The Immortal Mystic (Book 5) (16 page)

“I know your thoughts,” Njar said with a sigh. “I can see your anger and hatred as easily as you see a fiery sunset burning the clouds along the western horizon.”

“You said you wouldn’t interfere with that decision,” Aparen said.

Njar nodded. “I am nothing if not a keeper of promises. I will not interfere. However, you will need to learn to control your emotions. You can not be an agent of balance unless you can calm the storms within your own soul.”

Aparen’s face grew hard. “Why does it matter?” Njar frowned, but Aparen continued speaking without giving Njar a chance to answer. “What I mean is, why does this training matter? Is it some quest you have set for yourself to save wayward souls? Or is it that you fear me?”

Njar paused for a moment and then offered a slight nod. “You are an important actor in Terramyr’s history. I have seen a little into the future and know that whatever you decide, you will shape Terramyr for generations to come. As I said before, I seek balance. I know of your past deeds. I know of your potential, both for balance, and for destruction. I am attempting to open your eyes so you make the right choices.” Njar looked down. “Whatever you decide, will have repercussions across the whole of the mortal plane, and possibly the plane of the immortals.”

“What do you mean?” Aparen asked.

“I can not tell you now, your mind is too green, too fragile. In time, I will show you.”

Aparen could almost taste the fear in Njar’s voice. It was most uncharacteristic of the stoic, powerful creature. “Then, if there is a chance I would still create destruction and destroy the balance, why not kill me now and save yourself?”

Njar offered a half-smile. “I have contemplated that very dilemma, I assure you.” Njar paused then and shook his head. “The truth is, if I kill you, then there is no chance for us. If I let you live, there is a small chance that balance can be maintained. If I can open your eyes, then perhaps I will increase that chance.”

Aparen knit his brow and stood with his mouth open slightly, not knowing how to respond.

“The truth,” Njar continued, “is that as much as it pains me to train you, as much as I know you have the full potential to warp every power I give and show you, as much as I know the man you will likely grow into, I am looking for that small spot of blue, restorative energy in your soul. If I can find it, and bring you into balance with yourself, then I may save my people, and indeed maintain balance in Terramyr.” Njar held up a stern hand and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t think, not even for one second, that I don’t question myself every morning when I wake. Often the doubt and fears threaten to persuade me to do otherwise. That is the circle of red within me. Though I am a healer, I have a streak that can kill, albeit out of passion to protect and preserve rather than to conquer. For now, that circle of red is kept in check by the rest of my will to seek proper balance. Do not make me regret my decision.”

With that, the satyr snapped his fingers and Aparen found himself sitting cross-legged on the stone floor in the small chamber he had come to call his room within Njar’s tower. He sat there for a long while, thinking on the goat’s words.

“We are close,” Tatev said excitedly. “I have often dreamt of finding Gerharon and uncovering the mysteries that lie within.”

Erik looked around him. A deep canyon tore through the earth not more than twenty yards to his right. It cut down several hundred yards at an angle that just barely allowed him to see the thin, blue river running in the bottom. Sheer cliffs of granite rose up the other side of the canyon and reached up into high peaks that challenged the clouds. To his left the gray stone, marred with holes and cracks, rose up high above them, leaving the small trail they traveled upon, and the slope down to the edge of the canyon on the right.

They had already been riding through the canyon for two days, eating only the berries and fruits they found along the way as their other provisions had already run out. Luckily there were several springs and artesian wells along the road to Gerharon.

Tatev disappeared around a bend and Erik stopped to gaze down to the river below. He had never seen a place so void of life before. Even the wastelands of Verishtahng had more animals in it than this canyon. Other than the occasional sparrow darting out from the cliff side to dine upon bugs, there was nothing other than trees and grass.

Erik sighed and urged his horse onward. As he went around the same bend that Tatev had already cleared he was surprised to find a cut away that switched back into the mountain on his left. There were steps cut into the granite, and also a smoother slope, obviously meant for horses or other animals. Tatev was already several yards up the cutback, but Erik was able to catch up easily enough. His horse trotted up the slope, his hooves
click-clopping
against the stone. Forty feet above the trail they had been on, the trail switched back toward the east again. It levelled out and took them right along the mountain’s edge. Erik and Tatev both dismounted and walked in front of their mounts when the trail narrowed to only four feet wide.

The wind grew stronger too, pushing them backward and kicking dust up into their faces. The horses didn’t seem to mind, but Erik and Tatev had to each shield their eyes with their forearms as they pressed on. They walked for another couple of hours before finally skirting around a half-broken part in the trail that curved back up to the west, cutting directly into the mountain. From that point on, the trail was too narrow and steep for the horses.

“What do we do now?” Erik asked.

Tatev shrugged. “I am not sure. I had expected to take the horses all the way to Gerharon.” The librarian pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and placed his fists on his hips.

“Well, we came too far to go back now,” Erik said. “I’m going up.” He started unfastening his saddle bags, carefully slinging the bag with Jaleal over his left shoulder and then moving up the stairs. Tatev struggled a bit more, trying to balance the books he had brought along in his bag before climbing up the steps. The horses behind them neighed and pawed the ground nervously.

Erik climbed up, switching back and forth across the mountain’s side as the steps cut back and forth. Occasionally he would have to skip a step or two upon finding only a weathered slope or crumbled bits of stone where a step had once been. He would then have to wait as Tatev would nervously slide his back along the cliff side and slowly, agonizingly slowly, stretch one leg over the missing stair and plant it squarely upon the next stair only to swivel his foot several times before finally making a dramatic leap and then tumbling forward to grab steps higher up with his hands.

“I’m alright,” Tatev said each time it happened. “I just don’t like heights.”

Erik shook his head impatiently the first two times, but upon seeing Tatev’s continuing nervousness each time they came to an eroded or missing step, he started to empathize with him. He looked down over the edge, only three feet from the sheer wall they walked along, and knew that one misstep would spell disaster for either of them.

“I can take your bags,” Erik offered when they arrived at another missing step.

Tatev nodded nervously. He leaned back against the cliff and removed the bag of books. “Don’t drop them,” he said.

Erik smiled and took the books. Even still, Tatev did his protracted dance. His back slid along the stone and his foot shot out awkwardly. Erik moved up a few steps, guessing that Tatev would plant his face directly into Erik’s knee if he didn’t move. When Tatev finally made his leap, he proved that Erik had been right.

“I’m alright,” Tatev said again.

“I know,” Erik said. “You don’t like heights.”

Tatev shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I really don’t.”

“Come along,” Erik said. “We have to move a little faster if we want to reach the top before the sun drops.”

Tatev shook his head. “We aren’t going to the top,” he said. “Gerharon is nestled
in
the mountains. The trail will eventually lead us onto a plateau of sorts, where the monastery was built. The cliffs will surround it and that is where the trail stops.”

“There is no pass?” Erik asked.

“Not that I know of,” Tatev replied.

Erik nodded, resigning himself to finish the task at hand. They continued climbing up the snaking steps. Finally, they cut back out to the east again and around a bend that curved northward for a couple of miles that opened out onto a glorious plateau. Erik stopped in the trail and stared, mouth open as he saw a gorgeous waterfall cresting from the plateau to drop hundreds of yards down into the canyon. Mist and spray shot out from the water, catching the sun and forming a bright rainbow over the edge. Beyond it was a wide, level, area that spanned roughly two hundred yards wide and perhaps as much as quarter mile back. There, in the distance he saw a brown building or solid stone. It was simple, yet elegant in its design. A stone wall maybe four feet high surrounded it. The building itself was square, with a central tower in the center. The whole construct rested against a semi-circle of cliffs at the far end of the plateau. It struck him as odd that there were no windows that he could see. No openings of any kind, actually. He looked for a door, but couldn’t locate even that.

Tatev tapped on Erik’s shoulder from behind. “Not trying to be a bother, but could we maybe stop to gawk
after
we are on the plateau?” Erik nodded dumbly and skipped ahead to get out of Tatev’s path. The librarian was hot on his heels, nearly pushing him faster along the trail until he collapsed upon the flat ground and rested on his back. “I hate heights!” Tatev exclaimed.

Erik smiled and turned back to look at the building. “Why are there no windows?”

Tatev smiled and started to turn over on the ground. He pushed himself up, grunting as he slowly moved to his feet and stretched his back. He pointed to a row of stone boxes. Each box sat at the base of the cliff. They were plain. No designs. No words. No symbols. “That is why there are no windows.”

“Because they have stone lockboxes?” Erik asked.

Tatev shook his head. “Inside each box is a dead monk. The one closest to the plateau is the first monk who died here.”

“Why do they have locks?” Erik asked.

“The monks of Gerharon are unique in their service. They swear to serve not only in life, but also in death. Upon death, their hearts are removed and their bodies cremated. The hearts are put into the lockbox, with the ash of their cremated body around it, as if planting a seed.”

“That’s disgusting,” Erik commented.

Tatev wrinkled his nose and frowned. “Every culture has their own burial rites. To say this is disgusting is to discount their heritage, and the strength it affords the monastery. If you want to hear about disgusting burial rites, then I should tell you about—”

Erik held up a hand and shook his head. “No, Tatev, I don’t.”

Tatev offered a sheepish smile and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose again. “Tales of Gerharon claim that the living monks show respect to those that went before them by not creating windows that stare upon the boxes.” Tatev then shrugged. “I have heard other rumors that claim it is because those that still live are too afraid to come out at night because those that have passed on no longer wish to serve and must be kept in chains to bind their souls to Gerharon forever.”

“Either way, I wish I hadn’t asked,” Erik said. “Will they be friendly?”

“Oh yes,” Tatev said. “The monks of Gerharon are highly hospitable.”

As the pair passed the first lockbox, the lid jolted, as if pushed from inside. Erik and Tatev both jumped.

“I thought you said they were friendly?” Erik shouted.

“Maybe the chains are there for a reason,” Tatev stuttered. “Let’s hurry up.”

Each box they passed quaked and jumped. The stone clapped and ground itself under the rattling chains. Some of the boxes began to glow an ethereal red or orange hue. Fortunately, the chains held. After a while, some of the boxes ceased rattling and appeared to calm down. Still, neither Erik nor Tatev spoke. Their eyes darted to either side of the plateau, warily watching each box of stone.

Then, around from the back of the building came a man dressed in tan robes. The hood was pulled up over his head and concealing his face. He held a string of beads in his right hand that he swung methodically from side to side in front of him. In his left hand he held a staff, though he didn’t let it touch the ground. It appeared the staff served a purpose other than helping the monk walk. As they got closer, Erik noticed the staff was only slightly longer than the monk’s arm.

“What is that?” Erik asked.

“The beads are for his prayers,” Tatev said. “He is to say one hundred prayers each day. There are one hundred wooden beads on the string. The staff conceals a scroll. Each monk memorizes a portion of scripture. When they master it, the scroll is placed into a staff that the monk carries with him.”

“Why?” Erik asked.

“I don’t actually know,” Tatev admitted.

Erik stopped and gaped at the librarian. Tatev offered a smile and shrugged.

“I don’t know everything,” he said. “If I did, we wouldn’t be here.”

Erik stifled a laugh and turned to continue walking. He stopped again. He looked at the monk. Something felt wrong.

Tatev noticed Erik’s hesitation and turned to urge him onward. “They won’t harm us. The monks of Gerharon are not hostile.”

Erik looked to the lockboxes. All of them now were still, as if nothing had happened only moments before. He glanced back to the monk. The man was walking toward them in a moderate, yet determined pace. Erik watched him.

“What is it?” Tatev pressed. “Come along, we don’t want to insult him.”

Erik shook his head. “Tatev, wait.” He summoned his power and searched the monk. Something was very wrong indeed. Tatev stepped in close to Erik and leaned down to whisper in his ear, but Erik didn’t give him the chance. The young champion snaked his hand around Tatev and pushed the librarian behind him. “Don’t move,” he instructed.

He pulled his sword and held it out before his face.

“What are you doing?” Tatev shouted. “This is a disgrace!”

“Stop there,” Erik shouted at the monk.

The man paused, letting the beads slow to a stop.

The boxes began rattling again.

“You are angering the spirits!” Tatev whispered harshly. “Put that away before the monks let the ghosts loose on us.”

Erik shook his head. “That is no monk.” Erik wheeled around and pushed Tatev to the ground, dropped the bag holding Jaleal onto Tatev’s stomach, and then he dove left. A trio of arrows blasted into the ground around them. Erik jumped up and summoned the flames to the sword. He then called his power forth again and revealed three archers that had been hidden by magic.

“Blacktongues,” Erik spat.

“This far east?” Tatev questioned. “Impossible.”

The monk threw back his hood and pulled a wicked pair of axes from under his robes. He tossed his head back and shouted in an unknown language. Assassins dropped from the cliffs and poured out from the monastery. Erik and Tatev turned to run, but a group of Blacktongues blocked the trail.

“We can jump the waterfall,” Tatev said frantically. “No, no, we are too high. We’d never make it,” he argued with himself.

Erik did the only thing he could think of. He pushed Tatev back down with his foot and then darted for the nearest lockbox. Archers leveled their bows and let loose. Erik somersaulted, then zig-zagged and dodged every arrow. Two assassins rushed him. He cut one down and barreled into the second with his left shoulder. The man fell backward and Erik whirled his flaming sword out, brought it up into a high position and made like he was going to chop the fallen man. The Blacktongue rolled away, but Erik changed focus and launched his sword at the lockbox some five yards away.

The Blacktongue took advantage and moved in to strike. Erik had anticipated such a move and lashed out with a savage left kick to the Blacktongue’s groin. Then he came in with a hard right fist to the assassin’s temple. He twirled behind the man, seized the front of his neck, and pulled him up just in time to use him as a shield against another flurry of arrows.

Just as the body fell, a horrible thunder shook the ground. Erik stole a glance to the lockbox. The sword had missed the chain, but it had cracked the lid all the same. A brownish-gray mist broke free from the box. There was no form, as Erik had expected. There was only the ugly mist. It growled and ensnared the nearest Blacktongue, devouring him in an instant and leaving only empty clothes where a body had once been.