Seeol leapt into flight and chanced a glance at the sun to gain his bearings. Whether they were being pursued by danger or not, he knew the others would be continuing south for Old World. That was where he had to go. Seeol found the road south and followed it. He knew the others wouldn’t be travelling by road, but if they were still free, they wouldn’t be far from it.
For days, Seeol flew. He was tired and hadn’t eaten enough. He beat through the skies day and night, sleeping minimally, always keeping out a watchful eye. Sometimes, he was depressed. Other times, he was panicked by renewed fear of the fate of his kin. And to him, they had truly become family. A year ago, he’d never have guessed it, living alone in Narvon Wood, that one day he’d have found family in the form of two humans and a silt. He loved them. And it was this love that drove him onward through pain and exhaustion.
In the distance, an ancient castle became visible at the peak of a green mountain. As Seeol approached he bore witness to a beautiful city filled with structures of equal age. He was caught off-guard when he spotted the Elglair hadoan approaching. Why would Far-a-mael be in this strange place? Perhaps he was visiting his friends. When chaos erupted, Seeol was forced to recognise that the people below were anything but friends. They hated each other.
Arrows flew. Swords slashed. Men died. He didn’t know why everyone always had to go about killing each other. He’d accidentally killed heaps of people and couldn’t understand why anyone would do it on purpose. It was so mean. Desperate to help, Seeol banked toward the great walls at the base of the valley, but something caught his eye. At the peak of a broken mountain adjacent to the city, Seeol found his family.
El-i-miir, Seteal, and Ilgrin rested on their elbows, peering out at the battle below. They were not under threat. They hadn’t been captured. In fact, they looked quite well, if a little shocked at the scene unfolding before them. Seeol wanted to cuddle them, but he knew that time was short for the naughty men below. He was torn. He loved his friends, but if there was a way for him to stop the fighting he had to find it. He couldn’t just stand by and watch while people were dying. They had families, too.
Alighting on the great wall, Seeol turned his attention to the men that lined it. They had bows and arrows that they shot through small gaps. The wall kept them safe so that they could kill from a distance. The inhumanity turned Seeol’s stomach.
An arrow zipped past. The force sent him spiralling off the upper part of the wall and onto the landing below where countless boots trampled and rushed about. Seeol panicked. Feet were raining down all around him, each time coming perilously close to crushing him. He beat his wings, but couldn’t escape. The men were too tightly packed. Here, a stray hand slapped him back down. There, a bent knee knocked him off course.
A boot landed on Seeol’s tail feathers, pinning him to the spot.
‘Help!’ Seeol shrieked. ‘Help! Seteal!’ He couldn’t be certain why he’d called for her, knowing very well that she was far beyond earshot.
‘Watch out,’ a man barked. ‘Get off him.’ The foot vanished and human hands scooped Seeol up to safety.
‘Maker bless thee,’ said a narrow-faced man with a short, neatly trimmed blond beard. He smiled warmly.
Seeol had learnt that on many occasions he should keep his mouth shut. Humans reacted strangely and often dangerously toward animals that could talk. Emquin had been living proof of that. But this was one occasion in which Seeol needed all the help he could get. And besides, the Jenjen were supposed to be fond of owls. Ilgrin and El-i-miir had both said so.
‘Thank you,’ Seeol replied, looking the man in the eye. ‘Maker likes to blessing you, too.’
‘My Maker!’ The man stumbled back, all the while making sure to maintain his protective hold on Seeol.
‘Your Maker,’ Seeol agreed.
The man’s eyes widened in disbelief. And then he was running. The wall with all its shuffling men disappeared as the archer hurried down a set of stone stairs and along a poorly lit passage before re-entering daylight. Scared women and children flashed by on either side as the human’s powerful legs propelled him onward.
When the archer reached a smaller, though equally as impressive wall, he slowed to a trot and headed toward the gates. He beat his fist against them until he was granted admittance by the gatekeeper.
‘The king!’ the man cried. ‘I must see the king!’ He raced toward the castle doors without waiting for an escort.
‘You there, archer! You must wait for the guard,’ the gatekeeper ordered. ‘What is your rush?’
‘Everyone is getting murdered,’ Seeol pleaded. How could he not see the urgency in that?
‘I’ll arrange you an audience immediately.’ The gatekeeper’s eyes widened as he backed away.
Before long, Seeol found himself being jostled along through candlelit corridors. There were brightly painted canvases on all of the walls depicting the Jenjen victorious in battles passed. Seeol shook his head. How could this be something in which they took pride? They’d killed people, people that someone, somewhere had loved.
Gold gilded doors opened with a gush to reveal the king making himself comfortable atop his throne, having only just entered the room himself.
‘My lord.’ The archer bowed deeply, then waiting for permission to stand again.
‘Why have you disturbed me?’ The king narrowed his piercing eyes irritably. He scratched at a thick red beard with the kind of force reserved for something he might detest. ‘My people are in battle.’
‘The Holy Spirit,’ the archer panted. ‘Maker’s Holy Spirit has come!’
‘What is your name?’ The king sat back and sighed disbelievingly.
‘Phil Yas,’ the archer said breathily.
‘Tell me, Mister Yas . . .’ The king tapped a finger against his gem encrusted armrest. ‘Are you aware of the penalty for heresy?’
‘Tell him,’ Phil pleaded, opening his palms.
‘Tell him what?’ Seeol asked in confusion. ‘I don’t know what is happened,’ he continued, fluttering out of Phil’s hands and hurrying over to the king, ‘but this killing spree must stops immediately because people are died!’
The king sat for an extended moment, his eyes locked on Seeol. ‘As you say, my Lord the Holy Spirit.’ The old man leapt up from his chair and raced out of the room.
Moments later, a loud horn was sounded repeatedly and the intrusive noise of battle came to an end. Seeol breathed a sigh of relief. Everybody was safe now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE END IS NIGH
King Harundor’s grounds stretched out over several hundred square strides in every direction. The top of the mountain had been flattened so as to provide a level plain on which to walk. The grounds were decorated by patches of perfectly groomed hedges and brightly blooming flowers. One hundred servants milled about the yard with trays of wine, tailing important court officials and royal associates. At the centre of the yard stood a rather extravagant golden totem of an owl--of no specific breed--boasting sizeable ear tufts. King Harundor observed the goings-on from his chair at the centre of a semicircular balcony. To his right sat the queen and his three sons. And, of course, Seeol too was present.
‘Your attention, please.’ A reedy man with a frilled collar stepped out onto the balcony to capture the attention of those below. ‘His Lordship, King Harundor will now speak.’ The man bowed himself off the balcony and the yard fell silent.
The king paused for a moment, before rising to his feet and swaggering across the balcony. He gripped the rail, his ruby ring capturing and reflecting the midday sun. ‘Many of you are aware of why you’ve been assembled,’ he began with an elevated voice. ‘As the writers of the Holy Tome prophesised over two and a half thousand years ago, Maker’s Holy Spirit has come down to our people. The Holy Tome teaches that the Holy Spirit would come to us with the body of an owl in our greatest time of need. The prophesy of which I speak has recently been fulfilled. It comes as no surprise that Maker should grant u
s this blessing at a time when the Elglair seek to engage Old World in war. We are on the cusp of a new age: an age of violence. The end, my brothers, has become imminent.’
Harundor lifted a hand to his forehead and squinted at the crowds below. ‘I, Braihon Harundor, protector and humble servant of the people of Jenjol, hereby swear fealty to Seeol, the Hand of Maker and the Holy Spirit. I give my kingdom over into His hands: the hands of Maker Himself. I do so with a humbled heart that the Lord may do with me as He pleases. Amen.’
The man took a step back and bowed. In like manner, the people dropped to their knees and lowered their faces to the dirt.
Seeol felt overwhelmed to say the least. He didn’t understand every word that’d been spoken, but as far as he could tell, he’d recently made a great deal of new friends. Silence prevailed, both the royal family and the folks below maintaining their positions. Finally, Seeol realised that perhaps he was expected to say something: to introduce himself. ‘I am Seeol,’ he began. ‘I will be your friend, but I must go to Old World.’
‘Of course, Holy Spirit.’ The king rose steadily and with him did his subjects. ‘The time has come and with Your good will, we cannot fail.’
‘We must find the Elglair,’ Seeol continued. ‘They will be my friends, too. Please don’t hurting them anymore. We can all go to Old World together and help.’ Seeol smiled inwardly. He just knew that the other silts would be like Ilgrin and everyone would be able to get along like the very best of friends.
‘Of course!’ Harundor exclaimed. ‘We will do as you say and form an alliance with the Elglair. Together we will be indestructible. Together, we shall travel to Old World and there we shall obliterate the demon threat.’
‘Yes!’ Seeol shrieked excitedly. He’d never heard the word 'obliterate' before, but felt certain it must mean something similar to 'cuddle.' ‘We will obliterate them!’ Seeol cried, hopping about excitedly on his tall, golden perch.
The crowd below roared with enthusiasm, cheering and shouting joyously. Seeol’s heart swelled at the realisation that he’d made them happy. El-i-miir would’ve been so proud.
‘My Lord, Holy Spirit,’ the king said with quiet determination. ‘I must tend to your orders immediately. With your blessing, I will send scouts ahead to meet with the Elglair.’
‘Yesh.’ Seeol bobbed his head. ‘But don’t trust Far-a-mael.’
‘He is their leader?’
‘Yes.’
‘We will never trust them too much, Holy Spirit,’ Harundor said reassuringly. ‘The Elglair abandoned You long ago. We know this just as You know that we are your true people.’
‘They did abandon me.’ Seeol gaped at Harundor, surprised by his knowledge. How could he have known that El-i-miir and the others abandoned him in the tool shed? The king truly must be a powerful man. ‘But we must find them all the same.’
‘Of course.’ The king bowed as he moved away. ‘An alliance is the only way we will be strong enough to take Old World.
‘Yes.’ Seeol tilted his head, uncertain as to where exactly the king was planning to take Old World. He might’ve enquired further, but Harundor scurried away to carry out his duties.
‘My Lord, Holy Spirit, the Hand of Maker, our Father from above,’ said a girl several years younger than Seteal as she approached in a silky maroon dress. She wore a single golden glove patterned in leaf-work embroidery and had rich red hair that tumbled down her back. ‘I am your humble slave, Ieane. Of course, you may call me whatever you wish. King Harundor has asked me to show you to your personal chambers.’ She raised her gloved hand, allowing Seeol to step up onto her fingers.
‘Yes, please, Ieane.’ Seeol bobbed his head in agreement. ‘We will be good friends and you will not be a slave because you are my friend.’
‘As you wish, Holy Spirit.’ The girl bowed her head respectfully before making her way inside, Seeol perched on her decorative glove. A short trip along darkly lit stone corridors led to a rather old-looking door. At the top of the door, a square hole had been carved hastily to allow for the comings and goings of an elf owl. A small maroon curtain hung in the owl-sized entrance out of respect for Seeol’s privacy. Not that he really needed any. He was only an elf owl, after all. Seteal and the others made sure to remind him of that.
‘Your chambers, my Lord,’ Ieane raised her hand toward the square entrance.
‘For me?’ Seeol stepped into the opening and nuzzled the curtain aside. ‘Can I look and play?’
‘You may do as you wish, my Father,’ Ieane replied, her eyes downcast.
‘Thank you.’ Seeol tilted his head, confused as to how the girl might’ve mistaken him for her father. But of course, these people called him a lot of unfamiliar names. It didn’t bother Seeol. He was happy just to have so many new friends. Not so long ago, Seeol hadn’t even had a name. He’d accepted Seeol only because it was what the others chose to call him. Why not allow the Jenjen the same opportunity?
Seeol flew down into the chamber. It was all too much. The bed could’ve fit several humans. There was a table and chairs. There were mirrors and bookshelves. There was even a large clock. Seeol practiced his laugh and flew back to the doorway.
‘Come in! Come in, Ieane.’
‘May I?’ a deep voice rumbled. It was not Ieane’s. The girl stood behind a tall slender man wearing an imposing green robe. He had black hair and dark eyes.
‘Come in,’ Seeol replied with caution, before flying toward his table and coming to rest on the back of a chair. The main door opened to reveal the strange man returning a key to Ieane before entering.
‘I am Den Damah.’ The tall man bowed several strides from Seeol’s chair. ‘High Priest of Veret.’
‘Yes.’ Seeol shrugged his wings.
‘Yes . . . ?’ High Priest Damah narrowed his eyes. ‘As the all-knowing Hand of Maker, you must know the truth of my secret.’
‘I know many naughty secrets,’ Seeol said in confusion. Had the stranger learnt of Seeol’s past misdeeds?
‘I’m certain you do.’ Damah’s voice quivered anxiously. ‘But I’m humbly asking if you might explain this?’ He reached into his pocket to retrieve a spherical stone no larger than Seeol’s eye. So black was the stone that it appeared to shine darkness, thereby draining the light from its immediate surroundings. As a result, its exact dimensions were hard to determine.
‘That is mine.’ Seeol stared at the stone in horror. He had never seen it before, but it looked exactly like something he knew very well.
There existed a tree in a clearing in the northern parts of Narvon Wood. It was black to such a point that it drained light from the air and set a burden to the soul. It was the tree beneath which Seeol had hatched.
‘Yes, Master.’ The high priest fell to his knees. ‘It is yours.’
‘It is of terrible evil.’ Seeol’s face sunk to the floor. It could only be a thing of evil, just like him.
‘Then you truly are He.’ Damah’s chin quivered. ‘You recognise your own creation for the darkness it bears.’
‘Yes,’ Seeol said bitterly, realising that the stone must have been found near his tree. ‘It is from the woods were it all began.’
‘Yes,’ Damah replied. ‘You trusted it to Sa’Tan, but he defied You. Instead of doing as he’d been instructed, he used it to forge a gateway between our worlds and illegally entered the garden of Edin.’
‘What?’ Seeol cocked his head in utter confusion. ‘Where is it from?’
‘We believe it was found by demons in Cold Wood, where the gates were opened for the first time so very long ago,’ Damah replied, failing to answer the question that Seeol had actually asked. ‘They took the Devil’s Stone to Old World and there it remained for thousands of years. And, of course, You know it was brought here by a distant ancestor of mine. Thereafter, it was passed down from father to son. But You are the rightful owner of the stone.’
‘Ancestor.’ Seeol tried out the word, unfamiliar of its meaning.
‘I’m
sorry, Father.’ The blood left Damah’s face. ‘Forgive me. Forgive me, but, yes, my long dead ancestor was a Sa’Tanist. Although he did commit the unforgivable sin of demon worship, in the end he came back to the fold to resume his worship of You.’
‘Don’t care,’ Seeol replied, having become bored of the conversation. ‘Give it.’ He pointed at the stone in the man’s hand.
‘Of course.’ Damah placed the stone into Seeol’s talons. ‘It is yours to do with as you wish.’
‘What should this do with it?’ Seeol asked.
‘That is not for mortal man to decide.’
‘Just tells me,’ Seeol grumbled in frustration.
‘Of course! You’re testing me,’ Damah squeaked. ‘The Holy Tome refers to it as a stone of great power. When Maker went away, it was given to Sa’Tan the Devil so that he could protect the inhabitants of our world from his residence in Hae’Evun. Instead of doing as he’d been instructed, he used the stone for evil. He was jealous of our world and created a gateway. Then, after stealing the sacred power of resurrection, he and his kin broke through into the realm of man.’
‘What did happened to the gates?’ Seeol asked.
‘Many months after the gates had been opened, they grew weak and collapsed in on themselves, thereby ceasing to exist. Maker had been wise enough to know that even His most beloved servant might use His power for wickedness. In the case of such heresy, He’d given the stone’s power certain limitations. It can work miracles, but they do not last indefinitely. It is fabled that the stone can only be used three times and that each time its power will grow weaker and its duration much shorter.’ Damah sighed. ‘We turned our backs on You and now our world is rife with sin.’
‘Thank you.’ Seeol stared into the hypnotic blackness of the stone. Unlike the tree beneath which he’d been born, the stone was strangely warm and welcoming. ‘I think I will be rested now.’
‘Of course.’ Damah backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Seeol flew over to his large bed and landed in its centre. He dropped the black sphere on the blankets, before taking flight to the bookshelf.
‘Holy Spirit?’ Ieane called, lightly tapping on the door.