Trials (15 page)

The Sergeant was questioning the poor farmer kneeling at his feet in Norghanian, “Where do you keep the rest of your winter supplies?”

The frightened man, who did not understand a word of their language, was sobbing and begging for his family’s life. His wife and two sons were beside him with their hands tied. Further back, on the porch, an elderly couple lay dead, Yakumo guessed they must be the grandparents. A sad end to a whole life of sacrifice and struggle to make the family and farm prosper. Unfortunately, Yakumo knew what the immediate future would bring them.

He saw another dozen soldiers coming down the dirt path to the farm, leading about twenty prisoners: men, women and children from the neighboring farms. No elders. The prisoners’ faces showed horror and fear. The children were crying, the women trying to comfort them while holding back their own tears. The men were doing their best to keep up a pretense of courage, but were utterly impotent in the face of the bloodthirsty soldiers. The despair they felt in their souls at being unable to defend their families must have been unbearable. Yakumo knew they were praying to their gods for deliverance for their loved ones.

“Tie them all up to the fence!” ordered the Sergeant to his men as they arrived.

The prisoners were tied up amid blows, pushing and shouting.

“I’ll ask you once more, where have you got the winter supplies hidden?”

The farmer, not understanding the question, begged for mercy.

“I’ve had enough of this oaf!” shouted the Sergeant, and raised his axe ready to strike the wretched man.

“Sergeant, I don’t believe he understands a word of what you’re saying,” said one of the soldiers, laughing. “Remember, sir, we’re not in our snowy mountains. In these Western lands most people don’t know our language, still less a bunch of miserable farmers who most likely can’t even read or write.”

“Hell!” cried the Sergeant, “Then, what am I doing wasting my time?” And he drove the axe into the poor farmer’s neck as if he were clubbing a sacrificial beast. The man slumped to one side dead, amid the woeful cries of his family.

Yakumo had guessed the outcome. He knew the brutalities of war well, and also what men with dark hearts were capable of doing. He himself had served evil all his life, and scenes of pain and suffering, unfortunately, did not make him flinch. He had served darkness far too long. For that reason he was utterly surprised to find that he was affected by that scene. He had felt a small sharp pang in his chest. It was years since this had happened to him, since the moment when his soul had blackened to the point of no return.
What’s happening to me?
he asked himself. This was most unusual.
My soul doesn’t flinch at another’s pain. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt for others, since I’ve been immune to sympathy or compassion.
Then he thought of Iruki, the young Masig he had come to love more than life itself, the one who had brought his dark heart to life again, planting the seed of hope and allowing the yearning every man has for redemption to grow.
Yes, this can only be because of the feelings Iruki has awakened in my soul, feelings so powerful they would move mountains.

The Sergeant addressed the men who had just arrived with the prisoners.

“Go search that last farm to the north,” he said with a wave of his hand. “We have to finish our work,”

The soldiers began to protest, but the Sergeant’s voice cut through the noise.

“You know Captain Jongenien’s orders, we have to search all the farms and seize anything we find. That means I don’t want to hear another word. Go carry out the orders immediately, or I’ll hang you all from the nearest tree.”

Reluctantly, the soldiers went towards the last farm.

“Sergeant, what shall we do with these?” said one of the soldiers, pointing to the twenty or so prisoners they had just brought.

“Do any of you know the language of the west?” he asked his men.

They shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads.

“In that case there’s not much we can do with them.” With a sardonic smile he added, “Take the women into the house. At least we can have a good time.”

“What shall we do with the rest, Sergeant?”

“Put them to the sword.”

Yakumo tensed at hearing this, and the pain he had in his leg came back to torture him. His body had suffered severely at the hands of the torturer, who had nearly crippled him for life. That was why he was still in the West, unable to leave Rogdon. He had been hiding all that time, nursing his battered body. He could still not fully believe he had escaped with his life from the Norghanian war camp. His left leg had recovered almost completely, but his right one was still crippled. His back too was not yet back to normal, and he needed time for it to heal. Time which he did not have. The trackers who had been sent after him were good, very good, and gave him no respite. He firmly suspected it was Lasgol again. Although it was not so much a suspicion, more like a certainty. He could not afford to waste time helping those wretched people: in his present state it was more than likely that he would end up dead. But for all that, something inside told him he must help them, save them from all that brutality and suffering. Yakumo knew why, and the reason lived in Iruki’s words.

I can redeem myself, Iruki made me see that. But to do that I must act, help those in need. I must undo evil, otherwise my heart will remain as dark and empty as it has been till now. Danger isn’t important, what matters are the consequences. I can’t just close my eyes and let this atrocity happen.

The Sergeant and three of his men dragged the women inside the house amid heartbreaking cries and pleading. The remaining soldiers began to put an end to the lives of the prisoners.

Yakumo had no time to think about strategy, he had to act at once. He looked into himself, searching for his Gift, and activated a reflex-enhancing skill. The characteristic red flash, only perceptible to others equally gifted, ran through his body. He lowered himself from the roof and somersaulted to a nearby tree. Three peasants had been murdered. Yakumo swore under his breath, then without a thought jumped on to the first of the enemy soldiers.

The leap was so dizzying that the soldier did not know what was coming until Yakumo was on top of him. The Assassin’s lethal black daggers pierced the man’s neck as he fell. Yakumo could not help a cry of agony as his right leg landed with a pain so sharp it went right up his back like fire. This made him lose the element of surprise. The other two soldiers turned and faced the Assassin with their weapons at the ready.

Yakumo was unable to use his extreme flexibility for the pain was paralyzing him. Realizing that he would be unable to move quickly, he drew on his Gift. The two soldiers reacted and lunged at him. Yakumo’s twin daggers flew like lightning in a lethal trajectory with them as the target. There came a sharp thud and both men dropped dead at Yakumo’s feet, with his daggers buried deep in their throats. His enhanced throwing skill had worked once again.

The terrified prisoners cried out in surprise, and an untimely murmur began to make itself heard. Yakumo gestured to them to be silent. With a great effort, and despite the terrible pain of his injuries, he retrieved his daggers and went to stand at the door of the house.

He had to think of something fast, or else those merciless bastards would rape the women any moment now. He gestured to one man to start screaming, and after a moment of doubt, the man began to yell desperately.

“And now what the hell’s going on out there? Go take a look!” they heard the Sergeant shout.

Two men came out into the hallway. Behind them, his back to the wall, Yakumo called up a blinding skill and blew some of the sand he carried in the pouch at his belt over the heads of the two soldiers. The two Norghanians turned round, bewildered, and the blinding powder fell full on their faces. They tried to hit Yakumo with their swords, but he ducked, then with two swings he killed the soldiers.

“Help! Help us, please!” came the desperate shouts from inside the house.

“You damned scum, show yourself or I’ll kill them right now” yelled the enraged Sergeant.

Yakumo knew there was another soldier in there with the Sergeant, but he had no choice. If he did not show himself, he was sure the threat would be carried out.

Very slowly he moved into the doorway. Inside, the Sergeant and the other soldier were using two of the women as human shields. The rest were roped to the bed.

“And who the hell are you?” the Sergeant asked.

Yakumo did not answer.

He took two slow steps towards the Sergeant.

“Stay where you are, bastard! Don’t even try!”

Yakumo stopped. There were only four steps between them. He calculated his chances of success: there were not that many, but he had to risk it even if it meant sacrificing those two women in order to save the rest.

“Drop those daggers immediately!” the Sergeant ordered with his sword threatening the neck of the woman he was hiding behind.

Yakumo did as he was told. With a slow, almost theatrical movement, he let them fall to the ground.

As the soldiers watched the daggers fall Yakumo called upon his stinging skill. The red flash ran through his body once more.

“Kill him! Now!” the Sergeant ordered his man.

The soldier hesitated a moment, but at the sight of Yakumo disarmed his courage seemed to return. He began to come out from behind the woman, and at that moment Yakumo let his arms fall to his sides. In the course of that move, the two sharp throwing blades attached to his arm-bands slipped into his palms. The soldier took a step forward and raised his axe for the blow. Yakumo waited calmly without any fear in his heart, until the axe reached its maximum height. Then at that same moment he whipped out his arms. The man with the axe got a blade in his Adam’s apple. He took a step back, dropping the axe as he did so, and with a horrible gurgling began to drown in his own blood. Yakumo looked at the Sergeant and saw that the second blade had grazed the woman’s ear, causing it to bleed abundantly. Half a step behind her, the blade was embedded deep in the Sergeant’s eye.

“You… damned… bastard” he gasped, and fell dead.

Yakumo sighed. He had done it, and the two women had survived. He was overcome by a sense of peace.

A feeling that was totally alien to him.

He gazed at the room, then outside. He was surrounded by blood, death, tortured women… war… He felt once again that strange feeling which he had long ago thought lost to his soul: pity, sadness… Straight away he thought of Iruki. He had to get to her one way or another. He had promised. The more he thought about her the more intense were his feelings for the young Masig. Nothing would get in his way. He had to find her, get back to her. His heart called, and he yearned for it.

He untied the prisoners, told them which way to escape and left the place in haste.

Iruki, wait for me, I’m on my way to you
.

Barnacus, the Master Archivist of Ethnic Knowledge, was trying unsuccessfully to comb his unruly albino mane. Sonea immediately identified the betraying gesture: either nervous or very worried. This time, Sonea decided, he was both. It was already night-time, and teacher and pupil were in the study chamber of the third basement of the Great Library of Bintantium. The great scholar of Tremian peoples and cultures was holding a wrinkled parchment, with the seal of the Order of the Temple of Light, between his shaking fingers.

“What does it say, Master?” Sonea said, trying to see the message in her tutor’s hands.

“Be patient for a moment, don’t rush me…” said the old man.

Barnacus took a deep breath. Exhaling at length, he unfolded the parchment in his hands and began to read with scholarly care. The shaking stopped as his eyes traveled down the lines with a slowness that infuriated Sonea. She was dying to know the contents of the message, and still more the nature of the object wrapped in linen which was resting on top of the teacher’s untidy desk. When she had opened the package she had found the letter and the mysterious rectangular object which they had not dared unwrap yet. They had both deemed it wiser to read the message first.

“It’s from our dear friend Lindaro…” said Barnacus, still reading the parchment in his hands.

“I thought as much. We’ve been exchanging mail with him for more than three months, since we agreed to help him in his secret research…”

“How could we have refused a proposition like that… after all, most of our doctrine is Ilenian. Besides, we’re talking about the good Lindaro. We even have the blessing of Abbot Dian!”

“What does it say, Master? What?” said Sonea unable to hold back her curiosity.

Barnacus cleared his throat.

“I’ll read it to you:

“To the Archivist of Ethnic Knowledge, of the Order of Knowledge, of the Library of Bintantium.

My very respected scholarly friend

Allow me in the first place to thank you from my heart for the priceless collaboration you have so disinterestedly given the Temple of Light in the task at hand. As you know well it is of the utmost importance. Your knowledge of the Lost Civilization is incomparable, and thanks to it we have been able to advance in our discoveries at the Ilenian Temple of Ether. Nevertheless, we have made little progress in understanding the wondrous object I herein enclose. I believe it is in our common interest that you study it.

As regards my health, after which you so kindly inquired, I must say that the Healer Sisters of the Temple of Tirsar have worked a genuine miracle, not only saving me from certain death but speeding the recovery of my body in an amazing manner.

May the almighty Light guide and illuminate you in the discoveries we so wish for. May the secrets of the Ilenians be revealed at last to mankind.

Lindaro

Priest of the Temple of the Light.”

“How glad I am to hear of Lindaro’s recovery after the terrible wound he suffered at Ocorum! He had me really worried, I even feared the worst. There are very few men with the intellect, courage and altruistic spirit of our priest friend.”

Sonea clapped enthusiastically, unable to detach her eyes from the package on the table.

“What’s he sending us? What’s this object? Can it be what I think it is? Shall we open it? Master? Please?” Sonea was bursting with excitement.

Barnacus mumbled an explanation but Sonea was not listening. Her fingers were already unfolding the cloth which protected the Ilenian object.

“Be careful, Sonea. It’s a priceless treasure.”

The girl finished unwrapping the object and stared at it, studying every detail of that Ilenian relic.

Barnacus stood beside his apprentice at the desk. He was nonplussed, eyes open wide.

“It’s a… an… Ilenian grimoire,” muttered Sonea in disbelief.

“A grimoire… a compendium of arcane… Ilenian… magic…” stammered Barnacus as he looked at the Ilenian symbols engraved on the golden covers.

“Ilenian magic!” cried Sonea in a voice shrill with excitement, which boomed throughout the hall.

Barnacus smiled warmly at his pupil.

“Try to keep calm, my restless child. I’m aware of the treasure we have before us, but we must take things easy. Only through the unbiased disposition of our minds, without letting ourselves be affected by our emotions, can we hope to reach true conclusions. Our emotions are inconstant and volatile. If we let them intervene, we’ll simply stray from the path of knowledge.”

Sonea looked at her Master with a grin.

Barnacus perceived his pupil’s impatience and raised his arms in defeat.

“All right, all right, little one! This is no time for sermons, I know very well. Let’s see, Lindaro informed us in his letters that he was in possession of the grimoire of what he described as a Mage, an Ilenian Guardian. By what I can guess from the inscriptions on the cover, I can identify the symbol of the Guardian… yes, I can make it out clearly. But the rest… the rest eludes me…”

Barnacus half-closed his eyes to better concentrate as he examined the Ilenian symbols. Sonea watched him in silence, afraid of making even the slightest noise which might break her tutor’s concentration at this crucial moment. Tense and endless minutes went by as anxiety grew in Sonea with every beat of her heart.

“Truly fascinating…” Barnacus murmured as he studied the first golden pages. “Child, hand me my notes, please,” he said at last.

Sonea hurried to the huge bookshelves which covered the studio completely from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Hundreds of books rested there in pious silence, forever waiting to be consulted. The young apprentice gave a sweeping look around and located what her Master wanted. In the center of the library a single volume stood out because of its remarkable size. It was the biggest book Sonea had ever seen, bigger than half a dozen thick tomes in one.
His notes…
she thought with a wide smile.
Thank goodness it’s only his notes…
The enormous book was so heavy that Sonea had trouble carrying it, and poor old Barnacus could not even hold it. With the strength of her youth she got the volume down and wobbled under its weight to the desk. With a loud thump, which made several parchments fly up and raised a cloud of dust, she dropped his
notes
in front of Barnacus. The old man smiled at his apprentice, who was panting from the effort, standing with arms akimbo and a face as red as a ripe tomato.

The Master Archivist of Ethnic Knowledge began to work. Sonea stood at his side watching in silence paying attention to every gesture, every Ilenian symbol, every note that was consulted. The Master spent countless hours trying to decipher the meaning of the Ilenian inscriptions, consulting other volumes of reference, anxious to reveal the mysteries hidden in the grimoire. When he needed her, Sonea helped in any way she could as she listened, spellbound, to the explanations and conclusions the scholar reached. Without realizing she was doing so, the young apprentice imitated her Master and began to do her own research, seeking to find meaning in those strange hieroglyphs and symbols which at the same time seemed quite familiar. She had spent all her short life analyzing Ilenian relics under her tutor’s guidance. Her illustrious Master was an expert on any culture or people ever known on the face of Tremia, as well as on what little had been discovered about the Ilenians. Under his guidance Sonea had acquired priceless knowledge, and was perfectly happy helping him and learning in his company. Language and symbology were Sonea’s strong points. She felt a natural inclination for symbolic interpretation, and there was nothing she liked more than to solve a good complicated hieroglyph. She had been blessed with a mind well fitted for it, for which she thanked the gods.

The hours slipped by without either of them noticing, wrapped up as they were in the study of that wondrous relic, and dawn came upon them like a silent thief. Still they kept studying the grimoire as if they would never tire, until they had to give up in exhaustion halfway through the morning. Master and apprentice fell asleep on the table, their arms around the precious book as if to keep it from disappearing. They dreamed about Ilenian symbols which would open the door to what they sought to discover. When they woke, full of energy, they resumed their study without a thought for anything else.

They spent more than a week shut up there, analyzing the grimoire, pausing only for the most basic of needs, sleeping in the same place, driven by the wish to find answers which would set them on the path to unlocking the mysteries which had been hidden by the Ilenians.

At last Barnacus gave a long deep snort, as if a huge tornado of wisdom were trying to surface from his withered body.

“Yes. There’s no doubt about it. This is a grimoire of Ilenian magic, and inside it there are spells and charms of immense power.”

Sonea very tired but also extremely excited looked at her tutor.

“Master, I’ve deciphered some of the symbols, although the most arcane elude me… and they seem to be spells created to protect somebody… but I haven’t been able to figure out whom…”

“You’re on the right track, my smart apprentice. I wonder at how much you’ve learnt in so little time” – Sonea looked at the old man with a mixture of incredulity and astonishment, which Barnacus perceived. He shook his mane – “All right… I know you’ve been studying with me for quite a while, since you were very little… but for someone of my venerable age that’s just a speck of time…”

Sonea smiled, but at the same moment restlessness took hold of her once again.

“Then, I’m right?”

“Yes, but they don’t mean to protect
somebody
, child. The grimoire’s purpose is to protect some
thing
… not some
one
.”

“Something?” cried Sonea, intrigued beyond her wildest dreams.

“Yes, Sonea. Some object of great power, which the Ilenian Guardian Mages had to protect. That’s what I make out of the analysis.”

“But, what object, Master? What object?”

“Well, if my conclusions are correct, I think it’s a… powerful jewel… a pendant… or perhaps a medallion.”

“But that’s fascinating! What’s its purpose, Master?”

“That, my dear girl, is what we have to find out. Something tells me that the medallion is the key to reaching an even greater mystery which is hidden within it… And this old scholar has a feeling about it… Yes, I believe we’re on the right path…”

“So, what are we waiting for, then, Master? Let’s go and find out!”

“Be calm, my impulsive child, there’s something else we must take into account…”

“What is it?”

“A serious and… unavoidable… warning. From what I can guess, the grimoire gives a clear warning:
anyone who might try to gain its secrets without being of Ilenian blood will be punished.”

“Punished?”

Barnacus shrugged, and his expression darkened.

“I seemed to understand a direct allusion to suffering a horrendous death, to the loss of the soul. And something about infinite suffering, as well… but I couldn’t decipher it completely…”

When Sonea heard that, a chill ran through her body and she flinched. It was not the first time they had been faced with accursed volumes, or vulgar superstitions that some locals ascribed to certain supposedly mystical objects. But, for some reason Sonea felt this was not the case here. She was convinced that this warning was real, very real.

“What are we going to do then? The danger might be great… but the reward will be greater still…”

“Not necessarily. We must proceed carefully and take the most extreme precautions. I much fear that handling this arcane volume could lead to death or something even worse.”

“But, Master, we must also consider what we might discover… It’s the first Ilenian magic object of any relevance which has been found, and it points to the existence of a yet more powerful one: this medallion that it must protect. Why? What mystery is enclosed within this medallion? How far can it guide us?”

“Ah, Sonea… there’s so much which is still unknown… Such is life, Mankind’s existence, our reason for existing, such are the mysteries we must face… unanswered questions to solve… But we must proceed with extreme caution. I’ll inform the Council of Five and the Grand Master of this significant discovery and wait for their decision before going on.”

“But, Master…” said Sonea, who foresaw a discouraging outcome from the illustrious leadership of the Order.

“No buts, child, it’s too dangerous. We must proceed with care. I can see a close and constant danger lurking in these golden pages. I don’t wish to accidentally activate any of the spells in this grimoire that could kill us. In fact, now that I come to think of it… it’s very possible it has a spell on it…” Barnacus shook his white mane unconsciously, revealing once again how worried he was. “Mintel, the master Archivist of Arcane Knowledge, must give us his help immediately. We need a mage who can control the power inside this grimoire before we try to handle it and something terrible happens. To continue without assistance and without the blessing of the Council would be too dangerous, Sonea.”