Staring at the fletching, they looked familiar. He'd seen their design before but the details escaped him, like something else blocked that memory. Searched the white hills, the chaos around him called his attention. Krenin felt something hit his back. It burned like nothing he'd felt before. A spearhead protruded 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, Demetrix saw the strangest thing. An army of orcs approached, fast. They were riding what appeared to be giant wolves, similar to those in tow but much larger. 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 find 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 was caught. Cupping his bow in open hand, Demetrix slowly raising them overhead. It wasn’t much but at least he could show he was no threat.

  “Good boy.”

  A blade gently rested against the back of his neck. One of the alfaren scouts stepped into view and took the bow and quiver while another patted him down, ensuring he didn't have any other weapons. Demetrix stole a final glance at the caravan. His heart sank. Krenin was hunched over, lying in the snow. A pool of blood expanded around him. He’d failed. His friend was dead.

  Stepping from the darkened alleyway Ravion approached the edge of the market square, recalling 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 into view he raised it high, watching the golden studs reflect a nonexistent light. A dull white glow flared from the studs, forming a single beam that burned the darkness away. Taking a deep breath Ravion 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 a familiar glow he'd grown accustomed to seeing. Though this man wasn't like Demetrix or Gareth. He had a white aura, seemingly 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 the direction he'd come he gave a quick wave, signaling Gareth.

  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 entry.

  They stepped into the small room, taking position in the open center. The hovel was furnished enough to show occupancy and little else. There was a single bed and a small table set with a wooden cup and platter. A kettle hung 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 and slid a rod through to keep it from coming out.

  They found it a bit extreme, but considering this man was supposedly hiding what was believed to be one of the last libraries 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 near 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 Dreuslayer 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. It slowly floated 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. Each time lighting the section in its entirety. Reaching the far wall the final slither flew higher than ever, taking position in the middle of the curved ceiling. A blanket of white 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 from the world above. There was no way any single person 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 s
ince 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 tomes 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 initially 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. It’s believed they created this book, recording everything that had happened, and everything that would happen. One of the creators was chosen to protect it at all cost. That one became the keeper, collecting books and hiding them away for the day 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.”