Heya all! My first post, and only one for a while - just under 4000 words

 There was an odd gait to the small fellow’s shambling. It was as if he carried something heavy over his shoulder. Which, oddly enough, he did. From the small shafts of moonlight that breached the high forest canopy, Sancho could not tell if it was a book or a satchel slung over his back. Whatever it was, it seemed heavy and it was this that peeked Sancho’s inquisitive nature.

 The small figure ambled along a dense path set out by years of woodsmen’s steps. The man’s face, enriched by the moonlight, seemed impossibly pale and thin, though judging by the fact that he carried such a sizable object on his back, he must been riddled with muscle beneath the light canvas robes.

 Sancho had stopped in the middle of the path, his immense bulk blocking any hopes of hiding or getting past in secret. He snorted an itch back up his nose, adjusted his thick worn belt, and loosened the loop to his mace. You never know who you might bump into on lonely roads after dark.

“What ho?” Remarked Sancho casually.

The thin man nearly burst apart with fright.

“S-sweet mother of… you know you nearly had my heart…” he panted, “nearly had my heart out my throat then! I thought you were an ogre or alike.”

 Sancho looked around thoughtfully for a moment, scanning the moonscape forest before coming to the conclusion that there were indeed no Ogres about. He smiled warmly, heaving his chest up.

“I see no ogres, good fellow,” his smile never faltered, “though be sure to point out any that I may have missed.”

“Indeed sir,” shrugging one shoulder, the thin man humped the heavy case off his back to hit the earth with a jingle of chains, “but I must know, what are you doing out here at such a time of night as this?”

“Likewise gentle sir, it is not every day or indeed night that two travellers meet on such a lonely road. As for me, well, I am simply a rambler on a road that leads to everywhere and anywhere. What of you?”

“Ah,” started the thin man, “funny that you should mention that. You see, I don’t recall having a home last time I checked, and it seems that those who claim to know me think I am something I am not,” he gestured to his clothing with one sweep of his skeletal like hand, “I am no dabbler of the darker things, but I do admit to having a morbid curiosity to things best left to ages gone.”

 It was only now that Sancho noticed the dark woollen trousers, tucked into knee high walking boots, a chunky silver buckle on a tatty belt and robes of a tough thin leather that hung in slight curls inward at the knees. He looked every part a hedge wizard, though perhaps lacked the floppy, pointed hat.

“You will find no judgement from me, good sir. I am no witch hunter but I know evil when I see it.” Sancho pointed a finger and nodded at the heavy object now at their feet on the small path, “Please, humour my wetted curiosity, what exactly is in that case of yours?”

“Ah-ha! If, my dear fellow, it were something not for your eyes I would perhaps be loath to tell you. But, it seems that your curiosity is one akin to that of my own. For simply put, I cannot tell you. I do not know myself.”

“Queer little man, are you not?” said Sancho.

“You would not know the beginning of it, rotund stranger.”

 

* * *

 The object’s surface crawled. In the dim orange glow of the campfire, every glint and sparkle caught Sancho’s eye. He pondered it’s square sides and heavy iron chains that bound it shut. Rusted and pitted, a lock perhaps the size of Sancho’s fist (no small thing considering his weight) rested dauntingly over the centre of the cover. It was a book, a massive, bronze bound tome.

“Forgive my behaviour, but such a thing begs my attention at every glimpse. Where did you say you found it?”

 Det, as he had introduced himself, poked playfully at the tiny fire with a stick, rousing more ash to rise and smoke to blur Sancho’s already watering eyes. His features glowed orange in the light, his thin lips pulled back into a smile. Despite his looks, he seemed quite young.

“It seemed a waste to leave it when I left home. I am a scribe by trade,” he lifted his eyes to look at Sancho, “I left in a hurry. As I explained earlier, people in the small village of Eveshamn thought that I dabbled in things best left to those a few feet under ground. Burning the heretic, you understand?”

“And why would they do that, Det? Folk can be ignorant at the best of times, but I doubt they would have burned down the home of a scribe unless they had good reason to. That is not to say that anyone’s home should be razed to the ground for a crime committed.”

“No, you are right, sir Sancho. You seem to be a man of the world, something I have yet to become. You see, I have spent all of my life in that shambles of a hamlet, living off donations and learning my trade. I may not be as articulate as some, but the monks brought me up as best they could.”

“Ah, so you were brought up in the company of monks. You may be surprised to hear that my past is similar.” Sancho patted his barrel belly and crossed his ham like arms over it, crossing his fingers tightly.

“Not so sir. You see, the chapel house in which I was brought up in lay some distance from the hamlet and folks can be… suspicious of things that they would not or could not understand. I ask you now, as a stranger, would my attire not ring a bell of oddity in you if I were to be found lurking in a grave yard?”

“Nonsense!” boomed Sancho, his belly wobbling and fat lips quivering from under his minute handle bar moustache, “I am a firm believer in freedom to all. Let no man be barred to any place that men alone have not built.”

“I may seem a tad naïve to you sir Sancho, but where is it you are from, and from what chapel house do you hail? I am no priest or monk, but it is rather plain to see that your robes are as clear as the freshly cut sheep in spring time.”

 Sancho nodded and closed his eyes. For a moment, he seemed to have fallen asleep. He grumbled once to himself, lips pursed, occasionally sucking his teeth.

“I have no shame in letting you know that there is no chapel house I call my own. You see, to me there is no deity worth worshipping if he or she alone cannot rule all. There is no church or holy order worthy of my prayer or time. They are money grabbers and power mongers, why would I wish to praise their gods?”

“Brave words master Sancho, if it were not for the fact that we are all alone in this forest,” Det looked around himself casually, glad that the noises he heard were not to be feared alone. “I wish I could say the same, but surely you would have similar troubles as myself. You are, if you don’t mind me saying, a rogue priest, are you
not?”

“Rogue? Rogue!? Dear boy, I may only be in my third decade, and perhaps on the slightly larger size than most would-be priests and wise men, but I am no rogue! By the heavens no! I will let you know, boy, that in order to be a rogue, one must steal for gain or have been part of something to which they have broken away from.”

 The pair fell silent for a moment as Sancho’s face faded from the thunder that had clouded him and returned back to his smile. His belly grumbled and gurgled as chicken and wine sloshed about his innards like ale squeezed about a water skin.

“Now then, you were about to tell me about this tome you seem to have taken up as your own burden. Tell me where it was when you left, and if anything was left to guard it.”

“Guard it, good sir?”

“Aye, I am a man of the cloth and, as you will soon learn, of the law. This tome intrigues me. I may be able to help you learn its secrets.”

“Secrets indeed, sir! I would treasure the day I got to open it. A book, to myself, is something of an enigma awaiting discovery, like a new island or plant.”

“More the better then, Det.” Sancho’s calm, tranquil face beamed in his smile. There was, even in his jowls, an aura of composed righteousness as Det began to explain.

“It all started with Master Tralon, an old veteran of the Caliph days, who brought it back with him from the lands of sand and fire. He found it in a forgotten temple on his adventures in the army of King Godfrey, shortly before the king’s untimely demise…”

 Sancho dragged the book to his folded legs and examined the bronze and silver etchings that covered the edges of the tome. Brought to life by the orange glow of the camp fire, the swirls and figures danced about in their metal tomb. There was something ominous about it all.

“There seemed to be things… different about the way the master would walk when he got back, a bit like a swordsman dressed in full ceremonial plate. As if he had something holding his spine in place. I, and the others of my ilk, thought he had taken a wound to the knee or back which could have possibly explained his awkward gait. But the oddity of his behaviour did not rest there, oh no sir Sancho, there were many more… oddities about him that no one else spotted.”

“Do go on Det, I am listening. You said it came from a temple of the Caliph?”

“Not exactly, sir, but I was informed by master Tralon’s squire that they took it from the hands of a long dead creature that rested at the top of a pyramid of stairs. They said it was so dusty, they could not read the cover clearly, but it was clear that whatever was in the tome, had been guarded to the death of its previous curator. They said the bones were slim, slender and long like that of an… of an Elf, sir Sancho.”

 Sancho peered up from his examination of the tome and smiled. There was something a little dubious about Elves being the owners of this written form. Every scholar knew that the elven language was nothing more than a spoken one. Such a race lived so long that they needed not the quill nor the parchment. Theirs was a language of beauty and the mind, one to be passed down by word of mouth.

“All within reason, good fellow. Now, tell me, how did your master seem to differ from that of his normal state of being, was he clouded in judgment, or perhaps lured by the simpler vices of men?”

“No, no!” gushed Det, rubbing a road worn foot back into the world of the living,

“Master Tralon was a grand oral disseminator, one the finest givers of speech I have ever heard… that is, until he returned exactly a year from his initial leaving. He was a recluse, often opting to take his supper alone, and washing only during the strangest of nightly hours.”

“Most folk wash during the evening or early morn, was this not normal?”

“Amusing to think, sir Sancho, but master Tralon washed once every blue moon, if you would forgive me saying. Most folk from around the villages and towns washed only when they really had to.”

“Simple folk, living simple lives. I can see how that can be forgiven. Do carry on…”

“Well, all could perhaps be explained by master Tralon being witness to vistas that you or I could only whimper at. But then I noticed that… well, let me explain first. Master Tralon enjoyed my company immensely, and he trusted me with his life and his wife. So, it was only normal for him to ask me to care for him during his stranger days, especially towards the end. Anyway, as I was saying, Master Tralon asked that only I cook and clean for him, his mind perhaps filling with the paranoia of a sleepless man. It was then that I noticed something odd about his err… bedpan.”

Sancho raised a darkened eyebrow.

“His bedpan?”

“Aye, forgive me for bringing it up in polite company, but there was at first just an odd smell. I thought perhaps age had taken his inner pipes or perhaps he had once suffered from a tropical illness, but no. Purely by me spilling the pan by accident during one of master Tralon’s baths, did I find the colour and, dare I say it, texture to be anything other than normal,” Det paused, allowing Sancho to gather his thoughts.

“Well?”

“It was as blood, sir Sancho, as thick and as red as old blood, though still warm.”

“Heaven forbid, poor soul. A foreign illness, perhaps?”

“At first, yes, I would have thought so. But then, stranger things began to occur. When cleaning the bath tub, I came to notice that master Tralon’s hair was falling out at an alarming rate. He went bald in less than a week of bathing and grooming. He even stopped growing hair upon his face. By the end of the week, he was totally bald and his skin became pallid and then gaunt. His wife left soon after, retreating to the town to stay with family.”

“Poison perhaps?” Sancho lifted his finger to add weight to his conviction.

“Nay, sir Sancho, as I said, only I prepared his food and drink. Nothing was left to strangers or even friends. Only I served master Tralon,” Det poked the fire one last time. “By the end of the last week, master Tralon was dead and his body laid to rest in the burial grounds of the chapter house. Many accused me of killing him, though they could not find a motive.”

“So why did they start the witch hunt?”

“Well, some folk would be hard pressed to say what I am about to in the day… it is no easier to say it in the dead of night, surrounded by dark forests but…”

 Sancho raised his hand to a pendant around his chubby neck and muttered something under his breath. Det shuddered, though the fire was still searing hot. He covered his eyes with one hand briefly and mopped some of the sweat from his brow.

“Did master Tralon have… unfinished business?”

“Indeed, he must have, sir Sancho, for no more than two days afters his entombment, master Tralon was seen ambling awkwardly about the graveyard, scrabbling about in the earth looking for something. His remains were never seen since.”

“I think I see where this story is leading to. Allow me to finish it, if only to hone my powers of deduction?”

“Aye, forgive me sir Sancho, but I am fed up of hearing my own voice. I am not one for good conversation with oneself.”

Sancho carried on the story, having heard similar tales only some months ago.

“Since the people could not explain his death, and since you were the last to see him alive and ‘well,’ the people of the surrounding settlements turned to their priests for an explanation. As sole witness to his downfall, the ‘loyal’ followers of master Tralon deduced that you alone could have killed him. But,” Sancho paused and sucked his teeth, “They had no motive… until that is, they suffered the horrific and degrading bout of tainted Undead roaming their fields. It is a common misconception that where there is one un-living, more will follow.”

“You are correct, sir.”

“Well, they can be forgiven for chasing you away, but it seems they were misguided by their holy leaders. Now then, I can see a liar coming days ahead, and you are no liar. But I fear that the tome that rests by us now is the one solely responsible for the death… and un-death, of your master.”

“You say ‘the one’?”

“Indeed I do. I have no name for it, but resting in my lap is a book that only a mad desert rambler could conjure. We have in our possession, a book of the dead. Now that I know for sure, I can feel it’s necromantic juices oozing over my hands like quicksilver. But fear not, such juices are ethereal to all but the truest of holy men…”

“What do we do with it!?”

“Read it of course.”

 Det jumped from where he sat with the agility to shame a cat. He waved his arms about like a bird caught by its foot.

“Read it!? Surely you are in  league with such an infernal host!”

“You have listened wrong, sit now, good man and hear my meaning. Such a tome was written before the outlines of good and evil were forged, before the heavens and hells split. What we have here dates back to beyond the normal comprehension of men. The elf that it was prized from was no doubt protecting others from it, for elves are secretive and do not wish to share their understanding of things. But I am aware that reading the tome will not taint. Only through action can our minds be tainted.”

“I shall have nothing to do with,” Det stood his ground imposingly over Sancho, “I will not be covered in its… its ‘necromantic juices’ at all!”

“But you already are,” offered Sancho wisely. “I do not wonder this world in a meaningless fashion, Det, I am armed with my faith to fight higher beings, and with a mace for everything else. We must learn what is in this tome, if we are to combat any of its creations.”

“We? Combat its creations? Surely you have lost your mind!?”

“You are more than a scribe Det, and we both know it.”

“I don’t know what you mean…”

“Its takes a good liar to know one, and you, Det, are a good one. Allow me to explain a little more before you run screaming.”

Det slowly slumped himself down in front of the camp fire again.

“Your buckle is of silver, used to ward off the basest of evils. The chain about the tome is of solid cold iron, used by travellers to keep restless spirits at bay. You wear canvas to keep yourself dry when others wonder how. Your robes are of a thin yet tough leather. No high born wizard would wear such a ting, but for you, it is a clear message to all. You try to seem like you are not with all your folk lore… but to me you stand out like a man trying to cover up his talents. Come now, out with your confession!”

 Det sighed and buried his head in long, talon like fingers. He sobbed for a few short moments, biting back a dark emotion. Finally he looked up, eyes rimmed red with tears.

“You are right, sir Sancho. I have talents. You see through my deception like sunshine through the clouds. I do have talents, though they are raw and I doubt my powers can conjure anything of significance, but I am, as you say, talented. We who are born thus, cannot help our plight.”

“Nonsense!” Boomed Sancho heartily. “There is a place for all of us in this world, and we are born to the grades of our destiny. Should a man or woman be born with talents beyond the norm, then so must their destiny be also!”

“So what must we do?”

“It is simple, Det. You and I must hunt down these abominations of life and finish the work of the book before it can muster its full strength.”

“I don’t understand, can we not simply toss it into the fire and be done with it? Where would we start to look if we did decide to hunt down its creations? Who is to say it has more than one, perhaps master Tralon is the only one..?”

“Det, good fellow, do not be so naïve… where there is one, there will be more.”

“But you just said that is a common misconception, did you not?”

“Aye, the dead are singular, but this creation is not one of chance. The book has given its ‘first’ powers, and I suspect that it seeks to become corporeal itself. The essence is trying to escape its bonds, and when it does,” Sancho glanced at the book and spat. “When it does, you may bet your last drop of blood it shall not be pretty sight.”

“We should bury it, hide from anything foolish enough to hunt it!” Det stood and began to clear a small patch of the forest floor. Sancho coaxed him to sit once more before continuing.

“Listen closely, Det, for this is important. Only a buffoon would leave the essence of its very being in one such receptacle. These recent events are not purely made by chance, whatever creature lurked about long enough to learn such secrets has put an inhuman amount of effort into protecting its continued ‘life.’ There will be other items abound, and they could be anything. But I fear the worst. A being of such power must of had followers at some point. I would not be surprised to hear of something very old and shrouded in dark mists coming back from the depths of oblivion for some malign purpose.”

“And so..?”

“Well,” chuckled Sancho, “For the rest of tonight we sleep, but come the morrow, if we have not been eaten by wolves, I think you and I should take a trip somewhere very desolate and very cold. I know of some monks not far from here who will perhaps fit our criteria. We shall spend some time there, and see if we cannot come up with a plan, or perhaps stumble upon some news.”

 Without more than a wink, Sancho had slipped into a soothed sleep, leaving Det to worry about the wolves and the bears he was sure lurked just beyond the light.

“Good night then sir,” muttered Det, pulling his leather robes tightly around his shoulders and shuddering with the thoughts of what the tome may contain. He was sure now that he regretted ever taking the thing with him. No doubt its malign force had seeped into his blood through touching it, tainting him and making him bring it all this way.