Keeper of the Books (Keeper of the Books, Book 1)

by Jason D. Morrow

  Hours passed.

  He trudged forward, but he knew he had lost too much blood. He knew the self-made tourniquet to stop the bleeding was not good enough. He cursed himself several times for stabbing his shoulder. He had planned for authenticity, but it seemed instead that he might have just killed himself slowly. He must have hit a vein or an artery.

  The moonlight shined through the trees but the path remained a blurred sight as he knew the loss of blood would soon claim him. And as soon as the thought entered his mind, his knees gave way. He tried to hold himself up with his arms, but they had no strength. Before he lost consciousness, he cursed himself again. He might have had a better chance against the gray elf than stabbing himself through the shoulder.

  He felt his face smack against the cold dirt on the road. The pain was not nearly as intense as it had been when the rock slammed against his cheeks and nose, but perhaps that was because he was a goner. Within a single breath’s moment, he closed his eyes and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Joe

  Autumn, 898 A.O.M.

  The party was small with twelve men, but they were enough to keep Joe in line. He rode ahead of the group on a horse between Clive and the Warlord. The other men rode with weapons held close to them, surrounding five carts meant for carrying all the weapons Joe had promised the Renegades. Joe was obviously allowed no weapons and the rope around his wrists was digging into his skin. He had thought a few times that he might try to kick his pony and outrun the others, but he didn’t know the terrain like the Renegades did. They lived off this land, far from the confines of civilization. They undoubtedly knew every path and every shortcut through these woods. The battle, Joe had learned, had taken place just last night in a field south of the Sunset Woods. A caravan of Crimson Army soldiers had taken the notion to attack the temporary Renegade camp. It was believed among the Renegades that it hadn’t been an ordered attack by the president, nor had it been strategically planned by the commanders. The two parties just happened to cross each other, and being natural enemies, they fought. This had apparently been against the wishes of the Warlord, who hadn’t wanted a fight with the Crimson Army. At least, not then. But Joe didn’t pretend to understand the differences between the two groups, or why they were against each other at all. He just needed to figure out a way to escape.

  Now, they traveled northward toward a city called Vandikhan. According to Clive, they would be at Joe’s location by afternoon of the next day.

  Few words were spoken as they traveled. Clive kept a close watch on Joe at all times while the Warlord tended to ride away from the group, sometimes scouting ahead, other times stopping to study a deformed tree or a strange rock. Despite the Warlord’s seemingly random halts, the group would continue forward as though this was normal. On occasion, Joe would have to be on his guard. The Warlord found Joe very interesting which resulted in a plethora of questions, forcing Joe to think up answers that wouldn’t get him killed. One question in particular sent a jolt through Joe’s chest when the Warlord asked.

  “Where were you born?” The Warlord was riding next to him now. Sometimes the sun’s rays would shine through the forest’s treetops and reflect its light off his bald head.

  Joe didn’t know what to answer. He tried to remember some of the places on the map, but all he could remember was Vandikhan. Relief flooded him, however, when Clive offered a few suggestions.

  “Somerled? Tel Haven? Fasvosus?”

  “That one,” Joe said nervously.

  “Fasvosus?” the Warlord asked.

  “That’s right,” Joe answered. “But I didn’t spend much of my life there. I moved to a lot of places throughout Galamore. My family didn’t like to stay in one spot for too long.” He was talking too much. He knew he was going to say something that might get him in trouble.

  “Who was your father?” the Warlord asked.

  Joe sat silent for a long moment. He didn’t have to lie about this one. “James R. Cole,” he said. With this he was met with silence until the Warlord finally shook his head.

  “Never heard of him. Was he a scavenger like you?”

  Joe shook his head, but then he felt something strange happen that he wasn’t expecting. He started feeling guilty. His father was the farthest thing from a criminal or scavenger.

  “No,” Joe said. “He was a writer.”

  “Writer?”

  Joe nodded. “He wrote books. Fictional stories.” He let out a sigh. “He would have never condoned the life I live now.”

  “And why is that?” the Warlord asked in his usual harsh tone. “Was he part of the Crimson Army? Didn’t like you stealing from our fearless leader?”

  Joe shook his head. “No. He was just a good man. Always wanted what was best for his family.”

  Joe didn’t know what to think. He was feeling this overwhelming sense of guilt like he never had before. Maybe he feared what awaited him when the Warlord and the others found out that he didn’t have a weapons stash. Had his whole life been leading up to this point where he would be killed in a land that felt so far from home? As they marched on, Joe thought more and more about how he should have never joined with his devilish outlaw brother. Nate had promised adventure and a life of easy riches. Now, Nate was probably dead and Joe was well on his way. Their father would have never wanted any of this for them. Their mother, Melanie, would have been heartbroken.

  Joe was relieved when Clive broke into the conversation, ending the Warlord’s seemingly endless questions.

  “Sir,” Clive said, pointing to the west toward the treetops. “We should set up camp.”

  Joe looked to his left where Clive pointed and he nearly fell off his pony. Thousands, maybe a million beams of orange light glowed through the branches, landing on the ground all around them. Joe had never seen anything like it before. The bare branches seemed to be filled with yellow leaves as the light sparkled through them. When a small breeze wafted through the forest, the lights flickered so much that Joe felt disoriented. He could now hardly see in front of his face as the rays danced all around them like thousands of fairies spreading their dust as they flew. The light danced so much that Joe almost felt like he was floating, and the only relief he felt was when he closed his eyes. He opened them again when the Warlord’s voice called out to him.

  “You seem like you haven’t spent much time in the Sunset Woods.”

  Joe opened his eyes to find that the light was beginning to fade now, and the dancing beams were almost gone completely. The other men were already off their horses, some unrolling beds while others gathered wood for a fire.

  “I haven’t, really,” Joe said. “I try to avoid it at sunset.”

  The Warlord looked at him before exchanging glances with Clive. Joe watched them intently. Had he just said something wrong?

  “It’s the most beautiful moment in all of Galamore,” the Warlord said. “Nothing like it can be seen outside of the Sunset Woods. It’s magic from the Author to let us know he watches over us and approves of what we are doing.”

  Joe swallowed.

  “Get down from your horse,” the Warlord insisted. “I don’t want to waste resources on having to watch you.”

  No questions were asked and no words were spoken to Joe before the fire was high in the air and the sun had fallen completely. Joe was tied to a tree once again, his hands not allowed to meet each other. Seeing the Warlord and his men eat heartily in front of the fire made Joe aware of his hunger for the first time since arriving in Galamore. The meat they cooked smelled divine and made his stomach growl and his mouth water. Most of the men were finished and already settling in their bedrolls when Clive came over to Joe with a bowl and spoon in his hands.

  The man knelt in front of him holding the steaming bowl. “The Warlord wants you to have strength to show us to the stash tomorrow. I’ve prepared some stew for you.”

  Joe didn’t think nor care to ask what it consisted of, but the vegetables seemed fresh and the meat a bit wild. The liquid
burned his lips when Clive first held the spoon in front of Joe’s face, but it was that or not eat at all.

  “I can feed myself,” Joe said. “You don’t have to do it for me. If you just loosened the ropes so I can reach…”

  “And wake up in the middle of the night to find you missing?” Clive said. He smiled and shook his head. “The Warlord would shoot me between the eyes. He wants those weapons bad.” Clive lifted the spoon.

  “I don’t think they will exactly equip all the Renegades,” Joe said. He reached out his neck and accepted the soup.

  “They don’t have to equip all of us,” Clive came back, scooping out another spoonful. “Every little bit helps.”

  Joe looked at the spoonful of soup on front of him and like a small baby being weaned off his mother’s milk, he took another bite.

  “Listen,” Clive said, “I don’t know if you understand what will happen to you if we find out that your weapons don’t exist. If you’re lying, or leading us into a trap, things could get bad for you.”

  “Don’t you think I know that already?” Joe asked, taking another bite.

  Clive shrugged. “Just saying. I know what the man is capable of.”

  “This guy, the Warlord,” Joe said, “who is he? What’s his name?”

  Clive shrugged again. “Why does it matter?”

  “I just don’t understand why he doesn’t go by his real name,” Joe said.

  Clive took a deep breath and set the bowl down in front of him. “Titles are more powerful than names. What good is Jacob DalGaard without the President in front of it?”

  “Well, it’s not like he goes by Warlord Jeff or anything,” Joe said.

  “The Warlord doesn’t need to,” Clive said. “His title is enough.”

  “Where’d he come up with it?”

  “I’m not here to answer questions, scavenger. I’m here to give you some food.” He picked up the bowl and shoved another hot spoonful of soup into Joe’s mouth. The liquid seared his tongue and the insides of his cheeks and he could feel his eyes water though he accepted the soup without resistance. Some of it spilled down his chin and the front of his shirt while Clive made no attempt to clean him.

  “I know how this plays out,” Joe said, gnawing on a piece of fat. “Even if I show you the weapon stash, you’re going to kill me anyway.”

  Clive’s eyes went dark. “So, you’re thinking about leading us astray?”

  Joe shook his head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just want some assurances.”

  “If you’re wanting me to promise you that the Warlord won’t kill you tomorrow, I can’t do that.”

  Joe didn’t even know why he was having this conversation. What kind of assurances was he looking for? There were no weapons—therefore they were going to kill him. He didn’t know what sort of doors this conversation might open up, but surely he had to try something.

  “I’m not the only one who knows about these weapons,” Joe said.

  Clive’s eyes narrowed even more. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I work in collaboration with a group. There are others who do the same thing as me. There are people guarding the stash. If you bring me in with ropes and armed soldiers, they will kill us all.” He didn’t know if he sounded convincing in the least, but it was worth the try. This might be his only chance to survive tomorrow.

  Clive sat for a moment, contemplating Joe’s words. It wasn’t a crazy concept that such a stash would be guarded by someone. “Why didn’t you say something about it before?”

  “Because I’ve been trying to think of ways to escape,” Joe said, “but I’ve run out of ideas and time.” They were bold words, but Joe hoped they would make him seem more honest. All he needed was for Clive to believe him. There was a reason people like the Warlord kept people like Clive around. He would be the voice of reason—or at least caution. Joe had no doubt the Renegades would adapt to this new information, but the hope was that they would change their plans which meant Joe would have a better chance of getting away from them when the time was right. What scared him the most was that he had no real plan and that he was improvising all of this. He was so different from Nate. Nate would probably already have a plan of action. He would already know how his enemies thought and would have played off of them. Joe didn’t have that skill. Instead, he was blindly saying things that he thought would give him the slightest chance tomorrow. But the more he talked, the more he feared the Warlord would think he wasn’t worth the risk. If the man came to that conclusion, he would surely slit Joe’s throat.

  “How do I know you’re not saying all this so you can just try to escape?” Clive asked.

  “Well,” Joe said slowly, “I do wish to escape, that much is true. But I feel like I have a better chance of surviving tomorrow if I tell you what is coming than if I don’t.”

  Clive nodded, looking down at the dirt in thought.

  “Do as you wish with the information,” Joe said. “But whatever you do, just remember that I warned you.”

  Joe didn’t sleep much. And when he did sleep, his dreams were about being in a shack in the middle of the night, gunfire blasting all around him. Nate was standing next to him. Then there was Tyler Montgomery, yelling for Nate to give him the book.

  “The book is everything!” Montgomery screamed. “It means more than I could ever explain. You were meant to be a part of it!”

  Joe woke to Clive shaking his shoulder. The light must have just started to dawn because the other men were bustling about, packing up camp. He could see the Warlord away from the group stretching his limbs.

  “Today’s the day, scavenger,” Clive said to Joe. “Personally, I hope you see the end of it.” Clive and a couple of other guards undid his bonds and allowed him to stand. He felt like an eighty year old man as he stood. His limbs were stiff and sore, and his back felt hunched after resting against the bark for so long. He felt exhausted but couldn’t remember waking at all during the night. His sleep had been full of vivid dreams—the last one about Montgomery had been more of a memory though.

  What did he mean when he said that the book was everything? Who was he referring to when he said you are meant to be a part of it? Joe knew he had been talking to Nate, because Nate was the one who had the book in his hands, but was Nate the only one who was meant to be a part of it? Was he somewhere in Galamore doing what he was meant to do? Or did the notion pertain to Joe as well? Or were these just words spouted off by Montgomery so Nate would give him the book? Joe hoped he wasn’t just a casualty of Nate’s destiny. Maybe Montgomery was just partly insane. But that couldn’t be all of it. Joe might have been able to write Tyler Montgomery off as crazy if the book hadn’t swallowed him up and placed him in a strange land with these Renegades that were bent on getting these weapons that didn’t exist. But it had swallowed up Montgomery first. And though Joe had gone into the book before Nate had, Joe was sure Nate would have followed. Then again, Nate was nowhere to be found. There was no evidence to suggest that Nate went into the book at all. But there was also no sign of Montgomery either, so that wasn’t enough of an indication that Joe was all alone.

  But Joe was alone. He was in trouble with these Renegades and he needed to find a way out.

  They got Joe onto his pony again and were soon off toward Vandikhan. It was estimated that they would arrive by the afternoon, so Joe had just a few hours to figure out what he was going to do. Of course, there was only so much he could plan. He was going to have to improvise no matter what.

  The road ahead of them was mostly dirt with patches of overgrown grass. The woods were lush and green—quite the contrast to West Texas where everything was dead and sandy. One thing he missed, however, were the open skies. Here he felt like he was in a cage, barred by the endless growth of bushes and trees. The chains on his wrists didn’t help his feeling of entrapment either.

  The Warlord seemed to take very little interest in Joe as they continued on. As the hours went by, barely any of them spoke to ea
ch other, much less to Joe. Perhaps they were fixed on the mission ahead or maybe they were just tired. It seemed that their interest in Joe had worn off and he knew that was never a good sign. They would get what they wanted (or not get what they wanted in this case) and be done with him.

  As they traveled onward, the road began to widen and the men started chatting a little more. As Joe listened, he heard that they were nearing the city of Vandikhan. His heart started to beat faster. They wouldn’t take him to the city, but if he could get near it, he might just try to outrun the Renegades. If he could make it to the city, surely he would find someone to help him out of his predicament. After another hour, it was time to stop and rest.

  A couple of men helped Joe off his pony and down into the dirt. They wouldn’t be stopping long so he wasn’t tied to any tree. Instead they took him away from the group and sat him on the ground. They sat on either side of him, paying more attention to their food than they did to Joe.

  “Why did you move me away from the group?” Joe asked one of them.

  The man shrugged. “Clive’s orders. He doesn’t want you near the group. Bad for camaraderie or somethin’ like that.”

  Joe was about to ask one of them how far outside of Vandikhan they were when he noticed Clive standing over them. He carried a satchel that hung from his left shoulder and fell at his side; he also carried a canteen strapped across his right shoulder. On his right hip was a pistol that hung loosely and was ready to be used. Jutting from his back was a sheathed saber, curved at the handle and along the blade. The handle was made of a shining silver that gleamed in the light.

  Clive cleared his throat. “You two, give me a moment with the prisoner.”

  Without hesitation, the two guards stood and left Joe alone with Clive on the side of the road. Clive reached for a canteen at his side, popped off the lid and offered it to Joe. Joe reached out with his tied hands and took the canteen. The water felt cool on his lips as it rushed past them and into his throat. He finished his first swig, but held onto the canteen, letting his stomach settle enough for more. He was thirsty and he didn’t know when he’d get another drink.