Ancient Voices: Into the Depths

by Allison D. Reid

  At the base of the shrine stood a man who wore the black robes of a necromancer, his sleeves and trim emblazoned with ancient script that spelled out the unholy incantations of his craft. At his command, a troll grabbed one of the beasts of the mountain and flung him onto the shrine. The shrine suddenly came to life, shooting forth what I can only describe as a purplish-black light. The beast of the mountain shrieked and convulsed in pain, his armor clanging and scraping against the stone, until he finally fell silent. For a few moments he lay motionless, then slowly he rose to his feet. Something on his forehead began to glow—a circular marking that I had not noticed before. The beast came down off the shrine. The necromancer again motioned to the troll, who picked up the very same beast of the mountain. This time the troll crushed him with his giant hands until there was no question he was dead.

  Both horrified and perplexed, I wondered why Aviad would show me such things. And then I knew, for the crushed beast suddenly returned to life, just like the slain enemies I had seen on the field of battle. The Shadow had found a way to build an invincible army. With the victorious cheers of the enemy still ringing in my ears, the vision finally released its hold on my mind, though its torment persisted.

  My hands continue to tremble as I scribe this warning to the coming generation, for I know that the events I witnessed have not yet come to pass. If the building of the shrine can be thwarted, humanity may yet survive to see the dawn of a new era. Otherwise, I know not how we will continue to stand but by the will of Aviad.

  Morganne was shocked to find herself staring at a crude drawing of the “beast of the mountain,” its appearance and branded forehead like that of the corpse Glak’s men had brought back from battle. Her heart skipped as she feverishly turned the pages, hoping that this was the tome she had been waiting for all along—the one that would change everything. Elead the Prophet had mentioned the Black Shrine too, from a much later era than this tome. She well knew that the shrine’s construction had not been thwarted, and that it had been the cause of much suffering for generations afterward. When or how it had finally been destroyed, she was not sure. What she did know is that this was the first tome she had found in which the beasts of the mountain were mentioned.

  She continued through that book and opened the last one, so absorbed in her studies that she failed to notice the tavern had gone silent, and Elowyn and Adelin had long since gone to bed without her. Her own exhaustion went ignored as she pressed through the final book. Another battle scene took shape before her eyes; a battle of both hope and desperation...a battle that would change history. The Black Shrine was there at the center of it all, surrounded by the Shadow’s monsters.

  Advancing upon them was a bedraggled army of men and boys. At the lead was a man with bright, golden hair, carrying not a sword, but a staff. None could mistake him for any but a descendent of Varol. The staff held the talisman which had once been the very clasp from the Tome of Truth. Facing him at the base of the shrine was a necromancer. The tension between the two armies was palpable as each side waited for the order to charge.

  Varol’s descendant looked over his men and sang out a prayer to Aviad. Infuriated, the necromancer released all that were under his command, but the prayer continued. The men did not advance. They stood in place, shielding their leader, holding back wave upon wave of the enemy’s forces. When one warrior fell, another immediately took his place so that there would be no point of weakness in their barricade of defense. The prayer grew stronger, louder, and was joined by many more voices.

  The necromancer urged his army forward with even greater ferocity. It did not matter if they fell, for within moments, his dead would rise up to fight again. It would seem to anyone looking on that Varol’s descendent had marched his followers into a hopeless massacre, while he stood with raised staff and closed eyes, calling out their requiem before Aviad. But their fortunes quickly changed. Something began to happen that the necromancer did not expect. The talisman began to softly glow, and the glow spread to the wooden staff, then enveloped its bearer until he shone brighter than the sun. He seemed unaware of the change to himself, so focused was he on the prayer. But the evil army halted its advance and cowered from the light, dropping to their knees from the sheer pain of its radiance. Then the earth began to shake so violently that none could stand. Earth, rocks, and branches shook loose from the mountain slopes above, crashing down into the valley.

  Much of the necromancer’s army was crushed beneath the rubble, but the real victory was in the decimation of the Black Shrine itself. The quake had shaken apart its pillars and cracked the platform into pieces. A large boulder crashed through what little remained standing until the shrine had been completely destroyed. With the shrine in ruins, the necromancer’s dead did not rise up to fight again. When the quaking stopped, the men rushed forward, weapons drawn, to cut off any hope their enemy might have had for retreat. Invigorated by their victory, they brought down many of the Shadow’s warriors that day. But the necromancer would not go utterly defeated. He snarled with an animal-like rage, chanting in the Shadow’s ancient tongue. He pulled a poisoned dagger from his belt and flung it with all his might straight into the heart of Varol’s heir, before fleeing into the mountain tunnels where none were able to find him after.

  In the wreckage of the battle’s aftermath, the staff was found broken, still in the grip of the one who had so courageously wielded it. His body, the talisman, and the pieces of the staff were solemnly returned to Yewslea. He was buried with honor by the monks at the abbey, and by his family. One of the monks dutifully collected a splinter from the staff and a lock of hair. He had them blessed, then carefully added them to a cache of tomes near the Mountain of Aviad, hoping they would contain some residual power to protect the tomes from the enemy.

  There was one last section, written in the prophetic style that Morganne had become so familiar with. One paragraph in particular caught her attention:

  Beware the one who is mortal but never dies; he alone knows the secrets of the Black Shrine, and he shall raise it to life to torment men, age upon age. The Beasts of the Mountain are his twisted creation. He commands them, and they obey his whim. Their appearance is an omen of trials to come, for with them shall his father, the destroyer, come also. But when these woes come to pass, do not be consumed by fear. Aviad still reigns over all, and He shall determine the final outcome, to the good of His children. When the hour seems at its darkest, He will send one whose line wields His authority, and the darkness shall not prevail against it.

  Morganne had seen reference to “the one who is mortal but never dies” before, and now she understood that this was the necromancer described in these tomes. The tome mentioned that he ruled the Beasts of the Mountain, yet she had not heard that Glak or any of his men had encountered such a person. And who was his father, the destroyer? More importantly, who would Aviad send to wield His authority, one against whom the darkness would not prevail? Morganne realized that these three books had been sealed together for a purpose. Someone had carefully reconstructed the history of the region, and tied them to the tomes, and to prophecy, reaching out from the distant past to send a message to the present. This was what she had been waiting for; the tomes that held out not only a warning, but a branch of hope. Yet there were still too many questions unanswered, and she would need the help of those more learned than herself to answer them.

  At first light, she brought the tomes to Jadon, barely able to contain her excitement despite her exhaustion. He smiled knowingly at her before she even had a chance to speak.

  “You found what you were looking for.”

  “Perhaps,” she answered cautiously, describing for him the content of the books and showing him the final prophetic section. “But I still have so many questions that I am not qualified to answer on my own. I began this journey because I wanted to find something that would help protect Minhaven—something Glak and the Kinship could use in their fight. Deep within me, I know that I’ve found it, on
ly I don’t know what this means, or how to use it in any practical way. I need guidance.”

  Jadon gave her an affectionate, but apologetic look. “You seek the wisdom of a scholar and a prophet. I am but a humble monk. I know the three sacred Tomes of Aviad that were written by His hand at the beginning, and I know what He reveals to me through circumstance, constancy, and prayer. Events yet to come are not mine to grasp—that is not my gift.

  “But I am not certain that prophecy can be used in the way you expect, as an instruction book, or as a weapon. Consider instead that these prophecies are the revelation of Aviad’s plan for us through history, and that information given to us in this way cannot be wielded, or altered, but must simply be believed in as something that already has, or certainly will, come to pass at the proper time.

  “Prophecies are rarely fulfilled in a way that we expect, yet remaining watchful prepares us, and they remind us of Aviad’s authority over all, including our greatest enemy. The details of these events are not as important as the surety that they will happen just as Aviad says they will. Have you considered the possibility that saving Minhaven might not be part of Aviad’s plan? There does not seem to be any guarantee of that based on the prophecies you have shown me.”

  Jadon’s words stung her like a blast of frigid mountain air. It was a possibility she had not considered...would not consider. “I cannot accept that as a reason not to try. The thought of doing nothing while I wait for death terrifies me,” Morganne said with a gasp.

  “I am not saying that you should do nothing. If Aviad moves you to act, indeed you must act. But if in studying the tomes you are too focused on saving Minhaven as an end, you will no doubt miss or distort their true message. Let the prophecy speak its truth to you, unencumbered by your own fears and desires. Be cautious so that you are not deceived as many others have been.”

  His admonition startled her. She might have learned some mastery of the language of the prophets, but she was certainly not one of them. Glak had once been deceived, precisely because he let his fears and desires drown out the voice of truth that was trying to save him. And he was still facing the consequences of that deception—all of them were. She did not want to admit it to herself, but Jadon was right.

  The destruction of Solis was a tragic consequence; a ripple on the surface that continued to spread, from the moment Glak had disturbed the waters of history with his choice. Who was to say what Minhaven’s fate should be? Its salvation or destruction would be yet another passing ripple, joining the fate of many others who had come before, and would still come after. She suddenly felt very small and frail as she looked down upon herself from that height. Was all of her effort meaningless? Yet if Glak could make a choice that would have such a terrible effect on all, could not choices be made that would have an equally positive effect on all? Morganne had to believe that they could.

  “I understand,” Morganne said with a sigh. “I will be more cautious with my readings. May I keep these books a while longer?”

  “Of course.”

  “And before I go, would it be possible...” she hesitated and shifted her weight anxiously, almost afraid to ask. Jadon waited patiently while she gathered her courage. “With the cache of books from the mountain came a small stone chest. May I see it?”

  Her face flushed as she asked the question. She was certain now that the splinter of wood and lock of hair belonged to Varol’s heir. If such a treasure had been housed at the Temple, she would not have dared to speak such a request. But this was not the Temple. The stone chest was, in fact, sitting unceremoniously amongst the stack of tomes Morganne had not yet gotten to. She could hardly believe that it had not been whisked away into some secret, guarded place of protection, where none but he highest level monks would ever see it.

  Jadon set it down on a table and carefully opened it. Inside was a small shard of wood, dry and cracked, and a curled lock of faded golden hair. On the surface they were unimpressive, yet these were irreplaceable treasures that had nearly been lost to time. They were a profound reminder that all the tomes that she had read, and the people in them, were as real as the flesh of her own body.

  The words of Gareth’s letter suddenly came back to her. “Believe and remember. The journey begins...” She had not thought of them in a long time, perhaps because she had been so rooted in the new life she had found in Minhaven. But her journey was not at an end. That truth confronted her more and more each passing day, and she sensed that someday her feet would meet the road again—to where she could not guess.

  Morganne stared in wonder at the bit of hair that had once belonged to a living, breathing hero of history. The wood from the staff had been raised by his hand in battle to the destruction of the Black Shrine. She wondered if indeed these relics contained residual power, as the monk who stashed them safe into the mountain had hoped. Her fingertips hovered above them, but she dared not touch. These objects were too sacred, their very existence miraculous. The morning bells began to ring and Jadon gently closed the chest.

  “Thank you,” Morganne said gratefully before taking her leave. Over the next few days, she studied the three tomes carefully again, looking for unencumbered truth as Jadon had suggested. The final prophecy continued to mystify her, and yet she felt as though it had been written to her. If she could only see clearly through the haze of disjointed images, obscure language, and sparse details. She became fixated on the Beasts of the Mountain, the necromancer, and the most mysterious figure of all, the one who would wield Aviad’s authority to the victory of humanity.

  Morganne brought the tome with her late one evening as she took her meal in the tavern. She had been brooding over it in the dark of her room for too long, and hoped that a change in location would give her a fresh perspective. She sat quietly as she often did in the back of the room, where she could watch the tavern’s nightly dance play out before her without actually taking part in the merriment. Many of the regulars were there that night. Finnian and Ham were warming up to challenge their fellow patrons with some brand new riddles they had learned from a distant cousin. Bane was there too; silent and content to remain so while he slowly drank a mug of his favorite ale. The surprise was Glak. He had come with a small group of his men and bought them all a round of drinks. He didn’t look quite so soul-weary tonight as he often did. Perhaps he had allowed himself some respite from his burdens, or maybe he had also come looking for a fresh perspective. Morganne had nodded to him in friendly greeting when he came through the door, and he had nodded back in response. Beyond that, she had no desire to disrupt his evening.

  Morganne glanced down at the page of her book, warm firelight flickering across the aged parchment.

  When the hour seems at its darkest, He will send one whose line wields His authority, and the darkness shall not prevail against it.

  She clung to the words as a shipwreck victim to a bit of floating wood, allowing them to burn into her memory. They were words of hope in a sea of dark and desperate images.

  The door of the tavern swung open and she glanced up out of habit. But the person walking through was someone she didn’t recognize. He was tall, well-dressed and groomed, his light-blonde hair pulled back neatly. A large satchel was slung over his right shoulder, and his belt sported a pouch and knife, but no sword. She could not help but stare with all the others in the tavern—strangers were rare. She now understood the stir she, Elowyn, and Adelin had caused when they had walked through the tavern doors looking like vagabond orphans.

  Given Minhaven’s recent difficulties with Tyroc, no doubt many wondered if this man had been sent to spy on them or to serve another of Braeden’s edicts. He did not seem to care that his every movement was being followed. He avoided their suspicious gazes and sat down at an empty table in the corner near Morganne. Wyman immediately came over to take his order, and discreetly gather any information he could about who this man was, and what he was doing in Minhaven.

  “What can I get for you this fine evening?”


  “I’ll have an ale,” the man said, barely looking up. “And some bread and cheese if you have it.” His tone was cool and aloof, but Morganne sensed no malice about him. “Does this village have an inn or any other place for travelers to stay the night?” he asked.

  “There’s no inn,” Wyman said. “But the monks take in travelers. Go back down the main street and turn left at the chapel. The gates will be closed, but they will answer the bell.”

  “Thank you,” the man said dismissively. He lifted the satchel onto his lap and slid open the clasps. Much to Morganne’s excitement, he pulled out several books. Thick, expensive, leather-bound books. Perhaps he had sat so close by because he had noticed hers too. She tried not to make it obvious that she was straining to see what he was reading. He then pulled out a wax writing tablet, similar to the one she had used at the Temple when learning under Gareth. He began to alternately read and take notes on the tablet. Could she have stumbled onto a true scholar? She knew it was very forward of her, but she could not miss this chance. He glanced up briefly under her persistent gaze. She was not the only one in the room watching him.

  “You’ll have to pardon our curiosity,” Morganne finally addressed him. “So very few here in Minhaven can read, and only the monks keep books. I haven’t seen a proper writing tablet since...before I came here.”