A World Without Heroes
Page 15
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A musty scent wafted from the open portal. Squinting into the darkness with his candle held aloft, he could see shadowy shelves lined with dusty books.
Jason went back down the stairs. “Here, Feracles,” he said. “Take me into the upper level.”
The dog whined and retreated several steps.
“Come on,” he repeated, bending down and patting one knee invitingly.
The dog snorted and shook its coat.
Jason returned to the ominous doorway. Now that the perforated door was open, his conviction wavered. The dog’s hesitation was more unsettling than all the warnings the loremaster had expressed. But no matter how creepy it seemed, any chance of finding a way home meant he had to try.
He stepped through the doorway, candlelight pushing back the darkness. His passage stirred up a low fog of dust. The ceiling was lower than below, but otherwise the upper level seemed arranged much like the lower. Except that most of the book spines were obscured beneath cobwebs and grime, making the titles and authors illegible. Maybe the upper level was forbidden because the loremaster was too lazy to clean it. Any respectable librarian would be ashamed.
Jason grabbed a couple of the nearest books and used them as doorstops. He wasn’t going to chance the door closing spontaneously.
He wound his way into the book-lined corridors. The long shelves were constructed with undulant curves, giving the dreary passageways a warped, serpentine quality. The farther Jason traveled from the door, the more closely he cupped his hand around the flame. The silence was complete. He stepped softly, breathed quietly. Shadows jittered with the flickering of the tiny flame. The place was creepy, but nothing looked interesting enough to warrant the incredibly complicated lock on the door. He saw no treasure or weapons or intriguing artifacts. The knowledge in the books had to be what made this place off-limits.
His twisting path eventually led to a small reading area with a few tables and chairs. The furniture was sculpted of black stone. Armrests were carved with leering faces, and table legs took the form of fanged serpents. He wiped dusty cobwebs off the spine of a random book. Subtleties of Manipulation. The name “Damak” appeared at the base of the spine.
Setting his candle on a nearby table, Jason pulled out the book and opened to the introduction.
Manipulation is a quiet tool of majestic power. Artfully manufacturing desires in others to suit one’s own needs can be accomplished on an individual basis or on a worldwide scope. Clearly, a study of manipulation requires a profound understanding of the selfish motivators that drive men to action. Different motivators function best depending on the nature of the minds one seeks to dominate. Manifold motivators are available, including fear, the desire for wealth or respect or power, lust, duty, obedience, love, even altruism. Endless combinations may be employed to reduce the staunchest will to a malleable plaything. Learning to discover the appropriate mix of motivators for any given individual or group and mastering how to employ those motivators with a deft touch comprises the essence of manipulative studies.
The master manipulator lies as little as possible. He believes most, if not all, of what he professes. This quality makes him difficult to unmask. Once a subject realizes he is being manipulated, defenses are engaged and future machinations become exponentially more challenging. The most satisfying victories occur over adversaries who do not realize they have been conquered.
Jason closed the book.
He was beginning to understand why the upper level was restricted. A palpably dark feeling had come over him as soon as he began reading the introduction.
He brushed off a few more spines to reveal other titles. Religion and Subjugation. Memoirs of a Lost Soul. The Unquenchable Thirst.
Nothing sounded very wholesome.
He surveyed the multitude of dingy volumes surrounding him. A few sinister books did not confirm that no useful information could be found here. After all, forbidden information was what he needed. Any of the nearby volumes might hold information about hippopotamus portals or contain hints about how he might get home. Didn’t a chance like that justify enduring a little creepiness? Probably. But not right now. Such an unsettled feeling had stolen over him that Jason decided to leave the upper level for the moment and return with a brighter light.
Raising his candle in a trembling hand, Jason tried to make his way back to the entrance. Eventually he realized the curving corridors had disoriented him. He should have left a trail of bread crumbs.
He attempted to double back to the reading area, but could not find that, either. Instead he came to a different open area, where the only furnishing was a black pedestal surmounted by a huge book. A plush, dark carpet woven with imagery of cruel thorns covered the floor.
Jason crossed to the book. It had to be important to be situated all alone in such a grand fashion. As he drew nearer, he gasped. Shocked curiosity impelled him forward.
The book appeared to be bound in human skin. Upon close examination Jason observed that the fleshy covering had tiny pores, fine hairs like the ones on his arm, and light blue veins visible beneath the surface.
Aghast, he tentatively touched the surface, withdrawing his finger instantly. It was warm to the touch, with a yielding texture that suggested more thickness than he had expected. It felt alive.
Morbid fascination rooted him to the spot. What sort of book would be bound in living flesh? No writing appeared on the skin to suggest title or author. The publisher must not have owned a tattoo needle.
Rubbing his neck, Jason found the hair there standing upright. He glanced at the dim bookshelves at the edge of his candlelight. Beyond the light the blackness and silence seemed more oppressive than ever.
The surface of the pedestal was slanted, so the book rested propped at an angle. He slid a finger beneath a corner of the cover and flipped it open to a title page written in extravagant calligraphy. The ink was a dark maroon.
The Book of Salzared, bound in his hide, scribbled in his blood.
He turned the page.
Be cautioned, Reader. Some knowledge can never be unlearned. Such is the secret contained herein. Proceed only in defiance of this gravest warning, for the dire words that follow will set You in opposition to Maldor evermore.
Jason read the words with mouth agape. What information could be so volatile? How could Maldor possibly know whether he had read this book?
The loremaster had insisted that discussing how to travel to the Beyond was forbidden by Maldor. Jason chewed on his knuckle. What if this book contained the knowledge he needed to return home? This could be it! The next page could hold his passport back to reality.
Jason went back down the stairs. “Here, Feracles,” he said. “Take me into the upper level.”
The dog whined and retreated several steps.
“Come on,” he repeated, bending down and patting one knee invitingly.
The dog snorted and shook its coat.
Jason returned to the ominous doorway. Now that the perforated door was open, his conviction wavered. The dog’s hesitation was more unsettling than all the warnings the loremaster had expressed. But no matter how creepy it seemed, any chance of finding a way home meant he had to try.
He stepped through the doorway, candlelight pushing back the darkness. His passage stirred up a low fog of dust. The ceiling was lower than below, but otherwise the upper level seemed arranged much like the lower. Except that most of the book spines were obscured beneath cobwebs and grime, making the titles and authors illegible. Maybe the upper level was forbidden because the loremaster was too lazy to clean it. Any respectable librarian would be ashamed.
Jason grabbed a couple of the nearest books and used them as doorstops. He wasn’t going to chance the door closing spontaneously.
He wound his way into the book-lined corridors. The long shelves were constructed with undulant curves, giving the dreary passageways a warped, serpentine quality. The farther Jason traveled from the door, the more closely he cupped his hand around the flame. The silence was complete. He stepped softly, breathed quietly. Shadows jittered with the flickering of the tiny flame. The place was creepy, but nothing looked interesting enough to warrant the incredibly complicated lock on the door. He saw no treasure or weapons or intriguing artifacts. The knowledge in the books had to be what made this place off-limits.
His twisting path eventually led to a small reading area with a few tables and chairs. The furniture was sculpted of black stone. Armrests were carved with leering faces, and table legs took the form of fanged serpents. He wiped dusty cobwebs off the spine of a random book. Subtleties of Manipulation. The name “Damak” appeared at the base of the spine.
Setting his candle on a nearby table, Jason pulled out the book and opened to the introduction.
Manipulation is a quiet tool of majestic power. Artfully manufacturing desires in others to suit one’s own needs can be accomplished on an individual basis or on a worldwide scope. Clearly, a study of manipulation requires a profound understanding of the selfish motivators that drive men to action. Different motivators function best depending on the nature of the minds one seeks to dominate. Manifold motivators are available, including fear, the desire for wealth or respect or power, lust, duty, obedience, love, even altruism. Endless combinations may be employed to reduce the staunchest will to a malleable plaything. Learning to discover the appropriate mix of motivators for any given individual or group and mastering how to employ those motivators with a deft touch comprises the essence of manipulative studies.
The master manipulator lies as little as possible. He believes most, if not all, of what he professes. This quality makes him difficult to unmask. Once a subject realizes he is being manipulated, defenses are engaged and future machinations become exponentially more challenging. The most satisfying victories occur over adversaries who do not realize they have been conquered.
Jason closed the book.
He was beginning to understand why the upper level was restricted. A palpably dark feeling had come over him as soon as he began reading the introduction.
He brushed off a few more spines to reveal other titles. Religion and Subjugation. Memoirs of a Lost Soul. The Unquenchable Thirst.
Nothing sounded very wholesome.
He surveyed the multitude of dingy volumes surrounding him. A few sinister books did not confirm that no useful information could be found here. After all, forbidden information was what he needed. Any of the nearby volumes might hold information about hippopotamus portals or contain hints about how he might get home. Didn’t a chance like that justify enduring a little creepiness? Probably. But not right now. Such an unsettled feeling had stolen over him that Jason decided to leave the upper level for the moment and return with a brighter light.
Raising his candle in a trembling hand, Jason tried to make his way back to the entrance. Eventually he realized the curving corridors had disoriented him. He should have left a trail of bread crumbs.
He attempted to double back to the reading area, but could not find that, either. Instead he came to a different open area, where the only furnishing was a black pedestal surmounted by a huge book. A plush, dark carpet woven with imagery of cruel thorns covered the floor.
Jason crossed to the book. It had to be important to be situated all alone in such a grand fashion. As he drew nearer, he gasped. Shocked curiosity impelled him forward.
The book appeared to be bound in human skin. Upon close examination Jason observed that the fleshy covering had tiny pores, fine hairs like the ones on his arm, and light blue veins visible beneath the surface.
Aghast, he tentatively touched the surface, withdrawing his finger instantly. It was warm to the touch, with a yielding texture that suggested more thickness than he had expected. It felt alive.
Morbid fascination rooted him to the spot. What sort of book would be bound in living flesh? No writing appeared on the skin to suggest title or author. The publisher must not have owned a tattoo needle.
Rubbing his neck, Jason found the hair there standing upright. He glanced at the dim bookshelves at the edge of his candlelight. Beyond the light the blackness and silence seemed more oppressive than ever.
The surface of the pedestal was slanted, so the book rested propped at an angle. He slid a finger beneath a corner of the cover and flipped it open to a title page written in extravagant calligraphy. The ink was a dark maroon.
The Book of Salzared, bound in his hide, scribbled in his blood.
He turned the page.
Be cautioned, Reader. Some knowledge can never be unlearned. Such is the secret contained herein. Proceed only in defiance of this gravest warning, for the dire words that follow will set You in opposition to Maldor evermore.
Jason read the words with mouth agape. What information could be so volatile? How could Maldor possibly know whether he had read this book?
The loremaster had insisted that discussing how to travel to the Beyond was forbidden by Maldor. Jason chewed on his knuckle. What if this book contained the knowledge he needed to return home? This could be it! The next page could hold his passport back to reality.
