The Alchemist: Dawn of Destiny

by L. A. Wasielewski

  Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he inhaled the aroma of his room one last time: a mix of fireplace and the incense he burned at night to rid himself of the scent of some of the more unfavorable-smelling ingredients. Snapping his eyes open, he slapped his thighs with determination—a determination to make a new place for himself.

  Shuffling outside his door caught his attention once more, although the noise was different from that of his father loading crates. No—this sound was bigger, heavier…

  “Ryris! There’s something you need to see outside! It’s important!”

  The young alchemist recognized that voice. Seconds later, Grildi Amzod barreled into his bedroom and, before he could react, had grabbed him from his bed and tossed him over his shoulder. Ryris screamed, banging his fists on his friend’s back.

  “You had better not do what I think you’re thinking of doing, Grildi! I mean it!” A fleeting image flashed before his eyes, one that involved his giant friend plopping him in the icy Whispering River for old time’s sake. “If you so much as get within ten feet of that river, I’m not sending you a present from Keld!”

  Grildi just laughed as he made his way out into the store, nearly knocking Ryris’ feet into a display stacked with fragile potion bottles. Striding through the open door, the large man toted his cargo across the bridge spanning the river and straight into the town square—where the entire village was waiting.

  Cheers immediately erupted from the crowd as Grildi eased Ryris off of his shoulder. Two of the town’s strongest lumberjacks each held a wooden stake, with a banner stretched between them.

  —Safe Journey, Ryris!—

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. The townsfolk had come out—all of them—and for him. He was absolutely stunned. For his entire life, he had been the ‘weird’ one, the odd man out. Not that he minded, he enjoyed spending time in the shop mixing potions and cataloging ingredients. But he always got the distinct impression that the villagers, especially the ones closest to him in age—couldn’t have cared less about him. They were always polite and never mean, but it was clear they all had other things to do than to try and make friends with the strange alchemist with potion-stained fingers.

  And now, here they were—celebrating him.

  Grildi pushed him toward the crowd, the villagers immediately surrounding him. Some patted him on the back; others grabbed his hands to shake them. Everyone smiled broadly, children gathered at his feet and tugged at his shirt. They guided him toward a group of barrels that had been covered by a red cloth, a small layout of local foods spread across the tops.

  “We thought you’d like one more taste of home.” An older woman, the baker’s wife, motioned toward the treats. “And I’ve packed some up for you to take with—although I’ll wager they won’t make it to the capital.” She winked.

  Ryris took in the sight of all the food laid out for him. Fresh pellick fruit, sausage and cheese, a berry pie, and several cakes enticed not only the young alchemist, but the villagers as well. As he approached, he could smell the deep chocolate aroma of one of the tortes. The baker’s wife moved ahead of him and cut into the pastry, offering him the first piece.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  The mayor smiled broadly. “We couldn’t be prouder, young man. You’ll do right by your family name and everyone in Keld will take notice of your talent. Just don’t forget about Blackthorne when you’re a big-time noble in the capital!” He clapped Ryris roughly on the back.

  A craftsman pushed his way through the villagers, holding a wrapped parcel in his hands. Ryris accepted the package, tearing off the tissue-thin paper. As it fluttered to the ground, he exposed a hand-carved tandlewood sign.

  Bren’s Alchemy ~~~ Ryris Bren—Proprietor

  “The mayor commissioned me to make this for you. We all want you to know how proud we are—and hopefully this will be a small reminder of home.”

  Ryris ran his fingers over the inscription. He would proudly display this sign in the window of the new shop, and it most definitely would be a wonderful reminder of Blackthorne. He was determined not to be sad when he looked at it—it was going to serve as an object of inspiration to make his village proud of what he would accomplish.

  “I’ll make sure this stays front and center in the window.” Ryris smiled out at the crowd. Pulling his watch out of his pocket, he realized that if he didn’t leave soon, he wouldn’t make it to Lullin before dark. The small town was the first stop on what would be a three-week journey across the countryside.

  Ryris didn’t notice his father duck out of the celebration moments before, and only realized the man had been gone when he appeared from around the back of the shop with his wagon. All the crates were neatly stacked and covered with a canvas tarp, a lantern hanging from the side to light his way at night. The old worn seat had been padded for the trip, and Ryris was immediately thankful he wouldn’t have to subject his posterior to the horrors of the wooden bench for weeks on end.

  As the wagon’s wheels clattered on the cobblestones of the village square, the townsfolk began to crowd around Ryris once more, pushing him toward the vehicle. They cheered and laughed, yelling congratulatory and inspiring words. The baker’s wife tucked a package underneath the covering on the wagon with a smile.

  “Wait! My backpack!” The young alchemist tried to push his way back though the throngs of villagers, desperately trying to move toward his house, but their collective strength was just too great and he didn’t stand a chance in getting through. Grildi, seeing Ryris’ obvious distress, pushed through the people and lumbered into the Brens shop, emerging moments later with not only the knapsack, but something small cradled in his massive arms as well. He barreled through the crowd, the townspeople all too happy to get out of his way.

  “Here you go, Boss.” He tossed the knapsack at Ryris. “I rescued it.”

  Ryris nodded his thanks, then pointed to the small cloth bear in his friend’s arms. “Where’d you get that?”

  Grildi looked down at the old toy in his hands, a sheepish smile crossing his lips. “It was on the shelf in your room. Don’t you want to take him with you?”

  “Why don’t you keep him safe for me?” Ryris moved forward and patted him on the arm.

  “You mean it?” Grildi hugged the bear tightly, a massive grin spreading across his face. “I promise I will!”

  Ryris wrapped his arms around the large man’s torso in one final embrace. “Thank you, Grildi. And not just for taking care of my bear—for being a good friend too.”

  “Aye.” Tears sparkled in Grildi’s eyes. “Aye...”

  Ryris felt a hand on his back, and turned to face his father. Maxx held out his palm for him to shake, which Ryris gladly accepted. “Do right by our name. I don’t want to have to hunt you down to get my investment back.”

  The villagers laughed as Ryris and his father shared a quick hug. He knew Maxx wasn’t a big fan of public displays of any affection, and was pleasantly surprised by the sentiment. As soon as it had started, it was over, with Maxx pulling back awkwardly and straightening his waistcoat. In one quick movement, his eyes went to the amulet around his son’s neck, and a wizened expression crossed his face as he made eye contact once more. Ryris knew what he meant without his father having to say a word.

  “Don’t you dare use that magic.”

  Ryris climbed up onto the wagon, setting his backpack on the seat next to him. Taking one last look out at the residents of the village he now formerly called home, he waved with a swooping gesture and hiked the reins attached to Ass of the East. The cart began to move as the horse’s hooves clicked against the paving stones. He took a deep breath of the chill morning air, realizing that by the time he made it to Keld, on the central western coast, snow would more than likely cover the roofs of his village. Autumn in Blackthorne, unlike most other locations in the Vrelin Empire, meant early snow—and lots of it.

  He looked back over his shoulder one last time before training his attention
forward, shielding his eyes from the bright morning sunlight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On shimmering shores,

  Beautiful star, Dungannon.

  Gem of the empire.

  --Haiku by Balthor Yent, poet.

  A blinding flash of red illuminated the black chamber.

  The craggy, dulled, obsidian rock absorbed the ominous light, leaving nothing to reflect back into the center of the room. There were no windows, and the walls rose high into the vaulted ceiling arching above.

  As quickly as the flash had blazed, it was gone, leaving a fine mist hovering in the air—surrounding a kneeling figure. The man hissed a long breath as he stood and straightened his posture. His boots clicked across the stone floor as he strode toward the center of the chamber, complete darkness surrounding him.

  He circled a pedestal, his slender fingers ghosting over the smooth surface of the font. It was waist-high, the bowl nestled inside appearing to be bottomless. Tracing the runes emblazoning it, he waited silently in the intense heat of the room.

  The man waited patiently, knowing his master would soon contact him. The feeling of power his orders gave him, the sense of pride as he completed each and every task his master bestowed upon him, was something he always treasured. He knew it took time for his master to seek out his information, and even longer for him to be sure they were progressing along the correct path. They had to be absolutely certain in their efforts before proceeding beyond the point of no return.

  The temperature in the room suddenly dropped, the man’s breath fogging on the air currents as it exited his lips. He welcomed the change, as the oppressive heat was becoming uncomfortable. His mouth curled into a sinister smile as he waited. A blue flame erupted from the nothingness before him. The flickering flames in the font reflected in the black void of the figure’s lifeless eyes.

  Leaning to peer into the fire, he inhaled deeply, the scorched air tickling his nostrils. He loved that smell—that smell meant power. The man licked his lips in anticipation and waited for his master to speak.

  “…another has been found…”

  He smirked in the darkness, his face and torso illuminated by the azure flames. It had been ages since a target had been found for him. He excitedly tapped his fingers against the side of the font as he awaited his orders.

  “Where?”

  “…Dungannon…”

  The voice of his master floated through the chamber, echoes of the ghostly whisper lingering long after the words stopped. The image of a middle-aged man appeared within the flames, the devotee immediately committing it to memory. He studied the age lines on the man’s face, his bushy beard, mustache, and receding hairline. The intended mark stood with a slight stoop, from years of toiling on fishing docks. While still muscular from loading crates of fish day in and day out, his age was evident in his haggard expression. The mysterious man knew he would be an easy target.

  “…leave no trace…”

  “It will be done.” His voice was cold and determined.

  “…excellent…you have grown into a fine disciple…”

  The blue flame slipped from existence and the heat returned, leaving him alone in the chamber. He backed away from the now dark font and dropped to one knee.

  In a flash, he was gone.

  ~~~

  “You sure you don’t want me to walk with you, Felix? It’s awful late.”

  The burly man scoffed and downed the rest of his ale. “What are you, my mother?”

  His friend made an obscene gesture before breaking into a wide-toothed grin. “Get out of here, you drunk!”

  Laughter erupted from the pub patrons, some thumping their fists on the bar in delight. The fireplace in the corner popped and crackled as the logs within shifted. The malty aroma of beer lingered in the noses of every customer. The bartender worked slowly. He didn’t care if he served his patrons in a timely manner, and neither did they. The Barnacle’s Breath was a place where people could come to get a frosty mug of ale, a hearty bowl of stew, and good conversation. Years of dirt and debris tracked in on the boot soles of the patrons accumulated in all the corners and under every barstool. Comfortably crowded and always open, the pub was like a second home to many of the hard-working common folk of Dungannon. This was by no means a fancy establishment, and not meant to be graced by silken shoes.

  Wiping beer foam from his bushy mustache, Felix Hayeward tossed a few coins on the bar and plopped his hat onto his balding head. He clapped his friend on the back as he moved past, waved to his drinking buddies, and set out into the warm night.

  Dungannon was a fishing hub on Lake Browal, the largest inland body of water in the Vrelin Empire. The large town thrived on its seafood industry, exporting its haul to the far reaches of the land. The residents also prospered from the throngs of tourists that came year-round to enjoy the fair southern weather. Resorts lined the shores, where the nobility hob-nobbed, and had no qualms about spending money in the countless specialty shops lining the quaint streets. This end of town, however, was rarely frequented by the rich visitors—and the townsfolk were just fine with that.

  A thin layer of fog rolled in off the lake as the coolness of the evening took hold of the town. Felix’ modest house was on the outskirts of the city center, where most of the dockworkers resided. He lived alone, never finding a wife. His home was simple and comfortable, just big enough for his possessions and his shaggy mutt of a dog, Reginald.

  Deciding to take the long way home to walk off his buzz, Felix headed out the far gate. A circle trail surrounded the town, and if he stayed on it long enough, he would eventually wind up right at his back door. He knew if he didn’t clear his head before retiring for the night, his hangover would impede his work the next morning.

  Taking a deep breath of the night air, his feet crunched on the gravel path leading into the forests surrounding Dungannon. The evening was quiet, save for the distant gentle lapping of waves on Lake Browal. Humming softly to himself, Felix continued on his way, plucking a few sweet leaves from a sapling to add to his morning tea.

  A cold breeze picked up for a split second, causing the fisherman to wrap his loose coat tightly around his body. He thought it odd that such a frosty wind would be present on an early autumn night, when winter’s cold kiss rarely touched his town to begin with. Somewhat unsettled, he picked up his pace, suddenly very much in a hurry to get home. A twig snapped somewhere off in the thicket, and Felix whirled around, squinting to see better in the darkness. A sense of foreboding fell over him, the feeling of being watched growing with every passing moment.

  “Wh-who’s there?”

  The forest answered with the flap of bird’s wings. “You’re being paranoid,” he thought to himself. “There’s nothing but skellins and deer.” As if on cue, a tiny skellin, no bigger than his hand, scurried out from the underbrush. Stopping directly before him on the path, it sat up on its hind legs, grey fur rustling in the breeze. It hissed sharply before darting off into the forest once again, obviously not feeling threatened by Felix’ intrusion onto her home turf.

  He began walking again, keeping his brisk pace. Though he knew there was nothing to be frightened of, he still resolved to get home as quick as he could. To sleep longer, he told himself—not because he was spooked. Striding quickly, he came upon a fallen tree. Grumbling, he scowled and began to climb over it. In his inebriated state, it made more sense to clamber over awkwardly than simply go around. As he pulled himself up, he stood and steadied his body, puffing out his chest with pride at his accomplishment. Movement far down the path behind him caught his attention. He swore he saw a dark figure slip into the lines of trees. Once again, a cold chill came over him, and he called out to the specter.

  “Look, I’m bigger and stronger than you…so don’t try nothin’!”

  The forest stayed silent.

  “Idiot,” Felix mused. “You’re acting like a child. Scared of the dark…you need to quit drinking.”

  He jumped down ont
o the trail and continued walking. As he moved, he became more and more aware of the fog filling in from within the forest. Unnerved, he began to jog, determined to get home in one piece. “So much for the long route,” he thought.

  Rustling in the forest beside him caught his attention once more, and this time, he was having none of it. His gut told him that someone—or something—was after him. He bolted down the trail as fast as his drunken feet could take him. He stumbled once, nearly falling flat on his face. Realizing that whatever was chasing him was going to catch up sooner or later, he made the decision to leave the road. He darted off into the woods, ducking into some thick underbrush to watch and wait.

  Sitting quietly for a long moment, he held his breath—something hard to do while drunk and tired from running. Paranoia consumed him, every noise from high above in the canopy or deep within the foliage causing him to jump. Still crouching, he turned to look further into the forest—and spotted an abandoned shack in the distance. On his hands and knees like a baby, Felix crawled toward the cabin, trying to make as little noise as possible. By the time he reached it, his palms were cut and bleeding from the thorny vines that littered ground.

  After he slithered onto the porch, he sat in the shadows for a moment, listening. He thought back to the pub, trying to recall everything he had consumed earlier in the evening. Even though he had a strong buzz going, he wasn’t anywhere near as drunk as he had been in the past. Almost convincing himself he was acting a fool, he suddenly noticed the fog had crept in closer from the trail. He scanned the surrounding forest one last time, trying to find some validation for his fears. Glowing red eyes, perhaps? Winged creatures perched in the trees? His mates playing a trick on him? But, when the underbrush in the distance rustled yet again, his decision was made—he was being hunted.

  Quiet as a skellin, he moved on his haunches toward the door and tried the knob. Thankfully, it was unlocked. Pushing it open just enough to slip through, he took one last quick look behind him, hoping against hope that whatever was out there had not seen him enter. He quietly closed the door, locking it tightly. The shack was one room, a small kitchenette in the far corner in obvious dusty disuse. An old wooden chest was nestled in the other corner, a large hole in the panels at the bottom. A rickety table and chairs sat against a side wall, covered in cobwebs. Opposite the table, a single bed, devoid of any linens.