From Under a Tree: The Harrow Saga, #1

By Philip Mazza

Visiting their aunt and uncle for the summer, Molly and Elizabeth venture under a sycamore tree and find themselves in a fantastical world known as the Harrow. The girls know little of the troubles that will soon plague this new world but are guided by their uncle's pet cat to a meeting of wizards where they learn that a long dead evil has been reawakened and is plotting to destroy the world. The sole weapon against this darkness rests on a necklace given to Molly by her uncle.

 

Soon storms from the east bring the Uakor Turg, dreaded minions of evil, while ghost demons and dark wizards wage war across the lands and capture the sacred tree of peace, the Aina Dur. To save the Harrow, Molly and her sister must an adventure with others to face the darkest of evil.

 

This Special Edition book was published to commemorate the third anniversary of the first printing of From Under a Tree. The book features a map of the Harrow, an introduction by the author, several new scenes from the author's original manuscript, and appendices containing historical background of the events of the Harrow.

 

The appendices include material that adds to the depth of Harrow and elaborates the stories of individual characters, but would have slowed down the main narrative too much to be included there. It is possible to read, enjoy and understand From Under a Tree without this information, but the appendices reward the reader with enhanced understanding of the characters, history, and culture of the Harrow. Within the appendices you will learn the chronology of the Ages: The Age of Fire, The Age of Kings, and The Age of War. You will experience the Ay' Panul, or great upheaval, as written by Tollen Popperdock, and the mystical tenets of the I' Ra Heru, the mighty father feline creator of the Ra Cath.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Omni Publishers
• Release date: Jan 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201385422

Book preview

About the Author

A person wearing a uniform posing for the camera Description automatically generated PHILIP MAZZA IS A novelist with boundless imaginative gifts - a spellbinding storyteller who has created for us a captivating world with The Harrow Saga. Born in New York in 1959, Philip received his undergraduate degree from LeMoyne College, where he majored in Business and later achieved his MBA. His career focused on human resources and operations, having held leadership positions for companies, both large and small. He has also served on the boards for several not-for-profits. Now a professor of business at the Madden School of Business, Philip devotes his time to his students and his writing. A writer since a young age, Shadow in the Flame is the second novel in The Harrow Saga trilogy. He and his wife enjoy travel and their cat; they continue to live in upstate New York.

Dedication

To my father: On April 2, 2011, a hole in the space-time continuum opened and my father jumped in head-first. As it is said: He didn't tell me how to live; he lived and let me watch him do it.

To my mother: On August 15, 2014, the delicate raven who had perched on my back porch for 55 years decided to spread her wings and lift herself to another realm. As it is said: A man never sees all that his mother has been to him until it's too late to let her know he sees it.

To my grandfather: He gave me the gifts of wine, the sweet scent of a pipe, and the enjoyment of laughter. I know he is gladly turning each page of this book and with a big smile on his face.

To Big Purr and Lil’ Man: Together they are on a very special adventure and in a place where they can chase after birds to their hearts’ content.

To Big Grrrr: On December 14, 2017, and only after nine years of life we lost one of our explorers – Drake. We will forever miss our Drake, our cat-around-the-corner who always greeted us with a big purr. We are sure that he is having way too much fun exploring his new existence.  

Listen: The words stopped on April 11, 2007. This is when the master came unstuck in time. So it goes . . .

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: Sometimes the author uses capitalization to add weight of emphasis to objects or places, either as an indirect reference to the proper noun, or as a personification of some greater concept. The author does not use capitalization consistently, so it is fair to assume that much of it depends upon the immediate context of the statement. In some cases, the races receive capitalization when named, but again, this is somewhat inconsistent on the author’s part. In many instances, races of the good and righteous are capitalized, while those of the brood are not. This has proved a continuous struggle for the publisher to attempt to create some consistency.

Author’s Introduction

INDEED, IT IS TRUE . The story began over ten years ago, on the back porch of my home which overlooks an apple orchard. The makings for a rich epic fantasy were everywhere and a story started to emerge in my mind, until one day it happened . . . the spark . . .

The spark occured on a dark and stormy day. The rain and wind together dashed against the trees, blew through them, and upon the house with a roar. My wife and I had just finished moving into our new home and were settling in. Our two cats at the time, Lil’ Man and Big Grey, were both house cats but enjoyed being outdoors, as all house cats do on occasion. At our old house and every now and then we would take them outside and walk them on leashes. They would enjoy exploring the gardens, rolling in the grass, and chasing after butterflies. But with our new house, the backyard was yet unfinished. It consisted of raw field and earth. This made for walking the cats quite an implausible proposition. So, until we could get the backyard seeded and our new gardens flourishing, the cats could only stare from the windows and imagine great adventures.

On this rainy day, I decided to open the porch doors to let some fresh air into the house but forgot to slide the screen door shut. A few hours passed when I noticed my mistake.

I left the screen door open! I shouted to my wife. Where’s Lil’ Man? Big Grey? Where are you Big Grey?

My wife found Lil’ Man inside, sleeping in his wicker basket. But where was Big Grey?

As I looked out to the back porch there sat the large cat, peacefully, looking over the back yard, watching the rain lash the apple trees and soak into the cracked earth. I carefully approached the cat. I did not want to frighten him off and into the muddy backyard.

Big Grey, are you alright? I asked softly with an outreached hand.

The cat turned to me and gave a meow. He began a big rumbling purr and rubbed up against my hand. I smiled.

We shared a moment on the back porch as we watched the rain fall, feeling the dampness. As the storm passed a light wind chilled the air. In the distance loomed the many apple trees, the leaves rustling in a thousand whispers. I thought about the apple orchard.

Here were secret places, cold and empty.

You want to go on an adventure? Under a tree?

Big Grey gave another meow. I reached down and stroked the soft back of the cat and rubbed behind his ears. He looked up at me. The great cat was getting old and I could sense hesitation in his eyes.

Adventures can wait. Come on. Let’s go inside now where it’s a bit warmer.

The cat breathed in deeply the freshness of the moisture-laden air and was content. Slowly he followed me into the house. I slid the screen door shut behind him.

Spark!

SO, HERE WE ARE. MANY years since that one spark, and since that time so much has changed in my life. My parents are now gone, my career is ending, Lil’ Man and Big Grey are on a new adventure, and I’ve written a novel. Yet, one critical element in my life remains unchanged: I still desire to know more and to better understand myself and that which surrounds me. These are not easy tasks, for life is but a mystery. For some, faith and spirituality are guideposts to understanding life. For others, unfortunately so, life is only understood in death. There are those who wish to understand life in its entirety and seek purpose of their existence. Life is thus both an opportunity and a myriad of challenges, a mix of comforts and difficulties. Of course, it depends on how people perceive it.

For me, great understanding has come through my writing. Writing is the method by which life divulges itself. Through writing, I reveal myself to myself, because through my characters, I live many different lives. I experience different emotions, and in doing so explore my own feelings toward many different situations. It is this exploration that helps me to better understand myself, others, and the reality in which I live. For you see, life is just that – an exploration - an adventure - a journey with many paths and stops along the way.

When the end was calling to my father, my journey took a different path. I sat and cried. I could not imagine life without him, his voice, and his sage words. My father was a man who had fought in one of the greatest battles of World War II. He had confronted the worst in mankind, but also experienced the beauty and marvel of life itself. He had experienced and seen so much in his lifetime. Now, on his deathbed, we were in a moment in time where he was slipping away, a generation on the precipice. When my father passed I wrote chapter 8. I was Erol Carrick at the Thorndell as he looked to the valley’s southern extremity, a solemn place, a battlefield graveyard. I was the great Carrick as he sat for hours by a lone grave mound. As I wrote . . . it was a scene of desolation, swept with sighs, washed with tears, and covered with graves.

A few years later my mother passed, and my journey took yet a different pathway. She was such a wonderful spirit who had a great understanding of herself and what life was all about. For my mother life was family, friends, humor, and faith in the divine. When she passed I was writing Shadow in the Flame and found myself with Molly and Elizabeth as they both clutched the Lia Fail stone. The sisters took an amazing ride into the stars and I was with them. During this ride, Molly told her sister, "Never lose faith in me and our love."

This is my journey, a voyage. At times it is a pleasant stroll along a quiet forest pathway. Other times it is on a sea, through a storm-tossed passage. It may follow a predictable route or a tortured course, but always with elements of surprise and discovery along the way. And what’s ahead? What’s around the corner? Only I can imagine.

Indeed, my writing is a journey of self-discovery, almost spiritual in a sense, and along this journey I find myself exploring and attempting to resolve many riddles. Some riddles, I know, have yet to present themselves. It is a kind of mystery waiting to be solved - who and what am I? This is my journey and as Brows said, when one is on a journey one takes only what one needs and leaves behind what one doesn’t need.

What must I bring with me? What do I discard?

Yet, I am uncertain I may ever fully complete the journey. Perhaps there will be too many stops along the way, slowing my forward progress, or there will be stops ahead I may never experience but should. However, this much I know - as with any journey, lessons come along the way, not in reaching the journey’s end.

Like me, as Molly continues her voyage she learns and grows as a person. In the upcoming book Shadow in the Flame Molly reminds us of what is important when she ponders, I guess what matters in life is not so much the various things that come to meet us, and with which we have to deal, as our readiness to meet them.

Yes, I’m finding myself. Can you imagine that? After all these years I’m finally figuring things out. But it remains a slow process.

I’m reminded of something C.S. Lewis once wrote, There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.

In the end, life is but a journey, we know not how far.

I AM OFTEN ASKED WHY I wrote the Harrow. Well, besides my journey of self-discovery, the answer is fairly simple. First, it is the only tale I’ve written that truly captivates me. At every turn, I am enthralled with what could possibly happen next. For you see, there is no greater joy for a writer than the joy of creation. Also, I enjoy telling tales and the art form of story writing. There is no nobler profession than that of the writer - well, perhaps save one - that of the teacher.

It’s all about the story because story matters. Story first. It’s kind of like taking an oath. For writers, I think the oath would be - first, tell a good story. Next, I think it would be – give the story applicability. I use this term because it is a term used, in a sense by Tolkien, who was confounded by those who considered his works an allegory.

For writers, the use of allegory demonstrates a moral or spiritual truth or political or historical condition. Tolkien despised the thought of allegory as it applied to his writings. He hated allegory. He didn’t want his stories viewed as references to what may have happened in his own time and life. He wanted the messages to be common so that the reader could apply it to his or her own life. In this way, his writings would be applicable and timeless.

I know of no writer who would disagree with Tolkien. But there are many common stories that we tell which have allegorical meanings. These are especially popular in stories for children because allegories mean to teach some lesson or help the reader understand complex ideas and concepts. Yertle the Turtle by Dr. Seuss is an allegory about Adolf Hitler and the evils of totalitarianism. The Hunger Games is an allegory for our obsession with reality television and how it numbs us to reality.

If one believes that history repeats itself, that one can learn from the sins and truths of the past, then there is no harm with the perspective of allegory. For a good tale is like an enormous puzzle. Each piece of the puzzle, by itself, does not seem to make sense; the shape provides a bit of help but the content is but a blur of color and without specific form. It is only until you properly place all the pieces together that you see the whole picture, that meaning is provided.

Reader interpretation is certainly a factor in deriving allegory from a work, but just because the reader thinks it’s there doesn’t mean it is, nor does it mean to be the author’s intention.

For me, the Harrow is a good story with oodles of applicability.

Oodles.

Now there’s a word you do not hear or even see often. Yet, for those who have followed the writings of Kurt Vonnegut you are aware of its use.

In Breakfast of Champions Vonnegut wrote this: I can have oodles of charm when I want to.

There can be no doubt that Vonnegut is one of my inspirations and in fact, you will see a reference to him in my dedication.

Why Vonnegut?

First, let me start by saying that when it comes to fantasy tales one must consider Tolkien an influence. Tolkien is generally recognized as the father of modern fantasy with his epic novels. The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and The Silmarillion are all genre-defining masterpieces. On top of creating thousands of years of history and his own mythology, he also created many languages. This makes Tolkien one of the best world builders in the history of fiction. Where Tolkien is the influence to so many, we cannot forget those that influenced Tolkien. For you see, nothing is ever new.

Tolkien was a devoted student of history and classical literature and mythology. His tales include smatterings of ancient Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Babylonian, and northern European history and mythology. In fact, one only has to read Plato’s the Republic and the story of the ring of Gyges to understand Tolkien’s inspiration.

Inspiration is everywhere.

Vonnegut’s writings were inspirational to me. He turned me on to fiction and the power of words. He got me through my teen years. As a young adult, I waited for every new book and ran to the local bookseller to buy a copy. Even though he did not write epic fantasy fiction, Vonnegut was an author who stayed with you long after you thought you were done with him. You didn’t have to be young to appreciate Vonnegut. He taught us that we are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be. On a technical level, Vonnegut has influenced me. Unlike some, who after brilliant passages seem to get lost in their asides, Vonnegut, no matter how digressive, always arrived to his points of departure, with a light touch.

As I said, it’s all a journey with many stops – Vonnegut, Tolkien.

So it goes . . .

AND, HERE WE ARE . . . before you rest the pages of a special edition of The Harrow: From Under a Tree. I was surprised when asked to write for the special edition. Readers wanted to know more about the Harrow and I am more than thrilled to provide the extra detail.

But there is a surprise! This special edition contains much of the writings from the original draft! There were those who enjoyed the opportunity to make changes and trim things out here and there, who tell a writer what is best. Well, this special edition puts many of those trimmings back in. For the fans of the Harrow, I believe you will quite enjoy the previously edited content.

So, what can the reader expect? The tale’s beginning is very different as you first meet Drogur Vorn the Orc Master. Later, readers will meet Snerv Slog, a malevolent little creature who assists Vorn. Readers will also walk the evil underground fissure known as Esku En’ Urra, a place where vile demons are harvested and slaves tormented. Readers will also enter the sacred of all sacred places, the tomb of Ra Carathor, and peer into the glass sarcophagus. I have provided additional information about the Anar Ere, or Enlightened Ones, and of the White Knight, Nim Dagora. There are new insights into Col Shas who is the Jhaer Tystalaes to Dalgaes, how the Professor and Shaer Thol became friends, the relationship between Shaer Thol and Ras Amon, Moondancer’s special power, the demon creatures called the Gurtha Naur - all of this and more from the original draft.

I am also very pleased that we are now able to provide the reader with a map of the Harrow and more details in the form of appendices. The appendices are important. They reward the reader with an enhanced understanding of the characters, history, and culture of the Harrow. Within the appendices, you will learn the chronology of the Ages: The Age of Fire, The Age of Kings, and The Age of War. You will experience the Sinome A’ Eller, or great upheaval, as recorded in the I’ Qarma En’ Ilya, the Book of Histories. You will also be introduced to the mystical tenets of the I’ Ra Heru, the mighty father feline creator of the Ra Cath. You see, when one creates a world, one must first create its history.

There are other surprises as well that will remain unmentioned!

So, enjoy the journey! As it is said, tu kai a’ kai !

Prologue

IN THE ELVEN KINGDOM of Tir Nan Og, the grand white castle Kaer Tari with its towers and turrets shrouded in the morning mist stood like a gleaming crystal at the top of a mountain. Deep within the castle walls, courtiers and shamans quietly conducted their duties while high above in an imposing spire the great Elf-King Dalgaes, now in the autumn of his life, sat alone in his library. He sat by his favorite window with a warm blue shawl tucked about his knees and a large leather-bound book on his lap. From this vantage point, he could see the ancient city of Eilthir below, sprawled at the edge of a narrow gorge, surrounded by streams that descended from the adjoining mountains, forming cascades so high that the glimmering city was almost lost in the spray. It was a magnificent city of red and orange tiled rooftops, columns and sculptures, and mosaic. Its walls were encrusted with precious stones and masterly workmanship to the very top. Vines and lush greenery dappled with blooms of bright orange and red flowed everywhere.

The Elf-King found comfort in what he saw. It stirred memories of the mist of his childhood and of years when everything was ahead of him and endings did not exist. He thought of the past more frequently, with tenderness and fondness, and thought less of the future; for in his youth the future was time immeasurable, but now it seemed finite and nearing its end. Now, in these his final days, life had slowed considerably for Dalgaes who found himself seeking refuge and solace in his library. His hands crippled with age relished the feel of the leather-bound books, and his slowed mind delighted in the words of the venerated writers of yore. The books were special to him for they recalled a glorious time long past, of wondrous travels, of great upheaval and battles, of pain and sorrow, and of great exhilaration and celebrations. These were his memories, of a time when he sat upon his white throne and dealt with matters of state. Now his eldest sons handled such matters leaving the Elf-King with time to rest and time for memories.

Indeed, his time in the library was peaceful, reading in the quiet haven of the sanctuary; that was until one of his many great-grandchildren would happen by. 

Great Grandpapa, can I come in?

Dalgaes heard the soft voice of a child. He closed the book he was reading and turned to see the library door opened ever so slightly and the gentle face of an elf-child peeping into the room, wide-eyed and innocent. It was his great-grandson, the elf-child called Jin Dalhar.

Great Grandpapa, can I come in? the child asked again. Would you tell me a story?

The great Elf-King’s face looked soft with the traces of a kind and useful active life now nearly spent. He slowly motioned with his hand for the child to come closer.

Why yes. You may enter. Tell me, my child, what story would you like to hear? The Efl-King’s voice had a faint tremor.

Jin Dalhar tip-toed across the room and sat onto his great-grandfather’s lap. He looked up at the Elf-King with an angelic grin. The child reached up and gently placed his small, soft hand on his great-grandfather’s aged face. The Elf-King’s face brightened at the child’s touch. He looked down upon Jin Dalhar and gave a gentle kiss to the child’s forehead.

Such a pure face as a prophecy, a dream of the future, Dalgaes thought.

The child beamed. I like the story about the Great War.

Well now, there were two Great Wars. Which story would you like to hear? The story of the first or the second Great War?

Tell me the one about the children who came from under the tree, Jin Dalhar said gleefully. I like that one.

Ah yes, I know which story you speak of and it so happens that I have the book here with me. The Elf-King pointed with his crooked fingers to the closed book on his lap, its gold-leafed title on a scuffed red leather cover. "The story is called From Under a Tree and it was written by one of my good friends. He was a good friend to me, a good friend to everybody. His name was Tollen Popperdock and I miss him very much."

Yes, that’s the one Grandpappa, about the human children who came from under the tree and saved the Harrow. The elf-child nestled in the Elf-King’s lap and put his arms around his great grandfather’s neck. Why do you miss your friend so? Have you not seen him?

Dalgaes smiled and breathed a deep breath. I’ve not seen him in such a long time.

Why does he not visit? the child asked innocently.

You can say he is on an adventure of sorts, his last adventure. In time, it is an adventure we must all take.

The child gleamed with excitement.

I so love adventures! the child twittered. I can’t wait for when I must go on that adventure!

The Elf-King looked at the child whose face was golden and pure. He chuckled at the child’s comment. Oh, there will be time enough young Jin. This is one adventure you do not want to rush. Remember my child: there are some adventures that come to you in time, whether you wish to take them or not. Now, what about that story you asked about?

Yes. Can you read it to me? Please.

Dalgaes felt the warmth of the child against his chest and instinctively reached out his arms.

Well, it’s a rather large book now. There is so much to tell. Why don’t we see how far along we can get. Where would you like for me to begin?

Where all stories begin Grandpappa - at the beginning, of course. Jin Dalhar looked up at the great Elf-King, his eyes joyful with delight.

Slowly and very carefully the aged Elf-King turned the pages and started to read aloud to the child . . .

Chapter 1

The Sycamore Tree

This is a story of a different time. Although there were evils and fell beings in the world, it was a fair and green place. The loudest sounds were those of land and air and water. These were peaceful places long ago disturbed by forceful devices, the machines of war, now restored by time to their natural beauty. War which had defined existence for so long was no longer presented as something necessary, and its necessities and anxieties had ceased.

Oh, there were those who little liked fair things, and dark magic was not yet so commanding that could unmake with terrible swiftness the handiwork of the Maker. For the realms of the Shadow were reduced. Demise and decay were largely forgotten, receding into a small dark place, far away. It was a moment in time between the past and the future, where reality seethed with secrets and sins, both past and present.

But time changes things and things change with time. For, as it is said, time is fluid and changes as mankind changes. It brings with it probabilities that are altered by the Maker in a cadence of realities, that come one over the other, like waves upon a shore. One moment reality is familiar; the next moment it is strange, brought about by a great upheaval. Those with understanding, the attendants and messengers of the Maker, know reality is but an illusion, a fleeting glimpse of all that was, and it is changed in a moment.

For this is a story of long ago, of times, passed and times yet to come, of illusions, secrets, and dreams, of a different reality.

As the pure beings of the divine, or Anar Ere teach: Reality changes with a blink of an eye.

THROUGH FLAME AND SMOKE, the evil tower called Urth’ Goroth stood looming, found deep within the southernmost reaches of the Drueger. It was a great fortress built of stone and rock from the side of a mountain, hand-hewn by the dregs of wicked brood that inhabited such a soulless place. Towers upon towers and battlements upon battlements, tall as the surrounding mountains; great open halls as dark as the night, walls of steel and prisons of hopelessness, and massive stone gates barred with dulled steel. This was the place of the Dark Lord, or as he was sometimes called, Szard, or Dark Master, or Mori Ni in the old tongue, and from this shadowy place did he rule.

Within the shadows and along the cavernous and icy stone hallways of the tower walked the black hooded Dark Lord, his face obscured in darkness and doom. Within the coldness the snarls, grunts, howls, and the scraping of fingers and claws against the stone walls and floors echoed loudly. These were the sounds of the imprisoned, enslaved, lesser creatures of the land, and such noise pleased the Dark Lord. It gave him purpose and fed his insatiable desire for more.

Deeper and deeper he journeyed, through a labyrinth of dark tunnels and passages, until in the distance shone an orange light. Immediately, he could feel warmth and the smell of forges melting metal that slaves forged into tools of war. He took a deep breath. The smell was exhilarating.

My master, a deep voice was heard.

From the shadows appeared Drogur Vorn. Here was a huge and hulking beast, an orc almost the size of two orcs, a mountain of sheer muscle and honed for intimidation. His leathery and hairy skin marked his race, his face hidden by a mask made from his father’s skull, the Dol Goran. Vorn was a descendant of a race of great orcs, the Ra Orqu, and held a position of superiority for the Dark Lord. For it was Vorn who was Orqu Tur, or Orc Master, as was his father and his father before him, and it was Vorn who alone measured the legions of orcs and ensured that slaves were useful until they withered.

Are we on plan? asked the Dark Lord.

Yes my master. The forges scream and our numbers grow stronger every day. Soon now, we may unleash the full abundance of foul.

Good.

The two now traveled together, closer to the orange light, following the stone hall until it became a pathway that opened upon a massive underground fissure called Esku En’ Urra. This was a place where the tortured labored endlessly within its depths, overcome by an unnerving sense of immensity beyond knowledge, a frightening scale of vastness. Here was eternal torment and punishment, a hot and dirty existence without escape.

Within this ghastly vision, thousands of forges of great fire roared. They were hollowed stones in which were beds of live coals. The bellows were the lungs of giant beasts, which blew through reed tubes that entered holes in the bottoms of the forges. The anvils were large, rounded stones, at which slaves squatted as they hammered out blades, hooks, and mace heads. The largest of forges crafted great pieces of metal that were used to construct grand machines of war and death, devices that would be deployed for the relentless siege on the domains of dwarf, man, and elf.

Look. We are fruitful as commanded. Vorn pointed far to the distance, to the back of the fissure.

From within the stone walls, far beyond the forges, brood came to life, gruesome monsters seeping from rock and earth, born of slime and mud, maggots and worms. Hundreds upon hundreds of hideous brood were given life of the baking flames, unseen things even in myths, or the darkest days of yore. Green hides and yellow eyes of bile, foul limbs with razor-sharp talons, hunched backs of muscle, drooling lips, obscene and cruel – the wicked brood forever multiplied.

So it was, after creating hosts of wretched creatures did the vile legions of brood form thousands of evil battalions. They waited deep within the great fissure in orderly rows and columns, stretching out like a black, reeking, tremulous swamp. They hissed, and howled, and growled, and snarled. Then horns blew, and drums rolled like the beat of doom pounding in one’s breast, and the army of the damned advanced from the place of unending fire, marching out from the tower and into the blackness of the Drueger.

I am most pleased, the Dark Lord told Vorn.

Your pleasure is my wish. Vorn gave a slight bow. In the blackness of the hood, the Orc Master sensed the bitter glint of a smile on the unseen face.

The two continued their walk, now leaving the underground cavern and entering a series of dark tunnels that linked to a second evil tower, that which had been rebuilt after the Shadow War, the ancient tower called Ug’ Cthuth. The tunnels were lit sporadically by torch; the eerie mixed-light revealing sullen shadows against the cold and wet jagged walls.

As they traveled deeper and deeper into the earth, the tunnels became long and narrow. Now they strode in single file with Vorn leading the way and along a passage till they came to a stone door set in the wall. The enormous beast extended both arms feeling for the edges, and using all his strength moved the stone door ajar.

I do not like what is inside here, Vorn said.

I know of your concerns, the Dark Lord’s voice was soft but assured.

Behind the great door was a modest sized chamber, perhaps fifteen feet square. The room was dark and had a foul odor. A bit of light from a torch just outside the room crept into the darkness and upon a strange sight. There within the blackness was a creature of metal and wire, its body human-like, but now dismembered and fragmented. Parts of its torso were scattered about the shadowy place, wires and pieces of metal and plastic strewn about, with a green fluid from the complex mechanism flowing onto the stone floor. In a corner of the room was the creature’s head, shiny as though polished.  

Sensing a presence in the chamber the creature’s head sprang to life with a sudden thrill of power, catching Vorn by surprise. The brute took a step back and growled. With the sound of gears whirring loudly, the metallic creature opened its eyes and looked blankly up at the visitors; a faint blue light glowed from a light at the back of its eyes.

Click! Clack! Sounds came from the creature’s head.

Two of youth, the females will arrive. A jewel of red, one will revive, the creature said in a mechanical voice that sounded strangely melodic, as green fluid oozed from its mouth. Another click and the head moved slightly, as if to stare at the Dark Master. Carefully tread the halls of sanity.

The head then twitched again. Click! Clack! It gave a blink and closed its eyes; the sound of gears turning went silent.

The orc reached down, picked up one of the creature’s glistening arms, and tossed it aside in anger. I do not like this creature. I do not know of his people or the land from which he comes. He speaks in riddles.

There is a truth hidden within riddles. One must simply search for it, the Dark Lord replied.

I was taught that one should fear knowing the truth, Vorn said.

The fear of knowing the truth can be so powerful that the doses of truth are lethal. Yet, we must always face the truth of a thing. If we fail to do so then we choose to ignore what is occurring. Knowing the truth of a thing can be frightening and an impossibly difficult matter, but it is something we must always look to achieve.

The two left the chamber. Vorn pushed the stone door back in place. They started back down the dark tunnels together, quietly, until Vorn took leave of his master. Now alone, the Dark Lord went gently within the dark passages. In his mind, the creature’s words echoed and felt like a huge weight upon his very existence. He struggled against his despair. How well he knew the truth of the creature’s words; how well he knew the reality that would come. He thought of the lands to the west, the expanse of verdant pastures, dense spruce and pine forest, cold rivers of blue waters cutting through granite peaks. He thought of the races that inhabited the lands as weak, inferior misfits - miserable failures of flesh and bone. This was such a contrast to his realm of stark and primal principles, where barren landscapes and grey rock prevailed, and the races strong and obedient.

Yes, he knew the truth of the creature’s words.

They send two girls and with them the stone. Most certainly, I will make their cities into a wasteland and cast death about the land. I will destroy the wisdom of the wise and bring nothing to the learning of the learned. I will cover the sky and make the stars black. I will destroy everything there is and everything there will be.

IN A SPECK OF TIME and reality, they were children, two sisters named Molly and Elizabeth. They were pure of heart and mind, shielded from the troubles of the world. They were sweetness with black hair, big wide eyes, and a pixie’s face. Molly was the older of the two by a couple of years and taller than her sister. She was also very practical, and already behaving like a grown-up person. Of course, this would sometimes upset Elizabeth who was precocious and prone to mischief.

During the summer the girls would spend some time at the country estate of their Uncle Theo and Aunt Margie. For the girls, it was always special whenever they visited their uncle and aunt. There was so much to do, so many places to explore hidden away from the sight of adults. They enjoyed playing in the acres of lush gardens, or around the massive sycamore tree with its large roots that rose above the ground. Sometimes they would play hide-n-seek around the tree. Oh, and there were butterflies to catch or follow, at night lightning bugs to jar. and if it rained there was the massive house of rooms filled with oddities and trinkets that seemed to have been collected over the years, many, many years.

The fashion of the grand house was such that it was perfectly suited for play and fun. It had been built in the early nineteenth century and retained much of its grandeur. The house was a collection of rooms that flowed from an enormous foyer with paneled wood darkly varnished. It was richly decorated with a vaulted ceiling, tall columns, and immense stained-glass windows.

The mansion seemed endless in its inner recesses. All about were balconies, arches, landings, niches, bays, leaded glass, plain glass, beamed ceilings, plain ceilings, cove ceilings. Large wooden doors led out to verandahs and balconies from every room, and many windows provided