Chapter 6: A Needle in a Haystack

The visage of Ethirius drifted away like paint in a river. Yet Syril continued to stare at the dark spot where Rivira Oloran had been standing, his mind spinning and turning, unsure how to process what he'd just seen.

"It is not a trick Syril," The voice said firmly, answering his unsung question, "your lineage does tie with Ethirius itself."

He watched in stunned silence as the two orbs dimly shimmered in the distance, their colour still an unwavering dull orange.

"How did you know?" Syril asked in bewilderment, "What does that make me? Part Ethirian?"

The voice paused, and not for the first time, Syril wished he could see its face.

"You are that and more, Syril."

"More?"

"Ethirius was a corrupted visage of what the old gods had intended, full of infighting, deceit, and futile attempts at regaining their once immense glory. And it was too late when the Ethirians had realised their growing insignificance in the universe's cosmic plan."

"Are you saying…"

"They destroyed themselves," the voice said gravely, "not long after the first oath, Ethirius and its inhabitants vanished. Not even the Oath Keepers are truly aware of how it transpired."

The voice hesitated as if on the crux of a decision, "and I fear we do not have long to discuss. I can feel our time approaching its conclusion."

"What do you mean?"

"Syril, you are not just of Ethirian descent. You are one of the very few descendants remaining from a species that has since disappeared."

The voice paused, a dull hum reverberated in the distance, and the orbs began to fade away into darkness.

"Our time is at a conclusion Syril. I hope to speak again; the company has been scarce the last century."

"But what do I have to do!?"

"Find the Oath Keepers; they will help you on your journey."

"What Journey!?" Syril was frantic. What was happening? How did he find the Oath Keepers?

The voice had now faded to a distant whisper, its words almost incomprehensible. Syril felt the wind rushing around him, and his stomach turn inside out. Through the now roaring gale, Syril could faintly hear the voice's scattered words.

"Syril, you can save your brother…."

But before the voice finished the sentence, Syril had fallen back into his body; the same crunched position in the closet; the same goon's hand gripped tightly around his arm; and unfortunately, the same feeling of dread.

But this time, a feeling of unwavering determination had sparked within Syril. He grabbed the goon's arm and launched himself out of the closet, throwing his entire body weight into the man. Syril felt the world tilt again as the goon fell backwards onto the floor, and Syril promptly punched him in the nose.

Blood pooled, and the goon's eyes widened in shock and pain. Syril wrestled his arm away and picked himself up, slamming his foot into the face of the bleeding man whose eyes now rolled into the back of his head.

"Don't try anything. I'm not above killing a kid or an old lady."

Syril looked around as the second goon wandered out from the kitchen, his arm wrapped firmly around Ova's neck.

"Now here is what we are going to do," he slowly walked toward Syril, "You're going to pick up my partner's handcuffs, put them on, and then you, the sweet old lady and I are going to all get into the car and go for a drive."

Syril glared at him, his non-existent plan now an abysmal failure.

"I'll go with you if you leave her behind."

"And lose my insurance? Absolutely not."

"What about your partner?" He looked at the man, still unconscious on the ground.

"Greg knew what the business was."

Baffled, Syril tilted his head, "His name was Greg?"

"Yeah? Why?"

"I don't know why but I expected something a bit more 'goon-like'." Syril made air quotes with his hands.

The man did not respond; instead, he moved closer to the stubbornly stationary Syril. Ova shuffled with him as she frantically looked at Syril, her eyes brimming with tears and her lips quivering. She was mouthing something.

"My Granddaughter."

Crap.

The small girl from the photos was in the house. Syril's guilt mixed with his resolution; he'd selfishly dragged this family into harm's way. He wouldn't let them be hurt any further. He needed a plan or at least some amalgamation of loosely connected ideas.

"What if I just give you the watch?" Syril tried to quench his doubt as he held the watch, offering it to the now wide-eyed goon.

"It's what you really want, right?"

The goon walked forward, then seemingly thinking better of it, he stopped and stared at Syril.

"Put it on the ground and back up." He said, tightening his grip on Ova for emphasis.

Syril obliged, keeping his eyes on the goon as he kneeled and placed the watch on the floor. He walked back a few more steps, walking around the couch, so he was now next to the kitchen. It was somewhere here; it had to be.

The vacuum hose's shining silver gleamed against the tv's light. Syril slowly walked towards it, feigning that he was backing away from the watch. Syril and the man did not break eye contact; they watched each other with unwavering caution.

When the goon was happy with Syril's distance from the watch, he pushed Ova away and reached for it, taking his eyes off Syril for a brief moment.

In that instant, as the goon's eyes finally peeled away, Syril grabbed the metallic hose, raising it above his head while sprinting at the goon. The man looked up in time to see silver flash across his vision moments before the pole connected with the side of his head.

He fell back, eyes rolling as he landed unconscious beside the couch. Syril was two for two on goons today.

He looked up at the trembling and frightened Ova, the guilt rising again with righteous vengeance. Through her quivering lips, she looked at him, her soft blue eyes misty with water.

"I'm so sorry, Ova… I Never imagined this would…." Syril was struggling to get the words out. How do you apologise to someone for nearly getting them killed?

"It's ok, Syril." Ova closed her eyes, wiping the fresh streaks of tears from her cheeks. She breathed deeply to calm herself, "I would have wanted someone to do the same for my Rosie if she ever needed help."

Syril unconsciously looked at the framed photos of Rosie and Ova lining the lounge walls. The juxtaposition between then and now fuelled fresh anguish in him. They wouldn't be able to return to this house for a long while.

"I think you should get your granddaughter and leave. Do you have somewhere you can go?"

"I'll go to my daughter's house; she's in the next town."

Syril silently nodded, afraid he would choke up if he spoke. To keep busy, he bent down to search the pockets of the unconscious goons. Syril grabbed their phones and wallets, handing Ova fifty dollars out of one of the wallets,

"I think they are mercenaries, so I doubt they have backup coming anytime soon. They'd want the glory for themselves. But I still think we should leave asap."

Ova stared at him, her trembling somewhat calming, "who even are you?"

"I'm kind of still figuring that out myself." He opened Greg's phone, thanking his luck that it had no passcode, "Go get Rosie; I'll wait here. I'll need you to drop me off somewhere if that's ok. It's on your way out of town."

Ova trotted up the stairs, and when Syril was sure she was gone, he dialled the direct number for the Anzora Guard Service. The line connected on the third ring.

"Anzora Guard Service, how may I direct your call?" Asked a very gravely sounding lady.

"Hi, I'd like to report a suspicious male, blonde hair, very handsome, looks very strong – looks like he's carrying a pocket watch."

A brief silence followed; Syril feared he'd laid it on too thick.

"Ok, sir, we have a warrant matching that description." She typed something before continuing, "That man is presently marked as a dangerous fugitive. Do not approach him; please return to a public space as quickly as possible and alert any guards you can see on patrol."

"Oh, believe me, I won't go near him. He's terrifying," Syril nearly snickered at himself.

"Where is the suspect now, sir?"

"Oh, he's near the Ruina Academy; it looks like he's hiding behind the sports shed."

"Thank you, sir. Can I please have your na-"

Syril quickly hung up and pocketed the phone. He looked at the bodies on the floor again; the pool of blood around Greg had stopped growing; he hoped that was a good sign. He grabbed a nearby throw rug and, not wanting to send Rosie to therapy for life, covered Greg and the other goon's bodies.

Before long, Ova started hobbling down the stairs, trailing behind a sleepy-looking girl, no older than seven. She carried a small red bag on her back and a pink blanket in her hand. Her blonde curls ruffled, and her eyes a puffy red.

"I told her that we're going on an adventure to see her Aunty," Ova said as she tugged Rosie down the stairs, "My car is out the front."

Syril stepped over the throw rug, obscuring a brief patch of blood-covered carpet that the rug had missed. He avoided looking Ova in the eye, the guilt had violently bubbled in his stomach, and he was unsure if it was more polite just to say nothing.

"Who's that?" Asked the sleepy Rosie.

"Oh, that's just a friend of mine, sweetie. We're just going to drop him off…." Ova trailed off, looking at Syril expectantly.

"Oh, at the library, please," Syril said quietly, the adrenalin from the night now slowly wearing off.

"He needs a shower." Rosie was now wide-eyed at Syril, "He also looks funny."

Syril checked himself over and guessed she was referring to his blood-stained clothes.

"Oh, I spilt sauce on myself during dinner." Syril was a terrible liar.

Rosie continued to stare at him, scrunching her face as if she were thinking hard.

"Are you stupid?" Rosie finally asked; Ova giggled, and Syril tried not to look hurt.

"Yes, I am Rosie." Syril said quietly, "I'm pretty stupid."

Ova opened the front door, silently gesturing for them to leave. Syril followed them, watching the darkened street carefully for any sign of more goons. They got into Ova's small white car parked on the side street; there were only two doors, so Syril had to climb in first – contorting his body to squeeze into the seats.

"It gets me from A to B," Ova said without provocation; she clearly had people complain before.

"Hey, it doesn't bother me; I'm just happy to sit down."

She buckled a now wide-awake Rosie into the front seat, and Syril sat anxiously in the back, ready for a swarm of guards to descend on them at any moment. But the eerie silence of the night continued, the street empty and lifeless, the goon's still running van the only noise.

Finally, Ova started the car, and they pulled out of the driveway. As they drove through the empty main street, the streetlights morphed into fluorescent blurs. Before long, they had pulled onto the main highway, merging with the heavy stream of traffic.

Syril finally felt a semblance of peace and safety; the car seat had become a comfortable reminder of what had been. Before this morning, before the watch had altered his world forever. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the fabric on his skin and the engine's purr.

"How old are you?"

He opened his eyes; Rosie was staring at him, questioning eyes burrowing into his own.

"I'm um… 16" Syril didn't know how to talk to children, "How old are you?"

She nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer, "You're old. I'm six."

"Oh, that's… nice" Syril racked his brain for what to say next, "are you having a sleepover with your grandmother?"

Rosies' eyes lit up, "Yeah. Mum's away for work, so I have to stay with grandma."

"Her mum has been away for a long time Syril…." Ova said solemnly, staring at Syril through the rear-view mirror to convey an unspoken thought.

Oh.

"Well, your grandma is pretty cool…." What in the name of all the gods was he meant to say?

"Yeah, she's my best friend." Rosie said, nodding, "do you have any friends?"

"I have a brother. He was my best friend too" Syril felt a knot form in his chest and tried to push it away "we did everything together... we were inseparable. But he joined the scouts in Wigston, and I haven't seen him in a long time."

The monster that had killed Seabright was not his brother.

"What about parents?" Ova asked, again looking at Syril.

"I uh… live with my uncle. I never knew my parents."

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry." Ova sounded disheartened, "Where is your uncle now?"

"He's away for work." Syril lied.

They sat in silence for the rest of the trip. Syril stubbornly did not look back from the window; instead, he thought about his brother and uncle. He felt a burning rage and a longing that he could not push down. He longed for normality, to wake up tomorrow and walk into the kitchen for breakfast – join his brother teasing his uncle for burning pancakes, go for a walk in the park, walk to school. He wanted his family again.

He thought about the family he did not know, the ones who had abandoned him and Davion. A family that, until now, he had pushed down inside of him; tried to kill and forget. He wondered what they looked like, smelled like, and who they were as people.

What, they were.

Before long, he felt his eyes grow heavy again and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Syril awoke sometime later, drool pooling in his hand and a weightless feeling of disorientation pounding his head. He looked around; Rosie had fallen asleep leaning on the window, her light snoring muffled by the blanket she squeezed, and Ova stared resolutely ahead. The traffic around them had ground to a halt; the lateness of the night was no match for Anzora traffic.

"I fell asleep. Are we nearly there?" Syril asked drowsily.

"Yeah, getting anywhere in this city takes forever," Ova said, her voice soft.

"Yeah, usually I just walk," Syril replied through a stifled yawn, "are you ok?"

Ova looked through the rear-view mirror again, "I will be. Are you ok?"

He laughed; he couldn't help himself, "No, not really."

The car lurched forward as the traffic started moving. A comfortable silence fell on the pair.

"Why do you want to go to the library?"

"I have some stuff I need to work out." Syril rubbed his eyes, looking down at the watch, "hey, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead; we're pretty much friends at this point." Ova giggled to herself. Syril was shocked to see her so well put together.

"Do you know much about the Oath Keepers?"

"Oath Keepers? No, I can't say I have." She turned the wheel and left the main highway, "why do you ask?"

"Oh, it's just something someone told me; they're pretty old apparently."

"Are you calling me old?" Ova said, placing her hand on her chest in mock exasperation.

"No, no, no!" Syril stuttered, not wanting to offend the only person to show him kindness, "I just thought I'd ask. I just didn't know if I had been living under a rock."

"It's ok!" She teased, "I'm eighty-one, Syril. I know I'm old."

Syril whistled, "you don't look a day over forty."

Ova chuckled, "you're a gentleman, Syril," pausing for a second to reach around and pat him on the knee, "especially when you're not breaking down my door."

"I am sorry…."

"Don't be, and I can see why you did it. I would have done the same at your age."

They rounded another corner, the massive library now cresting at the top of the hill. It was a remarkable building Syril had only previously walked past; it stood five stories tall, its marble pillars glistening in the light of the full moon. He hoped it would be the first natural step on his journey out of this mess.

They pulled into the partially filled parking lot, and Syril longed to remain in the car.

Ova turned around to face him, her kind eyes looking into his own and concern etched into her face; "Give me your number Syril."

"Oh, right for the door." Syril fished out Greg's phone and turned it on, searching for its number.

"No, you idiot, so I can make sure you're alright," she looked at Rosie, her ancient brow furrowing more, "you're a good person Syril; you deserve someone on your side."

Syril did not reply; it was all he could do to keep back the ocean full of tears. His heart was heavy as he stepped out of the car; Ova waved him goodbye as she drove off, and he felt the notch grow more prominent in his chest.

He took a moment to steady himself; his journey was just beginning.

Syril faced the library, its towering façade a reminder of what needed to be done. He walked up the stairs, his feeling of determination only growing more potent as he climbed. The glass doors slid open for his arrival, a pleasantly comfortable heat radiating through them as he walked in.

The interior was more majestic than its public-facing fascia; it was tiled in a patterned white stone, various notice boards had been pushed against marble pillars, and the stairs and elevators extended into unexplored corners of the building.

A small cafe sporting a 'Closed' sign stood in the corner of the lobby, the fresh coffee's aroma still lingering. An older orcish lady with pony-tailed brown hair and small white tusks stared at Syril from the reception, gesturing for him to approach.

The tiled floor echoed as he nervously strode across it. The librarian looked at him expectantly, and he stared back down at her. It was awkward seconds before he realised she was waiting for him to say something.

"Um, I'm looking…." What was he looking for? What was he hoping to find here? He wasn't even sure why he wanted to go to the library. It just seemed like the next logical step to finding information.

"Yes?" She asked, peering at him over her tiny round spectacles,

"I guess I'm looking for any information about the Oath Keepers..." why was he so nervous?

"History and Mythology on floor three, Hun," she gestured to an elevator on the far right of the building, "take that elevator to level three, then make a right, and you should see it."

"Oh, thanks," he had not expected it to be entirely that easy.

He walked away feeling slightly more upbeat and, dare he say, a little proud of himself. The elevator opened as he approached, its metallic doors gently closing behind him. The mechanical runes that powered it briefly glowed blue as a series of numbers appeared on the side panel of the door. He pushed the button labelled '3' and felt the elevator lurch under him before slowly climbing its chute. He looked into the mirror on the side of the elevator, seeing himself for the first time since that morning.

My gods, he looked like hell.

Sweat and blood was mattered to his blonde hair, his face dirty and red from exhaustion. But his clothes looked the worst; the sleeve of his jacket and trousers were covered in blood, dirt and sweat, his white button-up now greyer than he'd ever seen it.

He took his jacket off, folding the sleeve before tying it around his waist, hiding most of the blood on his trousers. It would have to do for now until he could get a change of clothes and a shower.

The elevator opened to an inconceivably large room; lined with bookshelves for as far as the eye could see. Despite the other two floors above them, the roof appeared to have a skylight, the sun's rays beaming down into the room and shrouding it in a warm summer glow. Syril checked the watch, confirming it was still dark outside despite what the skylight dictated.

That was pretty cool.

The room's walls were decorated with various paintings and stained glass; at the very back of the room, a prominent notch had been erected for study. Many large empty mahogany desks sat side by side, their chairs a welcome sight to Syril's sore legs. He stepped off the elevator, the temperature attuning to his comfort; he felt both at ease and motivated.

He walked the seemingly endless halls of shelves; how would he find anything in this haystack? He couldn't even see how the shelves were sorted. All the books were seemingly thrown randomly, with no regard for Author, Genre, or Name. He pulled a copy of 'a history of runic gears' from the shelves, scanning its spine for any sign of how it was organised.

Nothing.

Crestfallen, he left the forest of shelves, instead setting up camp on a small wooden desk in the study notch. He flopped down, laying his head on the table and sighing in exasperation. This was going to take a long time.

"Can I help you?"

Syril looked up from his den of misery into the eyes of a young straight-haired girl. Her skin glowed a deep golden brown that seemingly radiated from a fresh sunburn. She was dressed in blue jeans, with a small white crop top and a leather jacket tied around her waist. On her shirt was a staff ID, Syril tried to read her name, but the writing was too small. She scrunched her nose in query towards Syril, her gleaming brown eyes partially obscured behind small red spectacles staring imposingly down at him.

"Sorry, what did you say?" Syril asked innocently,

"Can. I. Help. You." She said sarcastically, being sure to emphasise each word separately.

Syril blushed, "I'm… um, looking for information on Oath Keepers."

"Why?" the girl asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Why am I looking for…?"

She stared at him like he was an idiot. He felt like one.

"Oh… the Oath Keepers right," he wanted to die, "it's for an assignment."

"An assignment on the Oath Keepers?"

"That's what I said."

"At three in the morning?"

"I just really like homework."

He looked up into her piercing brown eyes. She was puzzling something over in her head; Syril could see the internal debate brewing inside her. Finally, she pulled the chair in front of him, took a seat and placed her hands on the desk. Syril must have looked confused because she sighed and grabbed his hands.

"The library responds to your requests. Try asking it."

"You mean just say it? Out loud?" He asked, still confused about why she was holding his hands.

"Yep."

"Can you show me?" he asked, slightly bewildered and unsure if he was being pranked.

"You're a big boy. You can do it." She said, a little too condescending.

At this point, he was sure this was a prank, but he had nothing else to lose, so he looked up into the sky and screamed, "Please give me information on the Oath Keepers!"

The girl dropped her onto the desk, exhaling in frustration.

"I never said scream it."

Syril blushed; This had to be some weird joke, "I just assumed…."

"Just say it quietly this time."

He nodded, his face still red from embarrassment. This time he spoke with barely more than a whisper,

"Can I please have some information on the Oath Keepers?" pausing for a second before adding, "please." For good measure.

Both he and the girl looked around the library. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn't happening. Almost disappointed, he looked at her,

"I guess it…."

A rumbling echoing through the shelves silenced him. It grew in strength and tenacity, like an earthquake moving with alarming speed towards him. He looked in the direction of the sound, unsure what was happening.

Then a leather-bound book flew towards him. He caught it and placed into on the table.

Then a second.

Then a third.

Then dozens more books sailed towards him at record-breaking speeds; Syril fell out of his chair trying to dodge the onslaught. The many books he missed left large red welts on his body, some narrowly missing his face.

The girl stared wide-eyed, watching as Syril ducked and weaved what books he could avoid.

When the last book collided with him, Syril fell to the ground. Welts covering his now broken and defeated body. He groaned from the floor, the pile of books scattered amongst him like a dragon's horde.

"Talk about cramming." He joked, craning his neck up at the girl's now empty seat. He looked around, confused, but he needn't look far because she appeared again, this time towering over his beaten body.

"A little help?" he joked, extending his hand.

Instead, she knelt, staring at him once more.

"So you are one of us then." She said, her eyes softening as she placed a hand on his chest, "Sleep now, Syril."

"How do you…."

But his sentence was cut short as a warm radiating heat melted through him. His eyes drooped, and his mind fogged. Everything was going to be ok. He felt the pleasure of welcome and lost sleep wash through his body as his vision filled with longed-for darkness.

"We'll see you soon, Syril."