The Alchemist: Dawn of Destiny

by L. A. Wasielewski

  “All hail Roann the Devoted!” The crowd parroted the cleric’s words back to him, as they erupted in thunderous applause. Trumpeters blared in symphony, ushering in a new history for the people of the empire.

  Standing there, the exuberance of the crowd and the harmony of the bugles rattling through his bones, Roann was suddenly overcome with emotion. He would make sure his name would be remembered throughout the annals of history. Stepping forward, he raised his hands to quiet the cheers of his people. They instantly obeyed, a reverent hush falling over the crowd as they waited in anticipation. He hadn’t prepared a speech, deciding the night before to speak from his heart as the words came to him.

  “Citizens of Keld…people of the realm! Last night my father took his final breath. While we mourn his loss, we must not forget to look ahead to the future. Today I stand before you as your emperor and give you my undying word that the Vrelin Empire will grow even stronger!”

  At the back of the crowd, legendary Zaiterran weaponmaster Isum Dran leaned against the side of a tavern, watching the new emperor address his subjects. He studied the young man’s body language, unable to clearly hear what he was saying.

  The surrounding crowd stood on tip-toes and held their hands to their ears in an attempt to see and hear better. An elderly man pressed a horn into his ear and turned it toward the palace. A young woman tapped him on the shoulder and asked for a recap.

  “He says we need to grow stronger!”

  The young lady scowled. “Huh? We’re not strong enough already?”

  “Shush! I can’t hear!” The old man turned his horn to the speaking emperor once more. He chewed on his lower lip as he concentrated on Roann’s words.

  Arms crossed over his chest, Dran kept his eyes trained on the young emperor. His confidence was stellar, his smile broad. He had the air of a man with no care for anyone but himself, even if the people couldn’t discern it. But to Dran, it was obvious that Roann had changed. He stroked his thin braided beard, fingers lingering on the single bead knotted at the bottom.

  “Now he says ‘we need to regain the respect of the world’. What the devil is he talking about?” The old man furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear him right.” The young woman grabbed his hearing horn and re-adjusted it in his ear.

  “I know what I heard!” He swatted her hand away.

  “What does he mean by that?” Another person in the crowed chimed in.

  A blacksmith offered his opinion. “I don’t care what he means... just so long as my taxes don’t go up.”

  The crowd around them grumbled in agreement.

  “He’s going to lead us all to prosperity, you’ll see!” An old woman beamed and thrust her fist into the air in Roann’s direction.

  Isum Dran pushed himself off of the wall with a sigh, having seen and heard enough. He let his gaze linger on the new emperor for a few seconds before turning his back and walking away. Roann’s words still carried across the square.

  “…We do not know what the future holds, but I ask you to embark on this journey with me—to our collective destiny!”

  The crowd exploded with excitement, waving banners in honor of their new emperor. People jumped up and down, hoisted children onto their shoulders to gain a better view. A woman near the front of the group blew her emperor a kiss.

  Roann held out a hand to his mother, who accepted the gesture with a warm smile. Together, they looked out at the people.

  Roann the Devoted had been born again.

  The chill spectral wind tickled his neck once more.

  ~~~

  The sound of metal clanking together echoed down the hallway.

  The hour was late, close to midnight. Hidden near the palace’s unused dungeon, a cavernous, circular room sat with its door cracked slightly for ventilation. Light flickered from within, the wall sconces blazing brightly. The aroma of sweat lingered in the air.

  Two men lunged at each other, wielding blades of incomparable quality. The older of the two swung a mighty longsword, his movements fluid and grand. Moving precisely and with purpose, he carefully danced with his opponent, trying to outsmart him. The younger man taunted his foe, flicking twin katanas in front of his body. Every so often he would use one of the blades to beckon his opponent, tempting him to make his next attack. Their swords clashed time and time again, both men showing no signs of fatigue.

  “Is that all you’ve got, old man?”

  The weaponmaster wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand before charging at the new emperor with a hearty battle cry. Their blades struck together with incredible force, the young man catching his opponent’s sword-edge in-between his dual blades. He flung his arms wide with a boastful laugh, releasing his hold on the sword with a mighty grunt. The weaponmaster was hurtled backwards from the force, his blade knocked from his hand. It clattered to the ground a few feet away from them.

  Both eyeing the discarded longsword, the men made a move for it, pushing each other out of the way to claim the prize. Bodies slammed together, long golden hair came loose from its tie. The older man managed to bash his shoulder into the younger man’s flank, giving himself a moments’ advantage. It was all the time he needed, and he grabbed the sword with ease. A polished metal ring, with a small inlaid crystal, glinted on his finger.

  “You might be younger than me …but I’m smarter!” Isum Dran lunged at Roann.

  The emperor parried his mentor’s thrusting blade, narrowly missing the sharpened tip. Blowing an errant strand of hair from his face, Roann wrung his fingers tightly around his weapons’ hilts and made his own move. Whipping his twin blades around in a furious whirlwind, he steadily forced his way forward, backing his opponent against the wall.

  “Smarter? If you’re so smart, why did you allow yourself to be cornered?” Roann swung feverishly at the older man, his fervor consuming him. He felt alive, empowered. There were few things he enjoyed more in life than training with Isum. Artol had requested his talents when Roann was a child, and the two had been together ever since. Isum treated the young prince-now-emperor as if he was his very own son—which included swift punishments for not progressing in a manner he deemed acceptable. Roann had endured whacks on the back with fake wooden swords when he didn’t listen as a young boy, countless hours of training that left him bruised and bloodied. But in the end, Isum had crafted a formidable warrior in the young man, and his pride showed.

  “I let you corner me, you smug bastard!” Isum pushed forward, his blade clashing with Roann’s. “The old tactic dictates that you lull your enemy into a false sense of security before delivering a striking blow!”

  “Bastard? That’s no way to talk to the emperor!” Roann smirked, enjoying banter that, had it come out of the mouth of any other person, would have ended with imprisonment. “I’ll have you beheaded!”

  Isum snorted, before bellowing out a great laugh. “You’d have to catch me first!” The older man darted around his student, catching Roann off guard. Like lightning, the master had grabbed Roann’s wrist and applied a painful pressure pinch on the nerves, causing the young emperor to drop one of his swords. Isum kicked the discarded katana out of the way to prevent his captive from re-arming himself.

  Unwilling to admit defeat, Roann roared as he locked his knees to give himself more leverage. Bending his entire body, and using Isum’s mighty grip on his arm to his advantage, the emperor flung his teacher over his back, slamming him to the floor. Isum grunted as the wind was knocked from his lungs, wincing as his body made contact with the stone tiles. Roann hovered over him, the point of his sword barely touching the soft skin of his throat.

  “I win!” The young man was panting, sweat rolling down his bare back. Strands of hair stuck to his flushed cheeks. But, the look in Isum’s eyes told him the older man was nowhere near finished with him.

  “Just because you’ve pinned me doesn’t mean you’re victorious!” Isum swung his leg up and around, a daring move consider
ing he had a blade at his neck. One wrong move and it would have pierced his throat. He hooked his foot around and tugged at the back of Roann’s knee, knocking him to the ground. His sword went clattering to the floor, his hand releasing its grip on the hilt as his body smashed down. Isum laughed heartily as he rolled away.

  Roann saw stars as the back of his skull connected with the floor and, for a moment, he thought he might black out. As he recovered from the haze, he decided that this battle would not end in such a manner. There was no way he was going to let Isum brag about besting him like this. Shaking the fog from his head, he struggled to get up. His wits returning, Roann was able to grab one of his swords before his partner could. He lunged at Isum once more, the older man barely having enough time to arm himself.

  The new emperor swung at him ferociously, even as fatigue ate away at his muscles. He felt as if he was faltering, but would not give up. The adrenaline of the day wouldn’t allow it. Time and time again, Roann crashed his blade against that of his master, the song of the metal echoing off the stone walls. Isum, equally tired, tried to keep up. Both men dueled as if their lives depended on victory. Roann could feel the blood pumping through his veins, hear his heart thundering in his ears.

  He would not lose.

  Isum’s strikes were precise and vicious, even in his exhaustion. With every blow rained down upon him, Roann’s bones screamed for reprieve, his body begging him to surrender. He was slipping. They danced in a grand circle around the middle of the oval-shaped room, relentlessly deluging one another with hammering blows. It was only a matter of time before one of them gave up. Roann, feeling his grip loosen on his remaining blade, forced himself to outlast his teacher. It was times like this, when he was at his weakest point, that Isum had taught him to dip into energy reserves and make sure he wasn’t taken down. Roann, however, wasn’t sure his reserves even existed this evening. And, as if on cue, his moment of weakness finally came. His concentration faltered for a split second, allowing his opponent to strike.

  Isum’s blade nicked Roann’s forearm, blood instantly trickling from the wound. Darkness suddenly cascaded over the emperor as the crimson liquid splattered on the floor, a seething fury bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. Like a rabid animal, Roann dropped his weapon and lunged for his trainer, grabbing him by the throat. Isum, in a surprised state, let go of his longsword as his student used the weight of his body to slam him against the wall. Roann held him there like a man possessed, his grip tightening with every ragged breath he took. The older man clawed at his hands as his face began to turn red.

  Roann no longer inhabited his own body. Bristling rage took over and he continued to squeeze, watching Isum’s eyes bulge. His expression hardened into a malicious smirk as the old man struggled to breathe.

  “L-let go!” Isum slammed his closed fists against Roann’s flanks, trying to get him to respond. Never in his life had he witnessed him act in such a way. His instinct to counterattack kicked in, and he reached down to his waistband. He grabbed the hilt of a small, concealed dagger, and had to make a split-second decision—defend himself with deadly force or just teach Roann a lesson. His thoughts were starting to fade as his oxygen supply was cut off.

  Narrowing his eyes, Roann crushed his fingers tighter around Isum’s throat.

  Dran knew he had to react. He drew the dirk and flicked it against Roann’s bare skin, slicing a short gash into the young emperor’s flank. Roann immediately let go and recoiled away, bringing a hand across his abdomen to cradle the new wound.

  The old man scrambled away and brought his hand up to massage the angry flesh of his throat. “You’re a crazy son-of-a-bitch, you know that? You could have killed me!” He spluttered and coughed, trying to catch his breath. “And just because I marked you? You had fire in your eyes, boy!”

  Roann looked down at his bleeding arm and abdomen, finally feeling the sting of the wounds as his adrenaline wore off. As—the power wore off. Nausea flowed over him and he sank down onto his rear end with a huff before hanging his head between his knees.

  Dran moved to his side and sat down, his dagger still clutched in his hand, ready to strike back again if need be. “I’m chalking that asinine fighting tactic up to your grief-stricken state.” The old man slapped him on the shoulder, leaving a reddened handprint on Roann’s sweaty skin. “But if you think I’m going to let you get away with that garbage in the future, you’re sorely mistaken. Never again.”

  Roann lifted his head as the old man rose next to him. Isum extended a hand, which he accepted. Heaving himself up off the ground, he looked his mentor in the eyes as he steadied himself. “Never again.”

  “Good. I think it’s best if you take a break from training for a while. Give yourself some time. The arena will be here when you’re ready.”

  Roann just nodded. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but he knew the old man had a point. A distracted warrior makes mistakes. He was fairly certain Isum didn’t want to be strangled again.

  Dran leaned over to scrutinize Roann’s abdominal gash, reaching out to lightly touch the bleeding wound. “You’re lucky I didn’t have it in my mind to kill you where you stood. It’s not deep, just bandage it for a day or two. Get some rest. If you leave your blades, I’ll give them a sharpen in the morning.” Isum left the arena without another word.

  Roann moved to retrieve his precious twin katanas from the floor, and placed them on Isum’s worktable for service the next day. He ran his hand over the leather-wrapped hilt of one before drawing his thumb up and over the blade. Careful not to cut himself, he allowed his fingertips to linger over the shining metal for a moment before backing away. The young man grabbed a roll of gauze bandages from Isum’s aid kit and wrapped his abdomen. He relished in the pain radiating from the tortured flesh as he pulled the gauze tight. As he slipped into his shirt, blood from his wounded arm immediately seeped through the thin fabric.

  He buttoned up, and found himself missing the surge of power that had enveloped him. He was no stranger to the feeling, having been experiencing it since he was a child. It gave him confidence, strength, and determination.

  Roann sighed deeply and blew out the oil lamps encircling the room. Standing in complete darkness, he waited. He knew it was just a matter of time. A few moments passed, the aroma of smoldering wicks lingering in the air.

  Finally, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his skin prickled with goose bumps. He smiled in the pitch-black, welcoming the familiar feeling he craved. Inhaling deeply, the temperature of the room dropped as he filled his lungs with the chilled air. Once again, the thing he needed most had come.

  Outside, fog enveloped the palace.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Aegis Mold: Thick blue- green mold that grows on cave walls high in the Screaming Peaks. Used in potions providing a temporary boost in defense, hence the name “aegis.” Also known as ‘slime mold.’

  --Excerpt from ‘An Alchemist’s Primer’, Sholden Witt, Professor of Alchemy, Whitehaven University

  Ryris shifted uncomfortably on the wagon seat.

  Ass of the East shuffled along, munching on a mouthful of hay. He had only been traveling for four days, and already cursed the route. The road—if you could even call it that—was bumpy and full of ruts, the wagon wheels bouncing violently over every pothole. At least the scenery was nice, he thought, as he rubbed his battered rear end.

  The trail heading north out of the Crossroads Market wasn’t considered a main thoroughfare, and therefore was relatively un-crowded. The trading hub had been his final stop—and chance to stock up on supplies—before he entered wilder country. As the Screaming Peaks loomed on the far horizon, he was reminded that his destination was a far cry from the city.

  After restocking and enjoying a quick lunch at a meat pie stall—not as good as Keld, of course—Ryris meandered his wagon back onto the Snow Road, headed for Hewe. He had another two days in ever-increasing wilderness before he reached the village at the foot of the mountain.<
br />
  The road was surrounded by old growth trees, towering a hundred feet or more in the air. A few lingering leaves of orange and red still clung tightly to the branches, but for the most part the canopy was barren. The fallen foliage took on a musky, wet smell on the forest floor. Birds called to their mates as they insulated their nests, small mammals stuffed their mouths full of acorns and berries to prepare for the approaching winter famine. He enjoyed the peacefulness of the trail.

  Ryris adjusted his knit scarf, a parting gift from one of the doddering ladies in the neighborhood. He had assured her the weather was going to be just fine, not too cold, but she insisted he take it with. The memory made him smile, knowing the old woman was now looking after his shop. It wasn’t that he thought she would slack in her duties, but now that he was a business owner, he was fiercely protective over his brand and property. The jeweler down the street even agreed to stock some potions in case the young alchemist’s customers needed a quick fix. Ryris didn’t anticipate being gone any longer than three weeks, and had left a sign in the window telling his patrons where to find his goods in his absence.

  The Screaming Peaks loomed in the distance, his destination just at the bottom of the slopes. The towering pinnacles looked foreboding, their dark stone faces covered with snow almost to the ground. Trees dotted the sides, jagged, rocky precipices seemingly hanging on the sky itself. He had visited the area several times with Maxx, but had always approached from the east, giving him a very different view from what he was currently witnessing. Now, making his way from the south, he was awestruck at the height of the peaks. They soared into the sky, tickling the clouds that floated past.

  The ingredient he was after—aegis mold—resided on the walls of dank mountain caves. It grew wildly in the summer, but was almost impossible to harvest until the winter gales dried it out. The window for extraction was small—too early and it stuck like glue to the cavern walls, too late and the winter winds would knock you off the slopes before you ever got close. There was a quaint village at the base of the mountain path that led to the summit of Mount Nevet, the tallest of the range. Ryris planned to stay at the inn, making a pseudo-base camp for his travels up to the caves. Remembering back to the days of hunting with his father, he recalled that every time they went back, the mold was more and more sparse. Deciding to take a risk, he set his sights on the opposite side of the mountain. The area he was scouting was uncharted as far as alchemical harvesting was concerned, and he hoped his hunch of an untouched bounty would pay off.