The Last Witness

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley, but all sanctuaries must fail as the end draws near. I told the guard as much when he shared the news with me.

Despite how increasingly dire matters grow, it is still possible to find those who tell our leaders that there is yet hope for their dreams, that there is some weapon, some hero, some intervention that will yet preserve this frail thread of our survival. Some even rave of reclaiming the world!

But I have not the comfort of such delusions, nor the opportunity to utter such sweet-sounding falsehoods. No, I have the uncomfortable duty of telling the truth. And ushering in the final annihilation of our race and all its hubris.

Thus, it is for the truth that I am imprisoned, hidden away in the dark Caverns of the Firstborn, where our people have sheltered since the Beginning of All Things. I imagine the symmetry is largely missed by even the most learned, but mine is a long habit of recognizing the patterns of things.

It is one of the blessings – though some might call it a curse – of serving my God.

And that is what I have been doing since I was dedicated to the Temple as a boy. I memorized the Books of Prayer and Practice. I learned the sacred writings and the arguments of the scholastics. I was prepared to take up service as a priest or teacher. And I was surprised as everyone else when I received the calling of prophet.

Those first words that I heard separated me from everything I ever knew, and I have felt the keenness of that voice ever since. There was a time that I dreaded the possibility of Him speaking, as pain inevitably follows swiftly in the silence that comes after. And why? Because I speak fire and swords and death without fail and without reprieve – not just for individuals or nations, but for the world.

This is it what the divine voice has become for me.

But it has been some time since I last heard Him speak. And that has made my final task all the more difficult. Still, I am strengthened by the terrible fruit that has been born so far from the words that I spoke.

He promised that all the massed armies of our people would be overrun when the Darkling Gates opened once again. And they were.

He told me that a dragon whispered in the mind of Morenial to twist his counsel to ruin. He also told me that none of the rulers would believe me when I revealed the truth to them. And so the Betrayal at the Towers of Morning came to pass, to the great cost of our people.

When the last of the High Mages swore that the Valley's Enchantment – a sorcery that has held since the First Days – would ward the Valley from discovery, my God told me to proclaim that the dragons would breach the wards at year's end.

And so, they are here.

After the first rift opened, some called for my death, saying that I was in league with the Dark Powers. They fretted and accused, saying that I would open the way through the last defenses. Others defended me as a holy man, even if they wouldn't take my part. Still more said that I was a madman who speaks as much nonsense as "prophecy." And of the latter they can find plenty of likely explanations.

I wish that I were mad, that someone could prove it to me so that I wouldn't have to do what I must do next. I wish that they could prove that a dragon whispers in my mind, that I serve the Dark Powers. I wish that they would kill me and so lift the burden of terrible obedience from my shoulders.

But I am not. And they won't. And the world will burn. Oh, this burden. It is too terrible to bear.

* * *

Looking back on what I have written thus far, I see that I am as one who has an old wound, long neglected. The festering has long since set in and now to even think of touching it is to risk unbearable suffering. So, I talk as to edge around and gesture at. Still, I did say something true there:

"And the world will burn."

I am largely alone now because of such words as those. The rest of my order either laid aside the mantle or spoke against me. Most of the latter are dead now, such being the price of rebellion. Only the guard who tends my needs and makes sure I am fed makes a regular appearance in my cell. He is polite but silent, both of which are traits I appreciate. Yet, I think the whispers of this place unnerve him. Perhaps if he stayed long enough, he could understand them as I do, but that is not a burden I would wish on anyone – to hear the testimony of ages.

In respect of my office and my station, I have been allowed my books and some writing implements – ink, quill, and parchment – to make this record. What the value of such a record might be is beyond my understanding as it will be destroyed with everything else in the coming cataclysm, but this task also I was instructed to perform. I suppose it is yet another proof of the justice of the coming judgment.

The guard lingered this morning after he brought me my meal, watching me write. He didn't say anything and neither did I. When I was done eating, he left without a word, as he always does, but I think he is struggling with a thought. I think I have lived long enough to recognize the signs.

I wonder if he will be the means my God uses to release me so that I may fulfill my task? It would be a simple solution, but I long ago stopped assuming my guesses would prove true. No, I am expecting something far more horrific.

* * *

Surinya was found dead this morning. Avlath believes that a dragon ate her mind. Avlath is the name of my guard. I am not surprised, neither did I celebrate when I heard the news. Why should I? Surinya was a bold woman, who dared much to save our people. But no sorcery can overcome the Dark Powers, and no one who searches out such lore as Surinya did can escape their notice forever.

"But you condemned her during your trial," Avlath insisted.

I did. I did condemn her and so that judgment has come to pass with the inexorable might of Divine Law – oh that it wasn't so, oh that I was given different words to speak to Surinya, words that would have saved her rather than seal her doom. But my words are not always my own.

Avlath understood that when I explained the matter to him. I see that such talk will win him over – loyalty above personal desire, devotion above preference. By these means I could hasten my escape and so bring an end to my torment.

But I won't.

If Avlath is to aid me, let the God do it. Let it be His hand – not mine – that turns destruction’s key, that slides the bolt open and flings wide the door to usher in the End of All Things.

Yet, even in this I deceive myself. For when the door opens, I will step through it. I will shamble my way down whatever unlooked for path leads me out of the fortress to some secret way out of city and on, on to where the last incense will rise to Heaven. And there I will speak the words.

* * *

A nightmare.

Avlath woke me out of it, his face was perhaps as horrified as mine must have looked. He hurried to fetch me cold water, forgetting to close the door, but it was not the time for my escape. He asked me what I dreamed. I think he's afraid that the voices of our ancestors have driven me mad. Or perhaps he believes a dragon hides coiled in my mind, that the shadow of ruin lurks within me.

But no, I told him the truth. Lani and my son burning as the fire took the Temple. She and the others wouldn't leave, and the Captain of the City Guard would do nothing to restrain the wildness of the crowd. No, he wouldn't risk his soldiers or let me go to them.

"I cannot save the Temple, but I won't let you die with it, holy one," the captain told me. How pragmatic. How cowardly. And are we not every bit as destructive as the dragons in our fury and our cowardice?

Avlath had heard the tale of the Temple burning, the tale the Leaders wish to be told abroad, but he had been led to believe that the Temple had been destroyed during the siege of the city.

"That is when it burned, but it was our own people who did it – to appease the Dark Powers or out of their own wrathful despair, who can say?"

He nodded at that, thoughtful and concerned. A good sign. He possesses the kind of mind that can still accept answers that are not of his own making. Then he told me, “There is unrest here, in the city. It began in the outer wards, but it's been spreading. The patrols have been increased. The cells are full of instigators – even some of the soldiers.”

I didn't say it to him, but I don't think it will be much longer now. When hope is woven of lies and delusions, it cannot long endure the weight of truth's awful hand. And the people have been lied to for a long, long time.

But never by me.

It strikes me that my son would be as old as Avlath, if he had survived the burning of the Temple. Would my son have stood beside me when we reached this awful point in the road? I would hope so. But what do such indulgent musings matter?

I have said what I had to say. In the end it doesn’t matter if anyone listened to me or not.

"But could you be mistaken, haven't you ever been wrong before?" Avlath asked, when our conversation led us from the reason of my imprisonment to the matter of prophecy.

It's surprising how few ever ask me such questions. There was a time, back when I was still young to my calling, that I asked myself those very things. But then there were other times that such questions would have been madness.

It is as if it is assumed that I want to speak words of power, that I lust after them and the influence they bring me. But in all truth, I dread them.

So, I answered him, "Of course I could be mistaken. And if I were, I would never be trusted again, and would trust myself even less."

"Then you mean to say you have never been wrong."

I could tell that he both wanted to believe me and felt it his duty to be skeptical, a tension I respect.

"I have been wrong in what I assumed, never in what I said." Indeed, that was a lesson I learned early on. A lesson that taught me not to give interpretation when none was commanded.

"Then there really is no future," he said as he stared down at the ground.

What was there to say to that, that I haven't already said?

* * *

Last night I dreamed of the Dragon again.

This will be the first time I have mentioned it in my record. I think the terrible weight of these times gives me ample excuse for this omission thus far. Surely, after all I have seen and done and said, I am allowed this one weakness. I am not a god, nor am I of a particularly stern constitution. Neither has the God rebuked me for my silence or given command that I should share it – at least not specifically.

And here I am writing of it now, so it is all in one place: One testimony, one record. This, the final holy book to be written before the hour comes when there will be neither books, nor people to read them.

But I am avoiding what must be said.

In the darkness I heard it. As when a forest sways in the deepest night with a great and constant wind, or the sea churns with the swell of surge and storm – the sounds were all around and they were one.

But the wind does not see you. The sea does not set its will against you from its unfathomable depths to the roiling might of its waves. You do not feel the hate of air and water that is more than mere scorn, more than mortal malice, reaching back through ages beyond ages to the hatred of that first bright moment when life came out of darkness. A hate older than earth and stars and time.

What did it say? It didn’t say anything, at first. It showed, and by doing so demonstrated its power to strike at my heart.

I see it now with my waking eyes: the Door. A way out. But is this the way I am to go? Surely, I should receive one more word, one more command – and not from the Dragon who showed me the Door. Where then is my God? Where is the certainty that this is what I must do? The confidence that I have run the race to the uttermost end?

There is the Door. The Door that I have been waiting for, and all I must do is open it. Surely, I must open it. The God told me that the hour would come and that I would be afraid.

And into that fear, the Dragon said, "Prophet, I see you. I know you. Here is the Door. Here is your peace. Open it and be free. Open it and behold my majesty."

I am so afraid.

* * *

Avlath did not come until well after the noon hour, and when he did there was a slouch to his shoulders, an emptiness to his eyes that told of unbearable grief. I did not need to ask, nor did he tell. Ruin and death will find us all, without fail. Nothing dear will endure beyond the ending of endings.

Perhaps he imagined that he came to me for consolation or comfort, but what could I offer a young man who has finally accepted the truth? Better that it cut him than I blunt the edge, it might yet save him. Perhaps it will even save me.

Avlath says there is fighting in the caverns and the keep. He won't return to the surface again. As I thought, the people have turned on each other at the last.

There is word that they have erected an altar made from the bones of the Firstborn in the Shrine of the Elders, making grim sacrifices, long forbidden. But there is none left who can oppose them.

What remains of our warriors have either betrayed their charge or determined to make as honorable of an end as they can.

Sword and sorcery alike have failed, the bonds of blood and faith are broken, and no amount of talk will hold back the inevitable.

It will not be long until the dragons come. The Hour of the Dark Powers approaches.

And the Door is still there. Could it truly be the way I am meant to take? Then why does my God remain silent? Is He even there or have I truly only ever heard the Dragon – all of my life.

I have not slept for days for fear of what I will meet there. But I must sleep soon, I cannot endure much more.

* * *

Another nightmare. Lani screaming as she held our son, crying out to our God for mercy that didn’t come. The fire...the fire between me and all my love, the hand of the Divine taking everything I longed for...and then. Then the silence and the darkness.

Until it spoke.

The voice came from many mouths, from every side, echoing one upon the other with a cacophonous unity, a discord of surrounding cruelty. And it was evil.

How can one write what that many-mouthed voice spoke? How can one describe the horror of feeling peeled open to the innermost core of yourself, and discovering a voice – akin to that greater voice – whispering back, the voice of your most secret heart?

And how can I continue, having heard my secret voice, and all that it said? The testimony of my failure.

* * *

Here follow the words of Avlath, the last guard of the Sacred Caverns.

I kept vigil with the prophet Lersaat until I could no longer keep my eyes open. Then sleep took me. He was greatly agitated, pacing his cell back and forth, back and forth, muttering and often hiding his face behind his hands.

When I asked him if there was anything I could do to be of help, he told me that staying with him was the greatest gift I could give. This I have done. There is no one left to give me commands and I am all that remains of the guards of the inner caverns.

At some point, he shook me awake and pressed a bundle of books into my hands. "This is the whole of it. Keep it, do not lose it. Promise me. It matters more than you are able to believe."

I gave my word.

Then he turned and stared at the wall, his eyes never moving. Sweat gathered on his forehead, until it dripped. I almost feared that he had gone mad, but that didn’t seem right.

Not long after that, the door to the cell opened and a group of armed men crowded in – some I recognized but others were strange, foreigners I think – they were escorting a man in black robes. There was a smell of burnt meat and blood. The whispers of the room, which had grown ever clearer to my ears, fell silent at his arrival.

The man spoke to the prophet with the voice of death. “And so you have rejected my mercy."

Lersaat bowed his head, but he didn’t say a word.

"Take him, my altar awaits."

And they led him forth. Lersaat trembled, but his head was high, and there were tears in his eyes. Strangely, no one looked at me or spoke to me – I stood as one in a dream and watched the last holy man led to his death.

I have dared to write these words in his last book. I hope I will be forgiven.