by P D Dennison
Rostioff rose to light a fire in the great hearth to illuminate the room. The old elf rose again and swung open the great glass arched balcony doors of his study to let in the cool of the fresh spring evening air as it blew in off the ocean with the incoming tide. He spoke again as Rostioff lit the fire.
“I want you to head up into the mountains. I feel it necessary that I send someone worthy. We mustn’t fail in the retrieval of the eggs. We’ve lost one; we can’t afford to lose more. I want you here in the morning. I will have your gear ready in the courtyard at dawn. You will find Turynn and Manya and offer up whatever aid they require to secure those eggs.” He turned again to face Rostioff and to seek out the reaction of his pupil.
“Yes, of course, Master. Forever your servant, sir.” He looked to his master for approval and took a long deep sip of the Elven Bourbon.
“Best you travel light and alone. Your sorcery will keep you safe. Use it wisely. Take with you the Dragon Orb. You have only just begun to unlock the potential of the power within. Don’t be afraid to use it, Rostioff. It will keep you safe, but be wary as well. It will also seek to take control of your will if you let your guard down. Remember, we have not yet determined if this orb was fashioned for good or for evil and while you are powerful enough to wield it for the cause of good in either instance; it’s powerful enough to overtake you in a moment of weakness if given the chance.
“I will send a small contingent of Rangers to track you into the mountains and they will be a couple of days behind and ahead of you marking your progress should you require the need of sword and arrow in your quest.” Danthalas gestured for Rostioff to come closer, reaching for the Dragon Orb he knew was beneath Rostioff’s robes. Rostioff held it out in front of him for the Arch Mage to examine once again.
Danthalas held the man’s eyes firmly and resolutely as he spoke, his brow furrowed with intent. “This orb is yours to command. I would have entrusted it to no other and no other would be worthy of a gift such as this.” The two stared deeply into the scintillating colors that glimmered faintly within the orb. Each color represented a different school of magickal power and the Dragon Orb appeared to contain all the powers of the arcane wyrld.
The craftsmanship spoke of elven lapidaries in its elegance. The talisman was attached to a long silver chain of heavy braided link, which wove slowly into the form of a Rowenwood tree that extended down and transformed into a dragon’s claw with its talons grasping the orb. It was a brilliant piece of jewellery and radiated potent magick to even the most untrained eye.
Through many seasons of study Rostioff had learned of the talisman. The orbs were also said to hold great powers of healing if they’d been fashioned for good or great powers of destruction if they’d been fashioned for evil. As of yet, Rostioff had not been able to unlock the power within the orb to utilize for destruction, though it’s powers of healing had proven useful time and again. It led him to believe that it may have been fashioned to aid in the fight for the light. However, the presence of all of the schools of magick within the orb worried and frightened both himself and Danthalas as they’d never heard of such.
The ancient tomes in the tower libraries spoke of an even greater power locked within the orbs that, when brought together, would unlock a limitless arcane power source from which a mage might draw to cast spells without the required components, incantations, or even gestures.
Rostioff hoped that in time the full potential of the talisman would reveal itself to him and he wished himself powerful enough to wield the potent magick in service to the Tower. His call to the power that lay deep within the orb might soon require an answer if Graxxen was as powerful as Danthalas now believed.
The dawn was bright and warm and the air carried the scent of freshly sprouted grass into the high rooms of the great Tower as the breeze blew out to sea with the tide. Rostioff was in the courtyard readying his horse and double-checking the straps on the saddle and bags to ensure his spell books and provisions were well secured. He wore the hood of his cloak up to keep the sun off his face and out of his eyes. Across his back was a longbow and at his waist from his girdle in addition to his spell components and various artifices hung a long sword and a quiver full of arrows for hunting.
He didn’t carry a staff to use as a power focus. He found them to be cumbersome and had never needed a power focus as many other magi, including his wise, old master had. He was able to naturally focus the magick and bend it to his will, a gift few possessed. It was believed those who were able to directly focus their magick bore a strong connection to their ancestors from the First Age. Many of the magi of the Second Age were powerless without their foci. The magick in the wyrld had begun to dwindle from long seasons of peace between the races, which brought with it lowered enrolments at the Tower of High Sorcery. Those who did enroll were not as focused as their predecessors, having no terrible war to incite them to greatness. Rostioff had always been different from his fellow pupils. He’d always been head of the pack. He had a gift for the mystical arts and exhibited the heart and body of strength, the mind, wisdom, and spirit of goodness that Danthalas sought for many a long age as a replacement for Arch Mage of the Tower when the time came.
“I see you are eager as always, my young friend.” Danthalas approached Rostioff out in the courtyard. “It’s a good day to ride. You’ll make excellent time.” He stroked the mane of the big brown Rostioff had selected. Stoneshanks was the horse’s name, playfully assigned by the stable master for being stubborn. “I wish you good fortune and judgement on your journey, Rostioff.” Danthalas’ countenance grew as stony as the southern face of the Mystpeaks and he finished his thought with a cold and serious tone, “For if you fail in your task, I shudder to think of what may come of the magi of the Tower and moreover, the good people of the Land of Shaarn.” He held the gaze of his pupil to drive home his level of concern.
“I understand, Master. I’ll not fail you or the Tower. I’ll not fail the people of Shaarn. I will bring back the power and magick of the dragons to our land and we will be victorious over Graxxen.” Rostioff placed his hand on his master’s shoulder to show his respect and admiration for the man. The two smiled briefly and Rostioff was off.
Once he was some distance outside the city of Stromsgate, he broke into a full gallop heading north toward Who Calls Lake and the township of Summervale. The road would lead him into the city of Hilltop, the last stop before the High Pass over the Mystpeaks into the untamed and unforgiving Great Northern Plains. He rode hard for the first night, stopping only long enough to rest himself and Stoneshanks enough to gallop off the next day again.
Who Calls Lake came into sight off to the northeast round the afternoon of the second day. He decided this was as good a spot as any to set up camp for the night. The warm, lake air carried the sweet scent of clover that grew along the shore. He decided to make camp about half a league off the road so he could take a bath in the cool clear waters Who Calls Lake was known for. He found himself a nice grassy spot under the cover of a large Elm and turned Stoneshanks loose to graze. After his bath and a quick meal of dried boar, he fell asleep almost instantly to the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping the shore intermingled with the pops and crackles of his fire.
The following morning dawned bright. The sun shone down warm, lazily breathing the life of spring and early summer into the Kingdom of Castille. The birds sung softly in the Elms over Rostioff’s head and the lake was still and shiny, mirroring the brilliant white sun dancing slowly on the water, breaking the glassy surface every so often as a bird or a fish stirred the face of the giant liquid mirror.
Rostioff rose early, stretched deeply, and yawned. He threw his pot of water onto the fire and quickly packed up his belongings. Moments later he was riding north toward the pass into Summervale. The foothills stood visible in the distance, reassuring he was headed in the right direction. He estimated he would reach the town of Summervale about midday. He’d made very good time with Stoneshanks and was grate
ful to have the sturdy horse for the long ride.
The day went by quickly as they galloped across the flat plains north of Who Calls Lake. He was in the mouth of the pass and into the foothills well before expected, but the air carried a foul scent that ruined his mood. It smelled of burning meat and there was smoke rising from the hilltops in the direction of the township of Summervale.
Rostioff spurred Stoneshanks on and hunkered down over the big brown’s back as he picked up speed. As he drew closer, he could see thick black clouds rising over the hilltops. As he rounded the last bend at the base of the big hill sheltering Summervale from the pass, his worst suspicions were verified. An attack on the town of Summervale in the night left only ruins, everything burned to the ground with axe and fire. There were a few survivors still leaving the town in wagons heading south toward him and Stromsgate.
Rostioff wondered at the terrible sight before him. The town was all but lost. He rode into Summervale, the streets white with ash, buildings, kegs, wagons, all covered in snowy ash. It rained down from the sky in slow motion. The scent of burnt pork and wood fire hung heavy in the air, and Rostioff curled his lip at the offending aroma. He stopped a man loading a wagon up at the remnants of a burnt home on the edge of town.
“You there! Sir! What has happened to you poor folk this past eve?” He jumped down from Stoneshanks to meet the man eye-to-eye.
“Goblins. They come down out of the hills before daybreak. Didn’t even take nuthin'. All they did was kill our kin n’ burn the town. They drug’ some of my kin off up into the hills. Can’t imagine what a goblin would want with a man as a prisoner, prolly gonna’ eat em,” he shook his head and his lip quivered as he spoke. “All gone. My wife n’ boy are dead, burned alive in their beds. A flask of oil came through my boy’s bedroom window. He never had a chance. My wife went in after him. The fire took her so quickly. The roof collapsed on her. I’ve got nuthin’ left.” He tightened up a strap on the pack fastened to the side of the wagon. He nodded at Rostioff as he swung himself up into the seat and gave his reigns a slap, spurring his horse on heading south.
Rostioff rode on in stunned silence. A voice came from somewhere down beside him. The voice of a child, a small girl, no more than five seasons under her eyes, was tugging at his stirrup.
“Please sir, help my brother. He’s burned and my mother and father are dead.” She was tugging him over toward the remnants of another burned house. Her cheeks were streaked with ash and tears. The poor child’s eyes were as wild as all the fires she’d watched burn her wyrld to ashes the previous night.
Rostioff nodded dazedly, dismounted once again and followed the small child over to what was left of her home. The smoke was still rising off the timbers of the very bed the boy lay in. He was twitching and moaning, crying softly at the searing pain that tortured his tiny little fire wracked body.
Such pain to endure for a child so young, thought Rostioff. He felt his chin quiver and a tear roll down his cheek as he approached the boy. The smell made him wretch but he fought it off and drew nearer.
The boy couldn’t have been more than ten seasons old and almost his entire body was covered in burns. He had lost an eye to a large wound on his head, which likely occurred when the roof of their tiny home came down on him.
“Please help him, sir,” the little girl pleaded and tugged at his arm. She sobbed and pressed her face into his robe.
The air carried a sickly, acrid pungency, the unmistakable odor of decay. The boy had only just been injured, but infection had already taken hold.
“I will do what I can, child, now step back a little.”
He gently moved the girl back, removed the Dragon Orb from beneath his robe, and all in one well practised motion, he both pulled up his sleeves and closed his eyes, beginning to concentrate on the power locked deep within the orb. He grasped it tightly in his right hand and held the orb out over the boy’s scorched little frame. The incantation grew louder and he gesticulated in a calculated and rhythmic fashion with his left hand drawing the magick out of the orb. The colors within began to swirl more quickly and then a brilliant blue light ignited from the swirling mass at the heart of the orb. It began to hum with power and the boy’s one eye opened, looking up at the orb in terror as he had never seen sorcery performed in his life. The hum grew louder and the light grew brighter until the remaining timbers of the room were vibrating and crackling with the electricity of the mystic energy building within the orb.
Finally Rostioff rose fully with both arms extended over the boy holding the orb firm between both hands, his arms trembling as if barely able to contain the awesome healing power. A crack of thunder sounded and a bolt of blue electricity shot from the orb into the boy’s face. His tiny body went rigid, hands pulling at the remnants of the bed frame. His little back arched as his body reluctantly accepted the rush of arcane power. His burns began to recede into blisters, then scabs, and finally reddened scar tissue. The swelling round his missing eye began to deflate and his eyeball began stitching itself from the inside out back into its former shape. Finally his hair began to grow back and he looked almost whole again.
Rostioff, too, had changed. He was sweating madly and gritting his teeth against the awesome force of the magic as it unloaded its charge into the boy’s body. His eyes turned the brilliant electric blue of the healing magick; he no longer looked human. His hair stood up and wavered slowly in the mysterious static that filled the air.
Finally the blue charge ceased and the room fell silent. Rostioff dropped the orb and it swung back to his chest on the heavy silver chain. He stumbled back to brace himself on the remnants of the charred and collapsed door frame, breathing heavily and coughing.
“He’ll be alright now, little girl. Get your things and take whatever you can carry. You’ll come with me to Hilltop. Hurry now.”
He stumbled out into the street to find an abandoned cart. White smoke and ash rose into the air all around. Most all of the fires had burned themselves out, or been doused by townsfolk but little remained. Windows smashed, bodies lay in the street where they were felled, the scene tortured the eyes and nostrils to behold. Rostioff found a cart with a cover and all, even if it was slightly burned and covered in ash like everything else. He did his best to brush as much of the thick white ash off as he could, completely messing his fine robes in the process. The children would be safe from the elements inside it. Rostioff unsaddled Stoneshanks and hitched him to the cart.
He returned to find the two outside their home. The boy seemed alert and well. “Come, children. Let us make for Hilltop. I’ll find you care once we’re there. There is nothing left for you here.” The two looked back and forth at one another hesitantly. Rostioff could see their uncertainty as plain as day. Two small orphans faced with a strange wizard in a foppish hat from the South. They must’ve been terrified. He hopped down to help them. He threw their sacks up into the cart and Rostioff helped the girl hoist herself up. The boy smiled and hopped up into the back of the cart as if nothing had happened to him. Rostioff smiled back and gave the lad a nod of approval.
“Looks like you’ve made a solid recovery, boy!”
“Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.” He smiled again and stuck his hand out to shake Rostioff’s, smiling wide, little eyes all atremble, showing he had a missing baby tooth in the front. Rostioff grinned at him and shook the boy’s hand gently. He hopped back up into the seat of the carriage and they headed north for Hilltop.
Chapter 5
A Restless Night
Ravak found himself well within the High Pass now. It seemed to stretch before him like an endless highway between two sheer walls of rock paved floor to ceiling. The light was dim within as the two cliff faces rose up on either side of him vertically for hundreds of feet. He could not yet see Sleipner, but had discovered a piece of the sapling he’d tied the young ram too which still had a piece of the bridle fastened to it. It appeared to have been chewed. He had to catch up to the ram quickly before someo
ne else found him and stole all of the camping gear and hides off the goat’s back.
Early afternoon in the High Pass was cool and still surrounded by rock on all sides, save for the thin strip of sky above. The wind couldn’t seem to find its way down the rock walls. Ravak expected he should have no trouble overtaking Sleipner by nightfall. He wanted to find a place other than this narrow portion of the High Pass to set up camp for the night. Barren rock stretched out before and behind him, no place to hide should brigands or goblins find him sleeping. With no real need for shelter as the cliffs on either side cut the wind and would more than likely keep most off the rain off should the sky turn grey. It lacked defensive advantage should anything happen, but it was unlikely anything would. The High Pass seldom saw travellers this time of year. The traders from the South preferred the warmer weather in summer to make the crossing north onto the Great Plains. Ravak’s clan might be the only folk to be seen in the pass at this time of year and they seldom made it this far south.
The hard, rocky ground made it difficult to track Sleipner. Ravak only caught a couple of glimpses of his tracks now and again where there happened to be a mound of dirt or a pile of dust. He finally caught sight of the ram a ways up ahead stopped in a widened clearing that had a few sparse trees growing in it.
Ravak slowed to a walk and called out to Sleipner. The young ram walked toward him, click clack on the stone he came slowly, chewing on a mouthful of rough grass he had found near the trees. They met at the opening to the clearing and Ravak greeted his little friend lovingly.
“I thought I’d lost you, laddy! You’re very brave. Thanks for watching my back!” he exclaimed sarcastically to his young friend. Sleipner let out a friendly little “bah,” and nuzzled Ravak’s neck.