He was not sure why, but he sensed a foul tinge to the morning. The air he breathed appeared thin, and reeked of an odour he could not place – almost like charred, rotting meat over a fire. Keldoran noted the trees at the side of the road swaying, althought he could not detect any breeze. Something was wrong, the land was trying to tell him.
As he stared at the trees, trying to determine if they were actually moving or if it was just his addled imagination playing tricks, a groan issued from the tent. Slowly, Relb poked his head through the entrance. “What time is it?” he muttered sleepily.
“Time to get up,” smiled Keldoran. He was used to early mornings, having been raised on a farm. He noticed the pained expression in Relb’s eyes. “Hey, at least the sun is out,” he continued, trying to sound uplifting.
A noise to the left of the tent alerted him, and he saw the juggler, Corg, sat on the road cross-legged, eyes closed, rocking slightly from side to side. Keldoran’s eyes widened in surprise – he had thought he was first up.
Corg was mumbling to himself softly. It seemed to be some sort of early prayer ritual. Not knowing anything about the Bu’kep race, Keldoran thought it best to leave the juggler alone for the moment. Walking away, Keldoran moved to the edge of the road to relieve his morning’s water.
He had barely finished when his eyes caught movement behind the trees that marked the road’s edge. Before he could say anything, a green humanoid burst forth from the trees, almost knocking him over in its rush to get to the road.
Keldoran stepped backwards in alarm. He had never seen a creature like it! Green skinned, with long, green hair tumbling down to shoulder level, its face seemed human enough, but with long pointy teeth. Its hands were clawed, and it raised these talons before him, as if to protect itself. It wore a brown tunic of some kind, and brown leggings. Its feet had no boots, and Keldoran shivered at the sight of the hooked talon toes.
Corg leapt to his feet, aware instantly of the creature, even though his eyes had been closed. “Norfel!” he hissed angrily at the humanoid, gesturing to Keldoran to back away. “Forest dweller, you are not welcome on this road. Away, back to the trees that spawned you!”
Keldoran was shocked by Corg’s sudden anger and venom – it was unlike the juggler’s previous day’s good humour.
The Norfel froze, eyeing Corg in equal distaste. “Bu’kep,” it spat. “My day has been cursed indeed!”
Corg’s small red horn upon his forehead seemed to flush a deeper crimson at this insult. He opened his mouth to retort, but a shout from the mage’s tent stopped him. All eyes turned to see the mage walk towards them, with a clearly concerned look on his normally stoic features.
“Corg, be at ease. I know the enmity between the Bu’kep and Norfel races, but this does not help our cause. Plus, this one looks in need of assistance.”
“A mage of Malana!” breathed the Norfel in clear excitement and relief. “So I was right! The carriage I spied from the woods was a mage’s carriage. Thank Untaba I have found one of you so quickly!”
“You seek a high mage from the white towers of Malana?” The mage’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Yes!” exclaimed the Norfel. “I need your help.”
Yvanna and Relb both appeared outside the tent now, staring at the newcomer in shock and awe. Neither of them had seen a Norfel before, although they had often heard tales of green skinned humanoids living in the forests around their village. Childhood myths, it seemed, were becoming full reality on this trip. Relb could not stop his mouth from gaping wide open.
Corg snarled, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at the Norfel, but said nothing. Keldoran could see his burning rage through his eyes, which shone with an inner malice for the stranger. Keldoran stumbled back involuntarily from the Bu’kep.
“Corg, pack the tents,” ordered the mage, obviously seeing the juggler’s discomfort. “I will handle this.” He motioned for Keldoran and the others to assist the Bu’kep. The mage waited until they had moved back to the tents before speaking with the Norfel.
The Norfel, Nagoth, informed him of his mission. The tale of the sorcerer flowed from his mouth in haste, how he had come to their forest, violating the known pact between the Norfel and the high mages, and worse, he told of the cruel murder of several of his own kind by the hands of the sorcerer. The Norfel clearly worried for his village, and his clan living there, and prayed that the sorcerer had not done any further damage. He also spoke of the Slardinian that they had captured.
“So you see my concerns,” finished Nagoth excitedly. “Will you help me talk to the high mages about this?”
“Did this sorcerer dress in our familiar robes?” said the mage, indicating his grey attire.
“No, although it was difficult to tell as his robes were in tatters. They were black, I think, and he had long hair of the same colour – not white, like yours.”
“A black robe?” the mage’s face grew as dark as the colour he had just mentioned. “The mages of Malana do not wear black. This wizard is not one of our brethren. Yet the magick you described him using – a form of transformation, altering the structure of his hand to pass through flesh, then turning it solid to cause damage and death, is something unheard of.”
The Norfel shuddered at the reminder of his friends’ grisly deaths. “Then you’re saying you couldn’t do the same spell?”
The mage nodded. “I, and others of my brethren, can transform objects, including flesh, into something else. However, to alter my fist, say, from a solid to a nontangible state and back again, at will, is a feat I cannot match.”
Nagoth shifted his feet nervously.
The mage continued. “You have done well to seek me out, Norfel. This is a grave matter. I dare not confront this strange conjuror alone. We must make all haste to reach Malana by nightfall. I will arrange counsel with Suralubus, our leader. We will then decide on a course of action. Please accompany us. I will require you to tell your story in Malana.”
“Thank you,” Nagoth stammered. “I had planned to travel south of this road, then across the woods to the edge of Malana. Norfel are best not seen to the human eye, and I sought shelter within the trees. I will go with you – none would worry about a Norfel in a mage’s custody.”
“Indeed. You will have to sit with the others in the carriage. There’s no other place.” The mage nodded his head meaningfully at Corg. “Will this be a problem to you?”
Nagoth looked at the Bu’kep warily. “I will keep out of his way if he will grant me the same courtesy.”
Satisfied, the mage departed to prepare his horse for the journey. He walked past the others just as they pushed the tent fabric into the back of the carriage. “Provide room in the carriage for the Norfel. He has an urgent need to travel to Malana, and now so do us all. I will not stop at Roth tonight – we carry on through the night until we reach the city.”
This news was greeted harshly by two: Corg, because he had to share a carriage with a Norfel, and Yvanna, who complained bitterly to the mage about the long journey. She desperately wanted to stay in the comfort of the tavern at Roth, especially as they had got no sleep the previous night. Hers and the juggler’s concerns were ignored.
Keldoran was more pragmatic. He had seen the wild eyed fear in the Norfel. “What is happening in the wood?” he asked the mage. There must be some reason for the urgent rush to the city.
The mage turned to look at him, a glint of respect shown in his eyes for the young man. Keldoran flushed with pride. “A stranger, a wizard of some sorts, has murdered several of the Norfel’s race. He is not one of our brethren. The Norfel also claimed to have seen and captured a Slardinian, a lizard man from the south continent of Tegul. These facts cannot be ignored – both are strangers not wanted here in Emorthos. I must seek assistance with the council in Malana.”
Keldoran nodded acceptance, his eyes wide at the news. Corg and Yvanna exchanged looks, suitably cowed. Relb looked confused and worried.
“We ride,” said th
e mage. “Be alert. With luck, we will reach Malana by dawn.” The matter settled, the mage slipped an apple to his horse, which grunted and devoured it in one bite. He then climbed gracefully onto his steed.
The others stood for a moment, suddenly fearful, before clambering onto the carriage. The Norfel followed silently behind, sitting as far away from Corg as possible, although the inside of the carriage was indeed cramped with the five of them. The juggler refused to even acknowledge Nagoth’s presence.
Keldoran sensed the tension in the carriage, but he could feel the land of Elrohen waking outside. As they burst into motion, the carriage rocking to and fro on the bumpy road, he looked out at the trees. There was not longer any doubt in his mind.
They were swaying.
Vergail walked down the wide, flowing marble steps outside the front of Malana’s cathedral. She stopped momentarily to raise her hand to her forehead, a delicate move to shield her eyes from the burst of sunshine she had received on leaving the cool, dark corridors of the cathedral, where her inner sanctum and quarters resided.
It was a perfect morning, she decided, the faint glimmer of a smile playing on her lips. From the top of the cathedral steps she could see most of the city stretched out before her: a haven of shimmering gold in the glow of the sun. Untaba’s will and guidance shone over the land, bathing all who would listen to his eternal radiance. She felt warm and excited. The day showed great promise.
The city of Malana was a wonder in the misty woodlands covering most of the Emorthos continent. All the buildings were constructed of polished, white stone, with no marks showing where one block of stone met another. Embedded within all the major buildings were rivulets of marbled gold, the more gold in a building indicative of its importance and the stature of the people who dwelled inside it.
From her viewpoint, Vergail could make out the main landmarks of the city. Besides the great cathedral, her own home, which had huge towers and spires aching to touch the sky, she made out the slender, tall steeples of the Guild of Mages, a hotchpotch of turrets and sloping roofs. Not far from these steeples rose the great stone statue of Untaba, a figure of solid gold emblazoned atop a massive white marbled column.
Turning slightly to adjust her vision, she discovered the massive stone pillars that marked the entrance to the Great Library, the building that housed every book ever written in Elrohen, including all known spell books. To the right of this she finally made out her own destination on this fine morning: the rolling green landscape of Malana’s gardens.
Finishing her walk down the steps of the cathedral, Vergail began a brisk stride into the streets, heading towards the gardens. Her presence instantly made city folk near her bow in homage. A small girl tossed a rose at her feet in greeting and thanks. Vergail smiled with pleasure. She helped these people: gave them faith and hope in times when they needed her. She was well respected and friends to many in the city. When someone close died, they came to her for guidance. When children were sick, they came to her for healing. When arguments arose between neighbours, all came to her for a resolution. She was Untaba’s guide, imparting her knowledge of the ancient texts of Untaba and teaching his ways throughout the city, and sometimes into neighbouring villages.
Malana was peaceful. There had been no history of war, or decay. For as long as Vergail knew, the city blossomed. New businesses were always being forged; the wealthy grew wealthier. Markets traded and exchanged goods daily. Fresh food, meats and fine wine were produced constantly. The hubbub and general demeanour of people in the city were good natured, and a solid community had been built, embracing the luxury and polished stone like part of the family.
There was the occasional crime, of course. The mages governed everything – punishment was swift and severe. It was seldom, that people who committed a crime once would ever do so again. Vergail grinned, almost impishly, at how the mages and her own ministrations kept the city in check.
Ah, look how the city people came out to greet her! It was like royalty; indeed, Vergail was, to some, considered to be the queen of Malana. People of all shapes and sizes came out of their houses and shops to see her as she passed, to wave and to smile. She was unique to the city. Nobody had her skills in healing or providing counsel, save perhaps the mages – but they did not have the calm friendly manner that she did.
Vergail carried on, turning a corner and heading into a crescent shaped street, one of many market places within the city. Instantly, the smoke and smell of burning incense wafted to her nostrils. The aroma pleased her.
Surprising the trade woman who sold the incense, Vergail placed a gold coin in her palm and took a pack. The trader bowed low at this unexpected honour, mumbling her thanks. Grinning, the priestess walked on, the incense sticks vanishing under her robe to nestle in an inner pocket sown into the fabric. They would come in handy for her prayer rituals, she thought. They would also aid her teachings.
Vergail had several pupils under her guidance whom she taught basic healing. Ultimately she would pass on her role to a younger woman, when she was old enough herself to leave Elrohen for the spiritual journey to Untaba’s side. It was the way of it: her predecessor had taught her everything she knew, and so she would tell others of the way of the priesthood.
Her reverie ended when she reached the edge of the gardens. Two vast trees marked the entrance – the branches of them entwined together to form an archway. Vergail was about to step through when a cough drew her attention.
Leaning on the back of one of the trees, sat in a heap, was a man. Vergail’s nose flared as she smelt alcohol on his breath. Dressed in rags and tatters, the man was a vagabond and a drunk. He coughed again, a harsh, thick noise that brought up ugly green phlegm. It was obvious he was homeless and had earned a fever for his troubles.
Vergail crouched down before the man, her eyes a vision of watery compassion. “Sir,” she began pointedly, “you have a fever. As high priestess of this city it is within my power to heal you. First, tell me, why are you living on the streets? There are many buildings that will give you solace and help, especially if you have had some tragedy. Why not go, they will give you a place to stay. I can give you directions-“
Her calm voice was shattered by his angry snarl. He looked up at her then, a face filled with contempt. “You mock me, priestess!” he said the last word as if he choked on poison. “Malana does not help those not of Untaba’s faith!”
Vergail stood, her eyes hardening, the compassion ebbing from her. “Untaba shines his guidance down-“
“I curse Untaba’s very name!” The man spat on the ground, emphasizing his point. “Where was your god, when my family burned alive? Where was he, when all my life, all my possessions, all my love, was swallowed, engulfed by a burning blaze? You pray, you teach his infinite wisdom, yet he took away those that I loved, in a blink of an eye.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” stated Vergail coldly. “It must have been their time to leave this world. Yet you should reconsider your views and renew your faith. The way of Untaba is just.”
The man chuckled insanely, and took another swig of a fiery brew held in a bottle by his side. “You, and this city, are blinded by this faith. So much love for this god, yet we get nothing in return. This faith has addled our brains and our senses, and made us ignorant and obnoxious to other people’s beliefs. Tell me, priestess; would you use your skills to heal my ailments?”
“No,” Vergail said harshly. “I will not use Untaba’s light on a non-believer.”
“There you go, you see?” the man scoffed. “I am not a bad person. I wouldn’t hurt anyone – I would do anything for anybody. Yet you, high priestess of Malana, are beneath me because of your short-sightedness. One day, your ignorance will come back on you and shatter this life of yours!”
Vergail said nothing, merely voicing her anger by turning and walking into the gardens away from the man. She would not be told such blasphemy! The man was lucky she did not call the mages onto him for it. His ramblings and coughi
ng disappeared as she strode deeper, surrounding herself in lush green grass and gorgeous flower fragrances. Soon, she had forgotten him completely.
She walked through into a clearing amid the colours and delights of the gardens. In the centre of this clearing stood a stone, a towering, curved monolith – pale white, with grey markings etched onto its surface. Around the edge of the clearing were smaller, but similar stones, eight in all, with a symbol on each of their pristine white surfaces. At midday on the longest day of the year, the centre stone stood directly under the sun. Carved by the mages long ago, this clearing was a conduit for their power, and, so some claimed, a portal into another realm.
Stood before the great stone, dwarfed by its size and immensity, was a mage clad in a bright white robe, hooded, his head bowed in prayer.
“Suralubus,” said Vergail, announcing her arrival to him. He turned then, and lowered his hood. Piercing blue eyes met her own, and the man smiled, showing polished white teeth. His hair was thick and brown, and reached his shoulder blades. This was the leader of the high mages of Malana, mused Vergail, and a handsome young man at that.
Suralubus had achieved mastery over The Waln, the greatest known level of magick a mage could aspire to. He knew vast powers and commanded them almost at will. His power was worthy of respect alone, but the man was also a great leader and communicator. He was well liked by his brethren. Vergail grinned at him. He was well liked by her too!
“Thank you for coming,” he nodded approval to Vergail. “I know you are busy.”
“It is my pleasure,” responded the priestess warmly. “I am sure you have good reason to see me.”
Suralubus’ face turned grave. He gestured to the stone before them. “I have felt a tremor here,” he announced. “A strong tremor came to this stone from the very ground. Something disturbs the land of Elrohen.”
A Wizard's Tears Page 6