The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four) (30 page)

No matter how many people these unlimited
powers put to death, the voices sparked up, fanned by some wind
that stirred the dying coals, unable to let the words die. The
words cried out, though muffled by the shadows, and suppressed by
the violence of those that did not want the truth to be heard. The
voices called out through the night, like small sparks shooting out
into the mist, sparkling for one brilliant moment before being
silenced forever.

For every spark that went out, more seemed to
come to life, glistening out through the dark world. Lancedon and
Andrew, though unaware that each were fanning the flame, spread
these words of truth in the same manner, catching the hearts of men
on fire with a burning thirst for the truth. Both gathered these
scattered sparks, welcoming them to their bosom like children
without home, land or a country to call their own.

These blazing sparks, these voices, cried out
at random, with all the strength that they had, speaking the truth
however small, not caring if what they said would be their last
words. With the outpouring of unleashed words and voices that
carried these words through the streets, The Fallen decreed that
Morack, Vargas, and the kings of the earth should double their
effort. They gave free lies to anyone who would want them. There
were great hunts, and burnings of both words and word bearers. The
Fallen’s minions scoured the land, capturing the bearer of the
freed words. Still the words came, undaunted---they doubled, and
tripled in scope and power.

To keep up with the words, The Fallen’s
efforts then doubled, and tripled. Just as the words and bearers of
the words of truth were hunted, killed and captured, an outpouring
of lies, whose strength and number superceded the amount of
brilliant true words, were unleashed. It was a time where lies
could be had at every corner. They were cheap, and could be easily
bought, easily sold, and easily bartered. They were kept in
constant redistribution. It was a time of great knowledge and great
lack of it. Those who knew what could happen to them if they spoke
the words that Andrew had unleashed, began to fear. May who knew
the truth, hid it their under their coats, buried in their
backyards, stored it in places where no one could find it.

Thus were the days. The caldron of darkness
began to bubble and boil as The Fallen mixed the thin line of
brilliant truth into its blackened mixture. Soon everything would
remain as before. The truth was diluted. The voices that had flared
up were, one by one, getting extinguished. The pot was being mixed,
so that the truth was harder to come by, and even harder to find.
There were so many just-slightly altered versions and models of the
genuine thing, that no one could tell the real truth from fiction.
And not many cared.

Yet for all the stirring, another kind of
stirring was happening. Something was stirring inside men’s souls.
What people believed, whether it was truth or a lie, they believed
it stronger then they ever had before. A chemical reaction began to
take place. And some began to wake up. Those who began to see again
were few, but these few were strong, and would not let the cloak of
lies smother what they knew to be true.

This was what was troubling Morack. This
undaunted, powerful, unstoppable force of unleashed words that
would not be mixed, would not be diluted or compromised, and would
not be silenced.

Morack sat on his throne---hunched was more
like it. He rested his face in his large hands, engrossed in deep
thought. His face was twisted into a very ugly grimace. The lines
in his forehead were etched deep into his skin, like tree rings,
marking the years of his life. He clenched and unclenched his
fists, as if thinking about something very irritating, breathing in
and out in loud gusts as if he were a dragon, ready to blow fire
out of his mouth at any second.

A side door creaked, jerking Morack out of
his deep, angry reverie. He sat up and glanced behind him, hearing
a faint inaudible whisper. The hair on the back of his neck stood
up, and a strange feeling of fear gripped him. “What do you
want?”

There was no answer. The door was open only a
small slit. Yet no one entered. Convinced that a draft had caused
the door to creak, he leaned back on his hand, and proceeded to get
back to thinking his dismal thoughts.

The door creaked again, and a small scraping
sound glided across the floor. There was muffled whisper, then it
hushed when Morack turned to see what it was.

Irritated, Morack hunkered down in his seat,
and pulled his robe around him. “Brrr,” he growled. “It’s freezing
in here. Servants! More wood for the fire.”

A thin man quickly appeared in the doorway.
Without a sound, he tended to the fire, then exited the room as
quickly as he had come in.

The room again was quiet, except for the
snapping and crackling of the now lusty fire. Morack stared at the
burning wood, turning once more to his troubled thoughts about the
horrible words that had been unleashed and were now seeping in
through his kingdom.

Whish, whoosh, whish, swish.

The feathery-soft scraping sounds started
once more, then stopped. A haunting murmur hissed through the room,
causing the fire to sputter and spark. Morack turned around in his
seat and scanned the empty room. No one was there. The marble
floors glistened and shone with the reflection of the fire burning
in fireplace.

Frightened, Morack whirled around in his
seat, and peered out through the room with wide eyes. “Ghosts?” he
breathed.

The sounds started once more, swish, swish,
tick, click, click, like a small beetle brushing against the floor,
along with the same suppressed muffled voices.

More riled than ever, Morack stood up and
whirled around, his great robes swirling as he turned. He thought
he saw a beam of light as it swished past him, and lingered in a
dark corner of the room.

Morack squinted, and peered into the dark
corner. The thing hiding from him, though trying to burry itself in
the darkness, glowed, an iridescent bundle of light. Low, hushed
murmurings were heard coming from the light.

The second he saw it, Morack stood frozen in
place. His mind whirled. He had ordered these bits and pieces of
unleashed words to be caught, buried, burned, destroyed. Yet one
had found its way into his abode. The nerve of such a thing! Even
now his men were scouring the country, burning the words and
locking them away.

How had this one come into his room? His own
unsaid, unheard piece of light. Perhaps his last.

The beam flickered, frightened, yet still
bold.

Unsure what to do with such an unusual item,
Morack stood still, thinking. He was afraid of it, to be sure. What
words with such light were in his power to say that he did not
know? The thought caused him to tremble.

After a long moment passed, he bent down, and
lowered his hand. “Come,” he breathed, his words dripping with
overripe kindness. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s alright.
Come. Come to me, and I will take care of you.”

The trembling beam ventured closer to
Morack’s outstretched hand.

“That’s it,” Morack said, “It’s safe. You can
trust me. No. Don’t be afraid. Yes. That’s it, just a little
closer…”

The courageous beam carefully ventured onto
his hand like a trembling rabbit.

“Gotcha!” Morack hissed, closing his hand
around the trembling beam before it had a chance to dart away. “You
should know better than to trust me!” The beam vibrated with noise,
but Morack clenched his fist around the beam, crushing it.

A muffled cry escaped into the room, and
words Morack would never say, or hear were suddenly silenced.

An eerie heaviness filled the room. Morack’s
countenance seemed to darken. It was as if he had crushed the last
bit of light he possessed. And now all that was left was total
darkness. He opened his fist, and stared down at the shattered
beam---a million silvery pieces of fractured words that he would
never hear or say. Morack dusted off his palms, and then sneezed as
the dust from the dead words fell to the floor. He thought he heard
another scraping sound move across the floor. He swung around,
breathing heavily.

Morack’s eyes clouded over, and he let out an
angry shout. “GUARDS!”

Instantly a group of men rushed through the
door, looking around for some kind of intruder.

“I want this place scoured for these
unleashed words!”

“Sire but we…”

“I don’t care! I just found one in my very
room. If one more enters this chamber, I will have all of your
heads!”

The men looked from one to another in alarm.
“But sire. We have already collected and executed, and scoured the
grounds.”

“I don’t care what you have already done! You
obviously did not do a thorough job! Let none enter the city, let
us purge our streets of this virus before it spreads. Let people
who house these, these…” he couldn’t think of the right words,
“these escaped anomalies, these blighted words, know that to
shelter such things, no matter how small or great, will be
punished!”

The men nodded. “Yes. Sire. We will do our
best. Yet I doubt that we can catch them all.”

“You doubt?” Morack queried. “I WANT EVERY
SINGLE ONE DESTROYED! Do you understand?” With that, Morack exhaled
and pushed past the men, and ushered himself into his bedroom. He
stared at his bed that had ominous posts carved into trees, with
hands holding an orb in their claws. He felt very exhausted. But
the thought of another beam creeping up on him was more than he
could bear.

Where a normal person would be afraid of
darkness, he was afraid of the light. It caused a pain deep within
his chest, caused him to feel restricted, naked, dirty, and wholly
miserable and uncomfortable.

He was about to plop down on his bed, but
thinking better of it, he hesitated, and lifted the covers with his
thumb and forefinger and peered beneath the blankets, afraid that
perhaps another beam might be lurking beneath them.

He smiled when he saw that there was no such
monster, only darkness. Then, just to be safe, he peered underneath
his bed, scanning the floor for any intruders.

Luckily nothing was there, only dust.

Thus comforted, he settled himself in bed. On
second thought, just to be sure no beams crept into his ears while
he slept, he placed a large pillow over his head.

“Yes,” he murmured to himself. “I will
destroy these unleashed words, every single one of them!”

Summit

Overhead, gray clouds gathered in thick sheets,
mixed with deep blue hues. Flecks of snow drifted through the air
like tufts of feathers that did not want to hit the ground.

Lancedon leaned against Coral’s shoulder and
closed his eyes. He listened to the gentle throb of the horse’s
hooves as they plodded along. He could feel warmth emanating off
Coral like a warm summer day on a winter night. He could feel the
flecks of snow that fell on her hair and skin, vanish, in a
vaporizing haze of steam.

Lancedon leaned back, staring at the sky with
unseeing eyes, frustrated that he could not see where they were
going. He was not used to riding with someone else taking the lead.
Yet, that was how it was. He was a passenger. Coral was now his
guide and his eyes.

The unleashed words that they had followed
had led them from city to city, from village to village, from town
to town, gathering those whom the words touched, and called.

Those that heard the call, that listened to
the words of truth, were few. But few by few their numbers grew,
just as the whispered words continued to swell, and sway with the
wind, the words propelled them forward, seeping in through the
loopholes of darkness, reminding the rare few that they were not
alone.

Coral suddenly pulled the horse to a stop on
top of a low hill, overlooking a great city. Through the falling
snow, the torchlight from the city burned and flickered as if
daring the moisture to dampen its great light. Though it was just
evening, it felt much later because of the clouds and heaviness
that bore down on them from some unseen source.

“So,” Lancedon spoke, leaning away from
Coral, and facing the hill as if trying to see the city. “This is
the City of Summit?”

“Yes,” Zeechee breathed, moving his horse to
a stop beside them. “How did you know?”

Lancedon smiled. “I could smell it.”

Zeechee looked amused. “And what does it
smell like?”

“Promising…”

Zeechee’s face filled with uncertainty.
“Promising? I hope so. Why I led you here, I do not know. There are
far more promising cities than this one, I’m sure.”

Lancedon, do you think this is wise?” Coral
wondered. “The city is…”

“What?” Lancedon wondered.

“Dirty.”

“I know. I can smell that too. But there’s
something else, something ready within the city. The unleashed
words have worked their way through its thick walls, and I am sure
that there are many who have gleaned the words and are ready for
our coming.”

“I wish I could be so sure…” Coral murmured,
her eyes growing dark.

“Yes,” Lancedon said as if speaking to
himself. “Our voices must join with those released on the wind. Our
voices must combine and ring as one. We must wake this city. The
powerful words have come this far north. Perhaps they have
penetrated through the lies just enough for our coming to actually
mean something.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Zeechee cautioned.
He drew his horse close to the edge of the hill, surveying the city
with concern. A diluted haze of fear hugged its boarders like a
specter hugging the body of some tormented soul. “Lancedon, if you
could see what I see, and know what I know that is rumored of this
city, you would not be so eager to come here.”