Templerock: A Tale From the Annals of the Prophet

Templerock: A Tale From the Annals of the Prophet

Something moved.

I sat up slowly, afraid that abruptly stirring the murky darkness might give life to my fears, and looked around.

 Were my eyes playing tricks on me? There was nothing but the pitch black sky. The moon and stars were still covered by the storm clouds that had blasted the area only yesterday. Across the dark plain was the outline of trees from the Western Forest, a place shrouded in so much myth and legend that I’d decided to camp out on the adjacent grassy area rather than entering it, though it was even blacker. I rubbed my eyes, trying to help them adjust, and peered some more through the thick of the summer night. 

Again, nothing.

I could still smell the smoke from the campfire I’d put out before I went to sleep. I’d thought I’d smothered it with enough dirt and hoped the smell hadn’t attracted anything, but a few embers peeked through.

Nervous, I stood and saw the silhouette of the tips of the tall forest trees against the black sky, swaying gently, reminding me of my solitude, out here, alone in the wilderness, with civilization nothing but a vague memory. I knew I would not be able to get back to sleep, my mind now racing with everything that had happened to me since I was forced to flee home a year ago. My father’s and brother’s callous betrayal, Payden’s and Abraham’s deaths, and my own failures to save Towns Reuel and Ashton from slaughter, all began reeling through my mind again.

And then I felt a chill, like a quick biting gust of winter wind. That’s odd, I thought, looking around, and a cold hand seizing my stomach. 

A blood chilling cry suddenly ripped through the night void. A dark form rose up beside me. I leapt back, horrified, while instinctively letting my power loose. The embers of the campfire burst through and ignited through my raw emotion. Its flash of light revealed a pair of round, bulging, bloodshot eyes that were lurking in the dark, the eyes of something insane. 

 “Aldamarrr!” it cried, its horrific shriek echoing again. 

It was calling my name! Fear spread through me and I ran as fast as I could towards the forest, its unholy voice like piercing thunder in my ears. 

My rational mind overshadowed by raw fear, I entered the forest, and ran along a roughly carved path, making enough noise to easily attract whatever else may lurk in here . But I didn’t care. My mind was focused on one thing; to escape from whatever was calling my name, out here alone in the wastelands.

I ran and ran, unable to see even a few feet in front of me. Thorn bushes whipped across my face and as the sweat ran into my cuts and burned. This legendary forest shrouded in rumor and mystery that I had dreaded entering for so long now seemed my only salvation. I eventually came to an open glade and saw a small set of ruins resting ominously in the shadows. I started towards it, but tripped, struck my head on a rock, and exploded into unconsciousness.

 

I awoke to dead silence. I was lying face down in the dirt and still sweating. Something warm was trickling down the side of my face. 

Blood.

I reached up and felt a gash just above my hairline. I got to my feet, wobbling for a moment. My fear was gone, at least the horror I had felt earlier, and replaced by a pervasive anxiety.

How did that thing know me? What was it? 

 I stood at the foot of the ruins, thankful for the silence. I hoped my pursuer had missed me in the darkness and perhaps had gone away. 

I began to dress my wound to break from the worry. Reaching into one of the pouches that hung from my belt, I took out some of the herbs I still had from the apothecary in Town Reuel, and used my water bottle and small bowl from my cooking utensils stowed in my pack to make a solution. I had to use my fingertips to initially apply the solution to the wound. The stinging sensation from my medicinal herb was sobering, so I ripped off a small piece of my cloak, saturated it in the solution, and then tied it to my head.

Convinced I was okay for the moment, I waded forward toward the ruins, glancing back and forth and spinning around. I kept thinking I saw something out of the corner of my eye and jumped at the slightest sound, fearing the ghostly wail of my name at any moment.

As I got closer, I could make out a great domed building that dominated the area. Half of it was caved in and dozens of smaller square buildings surrounded it. From a distance the great dome looked like it had been a temple of some kind. I had learned in my schooling in the Decapolis that the Western Forest was thought to have once had great monasteries, including the legendary Great Temple of Antiquity, which preserved the Old Way, the religion of a bygone era, and sheltered wanderers who fled from the Province Wars. I was taught it was nothing but superstition and archaic nonsense, but Abraham and his people didn’t think so. If only I had had more time to learn from him. He knew so much more than he ever had a chance to share. 

“I don’t think you understand what you have and who you really are. It is bound up in the Old Way, that much I believe.”

“Then tell me. Tell me more about the Old Way. I need to make sense of all of this.”

“Discernment and patience in all things, Eric. This is a matter of the heart, your heart, not just the acquisition of the head knowledge that you have been conditioned in since your birth.”

“I hate the Decapolis and its obsession with advancement and it disdain for the way of life in the other Provinces.”

“Yet that is where you are from and all you have known. It will take time to undo its influence and keep with is good and discard what is not before you are ready to receive the truth. And I know in my own heart I only have a small role to play.”

I heard his voice in my head and conversations like these which we had before he died. I wondered if Abraham knew more about where I now stood then he let on but I doubted it. No one he knew had been through the gap in the Dragon’s Tongue Mountains in hundreds of years, until my miserable fate had forced me through. I missed him deeply. He was the father mine should have been. He didn’t deserve to die the way he had. I should have been able to save him.

And now, here I was in this ruin. It must have been deserted for a long time. It seemed so lifeless. I stepped onto the remains of a cobblestone road. Many of the stones were loose or missing and I stumbled a few times as I passed under an arched entrance. It was made of polished white marble that glistened as if wet, and was laden with carved designs that I couldn’t make out in the darkness. However, a piece of the rock that had broken off was lying at my feet and I bent down and peered at it. It read in big carved letters, “TEMPLEROCK.”

“Templerock,” I whispered to myself and the sound of my own voice startled me. I’d grown use to the silence.

Curious, I followed the path until I came to the first square building on my right. It was made of the same glistening, white marble, and had two open dark windows, like portals leading to nothingness, flanking either side of what was left of a wooden door. A small, semi-rotted piece of it still hung to a hinge. I peeked in, but quickly jumped back, letting out a muffled yell. Something came at me and wings fluttered rapidly in the darkness.

Bats.

 I watched as they flew out the door and windows, and half-sighed-half-laughed in relief. Tentatively, I moved on deciding I would rest in the temple. The hole in the roof would at least make it so I wouldn’t be walking into pitch blackness. Though weak and dizzy, and in no condition to fight, I readied myself mentally just in case. 

“Aldamar,” a voice suddenly whispered in the darkness.

I stiffened.

“Eric Aldamar,” it said again. It was coming from the temple. The skin crawling fear came back but I didn’t flee. Instead I walked forward steadily, determined to face it, whatever it was, knowing this time I wouldn’t be able to stand the anxiety of having it out of my sight and not knowing if it was indeed lurking nearby.

“Aldamar,” it said one more time as I reached for the cracked and broken entrance way of the temple, and stepped in.

The rock inside glistened unnaturally, making it surprisingly easy to see. The room was round and littered with broken pews. Empty chambers lined each sidewall and led up to a stage with a podium and altar. A large, dark figure stood there.

“Aldamar,” it hissed.

“Who are you?” I asked, coming forward slowly down the center aisle. 

“Aldamar,” it hissed again, its voice slightly cracking, the madness in it fighting to get out.

I stopped three quarters of the way down. It was humanoid, whatever it was, and something squirmed in its left hand. Its eyes glinted in the moonlight and I was afraid, struck suddenly by the fact that I would now really have to face this thing out here, alone.

Suddenly it tilted back its head and let out a mock shriek. “Aldamarrr,” it screamed, but it was less hysterical and filled with hatred.

“No!” I whispered barely able to get enough air as my chest tightened in recognition, and events from six months ago suddenly rifled through my mind.

Town Ashton. 

I recalled all too vividly the night I came to it with two companions. We were exhausted from our travels, having been chased for two days by the border patrol of the country that had exiled me, and we just wanted a room at the inn. I washed and was asleep in a few minutes. 

I awoke in the middle of the night to loud cries and leapt up from my bed. I ran to the window and peered out. There was a full moon that night and silhouetted against it was a great company of Raiders on dark horses, at least a hundred, galloping closer. As they came nearer I saw dark shapes, on their backs with billowing capes and horned helms, and felt a stab of horror.

Death Raiders.

So they were real. My companions had warned me about them, wild raiders thought to be organized by some warlord they called the Northern Warlock, but I didn’t believe them. I didn’t want to admit it to myself but I thought they were exaggerating and given to fables and legends that couldn’t possibly be true, my Decapolis prejudice toward the ‘inferior’ agrarians rearing its head despite what I had tried to tell myself. 

Fiery arrows suddenly streaked through the sky and within minutes several buildings were aflame. I left the inn with my two companions and ran out into the street where some townsmen were forming a defense while others tried in vain to put out the flames. More arrows came and I watched helplessly as men, including one of my companions, dropped dead around me, clutching at their chests and throats.

The town locals and visitors rallied but these people had no chance. Agrarians, farmers, cattle and livestock raisers, they fought as they could but were no match for the Death Raiders, who slew the men, did unspeakable atrocities to the women, and even slew children. Town archers let their arrows fly and many Raiders toppled off their animals.

But in the end there were too many and we were beaten, leaving those Raiders that were left to claim their spoils. I stood in an alley, flames dancing around me, my remaining companion lying beside me pierced by many arrows. I turned to flee when I noticed a Raider dismount and walk towards a body in the street. At first I thought he was going to loot him, but then noticed the person squirm as the Raider got close. It was an older man who I’d been fighting side by side with before. 

The Raider raised a great spiked mace and I leapt out of the alley. I was exhausted but I took a dagger off my dead companion and let it fly, watching it sail over the Raider’s head. He looked up surprised and then grinned revealing fang-like teeth filed into points. 

The older man suddenly rolled over, his eyes meeting mine. “Aldamar,” he moaned, “help me.” I knew him! It was the innkeeper. He was bleeding badly from the head and chest.

“No!” I cried, watching helplessly as the Raider swung downward, striking the old man in the head. He cried out, twitched for a moment, and lay still.

“You’re next, Aldamar,” he mocked, and started running forward, leering and waving the mace. 

I had no choice. I used the dreaded power I had. The special, sometimes terrible, power that could never be taught. The power with which I was born. The power that made me freakish. The power of my mind. 

I stood with clenched fists feeling the familiar spasm in my head and watched him stop cold as if he’d run into a wall. He dropped the mace, and clutched his head with both hands, face twisted in agony. But I didn’t stop. The picture of the innkeeper’s maimed face was too fresh and I started to crush his mind, watching as he danced aimlessly towards a burning building and screaming my name in agony as he vanished into the flames.

“Aldamarrrr!” I heard him cry a final time and let go of his mind as the building collapsed on top of him.

I fled into the night leaving the remaining Raiders to the ruined town. 

 

Now, as I stared at him standing upon the altar, I felt more than just a little remorse. 

“Come closer, Aldamar,” he said, and I did.

In the rock light I could see what I’d done. His hair was gone, replaced by a burnt, and leathery scalp oozing pus, and his face was completely disfigured on the right side, a mass of lifeless scar tissue hanging in limp folds. His lips were burned away revealing receding gums that highlighted the pointed teeth, and he was slightly hunched over. His left hand was nothing but a gnarled claw, but he cradled something in it and held the right one above his head. In it was a black knife with a jeweled hilt.

“What have I done to you,” I whispered and he laughed — a twisted, tortured laugh. The guilt I felt was overpowering for a moment but my pity dissolved when I suddenly heard the sounds of innocence.

A baby!

It rested gently in the crook of his maimed arm, legs and arms moving slowly. And as I stepped closer I saw that the poor little thing was even smiling, unaware of its peril. I had one chance.

He brought the knife down but I caught his arm with my mind, stopping the point just before the baby’s throat. He gritted his teeth, slobbering, his bulging insane eyes glaring at me as he fought with crazed inhuman strength. This time it was me who clutched my head. I fell to my knees, head throbbing, causing the wound to issue fresh blood. I felt splinters enter my legs from the shattered pews but ignored them. I fought with all my strength but was losing, no match for his insanity. I heard him smile out as the tip of the blade inched closer to the soft white throat.

“Stop!” a voice cried suddenly, startling me, and I let go. A shadowy blur leaped past me and up onto the stage. I tried to regain my control but was in too much pain, and I lay useless on the floor, momentarily crumpled in defeat. I forced myself to my feet just in time to see a woman barrel into the maimed Death Raider and grasp his wrist.

A woman! From where?

“Leave my son alone!” she cried.

I watched in amazement as she forced his wrist back with one hand and grabbed her child with the other. The baby burst out in tears, the commotion telling its little instincts something was terribly wrong. She turned and began to run, the Death Raider hobbling after her. She was down the second step of the stage when he caught her and drove the knife deep into her back. She cried out and collapsed, twisting her body in one last selfless gesture, breaking the baby’s fall.

Suddenly, I heard a tortured cry, and was surprised when I realized it was my own. Power escaped me, unseen but targeted and deadly, rocketing through the air, carrying with it all my guilt and pain and struck the Death Raider in the chest, lifting him off his feet, and hurtling him backward. He screamed out for the last time until he hit the back of the temple wall with a sickening crunch and then fell to the ground lifeless.

I ran forward quickly to the mother and child. She lay at the foot of the stairs in a pool of her own blood, still cradling her precious baby. It rested gently on her breast, okay but silent, as if sensing its loss. 

I kneeled down and felt the tears come as I looked at the mother. Her hair was thin and wispy, her face lined, and her clothes ragged and dirty, but the expression on her face was the image of peace, and she lay as if sleeping. She died knowing she’d saved her child, the child she’d loved more than her own life. 

Carefully I picked up the baby and looked at him. He was smiling. Poor thing. I held him close to me, caressing him lightly, telling him everything would be okay, but was really trying to reassure myself.

Nothing was okay. Death followed me wherever I went and I was yet again its tool. I couldn’t control my power. Abraham told me it was a gift but it was a curse, a curse that the state wanted to exploit; a curse that led to Payden’s death, gained me exile; a curse that now doomed me as a homeless wanderer far from the land I knew and far from my mother and sister, the two people still dearest to me.

Why was I here in this strange religious ruin? Was there such a thing as fate ? Was it purely by chance that I came to Ashton that night months ago and maimed the Death Raider? And was it purely by chance that he picked this baby to get his revenge? If only I hadn’t fled in fear, guided by self-preservation. If only I’d made sure he was dead that night. But how was I to know he lived and sought me? My guilt suffocated me. How could this happen? What other horrible atrocities had the maimed man done these last six months? But I didn’t have any answers. All that I knew was that it was a mother’s sacrifice that proved stronger than my power, preserving the young life I held in my arms. It was the moment that changed everything though I didn’t know at that moment.

The only thoughts that were going through my mind at that time were questions, Where did she come from? This region of the Western Province was said to be deserted. Was everything I had been taught a lie? The mother came here on foot as far as I could tell and had no pack on her body or anything else to indicate travel. I gazed at the baby and he looked healthy. He had to have been stolen from somewhere nearby!

I set him down gently as I tended the mother’s body, removing the knife and using a comb from my pack to comb her hair. A thought struck me and I carried her body to the altar and laid it on the table, folding her hands over her chest, trying to create some dignity for her. I had nothing to bury her with, not even anything to cover her with, so that was where I left her, with nothing but a prayer, a plea really, to the god of this temple, whoever it was, to preserve her body from any creature who would seek to dishonor her bones. 

I picked up the child and left. A new sense of mystery transformed my sorrow into a sudden resolute purpose as I walked out of the ruins that night. I went back up the forest path carrying that baby. I swore I would find this child’s home, and deliver it back to its father, if there was one, and tell him of his wife’s sacrifice. And if it didn’t have a father, I would find it a home that would welcome a child. I silently prayed that one day, years from now when the child was grown, we’d somehow meet and I’d be able to tell him of his brave mother, and her sacrifice. 

The child just gazed at me smiling.

“Let’s go, little one,” I said and together we walked into the deep night.


This account included in The Annals of the Prophet was written by poetess and scribe Elena Gwynn who claimed Eric Aldamar recounted this tale and many others to her shortly before his Translation of which she claimed to be an eyewitness. A copy of this has been maintained since the days of the Prophet in both the Decapolis Capitol library and the Temple library near the site according to tradition that Eric Aldamar was last seen. Tradition also has it that Brenton Aldamar himself collected and compiled Elena Gwynn’s poems and written accounts.

Original Short Stories