by P D Dennison
As Rostioff’s thoughts wandered back to his early days with Manya and Turynn, something strange happened to the Dragon Orb. The change came on slowly at first so as not to break Rostioff’s train of thought. A hazy image of what he could see in his mind began to appear within the orb. Then after his thoughts were fully formed, the figures in his mind turned to those of Manya walking through an ancient Rowenwood forest with two other men. Rostioff became entranced. Time seemed to stand still as he stared into the orb. He came to his feet rapidly with surprise and grasped the orb out in front of him, staring wide-eyed into the sphere. The scene appeared bright and clear now. He could see Manya, Turynn, a large Barbarian fellow, and a small ram walking through the forest somewhere up in the mountains.
Rostioff smiled broadly. This was a new trick. He’d never known it to be able to portent the future or scry into far away locations of the present or past. Whichever he was looking at, the newfound gift the orb offered amazed and excited him. But with his exuberance and the use of a magick he did not yet understand, the image quickly faded into the swirling mass of color again until he lost sight of it completely.
Quickly he sat himself cross legged on the ground and focused his thoughts. Breathing deeply, he called to mind the fondly remembered images of Manya and Turynn in their youth again. Slowly, in and out he breathed, relaxing his mind and body and allowing the sensations of the magick to find their way into his thoughts once more. He sat still and meditated like this for several minutes.
Once he felt relaxed and focused on Manya and Turynn, he slowly opened his eyes. There it was again, the image of them walking through the forest. Except now they were approaching the walls of a castle or city surrounded by a red, mucky-looking moat.
It must be Dragon’s Maw Keep, he thought. There he sat for several moments, watching the events unfold in the orb before him.
He bore witness to everything that happened to the three companions. He watched Turynn deftly scale the rope and gain access to the keep. He observed them examining the beautiful stonework of the courtyard walls. He watched the terrible death of little Sleipner and the awe-inspiring battle prowess of their Barbarian guide as he felled the young black dragon. He could see them make their way through the dark and ancient keep down to the breeding pits below. He even beheld their struggle with the door and then he saw him, the evil one. Only for a brief and fleeting moment before the Transportal spell took him from view, but he was there. Graxxen the lich. Rostioff almost lost the image when he saw those piercing dead eyes set into the skull of pale ivory stained with the grime of Ages. He watched the companions as the portal opened a second time and through it stepped Krigaar. He knew in an instant who it was. What were the gods were doing getting involved in the troubles of men? He wondered. They had all but abandoned men during the First Age and would not even get involved during the conquering days of the Dragon Rider Clan of old, nor in the time of tribulation when Graxxen and his army of Blood Magi had overthrown an already wicked ruling army only to be replaced with one much more wicked still. Where had Krigaar taken them? The image began to fade as the three companions slipped beyond the sight of the Dragon Orb. He held it tightly and tried to communicate with it, concentrating, thinking his words out, and projecting them into the orb.
“Orb, these things you have shown me. Are they already come to pass or are they a vision of things yet to come?”
Past, came the voice within Rostioff’s mind. Not a voice, but a whisper, almost as if right in his ear from a soft set of lips.
His eyes snapped open with a start to ensure no one actually stood there with him. He remained by the fire, alone. He could see the outline of Stoneshanks down by the river, munching on grass and looking out across the water. The moon came up and the sky grew pale lavender as the sun settled below the clouds in the west over the hills. He looked at the orb one last time. The colors were always a swirling mass within; ancient magick waiting for his summons. He tucked it back within his robe and sat against a rock to think. He took one last swig of the ale and lay down to stare at the few stars now coming into view as the last of the days streamers of light passed into darkness on the western horizon. The river babbled gently in the distance and every once in a while, Stoneshanks let out a pleasant little whinny. He wondered how an evil as dark and terrible as Graxxen’s had managed to subvert the goodness of a land as wonderful as Shaarn for so many lifetimes. He wondered if he were strong enough to defeat the old lich in arcane combat should he have to face him, which now seemed, more than ever, a real possibility.
The fire crackled and a couple of pieces of wood fell into one another as the flame fed on the last of its fuel. Rostioff propped himself up on one arm and prodded at the fire with his knife. He threw in another fairly large chunk of wood and rolled over to fall asleep.
Once more the dream of the witchdoctor came to him.
He was in the spell weaver’s hut in the wilds and the witchdoctor was performing some perverted evil ritual. Why was he seeing this again?
The horde of the Second Age was not an evil people, just feisty and violent by nature. Any men would grow violent if they had to live in such harsh terrain and climate. Most of their lives were spent in dark cold winters foraging and hunting, logging and eking out tiny crops of herbs from the few moons of summer they were blessed with each season. They farmed that wretched plain where no other people were able to make a life in the First Age.
This time the dream and the ritual were much more elaborate than the last, much more vivid and real; as if Rostioff were actually there, in the hut. The shaman had assembled before him others in the circle of magick to increase the power of his incantations. The circle of conjurers all sat cross legged holding each other’s shoulders, swaying and chanting as the witchdoctor himself stood in the midst of them making a sacrifice. The air felt hot and smelled of lilac, the tell tale scent of Blood Magick.
Rostioff realized the dream, this time, and stood motionless, watching the events unfold before his eyes. These men were up to something and he could sense something wicked. He watched as the intensity of the curse grew. First they cursed the very ground they sat on, spitting on it and letting the fox blood flow into a plate piled with soil, sizzling and releasing a black smoke as it did, signalling the casters their curse was working and the magick was taking hold on the land.
Next they cursed the air and the old conjurer chanted and danced around the fire, holding a water skin high above his head. At the end of his chant and dance, he slowly lowered the skin and dumped its contents into the fire. The flames did not go out, but quickly turned white and a glittering cloud billowed up into the air above the fire where steam should have been. Rostioff could feel it on his skin as the air reached him. It didn’t feel steamy at all, but in fact felt cold and frosty, like ice crystals in the air on a winter’s day. He could see his own breath before him. The cloud found its way out the door of the hut and up into the sky.
Finally they spoke a curse to the trees and the old witchdoctor held aloft the branch of a Rowenwood. They cursed it and spat on it and threw it into the fire, which consumed it instantly in rich, dark purple flame. A howling sound issued forth from the blaze as the curse took hold. The old conjurer lowered a hooded brazier toward the flames and set it alight with an ember of the cursed fire. Once he had lit the little lantern, he held it aloft for the others to see and placed it carefully into a large glass tube that sat atop the shelf in the back of the hut. Rostioff wasn’t quite sure, but he thought he could see the image of Graxxen’s face appear in the flame faintly before dulling to a small flicker like that of a candle, except now burning with a faint purple glow and producing lilac scented black smoke. Rostioff knew that scent all too well. Evil often carried with it the sickeningly sweet scent of decay so often confused with the scent of lilac.
He felt as if he would be ill and finally, waking, rolled over retching and coughing on the ground beside him. He looked about and found himself back at his camp near the Qu’Anaa
r. All was quiet. He threw up on the ground. His hands were covered in dirt and his face beaded with perspiration from the dream.
“Krikey! That bloke blew his guts all over the ground!”
“You ok, fella’?”
The voices came from behind him. They startled him and he rolled over quickly to see who spoke to him. Two dwarves and one of the Rangers from the Tower Garrison that Danthalas had sent out after him sat on a sideways turned log beside his now restoked fire. A cooking kettle hung propped on a small tripod over the flames and one of the dwarves smoked a long curvy pipe with one hand while deftly stirring at the stewing pot with the other.
The Ranger spoke again. “Are you alright, Master Rostioff?”
The Ranger and one of the dwarves sat on the log staring at him. Concern painted their faces. Rostioff did not look good after witnessing such evil and they were right to worry.
The third fellow, the little smoking dwarf, calmly commented, “Probably too much ale before bed. You Southerners couldn’t handle a stiff drink if yer’ lives depended on it. Weak willed y’ar! The lot of ya’s!” He chortled to himself and blew out a great puff of smoke as he sat back heavily onto the log after he’d finished stirring up their supper.
“I’m alright now. Who are you people? What are you doing in my camp?” Startled and wary of the strangers after such a terrible nightmare. Was it a nightmare? He didn’t think so.
There seemed to be far too much coincidence in all that he’d seen that lined up with actual events and things he and Danthalas had discussed for this to simply have been a nightmare.
“Do you want something to eat, Master Rostioff?” the Ranger asked him, offering up a bowl and spoon. “It’ll help settle your stomach.”
He crushed some mint leaves into a little bowl and filled it with the stew from the fire. The four men did not speak much, but all ate hungrily, including Rostioff who, although he’d eaten supper before he fell asleep, now found himself famished after his trying dream. Rostioff finished his bowl of minted lamb stew and set it down beside the fire pit. It tasted delicious and he found it very satisfying. To the Ranger’s point; the mint had settled his stomach right down and he felt as right as rain again. The one dwarf who’d been smoking rose to his feet.
“Well, I suppose proper introductions are in order, young Master Rostioff. I’m Postgaar Fireaxe of Stonehammer Keep and this is my brother, Hengaar. We’re renowned traders in these northern parts. We met up with your young Ranger friend not more than two hours ago on the road to the west of here. We come from Stonehammer to the northwest to make a deal with the Barbarians for shipments of spices in trade for Mithril,” said Postgaar as he produced his axe and held it next to the firelight for Rostioff to see.
The two dwarves were finely dressed, wearing suits of chainmail armour. Each carrying a small axe with a firebrand on the hilt bejewelled with a large ruby made of the famed product of Mithril Mountain. They wore travelling over cloaks of thick hide with fur lined hoods to prevent the elements from getting the better of them. Both sported a bright red shock of wild long hair braided in the back, which in keeping with proper dwarven tradition had never been cut. Their beards were equally as impressive having been braided and woven through with little leather thongs and beads of varying colors and woven back into itself to keep it as neat as possible.
The Ranger rose now too. Rostioff did not personally know the man, but the Tower employed a large garrison of expertly trained Rangers as its personal army and to run errands that required a blade and travel. The Ranger Garrison of the Tower were a very self-sufficient breed of soldier who, in addition to fighting, could hunt, trap, track, scout, and travel alone across great distances. All were trained in the art of herbalism so they could fetch the required flora for the magicks. The Ranger Garrison were trained in the ancient arts of the elven Rangers from the First Age of Shaarn and those ancient skills passed down and perfected over many generations since to create within the Garrison of the Tower a powerful army able to take on a superior force. Single Rangers out in the wilds on spell component gathering missions for the Tower developed rumors of having taken down as many as five highway robbers by themselves and were revered almost as highly as their northern counterparts of the Winter Wolf Clan.
Rangers fought with longbows, long swords, and knives mainly, though some, such as this man that sat fireside with Rostioff now, preferred the use of the great bastard swords, only put to use in the last hundred or so seasons. The sword was known as a hand and half sword and could be wielded slowly singlehandedly with a shield or the shield could be tossed aside so the great blade could be wielded more deftly with two hands. He dressed in the typical loose fitting tan hide travelling apparel common to the Ranger Garrison and wore the telling long, green hooded cloak that the entire Garrison wore as its uniform, clasped at one shoulder with a brooch shaped like the Tower itself. The brooch had tree roots extending downward out of the base that wove up and around into a beautiful pattern.
He seemed an average-sized man as much as Rostioff could tell. He had a trimmed and groomed beard of hazelnut color and a shoulder-length mane to accompany it that he had braided on both sides in several spots to keep the hair from getting into his eyes, which was common enough for men of the time. The Ranger rose to his feet, brushing off his hands on his pants as he did so.
“Master Rostioff, I am Kaldrinn Highmont, Ranger First Class of the Garrison at the Tower of High Sorcery.” He bowed deeply and extended his hand with a smile.
After the handshake, Rostioff rose to his feet and properly introduced himself to the small party and took a seat across form them by the fire. He quickly surveyed the land and saw Stoneshanks still down by the water’s edge, now lying down sleeping. His sides heaved deeply as he slept a deep undisturbed slumber listening to the babbling of the Qu’Anaar River next to him and breathing in the cool night air. Beside him were two small ponies, which, Rostioff assumed were the dwarves’ mounts, along with another light riding horse that belonged to Kaldrinn. The scene was peaceful and serene.
The moon had risen high and the clouds in the west at sundown had moved in spotting the sky with bits of black drifting lazily past the moon now and again. Rostioff pulled his sleeping hides up over his shoulders to cut a chill that had crawled its way up his back and noticed his breath in the air before him. An unseasonably cool night had indeed found them. Too cool for spring south of the Mystpeaks. The four men talked and told stories about themselves speaking of the news in their regions, getting to know one another.
“What about you, Master Rostioff?” Kaldrinn Highmont asked of the Arch Mage. “What have you been commissioned to do out here in the Mystpeaks? Master Danthalas asked us to watch over as you passed over the peaks into the Great Northern Plains. You must have a very important charge assigned to you to make the trek in place of a Ranger. Most often he will only send us over the peaks and even then, only the most battle hardened and well-trained go.”
Rostioff smiled and tried to think of how to tell the others what was happening. If he could convince them of the severity of the issue, he might then enlist the services of these three seemingly hearty men. It would be nice to have the support of at least one dwarf family so soon and would make convincing others in the Kingdom of Aragon that much easier if he already had allies in place when he had to speak to their king. He fumbled some with a stick poking at the fire and moving around some of the pieces of wood within to flare things up a bit as he thought about how to break the silence.
“I’m searching for some ancient artifacts rumoured to lay deep within the Mystpeaks on the east side of the range. I’ve sent in two commissions to find them for me and have realized the job may be somewhat perilous and they may require aid. I’ve also realized the artifacts are sought after by someone of less than honourable intentions and this person has under their charge the service of goblins. I’m very worried for the safety of the commissions and want to ensure they are alive and well and help them back down out
of the Mystpeaks with their find.” He looked up as he finished his speech and looked to the three other men for some sort of sign of recognition.
Kaldrinn nodded wide-eyed, trying to understand exactly what the old mage had actually told them as the mixed words made the entire affair seem very odd.
“Well,” Postgaar rose as he spoke, “Excuse me for sayin' so, but I don’t believe a bloomin’ word of it, Master Rostioff. Sounds interesting and must be something awfully important up in those eastern peaks if you have to do all that lying to keep it secret.” He tapped out his pipe on the heel of his boot and reached into his tunic for his tobacco pouch to refill it. Slowly and methodically, he tore up the tobacco in one hand while the pipe was clasped firmly between his teeth so he could still talk with his tobacco pouch stuffed under the other arm for easy access. “Far be it for a Fireaxe to pry into the matters of men where prying is not wanted.” He went about refilling the pipe, which for Postgaar had become a relaxing, rehearsed, almost meditative ritual. “However, if you don’t want to tell us or don’t trust us with the story, then so be it. But there’s no need to lie. We’re all friends ‘ere. We Fireaxes are an honourable lot. We’ll respect yer' privacy, young wizard.” He carefully closed up the tobacco pouch and placed it back under his chainmail tunic into its little pocket, then activated his fire piston, lighting his pipe on the red-hot ember. He carefully began puffing at his pipe with his brow furrowed in deep concentration, one eye closed to keep the puffs of smoke out as he stoked up the fire, then he began to speak again. “Now, lad, if ye’ want our help, and I think ye’ do as not many fancy wizards make it in and back out of the peaks alive on their own, you’d best be tellin’ us what the real story of yer' being up in these parts is. If ye’ cannot tell, then fine, as I said we shall respect that, but I cannot, in good faith, put my family in harm’s way for a man I just met to look for an artifact of unknown specifications and associated dangers.” Once his pipe was relit he unstopped his ale skin and took a long swig without even taking the pipe out of his mouth, smoke billowing out of both nostrils as he drank.