"Today's catch." Thorgis's voice echoed off every wall. Somewhere high above, the vibration caused a book to fall, adding its echo to the massive vault of mouldering knowledge. He entered through the crack in the far wall, holding aloft a string of three whitefish no larger than his own hand. Still, Syrus's mouth watered at the sight of it.
"The pools are generous today," Syrus said. He did not need raise his voice. The bottom of the library vault amplified voices so that one could speak to another at the distant end of the library as easily as if they were beside the speaker. "I could eat all three."
"But you'll get one and a half." Thorgis set his fishing gear beside the wall, all makeshift lines and spears he had crafted out of salvage from the library. He then went to the space beneath the stone stairs where a small fire burned. The smoke was siphoned off into a crack in the wall by the natural air current and the fire was far enough from the tinderbox of dried papers that Syrus felt safe from an errant spark. Thorgis strung up the fish, checked on the fire, then joined Syrus amid his papers.
"No big secrets discovered yet?" he asked, carefully stepping around the ancient treasures. A spot of water dripped from the cuff of his pants onto a parchment. Syrus stuffed back his scream, but Thorgis noticed. He froze, as if waiting for permission to continue.
"My biggest advancement is in discovering what I can read. The volumes at the top levels are the oldest and least understandable texts. It was as if the Tsal went deeper as they expanded their library. The bottom levels have newer texts in languages that connect to our own. Some are nearly as plain as common speech, but unfortunately those do not tell interesting stories. Still, I feel as if a picture is being painted here. I just need more time to understand it."
Syrus spread out his arms to indicate the rows of knowledge engulfing him. Thorgis relaxed, but did not go farther into Syrus's maze of books. He instead backed up as he had come. "The fish have been gutted already. I've got water skins as well. You should rest a while."
Thorgis seemed much happier now that he had a simple duty to fulfill. After they found the cracked wall that led to the freshwater stream and pond, Thorgis designated himself as their scavenger and hunter. In truth, he could offer little more. Syrus suspected that despite a royal upbringing, Thorgis was barely literate in his own tongue and could never fathom anything more complex than a lusty battle song. They had still not found a way out, but the flowing air indicated there had to be a passage somewhere. Nevertheless, the goddess Fieyar had provided food and water for Syrus to execute his duty. They could all survive on the meager diet until he had retrieved what he needed.
He just did not know what he needed. King Eldegris had not been specific on what mysteries he was to find. Certainly the existence of this library and the strange snake demon that protected it was information enough. Still, he knew Eldegris had intended him to learn more.
Syrus took his place beneath the stairs with Thorgis, who was working fillets of white fish onto sharpened wood skewers that had been soaked in water. He grunted at Syrus, roughly indicating the water skin. Syrus drank deep, appreciating the cool mineral taste of the water. They sat in silence for a long moment. Syrus stared at the High King's sword now tucked into its sheath. It rested on the floor beside Thorgis as if he were afraid someone might snatch it away. It no longer glowed. But it had when Grimwold's spirit held it.
"What is happening with your father's sword?"
Thorgis completed the first fillet, set it on the stone floor and started on the next.
"It shocked me after Grimwold's spirit left my body. I got the definite impression I was not allowed to hold it. Maybe unworthy is the better word."
Thorgis cursed as the second fillet broke apart as he tried to skewer it. Syrus waited for recognition that did not come.
"The legends surrounding that sword are deep. Some say it fell from the sky and that your father was the first to lift it, and thus became the wielder. Others say it was pulled from the maw of the Great Shark, stuck there after a great hero had lost his battle with the god. None of that is likely. Not even as a distortion of the truth. Your father gave the sword to you for a purpose. We are both trapped here. What you know could help us, but you must share it with me."
The third fillet slid onto the skewer easiest of all three. Thorgis gave a slight smile as he admired his work. Syrus studied him in turn. The questions had lingered in his mind so long, he felt he had already asked them. Now tired, hungry, and cold he had no more reservations about confronting Thorgis.
"Why has the light gone out?"
Thorgis stared at the three glistening fillets. The orange flame of the small campfire danced shadows all around them, a stark contrast to the steady blue light of the library vault beyond. His smile deepened and he began to arrange the skewers of fish on a makeshift metal rack he had fashioned from an old cage he had found in the upper levels.
"I am a coward." Thorgis's voice was small even in a room that amplified sound. "My cowardice drains the strength of the blade."
Syrus wanted to offer encouragement, but then he could not disagree. Thorgis was a coward. Still, something about Thorgis's logic seemed wrong. "Certainly any man who carries a blade to battle would fear for his life, even wielding a sword as legendary as this. If cowardice drained the magic, then I think it would never ignite for anyone."
Thorgis was already shaking his head before Syrus completed his thought. "Cowardice of the heart. That's what does it. Fear in battle is a natural thing, but to cower before one's purpose in life is something far worse. You said you were unworthy of it. No, you brought it to life, even if it was something else inside you that did it. At least you are worthy of it. I am not. I have lived a false life. I am not brave. I am not crafty. I am nothing. I am a fisherman."
He dropped the fillets onto the grill as if to emphasize his point. They both watched the edges curl and brown over the small flames. A drip of water hissed in the fire.
"Once Grimwold was gone, your sword rejected me. I could no more lift that blade than I could hold the campfire in my hands. But you carry it as easily as any blade."
"My father passed it onto me." Thorgis's voice again became a whisper. "I accepted, even though I knew I should never have. He was a stubborn man, and I was his only son. He wanted me to be worthy of his legacy, to carry the blade and the kingship forward. He ignored all the signs that should've warned him otherwise. He ignored me when I was too afraid to accept the burden. But his pride was like iron. He decided I was worthy and I would become what he wanted me to become. The sword obeys its master. I may possess it. But it will not bless me with its magic. It cannot, for I bleed it of the very thing it needs to exist."
Syrus rubbed his hand along the stubble regrowing on his shaved head. He sympathized with Thorgis's humiliation, but it was well deserved. The son of a king must rise above what he feels and learn to inherit his throne from his father. Otherwise, contenders will arise and blood will spill and the nation would collapse into turmoil. How much worse would it be now that Valahur still reeled from Avadur's invasion, never mind the Tsal themselves had somehow returned. He had divined that much from his readings. The men from the storms who wore strange armor and spoke with bizarre accents matched the illustrations of the ancient Tsal depicted in the library.
As they both brooded on their thoughts, Syrus realized with a chill that Thorgis's admission had said something more. He looked up wide-eyed at the prince who was monitoring the grilling fish.
"You spoke about High King Eldegris as if he no longer lived. Why?"
Thorgis closed his eyes before answering. "Because he is dead. All but my sister, Valda, are dead."
"How can you know this?"
"I had a vision of it. I don't know how, or why. Maybe the sword gave it to me? Maybe my father showed me what my cowardice had cost him. I can't say."
"A vision or a dream? And when did you know this?"
"It was right after Urdis's finger swept us away. When I found the camp." Thorgis
pointed at the ceiling, indicating where they had first entered Tsaldalr. "I fell into a vision that showed me what had become of them. My father's head was set upon his high table, along with my mother's and sisters' heads. More men like the ones that cornered us in here did this to them."
"But it could have been a dream brought on by your experience in the storm. It might not be true."
"It is," Thorgis said. The finality in his voice stopped Syrus from pushing further. Instead, Thorgis opened his eyes and met Syrus's. "Do you know of the Order of Phyros?"
"Phyros? Is that not what the ancients of Ageos once called Danir, the First Father?" Thorgis nodded. "Well, of course I know of Danir, but not of any order created in his name."
"My father was a paladin of the Order of Phyros. So he revealed to me on the day I became a man. That sword was created by Phyros, or Danir if it pleases you, and given to his chosen guards, his paladins. I wish I knew more of what the duties of the Order were. At the time, I struggled to believe what my father told me. It wasn't until the war of the trolls with Avadur that I saw what my father truly was. By that time, of course, it was too late to go back and pay attention, and I was too humiliated to ask again."
Syrus's mind raced back over the legends and mysteries he had accumulated over his lifetime. Nothing about an order of paladins came to him. Yet it somehow felt familiar. "For Danir to award a sword to his chosen, that would have had to happen in another age of the world. Are you saying your father was that old?"
"No, the swords were given to the paladins who had the blessings of Danir upon them. As they aged and died, or were killed in battle, they passed their swords onto the next paladin of their choosing. In time, fathers groomed sons to accept the weapons and the roles."
"What were these paladins doing? What did Danir need an order for?"
"I don't know. They protected the world from the return of something. Maybe demons?" Thorgis patted the sword at his side. "This weapon has now twice killed demons and slew Amator as well. Perhaps that is was it is made for."
The fish simmered and popped, and despite all the thoughts flooding Syrus's mind, the smell of cooking food was top among them. His mouth flooded and his stomach rumbled. He watched as Thorgis flipped the skewers. The fish would be ready to eat in a moment.
Syrus broke the silence. "So there should be other paladins and other swords."
"There are no other paladins, at least as far as I know. My father said their numbers had dwindled down the centuries and that if any survived they would be scattered across the world. Only Phyros could draw them together again, and the god had abandoned his people. We were the last of the Order in the north, and had been for many centuries. He feared whatever the Order opposed would return if the gods looked away from the world. I guess he was right. For now he is dead."
"Your father wanted you to inherit his sword and replace him as a paladin. But why did he send you away with it? It seemed he could've used the sword to save himself."
Thorgis shrugged. "It was his way of forcing me to become what he wanted."
"It can't be. Your father was protecting you from what happened to him. That has to be the reason. He would not let himself be killed along with his whole family just to make you accept his wishes."
"You don't know my father."
"And you don't know your own arrogance." Syrus stood, forgetting his hunger. "You insult your father's memory and turn the deaths of your mother and sisters into nothing better than tools used to make a point to you. Your father sacrificed his life to keep you alive, and you can't even be bothered to understand why. Excuse me, but you eat tonight's catch. I have no appetite."
He returned to his books, his face hot and heart pounding. Thorgis had not followed him, but remained hidden beneath the stairwell. Everything was different now, if the High King was truly dead. He kept thinking of what Grimwold had told him. Had it been Grimwold? Find the way out and bring the answers with you. We are depending on you.
With Eldegris dead, who was depending upon him? Who else knew why he had been dispatched here? What purpose was there to Eldegris's sacrifice? Thorgis was a coward and a fool. Had his High King been wrong?
The questions crowded his thoughts as he turned in a slow circle around the books and scrolls. He watched the ancient parchments circle his vision as he turned.
Then the words popped out at him. He knelt over a thin, oversized tome. Bound in what seemed to be leather, the book's large pages were dense with neatly written runes. He glided his finger halfway down the page and whispered what he read.
"A Treatise on the Great Enemy of Urdis: The Order of Phyros." Syrus smiled and carefully turned the pages. The parchment was still flexible, but it could crack if mishandled. The author went on at length, over several pages, on the Order. Looking at the book laid out next to this one, he saw a clear representation of Thorgis's sword drawn on the open page. The runes were listed to the side of it, each with a careful exposition of the meanings.
"How did I miss these?" he asked himself. He had laid out the most promising books, but something like this should have caught his eye. Perhaps fatigue and hunger had unfocused his mind. His heart now pounded with the excitement of discovery. Whatever anger he had felt vanished. These books contained what he needed to know. Perhaps Eldegris had sent him to find more information on the Order. If their numbers had dwindled and he feared a return of an enemy, then it made sense for him to try to learn if other paladins still existed.
His mind was buzzing with thoughts, but he did not miss the sound from high above.
Stone on stone as something heavy glided aside.
Voices.
Their hushed words bounced down to the bottom, almost as clear as if Syrus was standing beside them. The words were foreign and sibilant, but he understood the gist of what they meant. The language of the Tsal was not so different from his own.
"At last, my brothers, we have found our heritage."
They made no attempts to mask their arrival. The Tsal, still unseen, cried out in joy.
The noise brought Thorgis out from beneath the steps. Before Syrus could stop him, Thorgis asked, "What is it?"
His voice traveled up into the blue lights dotting the darkness. The rejoicing Tsal fell into sharp silence. Then he heard one hiss.
"They are still here. At the bottom. Kill them!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
None of Grimwold's strength availed against the grip of the tentacle dangling him over the swirling mass of black smoke. Other misty black tentacles swayed lazily as if trying to grab some invisible target from the air. The yellow eye at the center of it seemed to drill into his thoughts, easing him into a discordant relaxation. He did not want to fight. He wanted to let go.
The world around him lacked color, like once-brilliant clothes that had been left under the sun for the summer. The skeletons of ruined buildings surrounded him as he hung over the mass. The place had been raided and the villagers dragged off to some horrid fate. Their village was a ruins now, and this massive thing dominated the center of it. He looked around for help, but could find none.
The eye did not want him to call for help. He just had to stop struggling. He would be fine.
The gibbering voices rose again, this time louder, filling his mind. They told him to join them. They were all waiting. Imagine the rejoicing at joining a new family? This is what he really wanted. Only this. The unblinking yellow eye filled his vision.
It drew closer. The tentacle was lowering him toward it. A chill crept into his body that forced his limbs to stiffen. His feet dangled over the mass as the howling of the voices filled his head.
Then fire exploded across his vision.
The world fled, leaving nothing but a bright light so glaring that Grimwold recoiled. The voices were drowned out by what seemed like an endless roll of distant thunder. The chill was now replaced with a heat that would have brought sweat to his brow had he a true body. The black tentacle still entwined him, but it had stopped movin
g. Everything had stopped moving. The world was fire and light, and the yellow eye of the black mass imprisoning him was barely discernible from the glare bathing everything.
Grimwold could not move his head but a small, shadowed form entered his field of vision. He could not make out the details until it had drawn closer. It was the boy whose village had been destroyed and who had been trapped in this strange place where Grimwold existed. The boy's sandy hair fell across his face, but still could not conceal his pronounced brow or diminish the piercing blue of his eyes. He looked up at Grimwold and smiled.
"You would battle this creature for me?" The voice was not the boy's, or at least it did not come from him. It was a deep voice, equal to the distant rolling thunder and more like the voice of the fire that blazed so brightly nothing could be seen.
Grimwold found he could not answer. His tongue was fat and stuck to the roof of his mouth. The hateful eye of the black mass glared up at him, equally frozen. The voice waited for an answer, then, as if realizing what had happened, the voice grumbled again.
"Be free a moment."
Grimwold slipped from the tentacle's grip and landed gently on--light? He stood in a vast nothingness surrounded by fiery brilliance. The boy's form was before him now, a silhouette against the flames. The twisted mass of black mist remained as well, but now its yellow eye glared up at an empty space where Grimwold had been held.
"That is better," the voice grumbled from all around, though Grimwold instinctively looked to the boy as the source. "Now, I ask again if you would battle this creature for me?"
Grimwold rubbed his arms where the tentacles had pinned him, feeling solid flesh that welcomed the massage. "Well, I have given you my word. A man who can't keep his word is no man at all. Though I hadn't expected anything like this."
"Why did you agree to help me?" The boy stood still in shadow, not appearing to move even though Grimwold knew he was speaking.
The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) Page 21
