Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  “Rowan—”

  “I’m telling you, I know the way!” He could actually feel the confidence in his voice. “Gilban even told you all to follow me. Are you calling the elf a liar?” Silence overcame the others as each sought Gilban, who remained still and detached from the conversation.

  “Gilban did support you.” Alara was measured in her reply. “And for that I was willing to give you a day to lead us to where you think the ruins are, but after seeing how it’s turned out, I can’t be party to it any longer—no matter what Gilban said.”

  “I see,” he said. “So then I have until the end of the day?”

  “A couple more hours, and then we make camp.”

  “All right,” he continued, setting his sights once again on Panthora before pressing onward with a rapid gait. “We have to keep moving north.”

  As the light faded with the hours, the ground grew more solid. The jungle was clearly reclaiming the area. Eventually, they found themselves at the base of a rocky hill.

  “That’s far enough, Rowan.” Alara’s comment retrieved him from the daze he’d been in for most of the day. “We can camp here for the night.” She could tell he was just as tired as the rest of them but still willing to push on—maybe even to his own harm—just to prove a point.

  “I’m confident if we just go a little farther—”

  “It’s been a long day.” She made sure her voice remained calm and even. “Even you have to be tired.”

  “I can go on,” he continued, clearly distracted by something on the hill. Something she couldn’t see, no matter how hard she searched.

  “You got us into the jungle again, and that’s a good start.”

  “But if we just go a little farther—”

  “Let it go, Rowan.” She finally gave way to tired frustration.

  “You want to give up when we’re so close?” he returned with a mild contempt, taking her aback.

  “We’re not giving up,” she replied, trying her best to sound reassuring. “We just need to rest. And this is a great place to set camp for the night.”

  Again his focus shifted back to that hill.

  “What do you keep looking at?” she finally had to ask.

  “Come with me.” He suddenly had her arm and was yanking her to the top of the hill. He was stronger than she thought, forcing her to stumble along behind.

  “What are you doing?” He was so frantic in his climb, it took all her concentration to keep from falling. He stopped at the crest, and his vision again became trance-like, taking in everything before them.

  “This has gone on long enough,” she protested, finally wrenching her wrist free of his grip. “Now—”

  “Look!” He pointed ahead of them. “We’ve done it!”

  Alara gasped. Beneath the canopy-filtered moonlight she could see stone blocks jutting out of the green carpet. Tall towers, some fallen, some leaning haphazardly, loomed above. The chunks of marble scattered around dense brush reminded her of crushed bone. Split and tumbled pillars resembled fallen logs, disintegrated by the weight of tumbled statues, while moss, weeds, and tree roots grew in the craters and crevices along broken battlements, storefronts, and toppled walls.

  “We just needed to go a little bit farther.” Rowan smiled, clearly pleased at the sight. Alara shouted for the others with the news, only to hear them galloping up the hill shortly after.

  “I don’t believe it,” Dugan whispered.

  “No dwarf quarried those stones,” said Vinder, joining them with an amazed stare.

  “We’ve found the ruins!” Cadrissa shouted with joy. She’d taken Gilban’s hand on her shoulder, assisting in his ascent. Her green eyes shone with her obvious excitement. “But what do we do now?”

  “We camp,” said Gilban.

  Dugan strolled up to the low-burning fire and sat near the others gathered around it. As Gilban instructed, they’d moved their camp to the base of the ruins, hoping they’d find some rest in relative safety. With a sigh, he removed his armor and threw it into a pile on the ground. It felt good shedding it. If Vinder and Rowan wanted to keep theirs on, they were more than welcome, but he could use a break. The cooler air helped dry all the sweat.

  He stretched, closing his eyes and trying to relax as best he could in the sticky air. No one would eat tonight, and they hadn’t been able to hunt anything thus far. And when morning came they’d all want to keep going, making breakfast unlikely. He didn’t blame them. The sooner they could find whatever it was they were supposed to find, the sooner they could get out of here.

  As he rested, Vinder polished his axe until it reflected the firelight, while Cadrissa pondered the ruins. Alara worked on her falchion, rubbing what oil she’d salvaged into the metal, checking the grip and hilt. Gilban simply stared into the blaze, fingering his pendant in thought or prayer—Dugan wasn’t sure which. Rowan was the only one outside their circle, standing a stone’s throw from the camp and staring into the ruins with a forlorn appearance.

  “If I had my bow I might be able to get us something to eat,” said Alara, inspecting her blade with a practiced eye.

  “Least you got your sword.” Vinder turned his axe to and fro in the firelight. “I wouldn’t want to be out here without something by my side.”

  “My father carved the wood himself,” Alara replied. “He thought I needed something to help protect myself and the flocks.” She shot Dugan a knowing look. “Course, it soon found its way into other uses.”

  “I can imagine,” he said with a lopsided grin. He scanned the area around them, adding, “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for years. Maybe the elves didn’t make it after all.”

  “No, they didn’t,” said Gilban. “These aren’t the right ruins.”

  “What?” Vinder grimaced.

  “You mean after all we’ve been through, we’re still lost?” Cadrissa was less than pleased.

  “In part.” Gilban was solemn in reply.

  “Great.” Vinder sulked, returning to his work.

  “What do you mean ‘in part’?” asked Alara. “Where are we?”

  “Gondad,” said Gilban.

  “Gondad?” Cadrissa nearly jumped out of her skin. “This is Gondad?”

  “The very same.” Gilban continued contemplating the fire.

  “So what’s Gondad?” Dugan asked Cadrissa.

  “You mean you really don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a human and you don’t know?” she persisted.

  “I don’t get out much.”

  “Oh . . . right.” A soft red fire played about the flesh of her cheeks and forehead. “Well, about four thousand years ago, during the Imperial Wars, this was a great glen. Old stories say Landis, the ancient Gondadian king, died cursing the land as it was taken by the elves of Colloni. The same legends say blood ran from his veins in great rivers of anger and sorrow—flooding his beautiful land with putrid water. That was how the marshes were created. All the peoples of this territory had to move away in order to survive, including the elves. Thus Landis was able to keep his land—but at a terrible cost. Gondad was destroyed, never to be rebuilt.”

  “So we’ve camped in a city cursed by a king?” Vinder rested his axe beside him. “How is that a good thing?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s just a legend,” Alara stepped in, calming any fears. “This city and the land around it are safe from any curse. Legends often cover up the full truth. We Patrious have a more accurate recollection of past events than most races.

  “Gondad had an abundance of fertile fields due to the many tracks of irrigation running all over the countryside. In a desperate attempt to increase the city’s defenses, Landis decided to turn the irrigation canals into a maze of moats. However, when he opened the floodgates to their fullest, he didn’t take into account the effect of the force of so much water on the canals. The torrent eroded the stone waterways, flooding the land and destroying everything in its path. The floodgates could never again be closed. Th
ey were swept away, buried and ruined by the water. Since that day, the fields of Gondad have become a great marsh, with the city itself first becoming a corroding backwater and then finally a desolate ruin.”

  “So he destroyed his city to get revenge on the elves?” Dugan pondered aloud, not missing the irony of the action. It was something he could relate to—in part.

  “That’s what I was taught.” Alara nodded. “Of course, revenge ran deep in Aero too.”

  “And still does with many to this day,” Gilban solemnly added. His blind eyes rested on Dugan, who sat uncomfortably as the elf somehow peered right through him.

  “Do you think he led us here on purpose?” Dugan indicated Rowan.

  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Vinder watched the knight carefully. “Maybe that was his plan all along.”

  “Not if what Gilban said was right,” said Alara, attempting to squash the others’ rising suspicion.

  “He might have wanted us here too,” Vinder was quick to point out.

  “I want us to be true to our mission, wherever it may lead us,” said Gilban, once more taken with the fire. “And right now it has taken us to this point.”

  “But for what purpose?” Alara asked what was clearly on everyone’s mind.

  “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Rowan didn’t hear much of the others’ conversation. In truth, he hadn’t heard anything after he overheard they were standing in the ruins of Gondad. He knew from his training how the origin city was viciously destroyed by elven expansion, but to be here now? A human walking the streets of the once-great city? It was beyond amazing. And to think Panthora had led him to it. First the dream and then the reality of it playing out in the marsh and jungle. Now here he was in the very guts of that great city.

  “Gondad, ancient Gondad . . .” he whispered in awe. After so many centuries of searching—even by people sent or supported by the knighthood—he’d been the one to find it, and on his first mission. As he pondered these things, the dream-like euphoria he’d been under the whole day took hold once again. Within its grasp, he heard an age-old melody echoing through the walls and flowing through the streets, from the rocks, trees, buildings, and even his heart.

  Come into a great nation,

  Come into a great host.

  Blest from its first creation,

  And loved by gods the most.

  A nation of united, strong leaders of the land.

  Each day we hear our souls sing,

  And still our city stands.

  The melody and words welling up in him were as old as the knighthood itself, if not older. It was the ancient hymn of Gondad and was taught to all knights and Panians, for it was common knowledge all humanity had sprung from the blessed city.

  There are none who would shelter

  Evil in our walls.

  Blest be the simple worker,

  And whom god calls.

  Our army is victorious,

  Ten thousand foes before them fall.

  Our nation will be forever

  For we are first of all.

  His spirit joined the hymn of praise, even as his feet began pulling him forward. Step by step he picked up speed, first a light trot, then a jog, and finally a mad run. He had to follow where he was led. It was obviously for a purpose—a purpose in dire need of discovery. In many ways it was like he was back in that dream again, only this time he was awake and closing on something great; he could feel it.

  Dugan noticed Rowan slowly walking for the center of the ruins. But before he could fully react, the knight charged into the night.

  “Rowan!” Dugan jumped from his seat.

  “Leave him,” Gilban calmly advised. “He has come to find his destiny.” Dugan fought back the urge to chase after him, reminding himself Gilban was probably right, no matter how he felt about it.

  “Let’s just hope he doesn’t stir up any more surprises.” Vinder’s words echoed Dugan’s thoughts. “I’m not in the mood for a fight right now.”

  “Will he truly be all right?” Alara asked Gilban.

  “Yes.” Gilban stared off into the horizon. “He has to meet his destiny alone. Only then will he return.”

  “If he returns,” Vinder added under his breath.

  “He will return.” Gilban stared Vinder in the face, ending the discussion.

  Chapter 24

  Oh, to have been a warrior for Gondad!

  What honor. What privilege.

  To have been able to behold the great kings,

  see Gandia lifted high, and hear the order given to advance.

  —Harris Boralin, king of Romain

  Reigned 1893 BV–1697 BV

  After making considerable progress, Rowan stopped when a set of stairs caught his eye. Something called to him from them, something he wasn’t completely able to define. The driving compulsion formerly gripping him had evaporated, allowing a moment of clarity in which he doubted the wisdom of his run into such a puzzling and potentially dangerous place. And yet he was drawn here for a reason.

  The steps had been just like those he’d seen in his dream. He was sure of it. This was too much of a coincidence to not have meaning. In the dream he’d climbed them, but had also met up with an unpleasant surprise. Not wanting to make the same mistake, he cast his face toward heaven. “What am I supposed to do?”

  No answers came.

  Tentatively, he climbed the weathered stone until he approached the same dark doorway from his dream. He quietly drew his sword and entered the black portal. No sooner had his feet crossed the threshold than the previous dream-like grip returned, compelling him onward. His walk accelerated again into a run as he continued through the darkness of another decrepit hallway. The acrid smell of decay and dust clogged his nose and mouth, but it didn’t matter. He could feel the very presence of ancient Gondad calling out from the shadows while the old hymn, now sung by ghostly voices, whispered in his ear.

  For our god-sent leaders

  Kept us sore oppressed.

  Dreams crafted in marble

  Lasted days at best.

  Sorrow long and weary,

  Tears freshly fell like rain.

  And only an elf named Aero

  Could take away our pain.

  The haunting murmurs abruptly ended along with the compulsion, halting his steps. It was then a revelation set in. He was hopelessly lost. He’d no way of telling where he came from nor what lay ahead. Though the ruins were pitted with holes, they provided only faint pools of moon- or starlight.

  As he cautiously made his way across the debris-strewn floor, he heard a great cat purring. Instinct drove his head to his right just as a dark gray panther appeared from the broken shadows. Unlike the one in his dream, this panther was of normal proportions, but there was still something supernatural about it. The creature’s bright yellow eyes shone like lanterns as they stared at the young knight. After eyeing Rowan, the panther languidly proceeded down a nearby hallway. He kept watching it until it was almost completely swallowed in shadows. Curious and still lacking answers, Rowan followed.

  Finding the creature was easy enough. And it apparently didn’t mind him following, leading Rowan to wonder if this might be another sign of Panthora’s guidance. The symbolism was fairly clear after all—the panther being a sign heavily tied to the Queen of Valkoria. In time, the beast slowed and then halted near a small wooden door, which had remarkably survived the assault of time, war, and rot. The panther’s beefy paw slashed at its bottom half, then it crouched down, growling at him.

  “I take it I’m to go in there?” Rowan pointed at the door. The panther made no response, only stared at him with its self-illuminating eyes.

  “All right.” Rowan gingerly edged his way around the great cat until he was facing the door. He gave it a small push. It fell with a loud crash, scattering dust, spiders, rodents, and other vermin. The panther’s unnatural eyes lit up the space beyond just enough so he could clearly discern the fallen door
dominating most of the small room’s interior.

  He slowly proceeded inside, breaking the ancient door into splinters and chunks under his heel. His attention was drawn to the unusual object ahead of him: a thick stone pillar upon which rested a small, rusted iron chest no larger than a hand’s breadth and width. Again, he felt drawn to it and had sheathed his sword and reached out for it before he knew what he was doing. His hands gingerly handled the cold metal, seeking its opening. The old, delicate locks crumbled in showers of umber flakes when he lifted the lid.

  In it, he discovered the same necklace from his dream: a strange, tribal-looking thing resting on a leather strap and sporting a small, shriveled paw along with some black and red beads. Experiencing it in the waking world, he knew the paw was from a baby panther. It was much smaller than the adult-sized ones he’d come to know growing up. He pulled it from the box for a better look, letting it swing back and forth on the leather strand as he did so. Why had he been led here? What was Panthora trying to tell him? Gondad. The strange panther. This necklace.

  “The necklace is yours.” A woman’s voice suddenly filled the room.

  Rowan jumped and nearly dropped the necklace and the small chest when he heard it. There was no doubt who’d spoken.

  He knelt before the stone pillar. “Panthora, forgive me.”

  “For what?” The voice was far from angry. “I led you here to receive this gift.”

  “Thank you.” He kept his eyes low. “May I ask why you did so? It seems as though you went to a great deal of effort to lead me to what would appear to be a rather simple necklace.” Upon reflection, he quickly added, “I mean no disrespect. I simply wish to learn from your ways and become a better servant.”

  “Rowan, you’ve always pleased me.” He took some delight at the pleasure he heard in Panthora’s voice. “The gift is given for another time to come. When you’re ready you will understand what this token of my favor has to do with you and your calling into my service. You have a great future before you. A future where this gift will be needed. Until then, wear it as a pledge of my favor.”