by Ben Cassidy
Kendril sighed. He tossed his current book on the floor and reached for another. “Your sarcasm is getting old, Maklavir.”
“Is it?” the diplomat replied, not even bothering to look at the pages as he turned them. “Well, I certainly apologize if my state of misery is impeding your concentration. Hang it all, this certainly isn’t—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Kendril looked up sharply, one hand still on his book.
The diplomat was staring down at the book, his face frozen.
“What is it?” Kendril was already out of his seat. He moved around the table to look
over Maklavir’s shoulder. “You found something?”
“I don’t know,” he stammered. “No. Maybe.”
The Ghostwalker looked over his shoulder down at the book. He followed Maklavir’s gaze to the picture on the page before him.
The illumination was a simple one, typical of the two-dimensional images popular a millennia before. There were five men portrayed. Three of them wore the attire of noblemen, one the robes of a priest of Eru. The fifth wore a crown and sat on an elevated throne, a childish and almost stupid look on his face.
And one of the nobles, a bearded man on the far left of the picture, wore the dark red pendant around his neck.
“It can’t be the same one,” breathed Maklavir. “That’s impossible.”
Kendril scanned the caption with his finger, his eyes roaming across the picture. “Haldor II, King of Arbelos,” he said as he tapped the image of the king. “Probably before the Great Persecution in 1457.”
“And that…?” said Maklavir slowly, his eyes falling on the robed priest.
“Xenin Jovar,” the Ghostwalker said simply.
Maklavir gave a heavy breath. “I see.” He turned his eyes back to the bearded nobleman wearing the pendant. “Then who is that?”
Kendril scanned the page opposite, glancing back at the picture again. “Lord Matramont. One of the King’s vassals before the Despair. He was one of Jovar’s supporters, even after the murder of Hathor’s son.”
The Ghostwalker leaned back, his hand reaching into the folds of his cloak. He withdrew the cold pendant slowly, and laid it on the table beside the book.
The red jewel seemed to cast a chill on the room, its dark red jewel devoid of any gleam or sparkle.
“It’s identical,” said Maklavir flatly.
“Keep flipping,” said Kendril.
He did, his finger numb as they turned the pages one after another. Images passed by in silent succession, showing all manner of scenes from the time of the Second Despair.
Kendril’s hand came down on the book, stopping Maklavir’s progress.
It was a battle scene. Bodies littered the ground, the air filled with flying arrows and streaming banners.
“Ash Glade, 1458.” Kendril commented quietly. He tapped lightly on the figure of an armored warrior holding a great axe, golden hair streaming out from under his helmet. “That must be Cathorn Fairhair. He led the army of Grengaard.”
Maklavir sat back in his chair. “He died in that battle, didn’t he?”
“Along with most of his men,” Kendril confirmed. He slowly flipped the page.
The next picture was a continuation of the battle. The ground burned. Bodies lay all around, some with arms and heads severed from their trunks. Dark beasts flew through the sky above, with unfurled batwings and gleaming white talons. A monstrous creature of the Void, half-hidden in smoke and darkness stood howling over the fallen body of Cathorn Fairhair.
Something red hung around its neck, dark and cold despite the bright flames consuming the grass all around.
“That can’t—” Maklavir started to say, his face growing white.
Kendril began to flip through the book, faster and faster, his eyes searching up and down the pages.
“I don’t understand,” said Maklavir. He got to his feet, backing away from the table and staring down at the pendant lying on the table.
The Ghostwalker stopped, creasing down the pages of the book. On the right side, almost life-sized, was an exact sketch drawing of the pendant and necklace.
“Great Eru,” Kendril breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What is it?” Maklavir asked, not sure he wanted to know. “What does it say?”
The book slapped shut with a clap like a gunshot.
Kendril snatched the pendant necklace off the table, and threw it beneath his cloak.
“What is it?” the diplomat repeated dumbly.
“We’re leaving,” the Ghostwalker responded. He turned towards the entrance of the reading room, one hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes flitted back and forth, searching the bookshelves and tables outside.
Maklavir felt his mouth go dry. “What on Zanthora is going on here, Kendril?”
The Ghostwalker turned partly around.
Maklavir was shocked to see genuine fear in the man’s eyes.
“It’s a Soulbinder,” he said.
The Loyal Hound Inn was situated on the eastern side of the Central Plaza, near the Vorten Cathedral. Joseph and Kara had found a table near a window looking out into the square, comfortably close to the roaring hearth. The remains of a hearty beef stew, oven-fresh bread, and pewter mugs of beer lay before them.
Joseph leaned back in his chair. “Now that’s what I call a meal.”
The young woman opposite him smiled. “Trail rations were getting kind of old.”
He nodded, looking awkwardly out the frosted window.
“Joseph—” Kara’s voice turned serious, her gaze falling steadily on the bearded man.
He looked back at her. “Yes?”
“Why are we here?”
The question took him by surprise. “Galla was here, of course. And Kendril—”
“I know what Kendril told us,” she interrupted. “And we certainly found evidence of a conspiracy for him. This Baron Dutraad or whoever must obviously have some link to that assassin, who has some link to Galla, who has some link to the pendant—” She sighed, glancing out the window as well.
The loud toll of the nearby cathedral bells began, marking the hour.
“I just don’t see why any of this is important,” she confessed.
Joseph shifted in his seat. He took his almost empty beer mug in both hands.
“I know you think Kendril’s on to something,” Kara continued quickly, her eyes watching him carefully. “You wouldn’t have followed him here if you didn’t.”
Joseph looked back up at her. He felt a catch in his throat at the sight of her green eyes. “Then why did you follow him here?”
She didn’t turn away. “I trust you, Joseph. Kendril can be stubborn as that mule of his at times, and once he gets something in his head, he chases it down like a dog. He’s been right a lot, but he’s been wrong, too.” She paused a moment. “But you’re…well, thoughtful. I mean, you don’t do anything without thinking it through, and you always seem to do the right thing.”
Joseph’s hands were stuck to the beer mug, unable to let go. He looked up at Kara.
The glow-globe light streaming in through the inn’s windows lit her pale face, causing her red hair to gleam softly.
“I’m following you, Joseph, not Kendril. But I need to know why.”
Joseph opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught momentarily on his tongue. Suddenly everything they were doing seemed crazy to him. Kendril’s dream, the pendant, the wolfrats….
He was afraid, he suddenly realized. Afraid of losing the respect of the woman across from him. Afraid that she would laugh at him, dismiss him, think less of him. The fear was so great that it surprised him with its strength.
Joseph took a breath, trying unsuccessfully to pry his fingers from the beer mug where they seemed to be locked.
“How much do you know about the Despair?” he finally asked. He spoke in a muted tone, his voice low enough to not be heard by the neighboring tables.
Kara leaned
in, her green eyes focusing on him in steady concentration. “Old wars from a thousand years ago, right? I thought they were mostly myth and legend.”
Joseph gave a short shake of his head. “The Wars of Despair were very real. Some of the details are sketchy, but….” He looked up at her. “There were three Times of Despair that we know of. The first came during the fall of the Rajathan Empire in the east, almost two thousand years ago. The second was during the time of Tuldor Swiftblade and Xenin Jovar, about seven hundred years later. The third was only three hundred years after that, during the invasion of Galdir the Cruel.”
Kara continued to look at him, her eyes narrowed in thought.
“That third one was almost a thousand years ago,” Joseph continued. “And since that time there has been no more Despair. The details of the past have become lost over time. People today have forgotten what happened, or refuse to believe what the histories say.”
Kara blinked. “Refuse to believe what, exactly?”
Joseph clutched desperately at his pewter mug, his fingers trying in vain to etch themselves into its side.
“The histories we have speak of…creatures, demons, coming to Zanthora during each Despair—” His voice faltered a bit. “From the Void.”
Kara frowned. “Demons? Come on, Joseph, that seems a little far-fetched, doesn’t it?”
The scout fidgeted with his mug nervously, his eyes on the table. “I don’t know. The accounts are so consistent, it’s hard to….” He let his words wander off for a moment. “Kara, these…beings…that the histories say came from the Void, they claimed to be gods. Some of the people worshipped them, even served them willingly.” He paused, giving the nearby tables a cautionary glance. “Some still do.”
The image of the nightmarish statues in the temple flashed unbidden into Kara’s mind.
“The Seteru,” she whispered. “The pagan gods.”
Joseph gave a weary nod. “Yes.”
Kara tilted her head. “I’m still lost. What does any of this have to do with that pendant, or Galla?”
Her companion took a deep breath. His eyes rose until they were looking directly at her.
“If Kendril is right, Eru help us, if he is…then it could mean that it’s beginning.”
Kara didn’t move. “What’s beginning?”
Joseph gave her a look that sent a sharp wave of terror through her core.
“The Fourth Despair,” he said.
“Where’s the librarian?” Kendril stopped cold at the head of the library staircase, hovering in the shadow of one of the nearby bookcases.
“I don’t know. Probably off getting a book or something.” Maklavir stopped behind him, adjusting his cape. “Now are you going to tell me what’s going on here? What in Eru’s name is a Soulbringer, or whatever you said?”
Kendril stepped back from where he stood. He moved across the aisle and squeezed behind another massive bookshelf.
Maklavir followed him with a sigh.
“Tuldor’s beard, Kendril, we’re in a library.”
“There were two men reading parchments at that table when we came in,” said Kendril quickly. “Where are they now?”
Maklavir followed his gaze down towards the first floor. “I imagine they went home, like any sensible chap who finds himself in a place of learning after sundown. Now are you going to tell me what that pendant is or not?”
Kendril’s sword was suddenly in his hand. The polished blade gleamed in the white glow-globe light.
Maklavir stared at his companion. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Draw your sword, now,” said Kendril tersely. “We’re making for the door.”
The diplomat cocked his head. “You’re making even less sense than usual, Kendril. We’re in a library. It’s not as if there’s—”
“I said draw your sword,” the Ghostwalker repeated. “Now.”
Maklavir hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly pulled his weapon out into his hand.
“Now,” Kendril continued in a low voice, “we’re going to make for the door
as fast as we can. Do you understand? We don’t stop for anything.”
“Even if we’re set upon by some rogue volumes?” the diplomat quipped.
Kendril turned his head back. “Tell me something, Maklavir.”
The finely dressed man shrugged. “Anything.”
“Do you see the librarian back at his desk yet?”
Maklavir leaned his head out a bit. “No.”
“Do you see anyone else on the first floor, anyone at all?”
His voice faltered a bit. “Well, no.”
“Do you also see that two books have been knocked off the librarian’s desk? Or that the glow-globe that is hanging over the front door is broken?”
Maklavir pulled his head slowly back behind the bookshelf. “I see,” he said slowly.
“Don’t stop for anything,” Kendril repeated, his eyes scanning the floor below. “Do you understand?”
The diplomat, now looking an unhealthy color of pale green, nodded.
“Good. Now go.”
Kendril moved out onto the stairs, racing down them several at a time.
Maklavir stumbled behind, glancing fearfully in all directions.
They made it to the bottom of the stairs, the empty expanse of towering bookshelves crowding in on them from all sides. They ran down the line of books, the front doors and librarian’s desk just ahead of them. Their footsteps echoed ominously off the vaulted library ceilings.
“Get the door!” Kendril ordered. He veered off to the side, looped his arm around behind the librarian’s desk and grabbed his guns from where they were tucked away underneath.
Maklavir pounded to a stop before the front door, out of breath and glancing back behind him at the empty library. He paused for a moment, doubt crossing his face. “I think,” he said as he reached for the door handle, “that we’ve just made rather silly fools of ourselves, Kendril. And to think, I was actually—”
He pulled on the door. It didn’t budge.
“Hello,” he murmured. “It’s lock—”
Kendril slammed into him and knocked the diplomat to one side.
The next instant two razor-sharp metal disks thumped into the door right where Maklavir’s head had been.
They both scrambled to their feet and dodged behind a nearby bookshelf.
Kendril snapped back the lock on his pistol, then pushed Maklavir back. “Did you see her?” he hissed.
“See her?” Maklavir fumbled with his sword for a moment, trying to pick it up off the ground. “I didn’t even see you until you crashed into me. How—”
Kendril jerked back as two more spinning disks slashed into the books near his head.
Two torn volumes toppled to the ground.
“She’s launching them somehow,” he spat. “A spring or tension weapon of some kind. Vesuna’s blood, she’s too fast. I can’t even see her!”
Maklavir pushed his back up against the shelves behind him. He turned his head to look between the books. “Neither can I. Tuldor’s beard, I never thought I‘d die like this. Not in a library, of all places.”
“Shut up,” Kendril snapped. He leaned his head out for a quick look, then pulled it back in quickly. “You’ll need to blow the door.”
“Blow the door?” Maklavir glanced nervously around the other end of the bookshelves. “With what?”
Kendril shot out a curse as two more metal blades cut into the side of the shelf.
Loose pages fluttered to the floor.
“Don’t you have your explosive charges?”
“I don’t usually take them with me to the library,” the diplomat responded.
“Ashes,” Kendril swore. “Not even one of those grenades of yours?”
Maklavir gave his friend a pained look. “Why in Eru’s name would I need a grenade in a library?”
They both flinched instinctively as three metal disks pummeled into the other side of the bookshelf in
steady succession.
One shot tore all the way through. It sliced hard into the opposite wall.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Kendril in a sardonic tone, “maybe for something like this?” He fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then yanked out a small bag and tossed it to his companion. “Here, use these.”
Maklavir caught the packet awkwardly in his free hand. He gave it a quick look. “These are bullet cartridges.”
“They have gunpowder in them, don’t they?” Kendril shot back.
Maklavir grabbed several out, ripping the tops off two or three and pulling the bullets out. “I might be able to combine a couple of these, enough to blow the lock…” He looked up at his dark-clad friend. “But even if I do, I’ll get cut down the moment I step out there.”
Two more blades hammered into the bookshelf, knocking several books off the top shelf.
They crashed down onto Maklavir’s head and shoulders, causing the diplomat to swear in an ungentlemanly manner.
“You worry about blowing the door,” said Kendril. “I’ll handle Lady Death.” He spun around the corner of the bookshelf and blasted away with his pistol, then lurched back again.
“Did you get her?” Maklavir asked hopefully.
“Wouldn’t that be just so easy?” Kendril replied, already reloading the firearm. “I’m shooting blind, Maklavir.”
“Well she’s certainly not,” the diplomat breathed. “Wherever she is, she has a capital view of us, that’s for sure.” He looped two cartridges together and pinched the ends down. “There, best I can do. It should blow the lock out, if I can get it in there.”
Kendril took a quick look up at the ceiling. He snapped his pistol back into place. “Good. Ready?”
The diplomat stared at him blankly. “For what? I can’t—”
Kendril whirled suddenly out from his hiding place, then fired his pistol up towards the wall above the librarian’s desk.
There was a resounding clang as the bullet hammered into the central steam pipe that hung off the ceiling.
The next instant the pipe burst, letting out a roar of steam that spilled out in all directions like a blossoming white flower.
