Page 28    

The throne swung around to reveal Araknik the Gray Wolf: cold, heartless eyes; tight placid skin pulled tautly over the cheekbones; thin strands of long jet black hair hanging down, uncut for years and draped over his shoulders; curved beak-like nose; and absolutely no smile.  He looked wearier than ever.  His voice cracked again, “Lie.”

Consus stood still, heart almost stopping.

“You lie,” his master continued.  “You took the chest when you saw the other knights kept the drakard occupied in battle, didn’t you?”

Consus’ heart did skip a beat.  The rumors are true, he thought.

“DIDN’T YOU?”

Consus shook and cowered back a step.  His master rose up to his full height with fists clenched, a tall man, as tall as Firesmyth Mancuso, almost a head above the rest even without the couple of steps that ascended to his throne.  He looked more menacing now than weary.  

Consus dropped to his knees and begged, “My lord, he was a real Firesmyth.  I beg you to accept your gift and have mercy on me.  Was it not for this that you sent us?”  With that, Consus fell prostrate before him, hands splayed out in front offering the now revealed chest.

His master showed no emotion but took the chest.  He studied the exterior for a long time.  Consus remained unmoving on the floor before him.  Then Araknik pointed a stylus of some kind at the brass inlayed lock.  A brilliant red beam of light flashed from the tip of the stylus to the lock casing.  Tucking the stylus in the folds of his robe, he lifted the lid up just enough to glimpse its contents.

He smiled.  For a man of 678 years, it was amazing he still had teeth.  Then he spoke.  “You may have redeemed yourself, Consus son of Minar.”

Scroll 1: History's Mirror                                                                                    Chapter 1: Treasures from the Past