Verhalen: The Third Burning

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Prologue 1 2

Chapter 1 He rose from the mosaic floor before the simple altar, finishing his hollow prayer in the same monotone pitch he always used when he went through the rites of entry. The cleric that was sent to guide him knew just as well as he; Alwhyn Lemoor was only keeping up appearances. Only his flawless military career, his generous donations to the charities and the fact that his two sons had grown up to be two priests of outstanding piety had kept the Libram from branding him an unbeliever and stripping him of his titles and lands. This fact kept Alwhyn on guard whenever dealing with the Libram. His sons had no doubt opened the book on his past as a worshipper of the Grand Protector, though not exactly outlawed, it was sincerely frowned upon by most who inhabited the city of lore, which stood and thrived only by the grace and virtue of the Shining One.
He had to stop himself from spitting, a nasty habit he had picked up during his days in the fields. It was not exactly polite to spit in the presence of the Libram's members, especially not when one was invited for an audience, nor did it befit his social and military status. He had long since learned how to bend his military mind to the subtle politics of the Libram, as well as those of the Council of Lords. He had now held the title of Lord Commander of the Lebréusian Guard for nigh ten years and the title demanded more than just military cunning.

Still, when the cleric handed him a golden cup with an inlaid ivory hand, he couldn't help but grimace at the overabundance of all these pretences. The city was at war and here he was, one of the four highest ranking officers of the Lebréusian Guard, taking a sip of honeyed goats milk, symbolizing the mother's milk, so that he was supposedly shed of sin and as innocent as a babe when he faced the Enlightened; the eldest of the Libram, it was they whom truly ruled the city. He knew that the other three Lord Commanders were going through exactly the same rites, two of them truly believing that it was all necessary and not at all a waste of time and one believing it futile to rebel against even the most foolish of traditions.
Let them believe as they must. Though not exactly feeling honoured by being invited for an audience, he knew that for the Enlightened to hold an audience they must have something important to share. He hoped it was good news, ever since the first attacks a month back, the Libram had remained ominously quiet, shunning emissaries requesting audiences and even barring out the nobles that eventually came themselves, demanding entry to the Great Library. However, rumour had it that the Libram had been inviting arcanists into its midst since the first assault. He could only hope this was not just to protect and preserve the information these mages held.
When he had finally downed the goats milk all that remained was to wash his hands with the blessed waters that had rained down upon Lebréus for the past month and a half, mercifully extinguishing most fires started by the besiegers, so as to wash the blood from his hands. This time he truly looked repentant, of all the rites he had the most trouble with this one, for altogether different reasons. No amount of water, be it blessed or befouled, could wash the blood from his hands. Every man he had slain, he had slain out of duty; their dying stares, as well as their spilt blood, were an eternal reminder of this duty. His duty had made him who he was and he would not be robbed of it, even symbolically.

Eyeing the cleric warily he raised his hands to his lips, as was custom, then slowly lowered them and tentatively slid just his fingertips into the bowl, disturbing the serene surface only slightly. He then raised his hands, palms up, waiting for the obviously insulted clergyman to hand him the cloth with which he needed to dry his hands to pass this last of useless rites. Several tense moments passed, the cleric remaining silent and still, until Alwhyn cocked his eyebrow, showing both his impatience and importance with this simple twitch of a muscle. When the priest still didn't oblige, he wiped his hands on the customary white robes visitors wore in the Great Library and stepped past the guide, he had had enough of customs. "I know the way," he said over his shoulder to the now trembling priest.
Sure, he hadn't been polite nor tactful, but he would not be forced into retirement for only such a small slight. He had endured every other irksome rite and he could claim the priest was being obstinate, he had actually performed the last rite, though to its barest minimum. If the Libram decided to make a big deal out of it, the charges would soon be dropped, for Alwhyn would make sure they leaked to the general public, which would not be pleased if the Libram decided to spend time on such petty trivialities, especially when raised against the most celebrated military leader in Lebréus, whilst the city lay under siege.

The Great Library's simple yet grand lay out as well as Alwhyn's keen memory of the place and the many embarrassments and slights he had suffered inside its very walls made it simple for him to navigate the place. The chamber the Enlightened used for their audiences was connected to the five main wings of the Great Library, he was walking the hallway of the fifth wing, unsurprisingly connected to the fifth ward. He wondered how the Libram kept the stench out, especially these days, and decided it must have been their air of divine ignorance that formed a sufficient barrier.
Up ahead he saw the archway leading to the grand chamber of the Enlightened, basically a pentagon filled with so many golden braziers and candles that it was no wonder most of the Enlightened had not a hair left on their heads. There was enough gold leafing decorating the vaulted ceiling to feed the fifth ward for five years and there were enough marble statues to build an orphanage out of, yet the most outstanding and by far the most curious item in the place was a plain tome set on a pedestal above the seat of the eldest of the Enlightened. He had laid eyes on its ancient leather bindings each time he had been there, yet never had anyone spoken of its contents, nor had there ever been any rumours about the ancient information contained in its pages. Even though Alwhyn was loath to admit it, he envied the Libram for their ingeniousness for placing the book there, for its mystery was enough to make even the most obstinate unbeliever wonder at the knowledge locked between its undoubtedly holy covers.

When he neared the entryway he slowed his brisk trot down to a stroll of insurmountable dignity, his mother had once told him to always bear himself with dignity, so as not to end up as his late father and he had always heeded the advice. Even though he now lacked his escort, he would not let the disapproving stares of those parched old walking dead take the determination from his, admittedly slow, step. Unless the Libram were finally suggesting some course of action, or showing signs of undertaking steps towards this purpose, he would let them have a piece of his mind.
Entering the room he only gave the slightest of bows, barely a nod of his head and barely enough to grace the Enlightened whom, despite the Libram itself claiming otherwise, practically had the city in their pockets. The youngest of them sniffed dismissively, another grunted, but the rest were so unfocussed on this world that they barely noticed. Alwhyn was sincerely convinced that half of the Enlightened were old nutters, having lost their minds somewhere on the long stretch between knowledge and faith, believing themselves somehow elevated above this "state of consciousness." They'd probably just spent too much time in the pentagon, he thought as he was nigh overcome by the incense, further adding to the sense that he had entered the heart of the sun.
None of the other Lord Commanders had arrived yet, so he decided to enter a state of quiet acquiescence of the Enlightened as he strolled around the room, barely managing to not face the Enlightened whilst maintaining a straight back, as well as a straight face whenever one of the old farts broke out into a coughing fit. He, for one, did not want an eternal life if it meant your body would still deteriorate anyways; not that any of the Libram had managed immortality yet. Though the average member of the Libram lived a very long life, considering that nearly all of them were Guardions, they still had nothing on the Nightkin. That the Libram did not easily allow Nightkin into its ranks was neither a secret nor was it unexpected. Most Nightkin viewed life with a completely different philosophy to start out with.

One by one his fellows in arms started arriving. First to arrive was Lord Immahl Ba'risk, youngest of the military commanders. He was known to be a devout man and any shred of doubt Alwhyn may have fostered had been banished the first time he had witnessed the man in the presence of the Enlightened. He practically prostrated himself at their feet upon his entry and even after standing up he looked prone to drop to his knees should one of the Enlightened do as much as look at him. Whilst appearing ferocious and imposing on the battlefield, his broad chest and formidable arms were now lost in the tangle of the huge white robe he now wore. If not for his heavy brow, flat jaw and tangle of dark curls he could have been just another bloated monk of the gospel of indulgence. Of all the gospels, each one more futile than the other, the gospel of indulgence offended Alwhyn the most. Its monks desired nothing more than to indulge themselves in tasting life to its fullest. This meant eating, drinking and engaging in other indulgent activities all day long in elaborate orgies that shamed the caravan leaders' feasts of the south.

Second to arrive was one of the few female officers of the Guard, Lady Terra Locklin. She wasn't fair by anyone's measure, but she made up for this lacking by being tough as nails, and reputedly chewing them too. She was short and stocky yet always managed to appear dominating, having some natural aura of unspoken command that would have made her a great housewife, if most men hadn't been too afraid to touch her even with a ten foot pole. She curtsied, which looked as weird on her as did the white robes, and her face appeared to soften, though it was hard to tell due to the huge amount of scar tissue. She had been a good soldier and a decent officer. Only the fact that she hailed from the wealthiest of noble houses in Lebréus had nailed her the position of Lord Commander though. House Locklin had to make up for the shame brought to their house by one of its daughters joining the Guard somehow. She had a good wit to her, Alwhyn had to admit, but she was none too subtle when dealing with the intricacies of court politics. He had rescued her from several sticky situations in the past, nearly each and every one caused by her letting herself be goaded into one of her famous fits of incoherent rage.

Last to arrive was the only man Alwhyn would trust with his life. The venerable Lord Ursi'Daen was a bear of a man, literally. He was proud of his Changeling heritage and had torn his right sleeve in half, his arm, hairy and muscular like a bear's, in full view. His upper arm had a strange bald spot, something Ursi'Daen claimed was not due to him shaving, where the plate sized bear paw was displayed. He had pulled his grey streaked beard over his ears and braided it in with his hair, which fell down to his shins, making him look fearsome and giving him a weapon to use in brawls. Alwhyn had seen the man fell a man twice his own weight in a bar brawl by whipping his head around and slamming the weighted end of the braid into his face. Unlike Alwhyn Ursi'Daen showed the proper amount of respect, bowing low and voicing the appropriate greetings. He waved behind his back to Alwhyn, knowing his aversion to the faith. Alwhyn couldn't help but smile, the man had been his commanding officer from the day he joined the Guard and had practically replaced his negligent father.

As all four of the Lord Commanders gathered in front of the high seats of the Enlightened, Ursi'Daen whispered to Alwhyn, "you've got them right riled up in the hallways, son. Let's hope this news of theirs was worth you making an utter fool of yourself again. Word has it your loving sons have gathered outside to throw you out when the audience comes to an end, I'd be right scared, I would." He winked with this last statement and turned quickly to properly face the Enlightened, pretending to have been smoothing his robes and effectively brushing his sleeve apart again; even the Enlightened would see this man's pride.

The youngest of the Enlightened, seated on the first of five thrones, began the audience. "On this day, upon which we are once again blessed to be basking in the radiance of the Shining One, the Enlightened, being the eldest of those whom strive to be as a candle compared to the sun that is our father, our healer and our guide, have granted you, those whom deservingly walk within the light of his majestic visage, an audience within the heart of the Illuminator's grandest bastion outside the heavens. Be aware that such audiences are rarely granted and that you are truly blessed to stand before those most favoured by he whom dwells in each flash of light. Remain silent whilst you bask in the truth and wisdom of our words, dawning on you not very unlike the sun."
As he fell silent Alwhyn rolled his eyes at the pompous speech. The fifth speaker snorted when he noticed the gesture and sat back down with his nose raised in the air. The first, whom Alwhyn expected to deliver the true message of this audience, remained seated until the second loudly ruffled some sheets of parchments in his lap and feigned to sneeze loudly at the imagined dust rising up from the pages. Looking slightly bewildered, yet dazed, the first rose and began running his hands down his resplendent white robes, far more ornate than those the Lord Commanders wore. When he had finally gathered his wits he cleared his throat loudly and began.
"Now, as you must have noticed, the Libram has closed his doors to all but a few visitors. Though this may appear strange to you not of divine insight, we, as the Libram, have been blessed with knowledge that may help safeguard our precious lore and city. For this, however, the Libram as a whole had to focus its efforts and because of this we have remained so silent for these long weeks. But now, with the help of the Shining One, we are about to set in motion our plan to keep the unbelieving hordes outside our walls, our Grand Guide has not abandoned the city and no more lives need be cut short.
When this audience ends, we, the Enlightened, will retreat to our private quarters to prepare in quiet prayer for the most daunting task the Wise One has set upon us thus far. It is in conjunction with the many mages of Lebréus, both inhabitants and refugees, that the Libram will erect a barrier that will prevent these blasphemers from passing through our blessed walls.
Do not think of this undertaking lightly, the Libram has sacrificed much, both in monetary and spiritual means, to ensure the spell works as planned. You yourself would not have been notified at all if the Libram did not have a request to make of you all. Our concerted efforts will erect a mystical barrier through which these beings of mist can not manifest their fogs, they are, however, still capable of entering in physical form. Therefore we ask the Guard to keep the gates closed and not venture out to try and wage a futile war for the lands outside our town. We know very little of the enemy, yet what we do know indicates that they can not be slain in the… traditional way.
Although the Libram abhors the purpose of this mysterious horde, to vanquish our brethren, the Sun, we can not allow more unnecessary blood to be spilt before we have a means to truly defeat this mighty a foe. So, even when goaded to the point of infuriation, the Guard must stand its ground and stay its arms. Ultimately the decision is yours to make, but we strongly recommend you heed our call, for no good will come of it if you decided to fight the enemy in combat." With this final statement the eldest looked around with a stern and foreboding expression, gathering himself and appearing to suddenly fill his robes. He no longer looked old, weak and incompetent. His back and shoulders straightened, eyes completely focussed on this world and shining with such devotion; this man was suddenly the living image of authority, the embodiment of a leader. The first only managed to hold his disposition shortly though and after gazing each of the Lord Commanders in the eyes, his shoulders slumped down again and he motioned the other Enlightened to rise as well.
"We will see what comes of our request, for now it is time for us to seclude ourselves in preparation. May the Shining One look favourably upon us all today, for we will need his blessing. I bid you, farewell." Without waiting for a response the Enlightened parted, each walking to one of the five entryways, leaving Alwhyn and the other standing in the pentagon, each pondering how much had been revealed to them as well as asked of them in such short an audience.

* * * * *

That very day, in one of the many towers set in the fortified walls of Lebréus, stood a cabal of mages. This was their fifth tower since the start of the great casting that would shield Lebréus off from the mists that had a stranglehold on the city. Only one of them wore the robes of an apprentice; a young lad with red hair the colour of leaves in autumn. He held himself with great pride, even though he looked weary to the bone.
The others were mages that had either completed their training at one of the many colleges of magic spread throughout the civilized lands or that had proven their mettle and talent in the casting of spells through other, less mundane ways. Walt Terrison was truly honoured to be in the presence of these great men and women. Each had spent a lifetime learning to cast spells and to understand the laws of magic and here he was, a humble Sun boy, raised by a dock worker and a barmaid, helping these powerful people in defending his city.

Though the Sun are most certainly not an uncivilized and stupid race, most of them have no interest in the arcanist's profession. Through the ages magic had all but been erased from the race's lineage; those that were inherently capable of wielding it usually left their clans, tribes or villages to study the art and those interested in learning the ways were usually estranged. The Sun harbour the shortest lifespan of all the known races, their time is limited and they seek to live life to the fullest. Therefore wasting time on reading thick tomes of gibberish and boring history does not fit in with the philosophy of most of the red haired.
Even despite this seeming inaptness at magic, inbred in the Sun race, some of the most powerful and successful mages do hail from their blood. Their motivation and spirit drives those that do take up the tome to great heights; their hot blood fuelling them on and on, to greatness.
This same motivation and spirit could be found in Walt; it is not often that mages look to apprentices for help in the casting of elaborate spells, certainly not when a spell of such importance was to be cast. Yet there he stood, sweat plastering his long red hair to his face and his breath coming in raspy gasps while he gathered the last of his remaining strength to set up this cabal's fifth and final ward.

Everything had been meticulously planned, when the great bells of Lebréus rang out the seventh hour after dawn each and every cabal would begin as one, one final time, setting up their last ward. When the last words were carried off on the strands of unleashed magic, the Enlightened and the archmagi of the five Colleges of Lebréus, would unleash the very last, most powerful dweomer and the protective barrier would be raised.
The seventh hour drew nigh and the cabal began laying the final touches to their preparations; the final runes were drawn, the last candles lit. Only when everything was in readiness did the leader of their cabal, Arnus Orwald, place the magic bowl that was to contain the magic they would channel into the centre of the room. A few quick measurements were completed, reassuring everyone that everything was placed in the correct alignment to the mathematical centre of Lebréus. Then every mage took up her respective position in the circular room of the tower, some having to stoop a little under a stairwell or cock their head at a weird angle to allow for the rope holding the candelabra which shed its flickering light on the scene.

When the bells struck the seventh hour Walt inhaled deeply to steady himself, he doubted that him fainting would affect the ritual at this point, but he wouldn't have it, if only for his pride. When the bell rang for the seventh time all seven of them took up the chant. The first few notes were always the most difficult, but then their song took up momentum as every mage drifted into their casting trance. Their song joined that of the many other cabals, spread like a spider web throughout the city; it reverberated off the places they had enchanted before and it gained in strength. Finally the song breached the walls of the Great Library, rustling pages and causing flames that hadn't been doused for decades to flicker and falter. When the song reached the innermost chamber, echoing through the tall and arched hallways, it caused the already heavy air to appear even more solid.
Walt could clearly see the innermost chamber, for that was where his chant had led him, and saw the Enlightened and the archmagi holding their ground against the onslaught of the cacophonous chant. The Enlightened kneeled on the edge of an elaborate circle, filled with markings and runes that seemed to flow in the flickering lights, for even the pentagon's stalwart fires were disturbed by the force the cabals were unleashing. Interspersed between the Enlightened stood the archmagi, each holding a long parchment scroll from which they read, each word they spoke silenced a word from the chant and caused a shimmer to run over the object in the centre of the circle. It was a giant glass dome, smooth and flawless as a diamond and as thin as a sheet of finest parchment. Inside stood an incredibly accurate miniature of Lebréus, its walls part of the dome. Several of the city's building shone brightly and a shimmering web of lines lay over the tiny roofs, with the Great Library its radiant epicentre.
When the archmagi finished reading their long scrolls and silence filled the room they raised them up in the air and as one the parchments burst into flames, unleashing a thick smoke that started slowly swirling towards the city. Simultaneously the Enlightened rose, drawing from their thick robes one small tube each. They appeared lost in a trance as their eyes had gone vacant and each inhaled an impossibly deep breath. They then blew through their tubes as one and from each sprang a golden beam of light which shot at the glass dome, turning its clear sheen a radiant gold. Still the smoke curled towards the dome and still the Enlightened blew, until suddenly the smoke touched the golden surface of the dome and out of nowhere appeared countless ivory palms, rebutting the smoke up and over the city. There it gathered and when the final loose tendril joined, it unleashed a shower of the purest of water onto the radiant city.
Then Walt felt that same water on his face and immediately he found himself back in the tower, lying on his back underneath an arrow slit, rain pouring on his face. He looked up through the slit to see a thick and heavy cloud over the city, unleashing a ferocious shower of rain. Then, as if a haze slid over his eyes, everything beyond the arrow slit took on a golden hue, and Walt plummeted back into unconsciousness and sweet oblivion, joining his fellows in the art, to awaken hours later.