Young Writers Society

This is an idea I came up with a while ago, but I was in the middle of another story, so it was put on hold. I really enjoy writing this one, so I hope it has the same effect on you. Now, the entire prologue is 27 pages, 14 font, single spaced, in Microsoft Word, so it's obviously long. That's why I'll be posting it in parts. Even if you only review one part, it will be appreciated.

Edit: So far I've edited this story according to the following reviewers: pandapez, ankhirke, esme

And so we begin.

A Blank Page: Prologue prt 1: An Alliance Betrayed

Gabriel Abrams sat in his study, hunched over the mess of parchment before him. The only light in the room was a dripping wax candle at the corner of his desk. He shifted uncomfortably within the blue and silver robes of an Adviser, which he’d recently received. No matter what he did with them, they always felt wrong, as if he weren’t supposed to wear them. He sighed. It would be that way for a long while. After wearing the robes of an Author for forty years, it was no wonder he felt unwanted in any other clothing. But he couldn’t let that bother him. He was merely an Adviser now, which brought him back to the problem at hand.

The papers spread before him spoke of past sales, trading agreements, and donations between the city-state of Varin and their neighboring kingdoms, the most notable being the kingdom of Mandred, who’d been very gracious throughout their history. They wanted the favor of the Varin, and since their reign stretched from the agriculturally rich Brazulian River Valley to the mineral filled mines of the Beorris Mountains, their gifts were quite extravagant. During the celebration of Yule the Mandred would send aged wines from their wine cellars, breads, pies, and cakes from the bakeries of South Head, and fresh hogs and deer from the Western Forests. These were accompanied by gifts of gold and silver fashioned into jewelry for the Author and those directly beneath him. For years this was tradition. During Abram’s reign as Author, not once did they miss Yule. But this year had been a different story, and it was surprisingly after the selection of the new Author, Gregory Archeim.

Abrams toiled his mind over why they didn’t follow the tradition. Such a day would be perfect for gaining the new Author’s favor, but instead they’d chosen to ignore him. Even now, no new donations had been received, and the Varin were worried. What would they do without their help? Over a fifth of their income came from the Mandred’s donations, and without them, they’d need to make serious cuts in their lifestyle.

He had been making some calculations, comparing the current income of donations, the profits from trading, and the Varin’s expenses. The Varin, from the outside, was a fortified stone monastery, with armored guards patrolling from above on walkways, each armed with swords and crossbows, and ballista were positioned at the city-state’s four corners. Moving beyond the well-protected outer shell, it was a place of peace and quiet, where talking was frowned upon. The halls and chambers were lined with bookshelves, and where they weren’t, tables were set up for the Varinian monks to translate, copy, and decorate books. This was where their only trade-related income originated, in the trade of books. Even so, these weren’t enough for their expenses, and so donations were a dominant necessity.

The old Adviser pushed up his glasses to rub his eyes. He was getting old, his long beard gray, eyesight failing. He could feel it in his bones; they ached with every movement, even the flick of his ink-dipped quill. He rubbed his fingers gently, stretching out the joints in an attempt to alleviate the pain. He wondered when the Grand Design planned to bring about his death. It would be good to die. In fact, maybe as a final request, he would ask Archeim to do it right away, that night even.

He began writing in the air, remembering how it felt to wield the fates at the end of his quill. He could clearly hear it scratching upon the ancient parchment within his head. How he wished to be within the Book Room right then, writing the world into existence.

But that couldn’t come to be. He’d already had his forty years as Author, and now all he could do was advise until he died. It was bittersweet; he was proud of his young pupil, but the power was no longer his. Even so, the temptation was still there.

The old Adviser let his hand plop to his lap, where a faint pang of pain rippled through his wrist. He silently wished he’d disobeyed the Grand Design. He could have easily left out the words that led to his pain. No ill would have come of it. The only difference would have been the comfort of an old man.

“No,” he asserted, pushing away such dangerous thoughts. He was glad he hadn’t given in to the temptation, and he also realized he couldn’t put it upon Archeim. To ask his friend to write down his death would be cruel and it would also give him a taste of power. Archeim was strong, but the temptation of the power he held at the end of the Book’s quill could take over if he wasn’t careful. No. He wouldn’t speak to Archeim about his pains. He would patiently await his death and let the Grand Design flow unhindered and unadulterated through the young man’s quill, for that was the Author’s job, to write the world into existence. If he followed the Grand Design to the letter the world would eventually reach its ideal form. He would be a good Author, of that Abrams was sure.

He began to chuckle softly as he thought about the limitations set forth for the Authors. If the fact got out that the Author was forbidden to alter the future, their donations would surely plummet to a measly sum. That was the only reason they got anything. The surrounding kingdoms brought gifts of food, gold, and precious gemstones in hopes that the Author would write their victory of conquest into the Book, or maybe write for a good crop that year. No matter what the aim, that was their only reason for donations.

As he continued to work, he heard an airy, thump-like sound in the distance. He looked up, but all seemed quiet. No footsteps came from the hall, no one spoke, and even the bugs seemed quiet that night. Odd but quiet. Nothing wrong. He went back to the job at hand. He couldn’t trouble himself with the sounds of night, for he needed to figure out what costs could be cut.

But they continued as time passed. Every few minutes he’d hear that airy thump, wonder what it was, but then go back to the papers. He thought he heard some voices and shuffling of feet out in the halls, but it wasn’t enough to persuade him out of his chair; his bones wished for as little strain as possible.

Then the airy thump sounded louder than before, closer, more like a boom or explosion, and he could feel the vibrations where he sat. Dust shifted off the tops of the bookshelf as the copper saucer of the candle rattled, dripping molten wax onto the table.

Abrams stared at the drop of wax that cooled upon the oaken desktop. He couldn’t ignore it any longer, whatever it was. He stood up and went to the window with the candle as another boom shook the room, making him trip and nearly fall, just barely catching himself on the windowpane. A few slaps sounded as books hit the ground, and the chair he’d sat in moments before rocked back on its hind legs. And then, after a few moments of silence, for the first time in living memory, the halls of the Varin were filled with cries of terror and pain.

“What in the blazes is…” Abrams looked out the window just as the wooden catapult creaked and launched the ball of flames into the air. It flew in a great arc, and as he watched it, he began to realize where it would hit.

Abrams stumbled away from the window, willing his aching bones to put up with the pain. A red glow shone through the glass and pooled into the room. He could faintly hear the crackling of fire as he yanked open the door and fell through. Not a second later, the flaming projectile exploded through the wall he’d stood at moments before, sending stones flying. Flaming pitch splashed throughout the room and set it ablaze, spreading rapidly upon every surface, even stone.

Abrams lay on the ground outside the study, his hands protecting his head. Flecks of stone and grime had settled into the folds of his robes, and he could feel the heat of the burning study behind him. He wasn’t bleeding anywhere, and after gathering his thoughts, he realized he’d somehow survived.

He groaned as he started to get up. But then he felt a sudden rush of heat from his left thigh.

He hurriedly stumbled to his feet and beat at the lower half of his robes, trying to put out the flame that he soon realized wasn’t there. There was only a white, waxy substance. Confused, he looked around his feet and eventually saw his candle, mashed flat against the ground with the copper saucer beside it. The flame had been smothered, but the molten wax still pooled. That had been what seared him, not pitch. He was lucky. Pitch was nearly impossible to put out once lit.

Abrams brushed the wax from his robes and looked around. The hall was filling with confused and scared monks. Bookshelves had been knocked over, their contents scattered across the ground. Some of the monks who hadn’t gone mad with fear were trying to collect them in the safety of their arms. But others trampled the texts in their hurry. Armored Varin Guards were patrolling the halls, giving orders. The old Adviser caught a few of their words.

“… get to the passage.”

“I need you all to just calm down and…”

“Leave the books! There’s no…”

“… or do you want to die?”

“The passage is your only…”

It was chaos. The once silent and calm Varin Monks were now no more than a confused herd of frightened animals. It was an insult of contrast to the usual peace of the halls, and it angered Abrams. He turned away from it but inadvertently looked back into his study.

Looking through the door, the study was a mess of stones from the obliterated wall, books flung carelessly over them. Flames danced upon everything, even the shapeless stones because of the pitch. Abrams found an odd curiosity in the fact that there wasn’t much smoke coming from the room, but then he saw the big, gaping hole of black where the wall used to be. It stretched up into the room above, weakening the floor separating them. It sagged, stones tumbling down from above. Abrams could see a bloody arm hanging limply over the crumbling ceiling’s edge.

The old Adviser cried out and stumbled to the opposite wall as part of the ceiling caved, bringing a brown-robed body with it. A cloud of debris puffed out the door and veiled the study in a dusty haze.

Abrams couldn’t help but look. The flames crackled and licked forth from the study door, trying to reach him. A few monks ran by, but as if in a trance, he didn’t notice. He just stared ahead into the inferno that was his study. As the haze fell, peeking out from the rocks, he thought he saw the pale pink foot of the fallen monk.

“Adviser Abrams, I need you to come with me.”

Abrams looked over at the guard who’d suddenly appeared beside him. He was young, maybe twenty, with no facial hair. He wore the Varin Guards’ plated armor, with the chest plate, greaves, and gauntlets. On his head was a leather cap with cheek flaps, beneath which he had long, brown hair tied in a ponytail. His eyes were desperate, and his armor-clad hand seemed glued to the sheathed sword at his hip. He was panting heavily, and sweat and soot cloaked him.

“Sir,” the guard said urgently. “I… I need you to come with me.” He waved down the hall, where everyone was running from. “Author Archeim says you can save us, so please come!”

The old Adviser was still in a daze, as if he were watching events unfold from afar. He squinted at the young guard and tried to comprehend what he’d been told.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

“… What?”

The young guard shook his head. There wasn’t time for this. “Please, sir, just come with me.” He grabbed the old Adviser by the arm and began dragging him down the hall.

Abrams didn’t resist. He stumbled along behind the young guard, trying to gather his thoughts. No matter what he did, however, he couldn’t get the images out of his head; the hand hanging from above, the body falling, the foot peeking from the wreckage. He shook his head, hoping the physical action would somehow jar him back into reality.

“W-where are you taking me?” the old Adviser asked as he stumbled over a pile of books. “And… What’s happening to the Varin?”

“It’s the Mandred, sir.”

“The Mandred!?” The shock, for a moment, banished the horrible images from his mind’s eye. Why hadn’t he foreseen this? The donations had stopped, so of course they were going to do something. “Are you sure it’s them?” he asked.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but the Mandred…” the young guard clenched his fist, the leather straps of his gauntlets stretching loudly. “… our allies, are attacking us. They must be after the Book.”

“What in the blazes is wrong with them?” Abrams cried. “They know that one can’t just pick up the Book and wield it! There’s an extensive process to go through that only we know.”

“I know just as well as they, sir, but they must think that those were lies. Or maybe they’re planning to capture Author Archeim in this mess, force him to do what they wish. Or maybe even you.”

Abrams shook his head. “If that’s their plan, then they have no hope. Gregory won’t be swayed by personal threats, and neither would I. But they must surely know what will happen if there’s no one to write within the Book, to write life's story. They would eventually need him, or me, to write within it, and even then the Grand Design would tell us what to write, what will bring about the fall of our captors and the rise of the new Varin.”

“I-is that true?” the guard was surprised by how confident the old Adviser sounded.

Abrams nodded. “Of course. The Varin are always a necessity in the Grand Design, and so if the Author follows its will, the Varin will rise again. It wouldn’t be the first time, I tell you. I believe the last fall of the Varin was around three hundred years ago, so another may be due. After all, the falls themselves are part of the Grand Design.”

The guard led Abrams around a corner, but then stopped suddenly. The old Adviser looked past his escort, curious as to why he stopped. He soon understood.

Before them was a group of four men, two kneeling in front of others. Each aimed a loaded crossbow in their direction. They were covered in grime, their armor having lost its sheen, sweating, and their trigger fingers looked ready to pull. An intense silence rippled between the two groups, each waiting for the other to move first.

But then a sigh of relief. They all lowered their weapons as they saw the Varin insignia on each other’s chest plates and their leather caps.

One of the four stepped forward. He had a gray beard and bushy eyebrows that popped out from beneath his leather cap. “Why are you coming this way?” he barked. “The orders were for everyone to evacuate to the passage, which is in that direction.” He pointed from where they’d come.

The young guard, with his hand still at his sword, said, “I need to get Adviser Abrams to the Author’s side right away.”

The bushy-browed guard frowned, unconvinced. “And I have orders to keep the monks safe by sending them in the direction from which you came. Wouldn’t I appear negligent if I let you pass?”

“But it would be negligent to keep the Adviser from where he’s needed!”

The two glared at each other, the bushy-browed guard’s lip curled with distaste.

“Enough!” Abrams bellowed with a voice reminiscent of younger years. He walked right up to the bushy-browed guard and looked him in the eye. “I don’t care what your orders are! I am Gabriel Abrams, the fortieth Adviser, and I have new commands for you to follow; step aside and let us pass! Or do you want the death of the Varin to be on you?”

The bushy-browed guard was taken back. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a vocal crackle.

“Exactly. Let’s go… What was your name again?” He waved at his guard escort.

“William, sir,” the young guard gasped.

“Very well, William, let’s get going.” Abrams pushed past the speechless guard with William close behind. The other three guards parted quite easily with their leader still gaping down the hall.

The only thing on the old Adviser’s mind at that point was getting to Archeim’s side. He was needed. It felt good to be needed again, but what was he supposed to do? He was no longer the Author, and for him to take over was forbidden. He could only advise. He just hoped that would be enough.

As they walked on, William thought about the passion that had taken residence in the old Adviser. He seemed more alive, and William now felt as if he were being escorted, not him escorting Abrams. It was a surprising, but well received, change.

“Sir,” the young guard asked as they were walking down a flight of stairs at the corner. “Do you even know where we’re going? I don’t think I’ve told you.”

Abrams nodded. “Of course. The Book Room. It’s in this direction, and there’s no where else around that Gregory would be.” The thing he couldn’t figure out, however, was why Archeim hadn’t evacuated with the Book yet. That was the obvious solution, for the Varin existed to fall for its existence. He’d have to ask him when he got to the Book Room.

They passed many more guards as they continued through the halls, but none seemed willing to stop the old Adviser as he trudged through their lines and ignored their words. William, however, wanting to be well informed, pulled a guard aside from a group that was going in the same direction.

“So what’s the current situation?” William asked. “I only know it’s the Mandred.”

The guard, Archibald, had orange hair, with sideburns that grew down to his chin where it met a lightly-trimmed beard. He spoke with his hands, waving them about to accentuate his point. “Well ya see, what happened is they came chargin’ in from the east, west, and south, catching us on three sides.” He brought his hands together with a clap. “Mashed us, they did. Would’a come from the North too if it weren’t for the cliff. I always thought that was mighty handy, worth more than a pretty sight of the sea.”

“Yes, yes,” William urged, waving his hand in a circular motion. “So what’s happening now?”

The guard hardly seemed put off. “Well, what happened, ya see, is they brought in some flash bangers on the eastern wall, and then…”

“Sorry, flash bangers?” William asked. By now he was sure this man was foreign, maybe from Albinai.

“Aye,” he said, nodding. “Flash bangers. Fire sticks. Things that go ka-boom!” He threw his hands into the air.

“Ah, explosives.”

“Aye,” he said, waving his finger at him. “Explosives. Anyway, they took the flash bangers and blew a hole into the eastern wall. Ka-boom!” He threw his hands into the air again. He then brought them to chest level and wiggled his fingers as if they were little soldier feet. “Then they walked right in, they did. They took us by surprise, I hear, and it was easy for them to spread. But don’t worry, Willy, our guys are keepin’m away from the Book Room. We’ll die before that happens, we will.” He pounded his chest plate with his armor-clad hand proudly, the motion picked up by the guards in his group. A morale-boosting clanking filled the air. “We’re off to fight now, we are.”

After that, the red-haired Albanite struck up a new conversation, one with a cheerier topic. The two hit it off well, and William found the man interesting, despite the fact he couldn’t understand half of what he said.

As they talked, Abrams walked alone, deep in thought. He’d heard the conversation and now understood the situation well. “What are you doing, Gregory?” he said softly. Some of the nearby guards looked up curiously, but a sharp glare from the old Adviser scared them off.

Walking for so long had made his old bones hurt, and he was breathing heavily. It made him all too aware of his current status as Adviser. Back in his crimson, Authorian robes he’d been able to do amazing things, even without the Book. He thought about how easy it would be to rewrite the story of his bones so they wouldn‘t ache with each step or to better his lung capacity and blood flow to aid his breathing. Even without the Book, he could do that and more.

But it was forbidden.

He was the Adviser, not the Author. Even for small benefit, he couldn’t rewrite the stories set forth by the Book and Grand Design. And so he would put up with the burdens of age.

He proudly reminded himself that’s why he’d been considered one of the best Authors in Varin history. He could do things without the Book that many of his predecessors had only dreamed of. But even so, it had been his resolute attitude towards the temptations that made him elite. He’d once declared, “I would rather die than defy the Grand Design.” But had that been true? He thought back to his weakness not too long before, back in his study. He’d thought about asking Archeim to write his death within the Book. He cursed that version of himself, that weak being he’d let take over. It was as if he’d awakened from a nightmare, and now he would never fall asleep again.

They reached the door leading to the Book Room. Some of the guards looked curiously at the door. It was so plain, if you ignored the size and heft, but there was a mystery about it. They all knew where it led, but none knew what exactly lay within. The Book was in there, of course, but only the Author and his Adviser were allowed inside.

“Would you like us to… come along?” one of the guards asked hopefully. But with a simple glance from Abrams, he turned on his heals and walked away, the others soon following.

“Well,” the guard from Albanai said before following, “I guess I’ll be seeing ya, Willy. We’ll be sure to keep them damn Mandrenites away as long as we can, so ya better do what ya gotta do and get out. Got it?”

William smiled and nodded. “We will. Good luck, Archibald.”

“Aye. Good luck to ya too, Willy.” He pounded his fist against his chest plate as he walked down the hall to battle.

Abrams waited until they were out of earshot. “Rather annoying, that Albanite was.”

“I thought he was interesting,” William said, defending his new friend. “And you have to admit he’s a good man.”

The old Adviser looked back with a risen brow, but it was soon followed by a smile. “Yes. I suppose I do. The world would be a far blander place without such loud friends, I suppose.”

Abrams put his hand on the door. It was special, one that could only be opened by those who commanded Authorian forces. Whenever he’d entered with Archeim he’d let the young Author open it, but for the time being he would need to. Doing such was merely frowned upon for an Adviser, not forbidden. And so he began to rewrite its story.

The old Adviser, once Author, could see the words that ran through the door, the ones that brought about its existence. Each letter sparked with bright life. With forty years of Authorian experience, it took him an instant to mentally pluck out and rewrite the necessary words. And then the door was unlocked. It opened smoothly.