Young Writers Society

I know it's been a long one, but this is the final part of A Blank Page's prologue. I hope you've enjoyed the ride so far, and I can't wait to get on with chapter one. So, without wasting any more time, here it is.

As a side note, if you want a summary of the previous parts, I'll have them written out in the link below.

http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/weblog.php?w=1169

A Blank Page: Prologue prt 3: The Swirling Sun

Abrams and the others looked at the open door. Leaning against the doorframe was a tall man clad in an armor of two cultures. Those cultures were the Mandred, and, to Abram’s anger, the Varin. Being a rich nation, the Mandred armor was extravagant, with a breastplate adorned with the golden Mandrenian standard, a lion on its haunches, roaring. The shoulder plating, the spaulders, were polished to a bright sheen with circular besagews protecting the pits. His lower half was protected by the usual cuisses over the thighs, poleyns on the knees, greaves for the shins, and then sabatons over the feet. Underneath the armor, he wore crimson and gold clothing fashioned in style to that of an Author. Then, as one last strike to Varin honor, he wore the leather cap of the Varin Guard atop his long, flowing gray hair. Over the man’s smirking lips, he had a thin, gray mustache.

“Nicholas ,” Abrams growled. “What have you done?”

Madrok’s smirk showed no teeth. Instead, his lips curled into a dark grimace that chilled the blood. “What have I done?” he said. “Why, I am simply following the Grand Design’s wishes.”

“It’s wishes?” the old Adviser said. “You’ve betrayed the Varin! Do you think claiming that will excuse what you’ve done?”

Madrok laughed, fiddling with the ruby-adorned hilt of his sheathed sword. “Why yes, I do. You know as well as I do that the destruction of the Varin is part of the Grand Design. It was meant to be, and so I merely dipped my hand within the act. I’ve brought the world closer to its ideal form.”

Abrams shook his head. “But one with Authorian powers shouldn’t use them to alter events!”

“Oh, but I didn’t,” Madrok said darkly. “I merely did what I wished. This was a test, you see. I haven’t used my Authorian powers once since that day you rejected me for that talentless boy.” He waved lazily at Archeim as if he were no more than a little bug. “All that’s happened was meant to be. In fact, I believe you are the one who’s to blame.”

“What logic is that?” Abrams asked.

“You know what I am speaking of!” Madrok barked, taking a step onto the platform. “You defied the Grand Design by choosing Gregory over me! You were jealous of what I could become, and so you chose a successor that couldn’t measure up to you. I was meant to be the Author. The fact the Grand Design brought these events about proves it!”

The accusation hit Archeim harder than anyone. “I-is that true?” he asked Abrams.

“Of course not! He’s blind in his quest for power.”

Despite the assurance, Archeim felt unsure. He hadn’t done well so far. Maybe, he thought, horrified, the fall of the Varin was punishment for him rising to be Author. He looked down at his robes, and he once again wished for them not to be his.

Madrok waved with two fingers, and Mandrenian soldiers flooded in from behind him, their armor clanking loudly. “Remember,” he said, “stay on the platform, crossbows loaded.” In less than a minute they were surrounded.

William couldn’t believe how quickly things had turned sour. He drew his sword with a ‘shing’, although he wasn’t sure how much good it would do with the army of crossbows aimed at them. He gripped the hilt tightly.

Enoch seemed untroubled from where he stood. The soldiers stared at him as they passed, but didn’t hurt him in any way.

“Enoch,” Madrok called. “I hope you remember your place.”

The dark-robed man scowled. “I don’t need you reminding me, Madrok. I won’t interfere, for as you say, it’s not my place.” He stepped away from the platform and sat on the edge of the hole he’d come through, resting his staff on his lap.

Madrok’s original plan had gone quite differently than what was happening. He’d led the Mandrenian assault on the Varin, making sure it was a drawn out effort. He’d hoped this would entice Archeim into fleeing into the passage with the Book, where he had an entire army waiting. But the young Author hadn’t. He’d stayed, which perplexed Madrok. Not missing a beat, he’d decided the only logical place for him to be would be the Book Room. So, with a group of crossbow-armed soldiers, he’d led them to where they were now. But there was something he hadn’t quite expected; the presence of the young guard. In any other room, it was fine, but it was a different story within the Book Room, where only three were allowed. He’d assumed that if anyone was within, it would be the Author, his Adviser, and the Book Keeper. This would have been easy, for Enoch, who couldn’t care less who the Author was as long as there was one, would walk off the glass if the other two were killed. Then Madrok could stride out and take the Book for himself.

But once again, the young guard was there.

The guard wouldn’t leave like Enoch. He probably knew the danger his life was in, so he would stay and listen to the other two. Considering this, he could kill all three then and there, but then no one would be able to enter the room since there were still three people on the glass. Worse off, they’d be dead, and no matter of coaxing could persuade the dead to move. He was sure if he gave it enough time he could find a process to remove the bodies, but he was impatient for the power. Also, he wasn’t sure how much Archeim had written within the Book. For all he knew, it had only been written up to the next dawn, so he couldn’t waste time trying to remove a body. He had to get the Book out soon and perform the ceremony so he could start writing.

But for the time being, they were at a stalemate. Madrok, however, planned to tip the odds in his favor.

“Gregory,” he said, reaching out an open hand. “Give me the Book, and I will stop this siege. I will leave with the Book and let everyone live. But if you don’t…” He drew his sword in one great, exaggerated motion, bringing it up to his throat. “I will kill everyone.”

Archeim looked back at the Book resting upon the pedestal. As an Author, he was supposed to protect it with his life, and, if necessary, the lives of others. But even so, surely there was no hope otherwise. Maybe he should just give up, cut their losses. He couldn’t imagine loosing his brethren, for everyone of the Varin was family to him. He’d already lost his closest friend, Nicholas, and it was all because he was the Author. It was all because of him.

But Abrams wouldn’t have it. “Gregory wouldn’t be so weak as to give in to such a threat.” His emphases on ‘weak’ even made William uncomfortable, who wasn’t in the verbal line of fire.

Madrok swung his sword and pointed at the old Adviser. “I think the Author has a right to make his own decision, Gabriel.”

Abrams, no matter how much he wanted to take control of the situation, knew Madrok was right. He couldn’t tell Archeim what to do. He was the Author now, and so the responsibility was upon him. He could only give his opinion.

“Gregory,” the old Adviser said. “I think the Book should be kept from Madrok. I don’t believe traitors keep their word. Besides, what is more important? The fate of the Varin, or the fate of the world? It’s your choice, for it’s as he says. You are the Author.”

Archeim was even more afraid knowing Abrams agreed that it was his decision. He didn’t want this responsibility! He’d said it himself. The fate of the world was upon his shoulders. As a boy, and especially during his training, he read many stories where the hero had to save the world. He’d always thought to himself, “Oh, how great to be the hero.” But now he knew differently. It was horrible. But he was the hero of this story, and, even with his Authorian powers, that couldn’t be rewritten. He had to make a decision, and the best one.

Archeim walked over to the pedestal and rested his hands on either side of the Book.

“Yes,” Madrok said. “Bring it to me and all will be well.”

“Be quiet, Madrok!” Archeim yelled.

Madrok was taken back. He’d called him by his last name, the true sign of a friend lost. But he realized that was fine. He wanted them dead. They were no longer his friends.

“Just… Just give me time to think,” the young Author said. “Just a few minutes.”

Although Archeim wasn’t looking, Madrok nodded. “Very well, Grego… Archeim. Because we were once friends, I will give you five minutes.”

Abrams had to admit, when Archeim went to the pedestal he’d been afraid. What would the world become with someone like Madrok as its Author? If he would go this far to take the position from Archeim, Abrams had no doubt he’d abuse the Book’s power. He would follow the Grand Design to a point, surely, for it was impossible for the world to exist otherwise. But then he would ammend things, change it to the way he sees fit. If that happened, the world would contort to a fake version, one that shouldn’t have come into existence. It would take the lives of countless Authors to get the world back to the one the Grand Design wanted.

Five minutes passed and yet Archeim’s decision hadn’t come.

“Time’s up, Archeim,” Madrok said. “What’s your decision?”

Silence.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll just kill you now.” A bluff, Madrok knew, but they didn’t.

Archeim bit his lip and looked down at the open Book before him. The blank page called to him.

And so he made a decision.

He lifted his right hand, ignoring the intense pain, and picked up the quill. After dipping it in the inkwell he began writing.

“Archeim!” Madrok bellowed. “What is your decision?” He raised his hand, and the soldiers took aim. He hoped Archeim wasn’t calling his bluff, for if he was, he couldn’t lose face. He’d need to start killing, probably starting with Abrams. He silently bid farewell to his old friend and mentor.

“What are you doing?” Abrams hissed. “Make a decision.”

“I have,” Archeim said as he wrote the last period. He closed the Book, picked it up, and turned to Madrok. “I’ll give you the Book,” he called, “under one condition.”

Madrok paused for a moment. But then he smiled. “Very well, let’s hear it.”

“Swear to me that when I give you the Book you will stop the attack, you will let we three go, and, lastly, that you will never, under any circumstance, write outside the boundaries set forth by the Grand Design. Swear it!”

Madrok laughed. “But of course! I swear on my life that I will uphold the said demands.”

“Good.” Archeim began walking forward.

Madrok watched him closely as he approached. He wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he’d seen the young Author do something at the pedestal. He may have written within the Book, so he had to be careful. If Archeim had, then the Grand Design’s wish for Madrok to be the Author wouldn’t matter. All that mattered would be what had been written.

Archeim paused by his two companions, and his lips moved. Madrok couldn’t hear, and it made him nervous despite the fact he was the one with an army of soldiers. But then Archeim continued on without looking back.

“You’re a greater Author than I thought,” Madrok said, stepping to the edge of the platform. He reached out.

Archeim got close and presented the leather-bound Book, wondering if he’d made a mistake, if he’d made things worse . But it was too late to change his mind.

“Thank you, friend,” Madrok said as he took the Book. For a moment, he thought about what he was about to do. But then he quickly decided they would only get in his way. “Now kill them!”

Before the first bolt flew, Archeim charged into Madrok. He gasped a curse riddled with blood as a sword was driven through his stomach and out his back. He whimpered out something unintelligible and looked in Madrok’s harsh eyes. They burned with blood lust and a hunger for power.

Even with the sword sticking through him, Archeim didn’t let go of Madrok. Then, as an army of crossbow bolts whizzed into their two gasping targets standing over the blazing sun, the young Author used his weight to make Madrok step onto the glass flooring.

And the Book Room reacted.

A roar erupted from below as the sun began to swirl with a red the color of dried blood. The flaming tendrils spun around, dragging the sun with it, forming a whirlpool of fire. The red was thick, but the bright light burst through the cracks. As it swirled, the room spun with light, and cries of fear came from the Mandrenian soldiers.

Madrok kicked Archeim’s bloody corpse away onto the glass, the sword still impaling its stomach, and fell back onto the platform. He clenched the Book up against his chest and scrambled through the doorway.

At the center of the Book Room, the dead Adviser and guard were sprawled around the Book’s pedestal, their bodies flashing into light and then darkness repeatedly because of the swirling sun. The bolt shafts stuck out of them at every angle, almost burying them with wood. Archeim was just a few feet from the platform, his body flashing into and out of darkness. The three didn’t move. But they were the first to fall.

The glass floor vanished, releasing a violent torrent of hot wind, and the three lifeless bodies fell into the molten whirlpool. They didn’t even arouse a splash. They were just gone, as if they’d fallen through a cloud of flames. The only thing left out in the center of the room was the Book’s pedestal, where it floated, awaiting the end of the mayhem. Moments later, the white stones of the circumnavigating platform crumbled away, and the screaming Mandrenian soldiers fell to their deaths.

As he fell, a soldier wondered how this had happened, how the tide had turned. He hit the swirling sun and, although he felt no resistance, was engulfed in an intense heat that boiled him within his armor. The metal plating melted to his seared skin, and his helmet dripped molten metal into his ears, eyes, and mouth. He was engulfed in a ferocious pain that made him beg for the death that took an eternity to come.

To Madrok’s horror, the screams of his men had lasted long after they fell. Their tortured cries echoed in the room for minutes, even over the wailing wind, before finally ceasing. He’d heard their pleas, how they’d begged for death, and it made him shudder. He’d never realized how horrible the Book Room’s trap was. He’d heard it did something, many had, but only the Author, the Adviser, and the Book Keeper knew what that something actually was. For a moment, he mourned for his men.

But then he remembered the Book and smiled. He’d succeeded! He had the Book! Who cared what happened to his men. He’d escaped in time, and so there was no point in worrying. All his obstacles were gone. He was finally the Author!

He began laughing as the swirling sun settled down, the windy torrent calming with it. He continued laughing as the stones of the platform replaced themselves and the glass flooring reappeared. He was still laughing even as Enoch exited from his hole in the wall and approached him. He laughed long and hard, gasping for breath the entire time, his chest screaming for reprieve but not getting it. He couldn’t help it, he was so giddy.

Enoch walked over to the armored man that rolled on the ground. The traitor’s armor clanked as he rode out his residual chuckles.

“Excuse me, Madrok,” Enoch said. “But when should we start the ceremony?”

Madrok wiped a tear from his eye and looked up at Enoch’s stern face. He’d drawn his hood, revealing a pale, youthful face of someone in his late teens. His crimson hair was shoulder-lengthed, and his blue eyes were cold and icy. Typical Enoch, Madrok thought. He doesn’t even care I killed the Author!

Still chuckling, Madrok stood up. “Now. Let’s make me the Author immediately.”

Enoch looked down the tunnel. “Shouldn’t you call off the attack first? You did promise Archeim.” It’s not that he cared, but he felt such a thing needed reminding.

“Yes, yes, all in good time.” Madrok said, waving his hand. “That can wait until after the ceremony.”

“Many will die.”

“Merely details, Enoch. On with the ceremony.”

Enoch smiled. In the countless lifetimes he’d spent with the Authors, not once had he liked a single one of them. They were all the same, always doing the good thing, never varying from the Grand Design’s wishes. It had been a dreadfully boring eternity, but Madrok was their opposite. Maybe he would be more interesting.

The Book Keeper bowed loyally, allowing himself a chuckle. “Very well, Author Madrok. Very well indeed.”

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And that's the end of the prologue. I can't wait to get started on the rest, and I hope this wasn't too long for you all.