The Bane of Karrak_Ascension II of III

by Robert J Marsters

  Lodren had lowered his head and was shuffling his feet in embarrassment. “I’m not a… I’m not one of those that you said, Grubb. I just thought that even if you do have a crown, it couldn’t make you any more beautiful than you already are.”

  Faylore swung gracefully down from the treetops and landed silently in front of Lodren. She placed her hand on his bowed head and leaned forward, kissing him gently. “Yes, Lodren. As Queen of Thedar, I do have a crown.”

  Lodren looked up at her and smiled. “Can I see it?” he asked, his eyes wider than ever.

  “Of course, you may, but I shall not pose in it for you, or any other. Only on ceremonial occasions will it be placed on my head,” she replied.

  “Is that the law in Thedar then?” asked Grubb. “Can you only wear it for special occasions?”

  “Oh no, not at all. I can wear it whenever I choose,” replied Faylore.

  “So why don’t you?” asked Lodren, slightly confused.

  “Simple, my dear Lodren, it’s absolutely ghastly!” she laughed. Her friends’ mouths fell open as they looked across at one another in disbelief. Faylore continued, “It was crafted many thousands of years ago, long before any of my people had considered that there may, one day, be a queen of Thedar as opposed to a king. They must have taken every gold nugget they possessed to make the thing, it’s huge. I think it would be equal in weight to you, Grubb, perhaps even after your transformation, and I am not referring to your splendid golden hawk persona. It is the ugliest thing I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes upon. I believe it is supposed to be the effigy of a dragon. To my eyes, the only way it could possibly resemble one is if one were to drop a mountain on the dragon first and then stick the remains back together with mud. It really is that hideous!”

  Lodren and Grubb were now chuckling at Faylore’s description of the Thedarian crown. “Now we know why ye won’t wear it unless ye have to,” laughed Grubb.

  “Why not have your people make you a new one?” asked Lodren. “Something more delicate perhaps. Surely, if it is made for you by your people, it would still be the true crown of the Thedarian Queen?”

  “It has been discussed but my father always refused to allow it to be changed. His belief was that the first crown actually possesses the spirit of a dragon, fabled to appear and defend us if ever we were in dire peril.”

  “Faylore…” Lodren began slowly, “… forgive me for asking, but was this before your father went… how should I put it, a little strange?”

  “I’m not sure I like my father being termed as ‘a little strange’ Lodren, but in answer to your question, yes, centuries ago in fact.”

  “Oh well, it was just an idea. How terrible to have such an ugly crown on such a beautiful head,” said Lodren, blushing slightly. “But can we still see it?” he added excitedly.

  “Go on, Faylore, give us a look. It can’t be that bad,” sniggered Grubb.

  “If you insist,” sighed Faylore. “Follow me.”

  “Where do you keep it?” asked Lodren.

  “For some strange reason, it is kept locked away in the hall of history. Goodness knows why. I’m sure no one would want to steal it. It’s so ugly.”

  “You know what some people are like though, Faylore,” said Grubb. “They’d pinch anythin’ that wasn’t nailed to the ground.”

  They proceeded through the lush forest, the sparse fallen leaves rustling as they walked. Lodren glanced into the trees and saw that their every step was being watched. Thedarian scouts were perched high in the trees, making their presence no secret to the queen’s guests. Guests, invited or not, would never stop any Thedarian from attending to his duties and Lodren noted that each one held a silver longbow, and each bowstring already housed an arrow. A few paces behind Faylore, Lodren reached across and tugged gently at Grubb’s sleeve.

  “I know, I’ve seen ’em too,” whispered Grubb. “Don’t make any sudden moves and we’ll be fine. They’re only following orders, after all.”

  “But what if one of them slips?” hissed Lodren, nervously. “One of us could end up with an arrow in him by accident.”

  “The only way an arrow would strike you, my dear Lodren, is if it were intentional. They are my most skilled archers, they do not make mistakes,” announced Faylore, without turning. “It may be a surprise to you, but a few of them are almost as skilful as I.”

  “But nowhere near as modest, eh, Faylore?” asked Grubb, sniggering.

  “Modesty has nothing to do with it,” replied Faylore, turning to face him. “It is a plain and simple fact,” she added.

  “How far is it to the hall of history, Faylore?”

  “Not far. We shall be there in a few minutes. Please be silent whilst I speak with the guards, they will not allow you to enter without persuasion.”

  “But you’re the queen and it’s your crown. Don’t they ’ave to do what you tell ’em?”

  “The hall of history is only entered by the royal family and a very select few. No outsider has ever crossed the threshold. If it is allowed, you two shall be the first.”

  “Sorry, Faylore, but I find it strange that you ’ave to ask permission to show two friends your own crown. You’re the queen!” exclaimed Grubb.

  “It’s Thedarian law, Grubb, and has been for a thousand years. There is an ancient tale of a member of our royal house being bewitched. An evil sorcerer commanded that he obtain the crown and hand it over but his plan was thwarted somehow. In order for that to never happen again, the law was changed so that the crown could never be removed from the hall unless there were at least two members of the royal family present.”

  “Sounds like a load o’ crap to me. Anyway, we aren’t taking it out, we’re only ’aving a look.” As soon as the words left his lips, an arrow struck the ground in front of him.

  Faylore squatted down and placed her finger gently under his chin. Pointing upwards, she whispered into Grubb’s ear, “My scouts also have excellent hearing. Mind your language in front of the queen, some of them may find it disrespectful.”

  The three reached a small clearing. There was nothing unusual about the scene. The same lush green grass, small shrubs, and tall hedges that provided a little shade if one wished to rest from the bright sunlight that pierced the canopy high above. Lodren blinked a couple of times, had he seen something that Grubb had not? Faylore had paused and was smelling the scent of the wildflowers that grew in abundance all around them. Lodren took the opportunity to amble off nonchalantly to the side of the clearing. He halted and began playing with his hammer, swinging it like a pendulum. Quite by accident of course, it slipped from his fingers and flew to the side of him before landing with a thump a few yards away.

  “Aaarrrghh...!” came the scream as a Thedarian scout became visible, hopping up and down on one foot whilst trying to hold the other. It had just had a very large hammer dropped on it. “You fool!” he roared. “Why don’t you watch what you’re doing with that thing?”

  Faylore ran across to help the injured guard as three more appeared from various trees and bushes. “Lodren, how careless of you,” she said. “You are not usually so clumsy.”

  “I’m so sorry, mister guard sir,” said Lodren, insincerely. “It just kind of slipped.”

  Grubb could barely keep a straight face. It seemed that Lodren was also being influenced by the Vikkery’s mischievous nature. “Let me ’ave a look, see if I can help a bit.”

  On inspection, Grubb discovered that the Thedarian had actually suffered a broken toe and, feeling slightly sorry for him, sat him down. He held his hands above it for a few minutes, his magic touch bringing much pain relief to the guard. “There you go,” he said. “Good as new. Ye should probably stay off it for a day or so though, just to be sure.”

  “That wasn’t very nice, Lodren,” said Faylore, dismissing the guard, who glared at Lodren as he left. “You knew he was there.”

  “How could I know he was there, Faylore? He was invisible,” protested Lodren.


  “Don’t act innocent with me, Lodren. Any repeat of that sort of behaviour and you’ll be sent back to Jared with a Thedarian escort. See how you keep up with them when they’re in a rush,” Faylore stormed off to speak to the remaining guard.

  “That was a crackin’ shot, Lodren. I’m proud of you,” whispered Grubb.

  “They can be so annoying. The younger ones anyway. Noses stuck in the air, thinking they’re better than everyone else. Anyway, it wasn’t that good a shot,” he chuckled, “I was aiming for the other foot.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A heated debate ensued between Faylore and one of the remaining guards that lasted for a good ten minutes. After raising her voice a little and threatening to have the guard re-assigned to a new and not-so-pleasant post, she turned and beckoned for Lodren and Grubb to follow her. She advised them to stay directly behind her. Her friends followed without question but became a little nervous as she grew closer and closer to the thorned branches of a hedgerow directly ahead of her. Just as it seemed she would be shredded by the inch-long barbs, something strange happened.

  The branches of the hedge began to shrink, they began to wither and disappear back into the ground until there was a clear gap four feet wide, which enabled them to pass straight through. But through to what? Lodren glanced behind him and shuddered as he witnessed the ominous hedgerow re-spawning rapidly. Beyond was pitch-black, and as Faylore proceeded, she was suddenly engulfed by the darkness. Lodren and Grubb took a deep breath as if they were about to be immersed in water and followed, closing their eyes instinctively. As they inched forward, the sound of the rustling grass changed to a muffled padding as if they were now walking on the most luxurious carpet.

  Lodren opened one eye, just a crack. Grubb, already ahead of him, was standing beside Faylore, his arms stretched out to his sides. Lodren looked down to discover that what he had at first thought to be carpet was, in fact, a deep layer of dark green moss. It was dry and springy, unlike moss one would expect to find in a damp cave or growing on the limbs of an aged tree. He padded forward and stood by his two friends. Looking up, he gasped. A chamber, of which he could see no end, sprawled before him. Row upon row of shelves that stood from floor to ceiling stretched as far as the eye could see, each completely covered with tomes, scrolls or a mixture of both. His eyesight, now becoming accustomed to the dim light, revealed the true extent of, what he now realised was, the Thedarian hall of history. “Wow!” he whispered.

  “I’m terribly sorry, it is a little dusty,” said Faylore, apologetically. “The air in here is so dry, you see. It has to be or the scrolls and books would simply rot.”

  “Don’t you dare ‘pologise. I’ve lived in some nice caves and caverns in my days but this, well this is something a Vikkery would be really proud to call home.”

  “Oh yes. I almost forgot that you prefer living in caves, Grubb. I’m afraid, however, that no Vikkery or any other will be allowed to call the hall of history his home.”

  “I wasn’t suggestin’ anythin’ like that, Majesty,” Grubbed assured her. “I suppose we all ’ave our dream home. Somewhere like this would be mine, is all.”

  “Your Majesty,” whispered Lodren. “Where’s the crown?”

  “Good question, Lodren, wish I knew the answer,” giggled Faylore.

  “What? You mean, you don’t know where it is?” exclaimed Lodren.

  “Of course I know where it is, you silly Nibby, it’s in here… somewhere,” replied Faylore, shrugging her shoulders.

  “This place is huge! Where do we start looking?”

  “Anywhere you like, Grubb, you’re the one who wants to see it,” replied Faylore, seeming quite disinterested.

  “I told ye before, it’s ’im that wants to see it, not me,” said Grubb, correcting her. “Why do ye always ’ave to poke yer nose in, Lodren? We could be outside in the fresh air. Faylore told ye what it looks like, it’s ugly. Come on, let’s just go.”

  “Faylore said I could see her crown and that’s exactly what I intend to do,” said Lodren, adamantly. “If you want to leave, then leave. I’m staying until I’ve seen it!”

  “Oh, just to help you, Lodren,” said Faylore. “When you get close, the crown will call you.”

  Lodren tipped his head to one side. “The crown will call me?” he asked.

  “Yes. Not with words of course, it cannot speak. It’s more like a whistling, a whining, you’ll know it when you hear it,” she added.

  “So, you’re not coming with me?” asked Lodren.

  “No. I trust you. You’re not going to rob me, are you? You’re not going to run away with my ugly crown?” she asked, playfully.

  “I’d never dream of stealing anything, especially your crown, Faylore!” exclaimed Lodren, not realising that she was joking.

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” she sighed. “Looks like I’m stuck with it forever then. Well, don’t just stand there. Off you go.”

  Lodren shuffled away, his feet disturbing the cold, dry mist that drifted sparsely between the thousands of bookcases. He paused occasionally, picking up a scroll and glancing at it quickly or flicking through the pages of an interesting colourful tome. The air within the hall was surprisingly crisp and clean, as clean as it was in the expanse of the forest outside or above. He had lost all sense of direction now. He sniffed the air. Surely not? Was that the smell of smoke? No, too faint for that. Maybe the smell of ashes? Who would be foolish enough to run the risk of lighting a fire in such a place?

  He followed the scent. Still no sound of the whistling song of the crown, of that he was sure, but the burning smell was getting stronger. He weaved in and out of bookcase after bookcase, only to be greeted by a scene identical to the one he had just left. More bookcases, more tomes and scrolls and the ever-present dry swirling mist. One more step and then, crackle. He looked down. Raising his foot, Lodren discovered that he had stepped on the remnants of a burnt scroll. Sadly, only the edge of it had survived and the remaining text was indecipherable. Who had done this? Faylore said that the only people allowed to enter the hall were the royal family and a select, chosen few. He had to inform Faylore.

  Forgetting all about the crown, Lodren attempted to head back to where he had parted from Faylore and Grubb. Was this the right way? Aisles, bookshelves, scrolls and tomes, it all looked the same. It was not long before he realised he was somewhere he had not been before. Turning yet another corner, he was aghast at his discovery.

  Not one or two but dozens of scorched remains of both scrolls and tomes, volume upon volume now reduced to ash. What would Faylore say? Would she think that he was responsible? Of course she wouldn’t, what reason would he have for such wanton destruction? But first he had to find his way back, and then how would he be able to find this area again? His mind raced. Which direction should he head in... and why won’t that blasted whistling stop? His head shot up. The crown, he suddenly realised. The crown is singing. Maybe it could help him get back to Faylore? He followed the whistling.

  Although clear, it was obvious that the crown was still a long way away. On and on he trudged, every aisle identical and the song not increasing in volume. He felt as if he had been following it for hours. It seemed that not only had he lost his sense of direction, he had also lost all track of time. Briefly, he thought of calling out in the hope that one of his friends might hear, but stopped himself, not wanting to appear incompetent or childish. He was positive that if his calling out were successful, he would forever be at the mercy of Grubb’s tireless teasing. Suddenly, the whistling song sounded louder. He hadn’t moved forward or back, but was convinced that he was right. Louder and louder it grew until, rounding yet another corner, he faced a huge glass cabinet that bathed its surroundings with a deep, golden glow.

  There, on a central glass shelf, sat the Thedarian crown. Nervously, he approached the cabinet. Tentatively, he stroked the glass with his fingertips, pondering whether to open the heavy doors in order to study the crown in more detail. Faylore had not said tha
t he was not allowed to touch it. After all, what harm could it do? He had no intention of stealing it, although he did wonder how he would look with it adorning his massive head. No, he mustn’t think such things. Holding it was one thing but it would be completely inappropriate for him to try it on. Gingerly, he reached for the brass doorcatch.

  “Leave it alone! It doesn’t belong to you!” barked the voice, suddenly.

  Lodren jumped back, alarmed by the voice that had suddenly snapped at him. “I’m looking, that’s all! I wasn’t going to steal it!” he said nervously in his defence. He reeled around, looking for the source of the voice. “Queen Faylore brought me here. She said I could view her crown, ask her yourself,” he continued hurriedly, his eyes darting from bookshelf to bookshelf, still unable to see his accuser.

  “Are you telling the truth?” asked the voice quietly, “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I don’t like liars, the young man was a liar. The old man that was a young man. He was a liar.”

  Lodren stepped forward, “Koloss, is that you? I mean, Lord Koloss, is it you?”

  Koloss suddenly peered from behind one of the bookcases some distance away. “I’m not Koloss,” he said. “Who is Koloss? I am Peneriphus. I am Danzeez. I am Solinar.”

  “No, sir,” whispered Lodren, not wanting to upset the obviously confused Koloss. “You are Lord Koloss, father to Faylore, Queen of Thedar.”

  “Never heard of her. Don’t you think I’d know if I had a daughter? I am Peneriphus, King of Thedar and the treasure before you, the treasure you would steal, is my crown.”

  “Now see here…” protested Lodren, gripping his hammer tightly, “… I know these are Thedarian lands and that you are of royal blood but I can assure you that I am no thief. I came here to look at the crown and it was with the express permission of the Queen of Thedar. That was my only intention.”

  “In that case, why did you feel it necessary to open the cabinet? That is what you were about to do, is it not?” asked Koloss.