Chapter 1

                    MY STORY BEGINS IN BRITAIN, ABOUT forty or so years after the downfall of the "Great Roman Empire".  The year was 400 or so on the new Hammerite calendar, which was becoming more and more popular in our parts.  I think it was somewhere between 1100 and 1200 on the older Roman calendar, which, as you can imagine, was becoming less popular in our parts.  I’ve never really kept much track of such things, really.

                    I thought it was egotistical enough that the Romans based their calendar around themselves and their history.  But then the Hammerites, a strongly religious brotherhood that was quickly becoming an established religion throughout the whole country, not to mention a significant military power in our land, based their own calendar around the birth of what they called their “saviour”, a man who is today only known as “The Builder”, His name long forgotten.  His deeds, that supposedly saved the world of man, were grotesquely exaggerated, manifesting Him as some sort of supernatural being; even a god.  I never understood those crazy people and their ways, or for that matter, any other religion.  I just never saw the benefit of believing in something that implausible, unless you’re someone who takes comfort in believing in an all-powerful entity, and life after death, and if you’re gullible enough.

                    Naturally, however, the people I lived around were strongly religious, and lived in no less than complete terror of "hell" and "damnation" and other such ridiculous beliefs.  But I laugh at such things.  It amuses me to think that people can be so easily manipulated and swayed.  Those priests who go from city to city trying to spread “The Words and Teachings of the Master Builder” are no different from every parent who ever tried to tell their children horror stories to keep them in check.  They tell us if we believe in him and build in His honour we will be given a great reward; and if we neglect his teachings and fail to worship him… well, suffice it to say we will “regret our neglect and defiance in the next world.”  Such defiance of other people's views was one of the things that earned me repulsion and loathing from other people even during my boyhood.

                    My name is Garrett, and I had spent my early childhood in the ravaged and ramshackled city of Verulamium.  Before the downfall of the Romans and their empire, places like Verulamium and Londinium were among the best of cities one could hope to live in.  They were imperial cities, who lay under the so-called maintenance and protection of the emperor himself.

                    But after the "Great Fall", as it was called, it didn't take long before places like Verulamium fell under complete turmoil.  The country fell into a state of complete anarchy, where no law existed, and money was quite literally meaningless.  The buildings began to decay, weeds grew between the cobblestone roads, and the law faded into nothing.  The civic governments established by the Romans continued for a time, but upon the withdrawal, the power to enforce the law was gone, and as the idiot citizens began to realize this, the fear of breaking the law vanished.  The whole country, pissed into the wind.  In short, the Romans left us for dead.  We were victims of ourselves; our only hope of peace was through fighting, and our only hope of bread was by taking matters into your own hands, one way or another.  But even then, when the Romans and their values had, in every sense of the term, “up-and-left”, the people there still lived their lives for the acquisition of wealth, in its former meaning.

                    As a whole, the people of Roman Britain never thought it was possible that their great empire would be reduced to dust.  It was heresy to mutter such thoughts.  Rome was the future, it was the Alpha and the Omega, the “know-all and be-all”, and nothing could bring it down; from inside or out.  But secretly, there were those who knew bloody well what the inevitable future of the Roman power was, and were smart enough to take measures to protect themselves and their estates.  Only those with powerful homesteads and armies of their own could withstand the first few years of the garrison withdrawal.  These were the survivors of the years to come after the downfall; they would be able to defend themselves from attackers, pillagers and raiders.  Unfortunately, this trait of intelligence and logical thinking didn’t exist in the people of my town.  And so our town was reduced to the same lawlessness and dismay.

                    Although, it was still heard of for some cities, far better than the one I lived in, with their own excuse for a municipal government, to be run with currency and laws.  My dream was to get enough money to leave this pestilent town and go to one of these places, where I could live a better life than this.  That's about as far ahead as I had planned.

                    Naturally, in order to get into such a place, there would almost definitely be a toll of some sort.  I would get enough money by the time I was fifteen, and then be rid of this place before anybody knew I was gone (as if anybody would care anyway); and I would get this money any way I could --any way.  I was sick of leading this life.

                    Now as I said before, the commonfolk of my town seemed to have a strong dislike for me.  In fact, they thought of me as some sort of a vermin rather than a boy.  "Ingrate" they would call me, or "pest", or "thief".  Everybody knew I pickpocketed for my own use.  But I had no other choice.  I was what the “higher class” (or what once existed as the higher class) called a serf.  I had no home, I had no family, and I had no food.  I did not even have a God.

                    I had to get by somehow.  I used to be able to run messages and deliver the odd package for some loose change, but people stopped trusting me after a while, because every now and again I would keep a package or two for myself, depending what was inside.

                    Don't ask me any questions about my father, because of him I have no idea; never met him, never heard anything about him, never wanted to.  During the first nine years of my life, I lived alone with my mother in what was more of a filthy, meager shanty than a house.  It wasn’t even ours -- we paid rent to some fat, ugly, obnoxious landlord.  I had no idea how we managed to do this, both because money was almost never used these days, and even if it was my mother had no job and nothing to offer.  There were things about life I was yet to know, even though I thought of myself as smarter than most other children my age.

                    I got by, sort of keeping to myself, dreaming boys’ dreams and watching the world with half-caring eyes.  It was hardly a life, and usually I was too concerned with my empty stomach to really have any dreams or ambitions at all, but I took some solace from knowing that my situation was about as bad as they got; it was inconceivable to me that things could get any worse.  Then, halfway through my ninth summer, there was a break in, and my mother was slaughtered in front of my eyes by three desperate house-raiders who noticed that there was a pathetic-sized ham on the dinner table and a few silver coins hidden underneath my mother's bed.  When I say “slaughtered”, I don't mean "killed", but she was beaten right in front of me, and then forced out onto the streets for a reason that again I wouldn't understand until later in my life.

                    I never saw her again, and in a spell of my own panic, I fled from my house, never to come near it again.  When my breath caught up with me and I had to stop running, I got down to my knees, panting, looked around to see if the men had followed me, and started sobbing to myself.  It was the first, and the last time I ever remembered weeping.  I knew even at that moment that from that day on, I was on my own…

      Three summers had past since that day, and not much had changed.  I woke up at dawn, after having spent the night in the back of a squalid goods market, on a pile of tattered hay.  Sneaking out, I became aware of a lot of noise coming from the streets, and when I peered out the back door, I saw more activity than I had ever seen in the town.  Our once empty city was suddenly swarming with people, more than I had ever seen.  It filled me with wonder, after a lifetime of never seeing anything worth lifting my head up to look at.  I continued to watch the crowds of people swarm in.  Are they immigrants?  I thought.  No… who would want to come here?  Whatever place they came from must be far better than here.

                    By the third day of this transpiration, the city was filled to capacity three times over, and people began setting up camps all around the outer wall.  I could only guess at what had suddenly made this oversized rat’s nest such an attractive place to visit.  The newcomers came in by the hundreds, all of whom must have traveled well over fifty Roman miles to get here, at the least.  I couldn’t help wondering to myself what was supposed to happen here that would cause people to come travelling so many miles to come to this desolate shit-hole of a town.  Some of them came in great strength, as some kind of military force.

                    One group, numbering close to one hundred men, came in full body armour, heavily armed, and all mounted on the largest steeds I had ever seen.  What surprised me was that these people were wearing Roman style armour and weapons, and some of them even looked Roman, although a great deal more of them looked more like Celts.  They had Celtic bows attached to their saddles, and the saddles themselves were like none I had ever seen or heard a Roman soldier wearing in the stories my mother read to me.  I, of course, had trouble believing what this implied: that two peoples, one Roman and one Celtic, had joined as one, in blood and culture.  The very idea was ludicrous.  Romans and Celtics hated each other, by their very definition.  Celts were some of the original inhabitants of this country, and Romans invaded and occupied their land, allowing them to exist as a working class and butchering all who resisted their superiority.  The concept of the Romans and the Celts participating in a blood-bond, a sacred merge between two cultures into one, like “two strong metals into a superior alloy” as it was often referred to, was just preposterous.

                    Others, who came as infantry, appeared by their dress and manner to be one of the older Hammerite brotherhoods.  Now this surprised me.  Of course, the fall of the Roman Empire was common knowledge, but I just assumed that by “fall” they meant that they had been hunted down and slaughtered to the last man standing.  But that’s just how my mind worked.  I was a kid, and I obviously didn’t know much about the country I lived in, although that was perfectly understandable.

                    The Romans had occupied what they decided to call Britain for many generations, and nature demanded that sooner or later their people would fall.  But I thought it human nature that everyone who had been forced to accept their occupation through this time would make sure their occupationers didn’t live to tell their story.  But what I saw before me clearly proved me wrong.  The Hammerite soldiers appeared just as they were described in my mother’s stories: they wore uniforms of silver, and red metal plating covered with fine linen and wool.  Every detail was exactly as I had heard, right down to the iron sword-sized hammer they used as their only weapon -- a holy symbol.  They also wore the emblem of the Holy Hammer on their chests, red against a white circular background.  Their faces were all sinister, straightforward and cold.  Their features all matched each other, and they looked almost exactly the same.  As if they were all born of the same woman, I thought to myself coyly.

                    Not much later in the day, a group of about 20 or so figures in dark brown hooded cloaks arrived, careful to cover their face with their hoods, so that no skin showed.  They all walked as a unit; they were in perfect synchronization.  But as strange as they appeared to me, no one seemed to take any notice in them.  Pagans, I decided.  These people must be Pagans.  I didn’t know very much about Pagans, except that they and their religion was once the primary power in what was now called Britain.  But with the coming of the Romans, and what was known as “The Order of the Hammer” (I really have no idea how much the two were connected), the Pagan religion, as well as their people, seemed to just drift off into the background.  (Or, more likely, they were chased away and destroyed.)  Now they were more commonly known as “druids”, and their religion was nowadays referred to more as the “old ways”.

                    This group as a whole, the Roman/Celtic soldiers, the Hammerites, and the druids, made up only about half of the number of people that came to the small town.  The rest were all merchants, or filthy-looking petty thieves (not unlike myself).  They had undoubtedly heard about whatever was about to happen, and come to steal and pickpocket from the people that would come to the proceeding.  I could hardly blame them, but I really didn’t like crowds all that much.

                    Then a thought occurred to me; a thought so blindingly obvious that I cursed myself for not having thought of it before.  All those people, I thought.  All those people are coming from far fancier places then I’ve ever been, wearing fancier clothing than me, probably half their weight in jewelry, and could very likely have sagging money purses hanging from their unsuspecting belts.  Yes… I could make quite a profit from this happy little gathering.

                    I knew that I would have to bide my time until well into the proceeding, whatever that proceeding would turn out to be, until everyone had settled in and were all at ease, unsuspecting and oblivious to their surroundings.  I casually followed the direction that the strangers seemed to be going.

                    THE CROWD SEEMED TO BE HEADING TOWARDS the large amphitheatre that marked the centre of town.  It was built by the Romans during their occupation, and the Builder (and I use the term very loosely) only knew what they had used it for.  Maybe for meetings and imperial trials, but more likely for entertainment and celebrations for their many holidays, or even a way of torturing their criminals.  I guessed both simultaneously.

                    By the last few years of the Roman’s military presence, almost every second day had been declared a holiday for some forgotten reason, like a battle they had won, or another city they had taken.  I'm sure it contributed to their demise; they were so busy getting drunk, celebrating, and watching people being massacred to death by vicious animals in their own arenas that they were prone to attack.  The unthinkable plagues that were carried back to Rome by returning garrisons were just salt to the wound.

                    The main entrance of the amphitheatre was guarded by two imposing-looking guards who both looked like it was their first day on the job.  One of them seemed a bit dumber than the other, but they both seemed like little to look at, and I could see in the faces of the people that walked past that they had the same thoughts about these two as well.

                    They seemed pretty careless as they watched the great variety of different people walking in, obviously not happy to be there at all, so I decided I might as well let myself in.  I joined myself in the rabble of people walking noisily towards the entrance, and prided myself in not giving the guards the slightest acknowledgement as I walked by.  I felt a hand grab my shoulder.

                    “Hey!” a deep, robust voice yelled at me.  The hand pulled me back into the sight of the guard who grabbed me.  “Where do you think you’re going?  Look you, boy, we don’t allow brats such as you in these places.”  And with that he threw me onto the dusty ground a good five feet in front of him.  “Now get lost.”

                    The fatter, stupider guard was laughing at me, and the other one joined in a bit too, looking rather pleased with himself.  Then I felt something inside me; an impulse that I had never felt before.  It was like years of unsatisfied rage all began pouring out of me and demanded to be given heed.  I found I could no longer control my fury.  I leapt up, grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into the eyes of the guard who threw me onto the ground, all in one motion.  I came charging at him, and punched him with every ounce of my strength, right in his bloated belly, only to be thrown back onto my arse with the force of it.  He had barely flinched.  The two guards stood staring at me in shock for a heartbeat, then burst out laughing, the deep-voiced one laughing a deep, roaring laugh and the stupid one a wheezing, groggy-voiced cackle.

                    Still smiling, the deep-voiced one started walking towards me, taking out his sword with a sneer on his face.  “Come here, you little ingrate, and I’ll teach you a thing or two.”  Without a choice and having already lost the better part of my dignity, I could only turn and run.  As I expected, neither guard followed me, but behind me I heard him harrumph and yell out, “Aye, you’d better run, boy!  And don’t you let me catch you again!”

                    As I walked around the perimeter of the building, I cursed myself for having been so stupid.  I should have known better than to have been so headstrong; it could have cost me dearly.  At least I had gained a valuable lesson from that little skirmish: I would never use the front door of such a place again.  Even as I thought that, I spotted a window a few feet above my reach.  Fortunately for me, the cracked stone that made up the outside wall was easily climbable.

                    I found myself in a Roman-style latrine, covered in dust, cobwebs, and filth.  I gagged, expecting the place to stink like Hades, but I was relieved to find that it was too long abandoned to have any kind of residual stench.  But there was still an abundance of flies around the small room.  I carefully opened the creaky wooden door, and not hearing anyone close-by, I stepped out and followed the hallway down to the noise of the crowd: the noise of hundreds of collective voices pattering on and walking around finding their seats.  I had never been in the presence of so many other human beings.  It sounded almost like a roaring waterfall, the voices and the stamping of feet.  It put me at unease, and for the briefest of moments I felt small and weak in this place, five hundred people versus one small petty boy.

                    I finally stepped out through the doorway and as it receded behind me I became overwhelmed at the sheer size of the place.  I felt a moment of dizziness just being in such a gigantic place.  I was on one of the higher floors of the place, looking down on the entire theatre; and there certainly was a lot to look down on.

                    The seats stretched on further than I could see.  Both ends were a blur of brown and yellow hair and pink faces.  The ceiling towered above me, and was covered with remarkable carvings and paintings, patterns swirling around the surface of the ceiling centring at the skylight in the centre.  The arena was ablaze with noise.  People were pouring in from the front entrance to find their seats and settle down.  The great theatre was already filled over halfway to capacity.  Apparently the show hadn’t started yet; everyone was talking amongst themselves or looking around expectantly.  Perhaps it was better that way: people would be far too preoccupied to notice an unwelcome street rat.  I hadn’t a clue what kind of occasion could be so important for all these people to come from so far away, but I really couldn’t care less one way or another.

                    Obviously, I couldn’t just come out into the open and start snatching purses in broad daylight.  First, I’d have to find someone who was distanced from the others, and distracted.  Second, I’d have to find a place where I could sneak out and snatch whatever there was to be snatched, then run back without being seen.  Piece of cake.

                    The person who caught my eye first was perfect.  He was one of the Romanesque knights, even now covered in bronze armour and sporting a large purse of gold coins.  He was fatter than most of the others, and he didn't look too observant.  One thing I noticed about him was that every few moments, he reached back to either scratch his arse or jingle his purse.  That could be a problem.  I'd have to plan this carefully.

                    I ended up taking the most basic approach: I snuck up on him from behind, crossing my fingers that he wouldn’t turn and see me.  I was just about two feet behind him when he began to turn his head to the side, as if looking for someone.  I quickly rushed behind a pillar just wide enough to hide my skinny body.  He took a fleeting glimpse to his left, and turned back again.  Oh to hell with it, I thought.  I dashed out from behind the pillar, grabbed his purse and at the same time throwing him off balance with a great heave that took all my weight, and then ran like a fox.

                    I made my way out of the arena and back into the promenade, just as the fat soldier screamed under desperate huffs of air, “Stop!  Thief!”  Of course it was too noisy for too many people to have heard him, but within a few moments enough people were on my trail.  Taking every turn I could and running like I had never run before, I managed to lose my pursuers.  The fat one was slow and short-breathed, but then again, I was an under-nourished street-rat.

                    After I was confident that I had lost them, I sat down in a corner and undid the string on the purse.  Ten beautiful gold coins dropped out into my hand, glittering in the low light of the hallway.  I smiled.  It was a good start, but I would be damned if I would stop there.

                    After about a quarter-hour, I found my way back to the arena, in the Western wing this time.  I began looking around for another poor sap with some proudly displayed money for the taking.  And I found him.

                    He was one of the pagan druids, but he was nowhere near any of his friends.  I noticed something odd about this figure: no one walking by him seemed to be aware of him, to see him.  Sure, everybody was in a hurry to find a seat and nobody was too interested in the crowd around them, but it was as if he wasn’t even there.  All the better for me, I thought.  He was wearing the ceremonial cloak, but it was open at the front, displaying his posterior.  He had his hands on his waists, so the “cape” as it were was held back.  In doing this, he let his coin-purse hang out in plain sight.  There was a curtain about ten feet behind him, a tapestry reaching fifteen feet tall.  This is too good to be true.

                    I made my move immediately.  There was a line of tapestries between him and me, and I used every one of them to remain hidden from him and any other.  Before I knew it, I was directly behind him.  He hadn’t moved an inch.  He was looking strait ahead, intently.  Impatiently, I came out of hiding and walked quickly but carefully to where he was.  Within a few heartbeats, I was right behind him.  I was so close I could hear him breath.  Before I even thought about it, my hand was already reaching out for the dark brown sack that jumped out at me crying to be snatched.  Then before I knew what was happening, something dark came shooting towards me and grabbed my outstretched arm.

                    “That’s not for you, boy.”  The deep, clear voice that came from the man in front of me shocked me and I was taken aback.  I would have fallen, had it not been for the hand that still clutched my arm.  His voice was the deepest and the most powerful voice I had ever heard, and yet also the most soft, and tranquil.  It was like hearing the voice of the Builder, to use another damned Hammerite euphemisms.  He was obviously far stronger than me, and had quite a hold on my arm, so I could think of only one approach that might make him waver.

                    “Please, sir.  I’m hungry.  Don’t tell the guards.  I won’t do it again, I promise.”  I could see the man inside the hood clearly now.  He couldn’t have been more than forty years old, and he was quite well built.  His face was one of serenity, and power.  He stared down at me for no more than a heartbeat, then spoke again.

                    “You have talent, lad.”  He was looking down at me now with a quizzical look on his face, but his hand didn’t loosen its grasp on my arm.  I began to lose my composure.

                    “Let go of me, old man!”  I tried to pull away, but the man’s grasp on me held strong.  I noticed a very odd-looking ring he was wearing on his fourth finger.  I guessed it as being made from iron plated with silver, and it had an engraved symbol of a keyhole on it.  That was all.  The man spoke on as if I hadn’t interrupted him at all.

                    “To see a Keeper is not an easy thing to do -- especially one who does not wish to be seen.”  “Keeper”?  What’s a Keeper?  Who is this man?  “It is even more difficult to remain hidden from a Keeper who tries to remain aware of his surroundings.   We have a need for those as gifted as yourself.  If you’ve grown tired of how you live, then follow me, lad... and we will show you a different way.”

                    “Leave me alone!”  The man shrugged, the slightest hint of mockery in his eyes.

                    “As you wish.”  And with that, he turned and walked away, towards a small group of people with the same cloak and strange decoration as he.

                    I rubbed my poor wrist with my other hand, although I didn’t feel any pain.  His grasp had been strong and unyielding, but not forceful.  For a moment, I sighed in relief, just glad the strange man didn’t turn me in, and I was about to turn and run back into the shadows, but I found that I was transfixed on this person.  Something about him... I couldn’t place what it was, but for some reason I found myself tempted by his offer, vague and riddled though it was.

                    Before I knew what I was doing, or what I may be getting myself into, I was running towards him, calling out to get back his attention.  He turned around immediately, like he had expected me to change my mind.  He stood patiently, waiting for me to reach him, then led me towards the cluster of cloaked men, who were now paying me and the man beside me their complete attention.

                    SO AFTER THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE “Great Meeting of Verulamium” was concluded, I left with the strange group of men.  I was put in a carriage led by horse, along with the man I had first talked to, who introduced himself as “Keeper Magar”.  The others went on horseback, trotting contently.  I was a little cautious at first, but soon I was completely engrossed in the story my soon-would-be mentor was telling me.

                    Magar and the others with him were proud members of a brotherhood called “The Keepers.”  They were indeed Pagans by blood, but they had their own beliefs to bide by, and those beliefs they swore were as real as the ground we were riding on.

                    He mentioned something of a Dark Lord, who had a morbid dislike for the world’s newest creation, (mankind, in other words) and had pledged his army of vicious beasts to the destruction of their kind.  He also mentioned something of a saviour, a leader of the ancient Hammerites who joined together once and for all with the Keepers, old distrust aside, to put down this great enemy.  I couldn't help but roll my eyes at this, but he went on without acknowledging my doubt.

                    The Keepers’ name was far from symbolic; they pledged themselves to upholding some kind of “balance” between the forces of “good and evil”.  Actually Magar didn’t use this euphemism himself, I offered it as he was explaining.  He corrected me, however, saying that “there is no such thing as ‘good’ and ‘evil’.  They are terms created by men with their own perception on things.”  He explained that people tend to perceive anyone who was very different than themselves in custom and principle as evil, and those who were more similar to them as good, moral people.  It is in any man’s power to do good deeds or bad deeds, to be “good” or “evil”.  Those are qualities of a person’s actions, not the person himself.  Magar told me it was the Keepers’ duty to see things from an arbitrator’s point of view.  It sounded more like he was citing some passage rather than using his own words, if you ask me.

                    The Keepers abolished impurities of and threats to the “Great balance” from either “pan of the scale”, as he phrased it.  The Keepers themselves were impartial, “tilting” to neither side or position, but they were not by any means apolitical.  Magar stressed that their business was making sure that all elements in the world kept roughly the same amount of power, and influence.  The ultimate arbitrators, I thought.  As this seemingly integrative man described this story to me, I found one eyebrow raising higher and higher on my face.  What have I gotten myself into?  He had been looking forwards as he spoke to me, his hands together in his lap, but now he turned towards me and cocked his eyebrow.

                    "I sense much doubt in you, lad."  He nodded as he said this.  I shrugged.

                    "No offence intended, but so far what you're describing to me sounds a little far off.  I'm not much of a religious person myself."

                    "Oh, this isn't a religion.  Religions are fantasies created by man to relax their minds and reassure themselves that there’s something worthwhile, some kind of heavenly reward that follows the corrupt world they must live through.  What I am telling you is something that really happened, and not long ago either.  When I was a young lad, not unlike you, I learned with awe about one man stood up to the unbending power of the one who calls himself the “Trickster”.  This man single-handedly defeated the Dark Lord and exiled him from this world.  He was a great human being, and for the short time that he lived after defeating the Trickster, he was loved by all.  But that, my boy, was his failing: he glorified himself, made him known to the world.”

                    “You’re talking about the Builder.”  He nodded crisply.

                    “Yes, lad.”

                    “Go on,” I said, gesturing with my hand.”  Magar repositioned himself.

                    “He wanted everyone to bow to him and follow his ways, but it did not occur to him that some may not wish to follow him.  He was assassinated only three years after he cast the Trickster out of this world; by a simple farmer.  The farmer’s house had been burnt down by Hammer extremists after they were asked to leave for trying to force the will of the Builder on him.  We can not allow the same to happen to us, for I am sure many a man would question our motives if they were to know of our existence... as they once did.”  I gave him a mildly interested glance.

                    “People used to know about you guys?”

                    “Yes.  A long time ago.  We date back to one of the earliest dynasties in all of mankind.  We existed in the times of the old Egyptian Empire, a formidable, if headstrong and arrogant kingdom.  They tried to destroy us when we asked their leader to stop expanding their territory, as it suppressed all other powers in the land.  They almost succeeded in crushing our brotherhood.”

                    “How do you know all of this for sure?  Do you hear stories told down through generations?”

                    “Through the written word, lad.  We keep writings of everything we know.  Although it wasn’t always that way.  We once did as you said, rely on stories.  That… changed.”  I was almost afraid to ask what he meant by that.

                    “What happened after the Egyptians banished you?”

                    “We went into deep hiding for many years, and ever since we’ve taken a kinship with the shadows.  They became our brother, our protector, our ally.  But even the way of the shadow is secondary to our existence.  Our true essence is writing.  Books, scrolls, parchments: they have an immense power.  They freeze time in its place, so no man can change what once was.”  His puzzling speech was beginning to scare me a little.  I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

                    “You see, my lad, it is not for us to take any glory from what we do.  For thousands of years we have protected this world from the perilous forces that seek to destroy it, and yet no one except who we deem necessary knows we even exist.  That is the way of the Keepers, and that is the burden you must carry on your shoulders if you wish to become one of us.  And you will become one of us -- it is... your destiny, young Garrett.”

                    I blinked a few times and cleared my throat.  “I... see...........  Well.  I suppose I don't have a choice.”  The older man raised a finger at me.

                    “You do, young Garrett.  And you don't.”  I raised my eyebrows.  “We do not force people into our ranks, but we already knew you would come to us, and we know what your decision will be.”

                    I blinked again.  “I tried to steal from you.  I didn't ‘come’ to you.  And how could you know what I’d decide?  It's impossible.”

                    The man gave me a reassuring nod.  “There are still things you don't understand about us, Garrett; things you are yet to learn, and comprehend.”  I was starting to grow impatient with him talking like that.

                    “What are you talking about?  I want to know now.”

                    “A Keeper's greatest virtue is his patience lad.  Discipline of the mind is more important than anything, Keeper or not.”  I was about to bark back, but he raised his finger again, the same finger and yet a much sharper, firmer one.  “Don't argue.  You want to learn of us, and you will.  We will reach the citadel shortly.”  He hadn't mentioned anything about a citadel.  I didn't even know where he was taking me.  But I shrugged and kept my peace, something I had never really tried before.

                    I could tell very early on that this was a very strange man I was associating myself with.  But for some illogical reason, I trusted him; and I had never trusted anyone else before.  He had already begun to bring out a side of me I had never seen before -- the good side.

                    We didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.  He folded his hands neatly in his lap, looking straight ahead, as if deep in thought.  I just stared out the window, coughing every now and again at the dirt the horses were kicking up, and looking out at the scenery.

                    I could actually see mountains in the distance.  I had never seen a mountain before.  Of course, I’ve seen foothills before, ones that towered higher than the city’s buildings; there were many of those in Britain.  But I had never ventured far enough to see anything of the likes of this.  It was incredible in its size and texture.  It was deep blue, even more so than the sky itself, and it was patched with white at the top.  It reminded me of fresh-baked bread sprinkled with flour.  And it was enormous!  Some peaks protruded even the clouds.  Some clouds even sat on the ledges halfway down!  We seemed to be heading towards the mountain.  The late-morning sun shone bright above us, scorching my skin and blazing with light.  I felt myself doze every now and again, and soon I faded out.

                    I groaned as I became aware of the bright sun shining in my eyes.  I opened my eyes groggily and found myself still in the chariot, and Brother Magar looking down at me, shaking me gently.

                    “We have arrived at the compound, Garrett.  Come.  Your destiny awaits you.”  He said the last sentence with a hint of what was either anticipation or jest in his voice.  I wish he would stop talking like that, I thought.  But I nodded and accepted his outstretched hand, letting him pull me up.

                    I jumped out of the chariot, my head clearer now, and found that we were facing what appeared to be a small temple.  Its design was simple and the overall appearance was far from elaborate, but it was still impressive.  The foundation was good and strong and the structure held true.  I was beginning to understand that that was the underlying nature of the Keepers: strong, persuasive, and noble, but not in any way sticking out.  They were simply there.

                    Brother Magar led me into the compound without hesitation, the others letting him and I go before them.  He stopped at the front doors, lifted his right fist and slid the engravement on his ring into a reverse marking on the wall, shifting the key to the left.  He counted to three slowly, a look of concentration on his face, and then abruptly rotated his fist to the right.  The door opened immediately.  Despite the look of surprise and wonder on my face, Brother Magar looked serenely down at me and gestured for me to go in.

                    I shrugged and went inside, immediately feeling a gust of cool air swarm around me.  I looked around me, trying to find the source, and found a grated piece of metal in the ceiling, behind which seemed to be a conduit of sorts.  It was ventilating cool air throughout the building.  After a moment of thought I concluded that it must lead to some kind of food reserve, where all meat and fruit would be kept fresh by being surrounded by ice.  It served as an effective air ventilation system, and I was impressed.

                    The interior of the building was far more elegant than the simplicity of exterior design. It was extremely well built, like nothing I had ever seen.  There were even red carpets running along the floor of the hallways.

                    But all my astonishment dissolved and I was drawn away from my surroundings as a dozen heavenly smells reached my senses.  Fresh baked bread; roasted foul; melted cheese; burnt sugar.  The walls dissolved around me and my tongue dripped with saliva as I picked up each one of these delicious aromas.  Brother Magar must have picked up on this, for he looked down at me again and nodded, smiling.

                    “I suspect you haven’t had a good meal for days.  Allow me to lead you to our kitchen.  We can eat together and share thoughts.”  But I was already leading myself towards the smells, almost leaving him behind.  He didn’t seem to mind.

                    I ate non-stop for well over an hour, eating everything within my reach, whereas Brother Magar was perfectly content in nibbling on a loaf of bread with honey.  He spoke every now and again to me, knowing fully that I was barely listening.

                    Finally, when I was half-way through a plump leg-and-thigh of foul, I grunted and put the thing down, leaning back in my chair.  To this day I had never felt so full in my life.  I was so used to going for days without food, on account of having no opportunity to steal anything, that I had no idea there was a point where you couldn’t eat any more.  I would eat anything I could get my hands on, assuming I wouldn’t have such an opportunity again for a long time.  It was a strange and gruelling sensation, being full; one I could feel I was going to pay for later, and once again I had learned my lesson.

                    “I trust you have had enough, young man?” the tall man said, a tiny smile on his lips.  I answered with a pained nod, holding my stomach.  “Then come.  There is much you need to be taught, and you might as well begin learning now.”  I got up slowly, nodding curtly to his sort of facetious concern for me.

                    He led me out of the kitchen then, and we continued down the hallway that seemed to go on for miles.  Every now and again, I passed by a room with a window or a half-open door, and I would always peer inside.  In one door I saw a room full of children, not much my senior, although some elder than others, sitting at desks writing silently in texts.  There was a single supervisor watching over them, sitting quietly in front of his own desk.

                    In another room, there was a similar group of children, though a little elder.  The room seemed like a gym, and the students were performing a range of activities from timed obstacle courses, to walking across metal surfaces, to fighting each other with mock swords.

                    In each room I passed, I slowed down a little to see what was inside, but Brother Magar led me onwards, not willing to waste a moment.  I was visibly disappointed, but I accepted it and kept following him.  I had wondered many times since this morning why this man seemed to trust me so completely; especially a man I had tried to steal from.  There was still something I was missing here, that much I knew.  Perhaps that’s the only reason I’m doing as this man asked: to find out what piece of this puzzle is being hidden from me.

                    He led me right to the end of the hallway, after a long walk that seemed to take ages, and then outside.  He took me right across to another building through an enormous courtyard, and opened the door, gesturing for me to enter before him.  Besides the front door, there were no locks to be found, not that I could see.  I found that profound and shocking.  These people are either Saints, or just very, very gullible.

                    It was quieter there; I could almost sense the sulleness in the air.  The rooms here seemed more like bedrooms, and studies.  Magar stopped at what I, for really no reason, counted to be the sixth door on the right.  He lightly tapped on the door with his knuckle.

                    “Enter,” said a scruffy voice inside.  Magar opened the door and once again gestured for me to step inside before him.  I nodded and did what he asked, realising that I was beginning to act polite.  I cringed at the thought, but still took on a stance and appearance of composure and respect.

                    There was a man with greyish hair sitting at a desk at the far end of the room, writing into a text.  He finished his sentence, coughed quietly and turned around, gazing into me, and then turning towards Magar.

                    “Keeper Magar, good day to you.  Is this… boy with you?” he said, gesturing towards me.  Magar looked at me briefly, then turned back to the older man, speaking in a clear and official tone.

                    “Good day to you as well, Keeper Mayar.  And yes, this young man is with me.  His name is Garrett, and I have come to tell you that I think this boy would be a fine addition to our fold, if you will allow it of course.”  Keeper Mayar thought this over for a moment, his chin resting on his hand, then nodded.

                    “I see.”  He got up from his chair and walked towards me, inspecting me from head to foot.  Keeper Mayar was an extremely well built man, and if it weren’t for his greying hair, well-trimmed white beard, and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, I would have guessed him to be a man around thirty.  He wore a brown cloak, not unlike Magar’s, but of much finer décorum, with decorations of silver and bronze around his belt and collar, perhaps indicating some sort of higher rank.  Magar turned towards me again, a slight twinkle of anticipation in his eyes.

                    “Garrett, this is Keeper Mayar, third of the Keeper Elders.  If you are to become one of us, he will help you greatly in your education.”  Keeper Mayar smiled and took another step forward.

                    “Hello young man,” he said, extending his hand towards me.  With a hint of reluctance, I took his hand in my own and shook it modestly.

                    “Hello.”  He had an extremely firm handshake, and I found him almost crushing my hand.  I was about to pull back, but looking in his eyes I could see his intentions were still sincere, so I tolerated him.

                    “So, it is your wish to become a Keeper, is it?”  He was smiling down at me as well.

                    “I -- I guess so.”  His smile faded slightly.

                    “You ‘guess so’?”  He turned to Magar.  “Brother Magar, how do you know this boy?”  Magar seemed to hesitate as well.  He cleared his throat.

                    “Well, actually Brother Mayar, I met him just this morning.  But he has shown himself to have talent, and I believe he has a good head on his shoulders.”  Keeper Mayar lifted an eyebrow and cleared his own throat.

                    “I… see.  My brother, come over here.  I shall speak to you of this.  Please excuse us, young… Garrett.”  I felt a little confusion and apprehension at this, but nodded and turned to explore my surroundings further.

                    I pretended not to hear what they were saying.  I wasn’t even sure if they were actually trying to speak quiet enough so I wouldn’t hear, or if they were just being polite.  I didn’t hear all of what they were saying, but I heard most of the key points.

                    The gist of it was that Mayar was, to say the least, sceptical about recruiting someone they didn’t even know.  The only answer Brother Magar had for him was that he had a very strong feeling about me.  He felt that I had the ability and the motivation to become an excellent Keeper, and that he had already seen changes in me and my behaviour since he first saw me.  Moreover, he said that he thought I may be “the one”… whatever that meant.  I wasn’t surprised that he failed to mention that I had spent my whole life thieving.  Keeper Mayar finally nodded and said something for Brother Magar’s ears alone, then looked back at me, smiling politely again.

                    “Well, young Garrett, Keeper Magar seems to think quite highly of you.”  He had already made his way back across the room and was kneeling before me.  “He and I are old associates, you see, and I respect his judgement impeccably.”  As he went on, his eyes moved back and fourth from Magar and I.

                    “So be it,” he said confidently.  “You, my young friend, will train to become a Keeper.  In the following years, we as a whole will decide whether you are to be one of us.”  I barely caught my breath before I gasped in surprise.  Years?  I had to train for years to become a Keeper?  Suddenly I wasn’t quite sure of this, although I continued to hold my peace.

                    “Keeper Magar: you will be this boy’s mentor.  He is your acolyte, and you shall accept full responsibility for his training, as well as his actions.  And Garrett: I look forward to working with you.  We shall observe your progress with great interest.”  And with this he got up again and turned back to Keeper Magar, shaking his hand.  “Brother Magar: you have my full support.”  Both men smiled at this, and I joined in a bit too.  That day was the beginning of a very long education, I knew, but I wouldn’t learn the scope of that truth for a while to come.

                    Everything was going as planned.  His minions did as He bade, rebuilding the porthole, bringing down the forcefield, and assimilating the cave into a lair for their Lord and all the chaos He was so eager to unleash on the manfools and their pathetic order.  The Woodsie Lord smiled down at His beasties’ progress.

                    But alas, they were unable to bring down the field.  For despite all the Lord’s power, it was no match for this simple tool that meant so much to these manfools.  For in a circle around the porthole, eighteen small “Holy Hammers” sat touching each other and created an invisible wall that not even a god could break down.

                    He cursed himself for His limits, and shrieked at His plant-servants to work faster.  He shrieked so loud the mighty rock that made the ceiling of the cave rumbled and bits and pieces fell into the fire at the bottom.  His minions howled in response, a howl of agony and fear and anger, and worked faster to finish their gruelling work.  He began pacing, His solid hooves’ clocking sound echoing in every corner of the dark cavern.  He growled to Himself.  It was all He could do not to burst into flames with anger.

                    Then He heard an alien sound – a sound He had never heard before.  It sounded like snow being blown in the wind; like ice crystals clammering together; like whistle bells and wind chimes ringing softly in the breeze.  At first the sound seemed random, but then it took on a pattern, a rhythm, creating an eerie melody never before heard.  He spun around, looking angrily for the source, finding nothing.  It was as if it came from nowhere -- or from everywhere.

                    What is that… who makes that? SHOW YOURSELF!!

                    He heard strange sounds that sounded like muffled voices, strange and incomprehensible but obviously with meaning.  They sounded like dozens of voices speaking not to Him, but of Him… He felt like He was being probed by another presence.  He felt alarmed but made sure he appeared more angry and overpowering than anything else.

                    WHO ARE YOU!

                    And before the forcefield, as if to answer His question, a form took shape.  It was like a cloud of icy blue gas, swirling and coming together to form a single silhouette of a face.  It was a woman’s face.  It smiled at Him.

                    Who the devil… He chuckled at the unintended pun… are You.

                    An ally… if You like.  The voice was soft, yet sharp, a woman’s voice shrouded by an icy undertone.  She said this with glee and a touch of mockery in Her tone.  I am that which You may use to Your own gain.

                    You toy with me.  State your intention.

                    Sprouts You ears and listen you should.  What I haves to say is for our advantage; Yourses and Mines.

                    The Trickster grimaced, trying to cipher his confusion.  Who are you.

                    You may call Me… Viktoria.  The Dark Lord was not impressed.

                    And what is it You want from Me.

                    Ah, but its is You that wantsie something from Me.  Isn’t it obvious?  I can help you.

                    I need no help.  Viktoria laughed, a short, mischievous giggle.

                    And thought I that mortals were stubborn.  She giggled again.  I can gets You out of this prison.  Ahhh, now You are interested.  Then listen You.  I’ve watched You closely.  For many years, I has.  I saws Your defeat by the hand of the mens’s Builder.  I know You want revenge… yes… sees it in you I do.  Good… then have we a common cause.  Then I will helps You, and You, in turn, will helps Me, oh Great Magus of the Woods.  She said this last sentence with satirise and coyness in Her voice.  The Trickster was still not impressed.  Ah, still You trust Me not.  Watch You then, She whispered.

                    So He watched with half-interest as the form dissipated and began swirling around the field.  The Lord’s eyes widened though as the particles of dust were absorbed into the hammers and the metal started glowing.  A whining, shrieking noise developed around the field as the soft glow turned reddish-white, and before His eyes the very essence of the hammers, that which made them more than tools, which made them holy, was cast out and obliterated, and then even the metal began to break down.  All that was left was rock.

                    The man’s assimilation of the Trickster’s elements into their own tools had been reversed, and once again they were just that, elements, the Trickster’s children.  Out of the rock sprouted thousands of tiny spiders that burst through their former shells and skittered into cracks and tunnels, already beginning to grow into an impossible size.

                    The face formed again above the now accessible porthole, smiling coyly.  Your path is clear, Lord Trickster.  The giant face bowed slightly as it said this.  There was more mockery in Her tone now.  Please, pass through.  I awaits You on the other side.  She giggled once more and the form vanished.  With hesitation, the Trickster grunted and stepped through the doorway, disappearing into the void.