A World Without Heroes

by Brandon Mull

  “Hey, Feracles,” Jason said to the large dog in his special voice. “Will you take me to the atrium?”

  The dog immediately padded out of the room. Jason followed skeptically, but sure enough, after zigzagging along a circuitous route, the dog brought him to the glass walls enclosing the garden.

  Jason went out through a sliding door. Today was cloudier than the day before, but the sun was currently peeking through.

  He crossed to the sundial, studying it closely. The stone pedestal was carved with a frowning sun on one side and a smiling moon on the other. The face of the sundial had ten symbols etched in a semicircular arc, each unique shape composed of fine golden lines. The ten symbols seemed suspicious considering the ten pegs in the grid of holes. None of the designs looked familiar, but he hoped the shapes would correspond with the symbols on the door.

  Jason patted his pockets. Beneath his coveralls he wore his jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He pulled out his wallet and keys. The wallet contained twenty-seven dollars, a student ID, a health insurance card, and an ATM card. The keys were to his house and the padlocks on his lockers at the zoo and at school. He wished his pockets had been stuffed with useful things.

  “Think your master would loan me a pen and paper?” Jason asked the dog.

  That night Jason did not snuff out his candle when he went to bed. Instead, he opened the journal the loremaster had given him, the new binding creaking. The first page was defaced by scribblings he had made while getting accustomed to the quill. The next two pages showcased the most careful depictions he had been able to manage of the symbols on the sundial face.

  Ten symbols would only represent the coordinates along one side of the grid. He had sought more clues at dinner, only to receive further reminders that the upper level was restricted. If the loremaster was playing mind games to pique his curiosity, the old guy was succeeding.

  Jason did not think he needed another hint. He had a crazy idea to match a crazy place.

  After waiting as long as his patience could endure, he gathered his writing gear and picked up the brass candleholder. Easing the door open, Jason peered out. All other lights had been extinguished. The library looked much more ominous in the wavering luminance of a single unprotected flame.

  He crept down a short hall to the first of the shelves. A soft whine behind him nearly startled him into dropping the candle. The white dog nudged its nose against his leg.

  “Take me to the atrium, Feracles,” Jason whispered. He followed slowly, cupping his hand to protect the feeble flame.

  At the atrium he followed the dog outside and then slid the door shut. A hidden moon backlit a large cloud, fringing it with silver. He set his candle down carefully on the lip of the well and turned to inspect the moondial. The gold characters looked silver in the dim moonlight. Squinting closely, he discerned that the symbols were shaped differently from those he had copied during the day.

  He impatiently watched the cloud migrate across the sky. One edge of the cloud gradually brightened as the opposite side dimmed. Then the nearly full moon appeared.

  Bright silver characters shone in the lunar glow, as finely traced as their daytime counterparts but completely distinct in form.

  Jason began sketching the moonlit symbols, patiently dipping his quill, careful to capture every detail. Since the moonlit markings corresponded with the positions of the daylight symbols, he paired the symbols that occupied the same location as likely coordinates for inserting pegs into the grid of holes. Clouds covered the moon twice as he drew, forcing him to pause for lengthy intervals. At last, with the moon about to vanish behind clouds a third time, he completed the tenth symbol.

  Jason went to the atrium door. “Here, Feracles,” he called softly. The dog jangled over to him. “Take me to the staircase. Take me to the upper level.”

  The dog guided him across the garden to a different glass door. Jason slid the door open and followed the dog back into the convoluted passageways. After some time navigating through the gloom, they reached the foot of the stairwell. “Good boy.” Jason stooped and rubbed the back of the dog’s neck.

  When he proceeded up the stairs, Feracles did not follow.

  At the top Jason knelt by the door and scanned the symbols along the bottom of the columns of holes. He found one matching a moonlight symbol. Examining the designs beside the rows, he located one matching a symbol copied in the sunlight.

  He gathered the ten pegs and began the process of matching each pair of symbols he had copied into his book with the corresponding symbols labeling the columns and rows. After finding each paired column and row, he traced the perpendicular lines of holes to the intersection and inserted a peg. Finding all ten intersections proved to be a tedious task. His eyes began to burn wearily as he triple-checked each coordinate to avoid making an error and having to repeat the entire process.

  At last he inserted the final peg. The click was accompanied by a brief metallic tumbling inside the door. He grasped the handle; it turned, and the heavy door swung inward. “I sank your battleship,” Jason murmured.

  A musty scent wafted from the open portal. Squinting into the darkness with his candle held aloft, he could see shadowy shelves lined with dusty books.

  Jason went back down the stairs. “Here, Feracles,” he said. “Take me into the upper level.”

  The dog whined and retreated several steps.

  “Come on,” he repeated, bending down and patting one knee invitingly.

  The dog snorted and shook its coat.

  Jason returned to the ominous doorway. Now that the perforated door was open, his conviction wavered. The dog’s hesitation was more unsettling than all the warnings the loremaster had expressed. But no matter how creepy it seemed, any chance of finding a way home meant he had to try.

  He stepped through the doorway, candlelight pushing back the darkness. His passage stirred up a low fog of dust. The ceiling was lower than below, but otherwise the upper level seemed arranged much like the lower. Except that most of the book spines were obscured beneath cobwebs and grime, making the titles and authors illegible. Maybe the upper level was forbidden because the loremaster was too lazy to clean it. Any respectable librarian would be ashamed.

  Jason grabbed a couple of the nearest books and used them as doorstops. He wasn’t going to chance the door closing spontaneously.

  He wound his way into the book-lined corridors. The long shelves were constructed with undulant curves, giving the dreary passageways a warped, serpentine quality. The farther Jason traveled from the door, the more closely he cupped his hand around the flame. The silence was complete. He stepped softly, breathed quietly. Shadows jittered with the flickering of the tiny flame. The place was creepy, but nothing looked interesting enough to warrant the incredibly complicated lock on the door. He saw no treasure or weapons or intriguing artifacts. The knowledge in the books had to be what made this place off-limits.

  His twisting path eventually led to a small reading area with a few tables and chairs. The furniture was sculpted of black stone. Armrests were carved with leering faces, and table legs took the form of fanged serpents. He wiped dusty cobwebs off the spine of a random book. Subtleties of Manipulation. The name “Damak” appeared at the base of the spine.

  Setting his candle on a nearby table, Jason pulled out the book and opened to the introduction.

  Manipulation is a quiet tool of majestic power. Artfully manufacturing desires in others to suit one’s own needs can be accomplished on an individual basis or on a worldwide scope. Clearly, a study of manipulation requires a profound understanding of the selfish motivators that drive men to action. Different motivators function best depending on the nature of the minds one seeks to dominate. Manifold motivators are available, including fear, the desire for wealth or respect or power, lust, duty, obedience, love, even altruism. Endless combinations may be employed to reduce the staunchest will to a malleable plaything. Learning to discover the appropriate mix of motivators for any given i
ndividual or group and mastering how to employ those motivators with a deft touch comprises the essence of manipulative studies.

  The master manipulator lies as little as possible. He believes most, if not all, of what he professes. This quality makes him difficult to unmask. Once a subject realizes he is being manipulated, defenses are engaged and future machinations become exponentially more challenging. The most satisfying victories occur over adversaries who do not realize they have been conquered.

  Jason closed the book.

  He was beginning to understand why the upper level was restricted. A palpably dark feeling had come over him as soon as he began reading the introduction.

  He brushed off a few more spines to reveal other titles. Religion and Subjugation. Memoirs of a Lost Soul. The Unquenchable Thirst.

  Nothing sounded very wholesome.

  He surveyed the multitude of dingy volumes surrounding him. A few sinister books did not confirm that no useful information could be found here. After all, forbidden information was what he needed. Any of the nearby volumes might hold information about hippopotamus portals or contain hints about how he might get home. Didn’t a chance like that justify enduring a little creepiness? Probably. But not right now. Such an unsettled feeling had stolen over him that Jason decided to leave the upper level for the moment and return with a brighter light.

  Raising his candle in a trembling hand, Jason tried to make his way back to the entrance. Eventually he realized the curving corridors had disoriented him. He should have left a trail of bread crumbs.

  He attempted to double back to the reading area, but could not find that, either. Instead he came to a different open area, where the only furnishing was a black pedestal surmounted by a huge book. A plush, dark carpet woven with imagery of cruel thorns covered the floor.

  Jason crossed to the book. It had to be important to be situated all alone in such a grand fashion. As he drew nearer, he gasped. Shocked curiosity impelled him forward.

  The book appeared to be bound in human skin. Upon close examination Jason observed that the fleshy covering had tiny pores, fine hairs like the ones on his arm, and light blue veins visible beneath the surface.

  Aghast, he tentatively touched the surface, withdrawing his finger instantly. It was warm to the touch, with a yielding texture that suggested more thickness than he had expected. It felt alive.

  Morbid fascination rooted him to the spot. What sort of book would be bound in living flesh? No writing appeared on the skin to suggest title or author. The publisher must not have owned a tattoo needle.

  Rubbing his neck, Jason found the hair there standing upright. He glanced at the dim bookshelves at the edge of his candlelight. Beyond the light the blackness and silence seemed more oppressive than ever.

  The surface of the pedestal was slanted, so the book rested propped at an angle. He slid a finger beneath a corner of the cover and flipped it open to a title page written in extravagant calligraphy. The ink was a dark maroon.

  The Book of Salzared, bound in his hide, scribbled in his blood.

  He turned the page.

  Be cautioned, Reader. Some knowledge can never be unlearned. Such is the secret contained herein. Proceed only in defiance of this gravest warning, for the dire words that follow will set You in opposition to Maldor evermore.

  Jason read the words with mouth agape. What information could be so volatile? How could Maldor possibly know whether he had read this book?

  The loremaster had insisted that discussing how to travel to the Beyond was forbidden by Maldor. Jason chewed on his knuckle. What if this book contained the knowledge he needed to return home? This could be it! The next page could hold his passport back to reality.

  He turned the page. The writing continued in the same fancy script, almost too ostentatious to read, despite the over-large characters.

  I, Salzared, Chief Scribe of Maldor, in a desperate act of betrayal, hereby impart knowledge pertaining to the only vulnerability of my Lord and Master, and do bind these words in my mortal flesh that they might be preserved against those many hands which would otherwise destroy them.

  Behold, Maldor reigns in fearless might, and rightly so, for none may cause him harm, except by a single Word whose existence is His most closely protected secret.

  The Word, spoken in His presence, will unmake Him entirely.

  None, myself included, know all syllables of the Key Word. However, fragments of the Word are known to my fellow conspirators, who stand upon protected ground, awaiting one of sufficient courage to puzzle the syllables together.

  Speak the Word aloud but once, in the presence of Maldor and at no other time, for its utterance will erase all memory of its existence. Writing down the entire Word would provoke a similar consequence.

  By reading these words You have nominated Yourself to recover the Key Word, the only hope of deposing my Lord and Tyrant. Move swiftly. The knowledge You now possess marks You for prompt execution.

  The first syllable is “a.”

  Now depart! Let not my sacrifice be in vain. Away!

  Salzared

  Thumbing through the remainder of the yellowed pages, Jason found them all blank. He closed the tome.

  The covering of the book had broken out in gooseflesh. So had Jason.

  Could the admonitions he had read be real? Surely the book was of no great importance if it lay up here in this dusty attic. Behind the most intricately locked door he had ever seen. In a library hidden in the middle of a forest. Oh, crud.

  Suddenly a flap of skin lifted on the center of the cover, revealing a glaring eye. A human eye.

  Jason shrieked, dropping the candle and plunging the room into immediate darkness. Involuntary screams soared from his throat as he cowered on the ground, grasping for the fallen candle. He pressed his hand against scorching wax and cried out even louder.

  With deliberate effort Jason clamped his jaw shut, swallowing the remaining screams. He rubbed his burned palm against the sleeve of his coveralls. That eye had looked right at him, slightly bloodshot with a dark iris, pupil adjusting to the candlelight. He shuddered.

  Panic threatened to smother him. The oppressive blackness made him feel alone in the universe except for the texture of the carpet beneath him. Blood pulsed in his throat. What was he going to do now?

  Then he heard a faint jingling. It grew rapidly closer.

  He groped for his laser pointer key chain. The tiny beam made a little red dot across the room. Until that moment he had not appreciated how inferior a laser pointer was to a candle for purposes of illumination. At least it was something.

  The red dot proved sufficient to see Feracles come bounding out of a gap in the bookshelves. Jason pocketed the key chain and clung to the dog as he would to a life preserver. Refusing to hold still, Feracles kept nudging him to stand. Jason rose, maintaining a hand on the dog’s furry back, and trotted blindly to keep up as he wound along an unseen route.

  Soon he glimpsed light up ahead. They reached the open doorway and passed through to the head of the stairway. The loremaster stood there waiting, a half-shuttered lantern in one hand.

  “You could not resist.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  The loremaster sputtered. “What sort of question is that?”

  “I might have made a big mistake.”

  The old man nodded, eyes narrow. “Have you any idea what the enmity of Maldor means?”

  “I’m guessing it’s a bad thing?”

  The loremaster shook his head sadly. “Perhaps you truly are a Beyonder. May Providence help you. Come.”

  The loremaster led Jason down the stairs and through the library. Moving at a brisk pace, Jason began to notice how exhausted he felt.

  “Most every soul in Lyrian seeks to avoid Maldor’s attention. You have just done the opposite.”

  “I just read—”

  The loremaster raised a hand, turning his head away. “Say nothing of what you learned. The burden is yours to bear. Do not inflict
the information upon others who willfully chose to stop at the title page.”

  “Then you know about the book! The one covered in real skin?”

  “Of course, my boy.” He tapped his temple. “The fact that I have not read that particular tome explains why I am still alive. Were you seen?”

  “What do you—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Jason swallowed dryly. “Yes.”

  “You must depart at once.”

  “Actually, that’s what the b—”

  “Never speak of what you read! You may as well behead me.”

  “You’re going to send me off into the dark?”

  “The night is nearly spent. You will find your way. Follow the dawn for a day or two. Seek the Blind King. Perchance he can advise you.”

  At the front desk the loremaster gave Jason a brown traveling cloak, a blanket roll, and a small sack filled with mushrooms. Hermie awaited beside the main door, regarding Jason with morbid fascination.

  “Consume these berries now,” the loremaster said, handing him a palmful. “They will help overcome your fatigue. You’ll find more in the bag.”

  “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “You possess the secret the brave travel here to claim.”

  “I didn’t want it.”

  The loremaster frowned. “You hinted as though you did, and responded to the clues I offered in return.”

  Jason felt sick. “It was a mistake! I hoped the book would tell me how to get home. Suddenly I’m public enemy number one. I didn’t understand!”

  “I regret if that is true. It cannot be undone. You must flee.” The loremaster directed Jason to the door. “Take heart. Mighty men have failed to examine the words you read, have quailed at the responsibility and departed as cowards. You leave heroically. Go now. I bid you safe journey.” The loremaster hurried him out the door.

  “Thank you,” Jason said, exiting in a confused stumble.