Gilmreth the Awakening

by Raymond L. Weil

  Damon was silent for a long moment, shifting his weight, leaning forward on his staff, and suppressing a sigh. He could see Lynol was still skeptical and extremely worried. “Sorcery has long been gone from our family; it died out when Malcon put Gilmreth to sleep, and it will not return for a very long time. I think Malcon made sure of that when he put the dragon to sleep with the sleeping spell.”

  “How can we be sure?” interjected Lynol, raising her voice slightly and gazing down the narrow stone path toward the waiting garden. Gardening always helped put her mind at ease.

  She was thinking of her own budding abilities. There was no longer any doubt in her young mind that the ancient power of their family, so long dormant, had somehow managed to manifest itself within her. Her ability to sense the other sorceress in her dreams and at other times only helped to confirm what she already believed, what she was beginning to fear. She had inherited the ancient powers of sorcery; at least some of them. After so many long centuries, sorcery had returned to the Sylvar family. She wondered worriedly just what that meant or implied. Lynol could feel butterflies in her stomach at just the thought. She had spent many sleepless nights recently worrying over this.

  “There have been no sorcerers,” her father reiterated, shaking his head. “Some say they were linked, sorcery and dragons. When Gilmreth was put to sleep, sorcery also faded away.”

  “But the old legends and prophecies all say Gilmreth will awaken someday,” Lynol spoke meaningfully, her gaze poignantly returning to her father.

  Her father had told her many of the family legends and stories about the Sylvars and Gilmreth. As a child, they had stayed up late into the night, Lynol tucked safely away in her bed and her father sitting in a chair next to her telling stories about the distant past. He told her of the marvelous wonders the ancient Sylvar sorcerers had been able to do. His stories were wonderful and she could sit and listen to them for hours.

  Damon looked deeply into Lynol’s troubled light blue eyes wondering what to say to ease his daughter’s fear. “Yes, someday Gilmreth will rise from his sheltered lair beneath Firestorm Mountain,” he replied slowly, carefully measuring his words. “The prophecy from Malcon’s time does indeed predict that the dragon will be met in an irrevocable final confrontation, a cataclysmic battle by another Sylvar. A powerful sorceress will arise to combat the awakened dragon in our time of need, but that time hasn’t yet arrived.”

  Nevertheless, deep in his heart Damon felt apprehensive. He knew that something was different this time. The rumblings from the mountain greatly disturbed him also, but he was unwilling to admit that worrisome fact to Lynol. A vague discontent was steadily growing in the back of his mind. His detailed knowledge of the prophecies only reinforced that worry. He knew much more about the prophecies than what he had revealed to Lynol. He had spent many waking hours pondering the mountain’s rumblings. He prayed fervently that it wasn’t the dragon!

  “Suppose Gilmreth is awakening? Could sorcery not come back also? Could there not be someone who could wield the ancient power like the prophecy predicts?” Lynol asked as her gaze drifted back toward the mountain, wondering fearfully if she might be that chosen someone.

  Her abilities were so insignificant when compared to the rumored powers of the prominent sorcerers and sorceresses in their family’s distant past. It just couldn’t be her that the ancient prophecies spoke about. Lynol felt so confused about the sensations she was feeling. Who else but a direct descendent of Malcon’s would sorcery awake in?

  She had always kept her unique talents to herself. Could the awakening of the dragon be what was causing these strange abilities to manifest within her? As the dragon neared the time of awakening, could sorcery be returning? With a cold shiver, she pulled her gaze away from the now quiet mountain. She would be no threat to the mighty dragon; her abilities were extremely small. She couldn’t be the powerful sorceress of the prophecies, they must be meant for one of her distant offspring, for children yet to be born.

  Then again, there was that other sorceress who she could faintly sense if she concentrated. The sorceress on the far side of the mountain felt like a shadowy, dark presence. Nowhere in the prophecies, that Lynol was aware of, did it mention another sorceress other than a Sylvar arising when Gilmreth awakened. Had this other found some way to shatter Malcon’s spell, to awaken Gilmreth prematurely, to wreck havoc with the prophecies, and if so, why bring the fearsome dragon back?

  Perhaps Lynol’s own emerging powers were merely coincidence. Gilmreth had spread enormous devastation in the past and would do so again if freed. She prayed silently that the dragon would remain asleep. If Gilmreth were to rise, then the world she knew and so loved could very easily vanish in the dragon’s merciless wave of destruction. The powerful Sylvar sorceress of the ancient prophecy had yet to be born. There would be nobody to stop the dragon!

  “What are you trying to say, Lynol? We both know the stories,” responded Damon, shaking his head wearily and looking down toward the far green meadow.

  A single black cow and black white-faced calf grazed peacefully on the thick green grass, having ignored the ominous stirrings of the mountain. “There have been rumblings in the mountain before,” spoke Damon, reassuringly. “I remember them even from my own youth. Don’t worry, Lynol; Gilmreth isn’t about to awaken. He will sleep for many more long years. We tell the ancient stories to the villagers; if they choose not to believe, that is their right. We have done our sworn duty. Now finish your chores and quit worrying about the mountain. I’m sure it’s only avalanches from the melting snow. Once the snow has finished melting, the mountain will quite down.”

  Putting his powerful right hand on Lynol’s shoulder, Damon squeezed reassuringly then turning, walked off to finish checking the stock in the distant fields.

  The few cattle and sheep they raised, along with the garden that Lynol tended, furnished practically all of their food. They used the excess to barter in Galvin for other necessities. It was all that people could do anymore to cajole the depleted land into providing a meager sustenance.

  Some said the soil was dying, no longer able to provide the abundant harvests of the obscure, remote past. Even the number of people living in the few scattered villages and towns were reputed to be far fewer than back in the days of Malcon Sylvar.

  The oldest of the legends spoke of a great Worldfire that had consumed the magnificent cities of the ancient world and freed the dragons. This great Worldfire, along with the dragons, had poisoned much of the countryside. Glancing at the distant mountain, Damon felt a shiver run down his back. It was his responsibility as a father to protect Lynol. He didn’t want her to be overly worried about the mountain and the horrible creature that slept within. Surely, it’s not the dragon he thought; it’s too early for Gilmreth to awaken. It’s only the melting snow causing the mountain to rumble, it has to be! With a deep sigh, Damon headed toward the meadow to check on the animals.

  -

  Brushing a few errant strands of thick brown hair back out of her eyes, Lynol began walking down the well worn stone path that led from the house to the garden, thinking about the conversation with her father. Generations of Sylvars had trod this path, polishing the rough black stones down over the years until they were worn perfectly smooth. Lynol preferred to tend the garden in the evening hours when it was cooler; during this time of year the afternoon sun could be sweltering. Her father had commented that each year seemed to be warmer than the last with less and less rain.

  As she walked, she suddenly felt lightheaded and nauseous. Lynol paused, afraid she was about to faint, wondering why she suddenly felt so ill. Her throat felt dry, and her breathing seemed to slow down. She tried to call out to her father, but no sound escaped from her throat. A strange, controlling compulsion seized her. Her body seemed to take on a separate life of its own, as if in a dream. She knew that she was walking, but not into the garden. Almost in a daze, she found herself suddenly and inexplicably standing in front of the massive
Sylvar Stone, which lay just beyond their modest garden.

  Lynol blinked in surprise as she looked about frightened and confused. The nausea and lightheadedness suddenly faded. She couldn’t remember walking over to the ancient stone. Nervous perspiration blossomed on her cheeks, tiny beads slightly smaller than dewdrops. Lynol stood perfectly still, only the slight rise and fall of the gentle swell of full young breasts spoke of life. She took several deep breaths, trying to relax.

  She stared bewildered, not understanding why or how she had come to stand before the ancient stone. A wrinkle of curiosity slowly touched Lynol’s face. She wondered for a brief moment if this was all a dream. She speculated that if she pinched herself if she would wake up to find herself tucked snugly into her bed. Lynol looked up at the towering stone before her knowing that this wasn’t a dream; she was fully awake. What is going on, she wondered? She looked around confused, and then her eyes returned to the massive stone before her.

  The immense grayish, black stone towered over three man-heights high and was nearly as wide. Around it, other large broken stones lay on their sides. They lay smashed as if from an enormous physical blow, which had hammered them sometime in the distant past. Lynol had long suspected that a grand structure of some kind had once stood upon this spot, perhaps even a castle from the Golden Age itself. All that remained now were scattered, smashed ruins and numerous shattered stones. Nearly two acres of land lay covered with the broken ruins, with thick, lush yellow grass growing nearly knee high shielding many of the smaller stones from sight.

  Lynol had asked her father about the ruins several times, but he had always been evasive with his answers. Thus far, the secret of what once stood here had eluded Lynol’s questions. Perhaps someday she would be able to coax the secret of the mysterious ruins from her father.

  There were arcane symbols and writings carved into the hard surface of the huge stone. Lynol had long been curious about their meaning. Within the ancient, flowing script was the family name, Sylvar. A handprint beneath a shining full moon, which cast brilliant rays down to touch the stone, had been burned into it at chest height. What its hidden meaning or message was had been long lost in antiquity.

  Legends passed down through the generations maintained that Malcon Sylvar himself had placed the family name on the stone. The handprint was Malcon’s own, burned forever into the grayish, black stone with his powerful sorcery.

  Putting out her own hand, Lynol gingerly touched the ancient handprint, tracing the stone outlines curiously with the tips of her fingers. Impulsively, she placed her hand flat against the cold, unyielding surface. The man who had created the print must have been a large man indeed, Lynol thought, staring at her small hand, which seemed almost lost in the huge print. What had Malcon Sylvar been like, she wondered? Gazing at the stone, she tried to visualize the man who had played such a prominent role in their family history. His actions had so affected all the Sylvars since that time so long ago.

  As soon as she tried to visualize Malcon Sylvar, a strange weakness seemed to pass over her. She felt faint, as if her strength was being siphoned from her body. What now, she wondered, startled at the strange feelings? What’s happening to me?

  Suddenly, a pale blue light flashed and snapped across the handprint, surprising her, and a loud crack echoed through the air. She gasped in surprise, feeling a sharp burning sensation run through her fingers and palm where her hand gently rested against the hard stone, which was now, inexplicably, turning fiery hot. A strong compulsion seemed to imprison her firmly in its power, preventing her from jerking her hand away.

  Try as she might, her hand was held captive by the stone. It became engulfed in a bright ocean of blue radiance, which seemed to pulse intermittently like a giant heartbeat. She felt as if her hand was burning. A silent scream froze in her throat, unable to escape. Lynol looked around frantically for her father, wanting to shout for help, but he was nowhere in sight! What had she gotten herself into? Her gaze returned apprehensively to the stone.

  Lynol held her breath, frightened by what was happening. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t free her hand. The stone held her prisoner, her hand trapped in the handprint covered in cascading blue fire. In her mind, a sharp, clear picture suddenly formed of her standing before the stone with the shining full moon directly overhead. Lynol gasped in surprise and fear at what she was seeing, letting out her long held breath.

  She could see herself placing her hand upon the handprint as the moon’s pale light fell fully upon the stone and saying the name Malcon Sylvar aloud. That was what the vision was showing her, as clear as the sudden wind whipping quietly through the tall grass around the stone. It blew her hair and she shivered slightly, for the air had taken on a sudden, enigmatic chill. Her heart was pounding! She waited for it to return to its normal rhythm. Never in her young life had she experienced anything remotely like this.

  What can this mean? She wondered, amazed at the clarity of the vision. Her fear was slowly abating, her breathing returning to normal. The pulsing blue light suddenly faded from the stone. Lynol found her hand once more resting on the hard, unyielding surface, which was now free of the fiery radiance from moments before. The sudden chill wind had also vanished.

  She stepped quickly back, her hand coming free of the handprint effortlessly. For a long moment, she stared in surprise and confusion at the towering, mysterious and now inanimate Sylvar Stone, waiting for an explanation she knew wouldn’t be forthcoming. This had never occurred before; other times in the past, she had touched the stone. It had never reacted at all to her touch. As a child, she had played amongst the stones countless times with her childhood friends Kalvin and Dresdia.

  Cautiously, she stepped forward, gingerly placing her hand back in the handprint, seeing if she could induce another reaction, but the stone remained unresponsive. She stood without making a sound for several long moments, pondering the stone. The vision was still clear in her mind. She wondered what it might mean and if it involved sorcery. Why had Malcon chosen this particular time to reveal this message?

  She prayed fervently that the impending awakening of the dragon hadn’t caused this vision. More importantly, why had this vision been given to her, and why now? She didn’t like where the possible ramifications led. It just made everything even more confusing. She wondered if it had anything to do with her own newly awakened abilities.

  Mystified, she turned away from the stone and entered the garden, massaging her still tingling fingers. Looking at her hand, she noticed with relief that no burn marks were visible and the tingling sensation was rapidly fading away. The blue light had startled her. Where had the chill wind come from? It was still unusually warm for this time of the evening.

  Turning, she gazed back at the Sylvar Stone, wondering what ancient secrets it held. For several long moments, she gazed perplexed at the massive stone, lost in thought. It had to be sorcery of some type left behind by Malcon Sylvar himself; sorcery that she had somehow triggered. She gazed at the distant mountain, worriedly.

  A cold hand seemed to grip her heart as she wondered at the implications. There was no longer any doubt in Lynol’s mind; sorcery had returned, and she was part of it! This incident at the Sylvar Stone just confirmed her suspicions. She was surprised at how quickly the episode at the stone seemed to be fading into the back of her mind; it already seemed like a distant dream.

  Shaking her head, she turned back to the garden and the work awaiting her. Bending, she began going down the long rows of green vegetables pulling out the weeds, which had appeared seemingly overnight, with the recent vision still lingering hauntingly in the back of her mind. The cool freshness of the garden, laden with the scents of growing vegetables and herbs, helped to relax her. The garden was silent except for the quiet drone of insects.

  -

  Sometime later, in the town of Draydon on the far side of the mountains, Jalene Leyne stood staring intently at Firestorm Mountain. From her position on the fringe of a small sec
ond story balcony, a light wind cooling her face and gently blowing her coal black hair, she had a clear, unobstructed view of the mystical mountain. Her eyes were a deep violet, almost black, masking carefully controlled, seething emotions. Her hips were thin, kept that way by stringent exercise. Her high, full pointed breasts, which served wantonly to distract men when necessary, were more than ample. She was staying at a small, comfortable inn and had just come out to stand on the open balcony where she could see the distant mountain.

  “Sleep for now, Gilmreth; your time of awakening nears,” she murmured quietly, sensing with her growing power the dragon’s dark comforting presence deep beneath the mountain. Gilmreth’s heart was kindred to her own: cold, ruthless, and filled with anger. Turning, she walked back into the simple, sparsely furnished room. Going to the small bed, she unlaced the protective leather straps on her bulky and worn leather pack. Opening it, she took out an ancient book bound in a thick, protective cloth.

  Removing the layers of cloth carefully, Jalene carried the large book to the room’s only table. Laying it down, Jalene opened it and slowly turned the ancient yellowed pages until she came to her prize, the dragon spell! Returning to the pack, another few moments of rummaging produced a small, sharp, double-edged knife with jewels and arcane symbols emblazoned on its intricately carved golden hilt. She also took out a small copper bowl.

  Placing these meticulously on the small wooden table, she proceeded to add some special herbs and ingredients called for by the ancient spell. She had purchased these necessary items in the town’s crowded marketplace earlier in the day. She had used the last of her own supply of these rare items the night before. Along with these, she added some carefully hoarded flower petals from rare plants, which she had gathered during the dark of the moon, the only time these rare nocturnal plants blossomed.

  Taking out a small pouch made of dried human skin, she methodically poured out a dark crimson powdery substance onto a small sheet of white paper. Carefully measuring out a minuscule amount, she placed the rest back securely in the pouch. This was all that remained of the ground up dried heart of an innocent newborn lamb, whose still beating heart she had removed from the stricken animal just moments before it died.