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Previously on Hidden Fragments

Calen, Marisa, and Ronan said farewell to Elior at the Bridge of Echoes. While they returned to Grandfather’s farm with the precious Scrolls, Elior rode alone toward Ömstead, determined to confront the Council of Twelve. He knew the danger, but trusted that God was with him and accepted whatever the Father had prepared for him.

Meanwhile, Ömstead was filled with celebration. Before a vast crowd, Captain Malren presented the grotesque Image of the Council of Twelve, which suddenly began to speak with twelve mysterious voices. The crowd was urged to condemn all who opposed the Council. But Elior waited patiently for God’s direction. At last, the Spirit whispered, “It’s time.” Elior raised his shepherd’s staff and stepped forward to challenge the Image, armed with nothing but his faith and the power of God’s Word.

Chapter 53

The Reckoning

The hermit’s raw cry sliced through Slink’s soul like a blade. 

This was unheard of. Blasphemy. Who, in the name of the Council, had the audacity to interrupt the sacred words of their revered leaders in such a manner?

Startled, he spun around and searched for the source of the brazen shout.

There, standing on the steps before the headquarters of the Council of Twelve, stood a curious figure. It was an old man dressed in a worn brown robe, battered sandals and tangled gray hair. The fellow held a shepherd’s staff that he raised high above his head as though he intended to move heaven itself. A lunatic. A madman for sure. 

Or just an old fool who had drunk too much Ogre Ale?

Regardless, this would be his last drinking spree, ever.

And yet… there was something unsettling about his eyes.

They burned with fierce intensity, clear and sharp. Not like the glazed expressions of his soldiers on their days off when they wasted their hard-earned coins in taverns on Ogre Ale. How he hated that.

These eyes were different.  If anything, they stirred an uncomfortable sense of awe within him.

Who was this man?

And why weren’t the guards stopping him?

Slink turned and looked around. He beheld a dismal sight. Nearly everyone in the square had fallen under the same spell of the wild intruder who had so unceremoniously crashed the ceremony.

But things were about to get worse.

The old agitator opened his mouth and shouted. His voice was rough and weathered, yet what rolled from his lips carried startling power. Every sentence dripped with conviction and contempt for the Council’s image.

A tremor passed through the crowd as his words echoed across the marketplace.

“Behold, this is what the God of the Scrolls says to the Council of Twelve: ‘You have rejected the covenant I once made with this land. There was a time when people loved Me. They sought to follow My commands of love and gentleness. But you have rejected Me, the Creator of heaven and earth.’“

A knot tightened in Slink’s stomach.

The madman continued his rant. Every muscle in Slink’s body tensed. His ears burned as if the crackpot had poured liquid poison into them. Stop it. Words formed, but wouldn’t come out.

 He turned to find his soldiers. There they stood. Not too far off. And yet, they seemed as startled and confused as everyone else. Stupid soldiers. He wanted to run to them, yell at them, beat them into submission, but his legs refused to obey. 

More fear kicked in.

 That man wielded some sort of uncanny power and had nailed him to the ground.

 Well… if he could not act, perhaps his fellow captains could. His eyes scanned the crowd until he saw Captain Malren. A wretched curse escaped his throat. Malren was suffering the same fate he was.

 The captain stood frozen, fists clenched, mouth hanging open.

 Captain Droskar was in an even worse condition. He had collapsed onto the cobblestones, shielding his face with trembling hands as though by doing so he could somehow block the force pouring from the old man’s words.

“The Council of Twelve, who should have laid down their lives as shepherds for My children, care only for themselves. They feed their own appetites and follow their own wicked desires.”

The accusations kept coming.

Slink pushed against the ground with all his might. Sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down his face. Horrible. Nothing moved. One more time he gritted his teeth and strained every muscle. I have to stop that fruitcake.

Still nothing. He cast another helpless glance at Malren. Nothing there either.

He turned to the image. Surely the Council would help.

 “Strength,” he hissed at the image still towering above the square. “Give me strength, Council. Break this curse. Your honor and our prosperity are at stake.”

An old woman beside him glanced his way with what looked suspiciously like amusement.

Rage flared inside.

No doubt that old woman was one of those believers, who believed in the God of the Scrolls.

Still, Slink and his companions were powerless.

And why were the Council themselves doing nothing? Surely, the glorified image that spoke with twelve mighty voices could silence an old, half-disabled troublemaker with a wooden walking stick.

But no such luck. The image remained silent.

There was only the occasional strange metallic creaking, rattling sound echoing from within the image. It was a sound Slink had never heard before.

“And now here stands this powerless and worthless image of which you say, ‘Who is as great as the image of the Council of Twelve?’”

How he hated feeling this helpless. Several people were openly weeping now. What was wrong with this mob? Folks who had been cheering for the image only moments ago suddenly seemed to be doubting the Council’s power. Where was their loyalty? How was it possible that the crowd could be swayed so quickly by an old, worn-out geezer who was about to die? Some were even covering their eyes in shame, but thankfully he spotted others resisting the old man’s influence. Their faces were twisted with fury, their fists clenched at their sides.

​”Today, the God of the Scrolls will give you a choice. Whom will you serve? The God of the Scrolls, or the Council of Twelve with its image?”

What question was that? The answer was obvious… The Council of Twelve, of course. Slink ground his teeth so hard that one of his front teeth cracked.

“Therefore, again I say to you: ‘Choose today whom you will serve: the Council, or the God of the Scrolls.’”

A soft murmur moved through the listening crowd. Soon it grew into a confused clamor. Thankfully, many still shouted that the Council should deal with the rebellious troublemaker on the steps. But other voices, clearly encouraged by the bold and unpleasant words of the old man, dared to openly speak out against the Council. They revealed their true loyalties.

    Oh, if only he could move again. If only he could break that spell and stop that malcontent… 

    And then it happened.

    Just like that, he could move. What a relief. He could breathe normally again. His arms and legs obeyed him once more. He turned to look at his soldiers. They too could move. A guttural roar escaped his throat, and he motioned for his soldiers to arrest the rioter. There was not a second to waste. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Captain Droskar had the same idea and from his wobbling platform ordered his own soldiers forward. 

They would teach that wicked old man a lesson.

That geezer would never see the daylight again. Tonight, he’d sleep in the grave.

Slink followed the soldiers with bated breath.

They approached the steps.

They were almost upon the bellyacher.

Then a shout rang out.

Not from Slink’s soldiers. Not from Malren.

From the old man.

Bold. Unafraid.

“Lord of heaven and earth,” he shouted for all to hear, “Stop them!”

His staff rose high.

Immediately, the soldiers crashed into what seemed to be an invisible wall. They cried out in pain and were hurled backward onto the cobblestones of the marketplace.

What?

 A sinking feeling filled Slink. Not possible. He jerked his body toward the image and shouted, “In the name of the Council… stop this heretic!” His voice cracked and sounded strange, even to himself.

 Again, the Council did nothing.

 The image no longer spoke. Instead, something far worse began to happen.

 The entire structure started creaking and groaning like iron grinding against iron as if the thing had not been properly oiled in years.

 “Twelve, preserve us and have mercy.” Slink yelled, while his hand flew to his mouth. He groaned as the entire image began to shake and rattle. 

“No! Council, do something!” 

This could not happen. The council could not allow for this…

And yet, they did.

He shot the old man on the steps a murderous glare. Did that fool have any idea what terrible disaster he was causing? Didn’t he understand he was about to die?

Forget the old man. The image is coming apart.

“Stop!” he shouted again as he ran toward the image, although he had no idea what to do.

The cordon of soldiers who had been guarding the image had already fled and disappeared in the crowd.

Cowards!

Once again, the old man’s voice rang out.

“Today, the Creator of heaven and earth will show you who is God.”

The marketplace erupted into chaos. Cries of fear mingled with jubilant shouts of praise. A handful of people still resisted, insisting that only the Council was worthy of worship. Others shouted back. Arguments broke out on every side.

Amid the confusion, few noticed the dark storm clouds rolling in from the horizon. They swallowed the sunlight one patch of sky at a time until a gloomy shadow settled over the city.

Slink had no eyes for it. He stared in terror at the image, right before him. 

The entire structure was beginning to tilt dangerously forward, as though some invisible force was pushing it over.

He needed to run. Find a safe spot… but the image was falling. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The wooden chair in which the image had sat splintered apart. Wood fragments flew through the air and part of an armrest struck Slink on the head.

He growled in pain but refused to run off.

The Council would intervene.

It had to.

It was written in the Book of Order, and that book was the only true book.

And yet, nothing worked.

It was hopeless. His cries made no difference. He prayed to the image. Nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. Even his curses failed to stir it.

The image had now passed its point of balance and came crashing forward with a deafening roar.

Slink roared in fear and ducked. He barely managed to escape in time as the image slammed onto the cobblestones of the marketplace.

The ground trembled. Stones cracked, and a cloud of dust rose, momentarily blocking his view. Slink choked as his mouth filled with dirt and dust. He spat and retched, clawing around desperately for something to hold on to. When the dust finally settled, he forced himself back onto his feet and stared at the bewildering sight before him.

The image had been shattered, broken, torn into a hundred pieces, with fragments scattered everywhere.

At the edge of his consciousness, he heard the jeering and cheering of the onlookers. Some wept, while others raided the nearby stalls for the free Ogre Ale, kicking the structures to the ground in a frenzy of wild madness.

Weakness overtook him, His legs could hardly hold him.

It was over.

The impossible had happened.

The image of the Council had been cast down.

Slink collapsed back onto the ground in defeat, tears filling his eyes.

But as he stared hopelessly at what had once been the glorious image, his eyes caught something strange. He wiped the tears from his face with his dirt-stained fingers and slowly rose to his feet again.

Were his eyes deceiving him? Had the piece of wood that struck him on the head made him see things that weren’t there?

He rubbed his aching head.

No. What he saw was real.

Right where the image had stood, a gaunt, bald man sat on a chair behind some kind of table.

He wore a simple tunic with the emblem of the Council printed across his chest. He had a narrow face, deep-set eyes that darted nervously from side to side, and a thin, frail body.

In short, the sort of man Slink would normally ignore without a second glance. A man who looked nothing like someone powerful.

The fellow rose from behind his table, panic written all over his face.

For a brief moment his eyes met Slink’s. He could almost feel the man’s terror.

Then the man turned and ran.

“Stop!” Slink cried and charged after him, but that was not easy. He had to climb over huge chunks of timber and twisted pieces of metal from the fallen image.

By the time he reached the place where the man had been sitting, he was long gone.

As Slink tried to catch his breath he looked around at where that man had sat. His eyes widened. What was all that?

On the cracked table sat what appeared to be a box. Strange pipes extended from it toward what had once been the image. They were hollowed-out branches, carved wooden tubes bound with metal rings, each ending in some kind of mouthpiece.

Some of the pipes had been splintered when the image was destroyed, but others remained intact.

What was he looking at?

His heart pounded in his throat as he slowly reached out a hand toward one of them.

Would he dare touch it?

He blinked in confusion and cautiously extended one finger toward a tube. Before he could touch it, he pulled his hand back.

Something stirred behind him.

A familiar voice cut through his musings.

“What in the world is this?”

He turned and found himself looking into the panic-stricken face of Captain Droskar.

Captain Malren stood beside him.

“I… I have no idea,” Slink stammered.

He felt sick.

What he truly wanted was to run home. To crawl into bed and hide from the world.

The image had missed him, but witnessing its downfall and staring death in the face had drained the last bit of strength he had left.  

Droskar appeared to feel much the same.

Captain Malren, however, seemed to have recovered from the initial shock.

He shoved Slink and Droskar roughly aside, grabbed one of the tubes, and spoke into it.

“Everyone must remain calm. There is no reason to panic.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then his words thundered across the marketplace, carried through the strange pipes. But the voice that spoke was not Malren’s. It sounded like the voice of one of the Council of Twelve; strong and commanding.

What?

Slink stared at Droskar.

Droskar stared at Slink. Malren gritted his teeth, but his eyes radiated with deep fury.

“W-what’s going on?” Slink asked again in a low voice.

“Quiet!” Malren rasped. He seized another tube and shouted, his voice breaking with excitement. “Again, everyone must remain calm!”

This time the voice that echoed across was the voice of a woman. 

Upon hearing the melodious female voice, nausea rose in Slink’s stomach. He grabbed the edge of the table to keep himself from falling over.

Malren’s face darkened. His jaw tightened as he turned toward Slink and Droskar.

“A sham. A cheap trick,” he hissed. “It was all a lie! “The Council of Twelve does not exist.”

Both Slink and Droskar stared at him.

“W-what do you mean?” Slink asked in a whisper. 

His arms felt weak as wax, and his stomach twisted. All he wanted was to go home. To crawl into bed.

But Droskar seemed to understand far more than he did. He grabbed Slink by the arm and shook him.

“Malren is right, you fool! Pull yourself together. We’ve been deceived all these years. We must act now, as we are about to lose the kingdom!”

But it was too much. The dizziness returned, and the world around Slink began to spin.

The last thing he saw was Malren grabbing one of the strange tubes again and shouting into it.

A moment later, the same cold, authoritative voice that had echoed across the marketplace earlier rang out once more.

“This is Captain Malren speaking. The Council of Twelve is gone. I am now in charge, together with Captain Droskar and Slink. We are the new Council. The Council of Three. Our first command is to arrest the old geezer who disrupted our feast.”

Slink understood none of it.

The darkness closed in around him, and he sank into oblivion.

***

Three Days Later

Calen glanced sideways at Marisa across the breakfast table. She turned toward him, and for a brief moment their eyes met. She smiled at him, and he felt himself blush. He had just stuffed his mouth with porridge, made with goat’s milk. An unfortunate moment, but her smile made everything right. She didn’t seem to mind. They were closer than ever before.

Everything had been well since they had arrived safely at Grandfather’s farm a few days ago. Just as Elior had predicted, they had not encountered a single soul on their journey from the Bridge of Echoes. Everyone had been in Ömstead for the celebrations, and the trip home had been fast and uneventful.

Home. 

The smell of porridge, the chatter around the table and Marisa sitting only a few feet away made the dangers of Ömstead seem very far away. The Scrolls where safely hidden in the cave and life was good. If only he knew what had become of Elior, everything would be perfect. 

Their arrival at Grandfather’s had been wonderful. Tobin had been the first to spot them.

He had let out a cry of delight and excitement when he saw them riding up. “By the whiskers of Saint Gilles!” he had shouted at the top of his lungs, beside himself with joy. “All three of you are safe!”

And safe they were, at the breakfast table with a steaming bowl of porridge.

“Tell me again about Lumenreach?” Tobin asked, his eyes sparkling with adventure.

“I’ve told you three times already,” Calen said with a gentle grin. 

“Were you scared of the seagulls?” he wanted to know, but before Calen could answer he turned to Isola and said, “I want to learn to swim, Mother.”

“Sure, Tobin,” Isola said. “Now finish your porridge, sweet boy.”

“Can you teach me, Calen?” Tobin continued. “Vorren said there’s an underground lake nearby.” 

“Who knows,” Calen replied thoughtfully, but he didn’t like the idea Tobin was talking so freely about their hiding place. He gave the boy a grin and said, “Perhaps the river is a better place.”

“Too cold,” Tobin wrinkled his nose while aimlessly stirring his porridge.

Marisa changed the subject. “Speaking of a river… Did you tell everyone about the river behind Elior’s tree hut?”

Calen had not told that story yet,

There was so much to talk about.  So much had happened, but just as Calen started, an unexpected sound stirred.

The sound of hoofbeats.  

Calen looked up.

“A rider?”

“Probably Ronan,” said Grandfather. “He’s always out early.”

And indeed, less than a minute later, Ronan threw the door open, sending a fresh gust of morning air sweeping across the table. He hurried inside, visibly excited.

“I have news,” he said, panting. He could barely get the words out.

Calen jumped to his feet.

“What kind of news?”

“The image of the Council of Twelve,” Ronan replied. “It’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” Marisa asked.

“Everyone, calm down,” Grandfather commanded. He turned to Ronan. “Catch your breath, lad and sit down.”

He looked at Isola. “Get that man a cup of warm goat’s milk. Let him collect himself.”

As Isola rose and did what Grandfather asked, Ronan sank into one of the chairs and began to tell them what he knew.

“Big news. I heard it in a nearby tavern. A messenger had arrived. But the news is spreading everywhere. The image of the Council of Twelve has been completely destroyed.”

Cheers erupted from the startled listeners.

“But how?” Calen asked in bewilderment when they calmed down. “Did Elior do it?”

Ronan nodded as Isola placed a steaming mug of goat’s milk before him. He took a sip and nodded. “That’s what people are saying. During the festivities, there appeared an old man, waving a shepherd’s staff and proclaiming a prophecy.”

“That was Elior,” Marisa confirmed. “And then?”

“They say there was thunder and lightning. The ground split open, a great number of the Council’s soldiers fell into the earth and died. Then the image literally tore itself apart.”

“The ground split open? Thunder and lightning? Did that really happen?” Calen asked.

“How would I know,” Ronan said. “The people I talked to had already gulped down quite a few drinks. But it is clear something big happened.”

“By the whiskers!” Tobin exclaimed. “I wish I could have seen that.”

“That is wonderful news,” Grandfather said, a look of pure happiness spreading across his old face.

“Not entirely,” Ronan said hesitantly.

Everyone turned toward him. “Why not?”

“It turns out the Council of Twelve did not really exist.”

The breakfast table fell silent.

“I don’t understand,” Calen said while narrowing his eyes. “What about all the persecution? And the Book of Order? That was very real.”

“It was real,” Ronan continued, “And so is The Book of Order. Everyone is talking about it, but nobody knows the exact details. We know that the Book of Order was written long ago, back in the days when the first Council of Twelve was erected with twelve actual members who appeared in public…” He paused. “But think of it… nobody has actually ever seen any real members of the present Council of Twelve. We’ve only heard their orders that came to us through their servants the captains.”

“Go on,” Marisa urged him.

“The word is that nobody actually knows who are part of the present Council. It appears not too long ago, something or someone, nobody knows exactly who or what, took control from behind the scenes.”

He took another sip of his warm milk. “No one knows whether there were other shadowy figures pulling the strings behind the Council of Twelve.”

“And now they are gone?” Isola wanted to know.

Ronan gave her a simple nod.

“But…” Calen began cautiously, “if the Council of Twelve and their image are gone… who holds the power now?”

A shadow slid over Ronan’s face. He looked troubled.

“The word is that Captain Malren, Captain Droskar and Slink seized power. They call themselves the Council of Four.”

“Four? But you mentioned only three names.”

“I know,” Ronan said, “But they added a fourth member, a certain Captain Drenick.”

“Drenick?” Calen hissed.

Ronan looked up in surprise.

“You know him?”

Calen nodded miserably and lowered his eyes.

“Dear Lord, have mercy on us.”

“The story of Drenick is even stranger,” Ronan continued. “Apparently, the Council of Twelve had thrown him into prison. But when the image was destroyed, all the prison doors suddenly burst open and every prisoner was free to walk out. Drenick right away joined his buddies in Ömstead.”

“Good gravy,” said Tobin, his eyes shining with excitement. “Did that really happen?”

Ronan nodded. “That is what happened. Prisoners began pouring out of jails across the country. The guards couldn’t stop them.”

“But that is impossible,” Isola said, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Maybe,” Ronan admitted. “But it happened. I spoke to a few former prisoners myself. Two fellows, gaunt as scarecrows and looking like they had not seen a decent meal in years.” He paused for a moment. “Anyway, that’s what happened to Drenick. When the doors opened, he walked free.”

“And then?” Calen asked.

“Then he returned to Ömstead and rejoined his old companions.”

“Good gravy,” said Tobin, his eyes shining. “Imagine seeing all those prisoners pouring out of their cells!”

“You said you talked to some prisoners?” Calen asked.

Ronan nodded. “Two of them. They were heading for Ömstead as well. One was blind and the other guided him wherever he went.”

A shock coursed through Calen.

Blind?

His heart skipped a beat.

Surely there could not be that many blind former prisoners traveling through the country?

“Did either of them happen to mention their names?” he asked

Ronan shook his head.

“Blind Asher… Jonathan…” Calen said uncertainly, tears filling his eyes. “It has to be.”

“Do you know them?” Isola asked.

“I think so,” Calen nodded. “That’s a long story as well.”

Ronan set his empty mug on the table with a thump and sighed.

“The bad news is that I fear the new Council of Four intends to be even harsher toward us believers. The Book of Order is still being enforced, and although there is no image left to worship, severe persecution may still lie ahead.”

“Elior knew it,” Calen said barely audible. “He predicted it. Our mission has only become clearer.”

Elior…

For a moment, Calen had forgotten about him.

“And Elior?” he asked Ronan. “Did you hear anything about him? Is he unharmed?”

Ronan made a helpless gesture.

“Gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

Ronan shrugged.

“No one knows where he is. He simply vanished.”

“So, they did not capture him?”

Ronan shook his head.

“No one knows for certain. Someone knew he was the hermit who lived beyond the Bridge of Echoes, so the soldiers went there immediately.”

“They never made it across the Bridge of Echoes, of course,” Marisa said cheerfully.

“They did make it,” Ronan replied.

“Whatever was in that valley is gone now. They found his tree house, but they claimed the whole place had become dilapidated, dried out, and worthless.”

“What?” Calen felt a headache coming up. ““So… Elior is simply gone?”

“That’s what I said,” Ronan replied. “Simply gone.” 

Marisa clicked her tongue. “Well, that settles it. We better get ready with our part of the mission. We are to cover the land with the Word of God as the waters cover the seas. We need to find faithful scribes and start the copying.”

Calen wasn’t sure whether to cry or laugh. The second part of his mission was about to begin.

_____

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