by Pedro Urvi
The Ilenian trap was meant to hold him alive in death for all eternity. It was overwhelmingly perverse, which did not really surprise Haradin. The Ilenians were far from being the benevolent, altruistic civilization many scholars and men of faith hopefully believed them to be.
No matter how much they might insist on the idea for the “good of the people”, unconsciously fooling those who listened to them. Haradin crossed his arms over his chest thoughtfully. They had been a very advanced civilization and extremely powerful, no doubt. The amazingly strong magic they had been able to develop made them demigods on Earth. But to call them benevolent was very far from the reality, as the good Mage well knew.
Haradin stroked his chin, letting his thoughts wander. He had spent most of his life studying the Lost Civilization in secret —it was his sacred mission. The Ilenians had become an obsession with him ever since he had discovered a terrible secret, a secret that meant the future of all mankind hung from a thread which went all the way back to the Lost Civilization. That was the reason why Haradin did not study the Ilenians with the same goal as Abbott Dian, the priest Lindaro of the Temple of Light or the other scholars who traveled all over Tremia looking for Ilenian remains to analyze, in search of knowledge and answers to all the mysteries they posed, for the good of humankind. Oh, no. His reason was completely different.
“Fools! How much in error you are! If I could stop you all… if I could make you see… but I can’t…” he swore, raising his fist.
They would not get hold of the benefit they were hoping to gain from the Lost Civilization… very far from it…
And they keep stirring up that which should not be disturbed. The danger their search poses for all the inhabitants of this continent makes my blood turn to ice.
This was why Haradin’s vital mission had become even more significant. He had to go on with renewed certainty. It had become imperative to prevent any of those unfortunates from inadvertently unleashing the irreversible cataclysm he dreaded. It was his sacred duty to protect the secret, in order to protect the human race.
Unfortunately, because of the trap he had fallen into, his mission was in jeopardy. He was now paying for the consequences of having been carbon-frozen, living in a semi-petrified state. Haradin had managed to shield his mind as a form of self-defense, in order not to go mad and to protect himself from the degenerative effects of the Ilenian magic. Somehow the struggle between the power which was trying to reach his reason and his own resistance to it had altered the balance between his mind and the Gift, and now that balance was unfortunately damaged. Before, Haradin had been able to cast spells at a devilish speed, whereas now there were many occasions when he could not even bring them to mind. That frustrated him, and what was worse, made him very afraid.
Haradin was considered to be the greatest and most powerful Mage in the entire West of Tremia. Some said even in the entire continent, although there was no way of verifying this. Haradin though, was much more prudent, believing that in all probability, there had to be someone in some hidden corner of that huge continent more powerful than he was himself. There is always someone more powerful, or a faster conjuror or even both. The Mage who believed otherwise was a fool, and a dead one at that. There was an unanswerable maxim: “No matter how good one might be in any aspect of life, there’s always someone better. To believe otherwise is wrong, and leads to absolute failure.” That was why fear was scratching at his heart with sharp claws. The thing which he had always believed in and trusted, the thing which defined who he was and had never failed him, his Gift of magic, was indeed failing him… At a time of supreme importance, when his mission called him and his beloved Rogdon was caught between the wall and a bloody sword.
He felt anxiety clamping his stomach like an iron claw. His situation was getting ever more desperate. He was at a crossroads, feeling totally defenseless. He was torn between having to continue with his sacred mission and protecting his people, the Rogdonians, who found themselves on the edge of defeat and death. He had to do both simultaneously, and this he felt to be practically impossible. And just then, at that crucial moment, he failed them… He had to do something, react in some way, find a solution to his problem, but what? What could one do when magic did not respond to direct commands?
Haradin swore between his teeth as he walked around the room, his hands at his back, trying to quell his frustration and growing fear. Something was damaged inside him, as well he knew. That fragile symbiosis between mind and Gift, the natural balance in those blessed with magic, had been broken, and he could no longer trust his art. Well, I may not be what I once was, but at least I know something, the bond hasn’t been severed completely. That much I can feel. Thanks be to the ancient gods! I can still conjure spells, unfortunately not always at will or at the necessary speed, but even when things are at their worst I must stay optimistic, because the Gift is still in me and I can still create magic. And when all’s said and done, that’s all that matters.
“All is not lost” he said out loud, to cheer himself up.
He turned to his bedroom in a calmer and more positive state of mind. He had to check something before going to his secret meeting that cold, dark evening. He walked in and closed the door behind him. He went around the big oakfour-poster bed with its silken awnings, closed the heavy curtains and went to the finely-carved wooden chest against the northern wall. He gazed at the cold rocky wall of the tower against which the chest was set, then he looked at the sides of the room and finally at the closed door behind him. He was alone and out of reach of prying eyes, which was as it should be, because he was on the brink of looking upon one of the most deeply-hidden treasures on the face of Tremia.
Don’t fail me now… I need to check a most important detail…
Delving into his inner energy he concentrated, extended his arm, then raised the palm of his hand. “Flame…” he called, and at his will, a steady flame left his hand and struck the solid rock wall. Haradin kept the flame on the wall knowing what was about to happen. There was a crack, followed by the dry grating of stone on stone. The Mage extinguished the flame and noted the opening which was now revealed in the wall. He put his arms in the hole in the wall and very carefully extracted the precious treasure. He placed it on the chest as he had done so many times before, then removed the thick cloth that protected the Ilenian object.
A book of great size and enormous age was revealed. The golden cover seemed to be pure gold, shining in the light of the oil lamp, and all over it were lines of strange symbols and hieroglyphs. It was thick and heavy, as if the pages were made of metal. A golden treasure, which at least as far as size and weight went, would be the dream of any tomb-raider. Nevertheless, the value of that book went far beyond the imagination of any of Tremia’s thieves.
“The Book of the Sun,” murmured Haradin, looking at it, moved anew and incredulous. This was the book which contained a part of the most powerful magic of the Ilenians, as well as part of their knowledge and history. It could unleash the end of Man on Tremia, the destruction of the whole civilized world. But only a part… and as long as the Book of the Sun remained in his hands, Haradin feared nothing. He was its protector, its guardian, and he would never allow the unthinkable to happen. He had taken an oath, and his promise was sacred.
Again he felt a chill down his spine, and shrugged in distaste. He sighed. It was a deep, prolonged sigh. It had taken him years to find the Book of the Sun, and he had nearly lost his life several times in the attempt. But that had only been the beginning of his woes, since the discovery had revealed to him what tormented him day and night, what he could not forget. But it was no longer possible to change it. All those past efforts, all the pain, did not matter anymore: the priceless volume was in his custody, and so it would remain as long as Haradin or the members of the secret society he led were still alive. They would keep it from falling into strange hands. They had promised to protect the Enigma with their lives, even though they might have to shed the last drop of thei
r blood, and they would do that if necessary —their devotion and loyalty were unquestionable.
Haradin opened the book in the middle, smoothing out the gold pages filled with symbols and runes that were incomprehensible to human eyes. Or almost all human eyes… Only a few scholars, and he himself, were capable of deciphering and interpreting fragments of the unintelligible Ilenian language. Haradin had studied that book day and night for years. At first he had been unsuccessful but then, after consulting with other scholars in the matter and with their help he had begun to understand the great puzzle formed by the runes. It was then that something finally happened which would mark his life forever. His mind began to glimpse the meaning of what his eyes saw.
That first, fragmentary understanding of the Ilenian scripture brought about a mysterious process which filled him with wonder. His magic, his inner energy and the book began to act jointly. Without knowing how, as if the book was using his own inner energy and magic to transmit the contents of those pages to his mind, the hieroglyphs began to reveal their meaning at last. And it was that strange unheard-of link that allowed him to understand what was coming, what he was now so afraid of. Haradin turned the pages carefully until he reached the point he was looking for. With his forefinger he followed the symbols and read in his mind the meaning of each hieroglyph, of each Ilenian rune.
And he found what he feared.
Three thousand years… my fear was well-founded; the fateful moment is near.
A few hours later, Haradin left his bedroom and went down to the basement of the Western Tower. An oil lamp on an old table lit the gloomy circular room. This was dug out from the very bowels of the earth, and it held the weight of the whole tower adjoining the Royal Palace of Rilentor. A winding stair on one side of the wall led from the basement to the first floor of the tower. The door to the basement was firmly locked from inside. No one, under any circumstances, could enter. The meeting had to take place in utter secrecy. Haradin had made sure of this, although perhaps it had been unnecessary given that nobody would ever dare enter his tower without first asking for an audience. Only a fool would venture to disturb a Mage in his most personal domain: his tower. And of course the King’s Guard watched it at all times, so that a dozen guards were always stationed at the entrance to ensure Haradin’s safety. There was a war on and King Solin did not want to take any risks concerning the Mage’s personal safety.
Three muffled, short, dry raps, followed by two others, longer and more widely-spaced ones, caught the Mage’s attention. He turned immediately, recognizing the agreed call. It came from underground, below his feet. He took a step back and stared at the heavy, rectangular slabs of solid rock which formed the floor.
“Don’t fail me now. I need to let them in.”
He concentrated and summoned his Gift, his inner power. He began to utter a spell. The magical energy began to flow and Haradin smiled. The spell was beginning to take shape. His mind ruled the magic, the symbiosis seemed to hold. But the spell failed. He could not finish it.
Haradin swore furiously and waved his arms, trying to calm the fury he felt at this new setback. His problem did not seem to be growing less with time ̶ the healing process was not progressing, and this worried him. Frustration and fear were beginning to build up
The secret call came again. He had to open the way for them, but without magic it was impossible to move those slabs. He concentrated again, seeking to empty himself, avoiding any thought but that of absolute nothingness. His mind found balance, a state of almost perfect harmony. Haradin inhaled and exhaled very slowly, then began to utter the spell once more. He used a Spell of Air to invoke a strong gust of wind over one of the slabs, and this started to rise from the floor where it had been fitted. Guiding the gust of wind to one side, he laid the slab on the floor. Where there had been a solid stone floor there was now a square opening.
A cowl appeared through the hole, and from its folds a pair of clear eyes looked at Haradin with uncertainty and reserve.
“Come on in, Brother. All is well,” said Haradin, opening his arms to welcome the guest.
The man greeted Haradin with a nod, climbed through nimbly and stood in front of the Mage. Four other men followed the first. They were all dressed in dark blue, almost black, hooded cloaks.
“Allow me to see your faces,” Haradin said as he looked at the five men standing in line in front of him.
They all pulled their cowls back for the Mage. Their faces were those of brave, weathered men, somewhat pale, and their eyes shone with unfailing determination. Under the cloak they all wore robes of indigo blue and riding boots. At their waists they wore a wide belt of the same color, and they each carried two short swords.
“Truly, I am very happy to see my Brothers again,” said Haradin.
They all bowed their heads in acknowledgement and greeting.
“It has been too long. Duty calls once more, my Brothers,” said Haradin. He looked at the five, one by one. “You have answered promptly, although I expected no less. Your devotion and loyalty have always been true.”
“We hurried to the call of the Master,” said the tallest of the five.
Haradin looked into his eyes and smiled. He knew that this man would give his life without blinking to defend the sacred duty he had taken a blood-oath to carry out, an oath which bound them for life, as well as their children and their children’s children.
“Who are we?” Haradin asked in a solemn voice.
“The Keepers of the Enigma,” they all answered at once, looking straight ahead.
“What do we protect?”
“The Ilenian Enigma.”
“Since when?”
“Since the time of the first men. Generation after generation. From father to son, until the end of time.”
Haradin bowed in approval.
“Show me the badges.”
The five opened their cloaks proudly to reveal the badges embroidered at heart level. They formed an intricate Ilenian symbol: the Ilenian rune of the Warden.
“Brothers, Keepers of the Enigma, the time is near. What we fear is close. All the omens tell us so. The terrible end approaches. That is the reason why we must fight without rest, without losing courage, pouring our souls into the goal, or else evil will drown us and we shall all perish forever. All Tremia will perish.”
“We will, Master,” they replied. There was no trace of doubt or fear in their voices.
“I have been absent for a long time, and many vital events have taken place without my being able to intervene. I should never have profaned the Temple of Earth… I was able to discover its location at last after many countless efforts… The temptation to get hold of one of the Ilenian medallions was too great for my tormented soul, and I could not help myself. It was a stupid mistake, and I nearly paid for it with my life. I fell into the Guardian’s trap and remained a prisoner. Even now I am still paying the effects of that treacherous trap, and my powers fail me without my being able to find a remedy.”
“We feared the worst, Master… but you had insisted that we did not intervene,” said the keeper in the middle of the line.
“True. You did the right thing, otherwise you would have died and there would be no one to protect the Enigma. Now I must ask you about the Chosen.”
“We have watched from the shadows, in secrecy, without ever being seen, without meddling in their crucial destinies,” the five recited together.
Haradin looked straight ahead and asked: “What is there to say about the Chosen Komir?”
The man in the middle stepped forward: “His destiny is beginning to manifest, Master. He is in possession of the Medallion of Ether, the one which will rule them all.”
“Is that true? Have they found the Temple of Ether?”
“Yes, Master. They broke into the Temple of Ether, overcame the Ilenian Guard and got hold of the medallion.”
“Where… where is it located?” Haradin’s voice was fraught with anxiety.
“Under the Egia
Lighthouse on the cliffs, North of Ocorum, Master.”
“The Egia Lighthouse…” mused the Mage. He turned away from his disciples while he pondered about the discovery.
“One of the destroyed monoliths stood there… Yes, I believe so… I must study it, if…” Still pondering, turned to face the five.
“Where is Komir now?”
“We left them on the way to Nocean territory, near the mouth of the Nerfir River.”
“We left them?” said Haradin with surprise, looking at the other Keepers.
“Two other Chosen are with him, Master.”
“But… how is that possible?” He said, looking from one to the other of the five.
“That we do not know, Master. But three already walk together the same path.”
“Unheard of!” cried Haradin. “This can only mean that matters are coming to a head.”
“Yet only two carry a medallion, Master.”
“Komir and Aliana, am I right?”
“Yes, Master, you are.”
“I understand they are the carriers of the medallions of Ether and Earth. What about the third Chosen?”
“The third is not aware of being a Chosen.”
“All right. That will change in due course, I’m afraid…” said Haradin, thoughtfully.
“They are heading towards Nocean territory. The medallions are guiding them.”
“Fascinating. What about the other two Chosen?”
The warden of the far left stepped forward: “The young Masig is under her tribe’s protection. She has the medallion of Water with her, yet she is unaware of her destiny, Master.”
“I see… The medallion of Water has been discovered… unbelievable… Where is the Temple of Water?”
“In the Fountain of Life, at its summit, in the heart of Masig territory.”
“Fascinating, I would never have guessed,” said Haradin. “Several generations of Keepers have been searching unsuccessfully for the Sacred Temples. And now, in a short time, the Chosen have found one after another. Destiny or fate cannot be beaten at its own game, no matter how hard we try. The Chosen are meant to find the location of the ancient Ilenian Temples, unfortunately we are not. No matter how many years of tireless study we have spent in order to find them. Since the moment my path crossed that of Gelmos, Grand Master of the Keepers and my predecessor, and the truth was revealed to me, all those years ago, I have tried in vain to find the Temples, since the medallions are the key to the Enigma. Wise Gelmos warned me that it would be useless to fight against Ilenian magic, too powerful to be stopped by mere mortals. But it is our duty as Keepers. How I miss Gelmos! His wise advice… all the knowledge he accumulated during all those years of vigilance and understanding.”