Chronicles of the Planeswalkers

by B. T. Robertson

  He once again produced the parchment that he had used to crack the barrier down and placed it flat on the podium, covering the engraving. All nervousness fled him and a new confidence welled up inside; he imagined the greatness and splendor he was about to control. The voice inside him kept chanting “Yes, yes, the power is yours, seize it!” Haarath stood at the plinth, with staff raised, and began to recite the runes written upon the parchment. A low, reverberating echo filled the room. The mirror lost its luster and reflection, then went black, solid black, darker than any night could best. Then, as Haarath continued to bring forth the spell, a haze started to swirl slowly in the mirror. The candles flickered wildly when a rush of air sprang from its depths. He had to put a hand on the parchment to keep it from being swept away. He kept reciting but, gazing into the mirror, he soon realized that he was not using the parchment any more. The language filled his mind and the longer his sight was fixed to the raging storm on the mirror's surface, the better it fed his soul and the clearer the vision became.

  The mirror had cleared somewhat, although the borders still raged with shadow and a glut of haze. In the center there was clarity that illuminated the looking glass. Haarath stared in ecstasy; mountain and forest, river and valley, were moved before him and a land unfamiliar to him was revealed. He knew it by name: Dunandor, the Ancient Lands beyond the vastness of the Dragon Mountains far to the east. The mirror became a looking glass into this land for some purpose, but the vision was stifled quickly and the clouds moved back in to snuff it out. Haarath had a heightened sense of awareness, and spun around at the command of the voice within. His eyes caught a snooping face near the mouth of the passage leading into the mirror chamber.

  "Gah!” yelled the sorcerer as he thrust forward his staff, unleashing an energy form not of this world toward the intruder.

  Much to his surprise, the stranger's gift of dexterity foiled the destructive force. He darted out from the safety of the wall, as the bolt struck and ravaged it to pieces. Haarath could plainly see the figure—long silvery hair, dark skin, and a slender build, without weapons.

  "An unarmed elf?” questioned Haarath gleefully. “How delightful."

  He laughed as yet another bolt of red fury, similar to lightning, was hurled at the elf. Again he dodged it, and more of the floor was uprooted and broken with the impact. The elf positioned himself closer to the wall, opposite where he had entered. The podium split the two enemies. The stranger closed in near it, using obvious wit. Suddenly, the elf did something that Haarath did not expect. He reached up and clasped the parchment with his right hand while crouched behind the stone pulpit. Haarath screamed and quickly dispatched a third bolt near the elf's foot. The elf flew violently to the floor and lurched away again. The pulpit shattered and a small piece of the parchment was torn away, possessed by the elf. The rest of it fell to the floor. With that, the elf seized opportunity, and bolted to the opening leading to the stairs; his light feet carried him swiftly.

  Haarath was filled with wrath, and hunted the thief. Up the stairs and out from the hole he emerged. Climbing onto a large boulder to get a better view, he spotted the spy fleeing rapidly through the mass of destruction. His possessed staff addressed the sky, and from the north, across the plains, came three direwolves dashing with blinding speed. They were upon the elf as he passed through the broken gate.

  "The fool now has weapons?” mused Haarath from a distance. “Fortunate I am for bow and sword with too much girth."

  The first of three wolves had already gained the upper hand. One slashed violently with its paws and struck its prey hard on the right arm. His tunic opened and blood rushed out. The counter came swifter than the animal could expect as the glimmering sword swooped down hard against its skull, cracking it open. The splintering sound of metal against bone caused the other two wolves to back off slightly. The elf turned and fled with inhuman speed toward the dark forest to the southeast. The unfortunate wolf sank in a pool of blood, dead before it hit the earth.

  Haarath shouted to the two remaining wolves, “Kill him; do not let him live to see the dawn!"

  The huge beasts growled, and sprang toward the forest to murder their master's adversary. Haarath grinned and retreated back down the hole to the mirror chamber, satisfied that his minions would finish off the meddling stranger.

  The room had been torn to shreds, but the mirror was untainted and unscratched. Its reflective properties had returned. Haarath felt as if something was looking into his own soul, for he beheld his own image once again. Bending down, he picked up the parchment that had fallen to the floor. The upper right corner had been ripped away.

  "Fool,” he said aloud. “He will not receive such luck from the wolves. They will tear his entire body to pieces.” He then laughed and placed the scroll back in his satchel, since the podium had been reduced to rubble.

  Because the vision faded altogether from the mirror, he had to restart the ritual. The missing corner did little to stop the chanting. It was not a crucial piece of the puzzle, since the words were a vivid memory in the sorcerer's mind. The clouds and mists revisited the mirror's glossy surface, turning it dark and casting wind from its bowels. This time, the vision was clearer and the land of Dunandor opened before Haarath's wicked eyes. Pleasure dripped from them as the cloudy and colored lights of the mirror reflected on its surface. The power of the mirror caught him like a mouse in a trap. His purpose and quest was clear to him. A thundering scream bellowed from the chamber, and darkness began to cover the sky over Merchindale.

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  Chapter 3—Peril at the Gate

  Darkness fell upon the city quickly, and choked the stars. Aerinas had stopped playing his lyre at dusk, though it seemed that the forest was still rapt with his sound. No other sounds were heard. It was as if the trees were intently listening for one more note. The chill crept back into the air, and nipped at the skin of the Krayn Elves. The birds and squirrels had run off into their little hiding places, and water falling through jagged rocks emitted soft monotones in its fall on an ever-downward course. A dense fog, settled near the ground, slithered along eerily through the shrubbery.

  Foran again guarded the West Gate, as Aerinas joined him. Together they sat and talked, bundled in their cloaks to shield themselves from cold that seemed far more bitter and assaulting than it had been.

  "So what happened with your father?” asked Foran.

  Aerinas bowed his head. “I do not wish to discuss it, Foran. The Council would also not wish for me to divulge any information regarding this, yet. I am sorry, my friend, and it pains me to conceal it from you."

  "Fair enough,” said Foran. “I understand the sensitive nature of your journey. However, I suspect that some foul things are at work and you stumbled upon them."

  "I did not just stumble upon them, I roused them.” He removed his cloak and displayed his wounded arm.

  Foran started. “Aerinas, what happened? And why did you not tell me that you had been wounded?"

  Aerinas threw his cloak over himself. “Foran, you must understand that I could not at the time. I had no time to show it to you, but I show it to you now so you realize the severity of what happened at El-Caras."

  "You must consider telling me all, Aerinas,” said Foran, clearly feeling dejected. “I get tired of sitting here all night by myself. My cause is worthy, but you have been on journeys that I myself have wanted to be a part of for so long.” He turned and stared into the empty, still echoes of the trees.

  Aerinas, noticing his best friend's look of disdain, smiled and proceeded to tell him of his trip to El-Caras. Foran was happy and listened intently. At one juncture in the discourse, Aerinas grabbed his arm as pain shot through it, having relived the horrid encounter with the direwolf that had almost killed him. Foran's face was angry at times, though excitement boiled his blood at the story's unfolding from one event to another.

  "I would much like to go with you if you ever visit the forest again to repay its
kindness to you, Aerinas. What did you call those winged creatures—sprites? I would very much like to meet one of those small wonders."

  Aerinas agreed, “Yes, you will travel with me if you wish. I owe this forest a debt, Aeligon most of all."

  "You met Aeligon?” Foran was indeed impressed with all his friend had seen thus far.

  "Yes, I did. I must say he is as powerful as they say, but he has the personality of a playful youth.” Aerinas chuckled at the memory of Aeligon's wine-soaked sleeve.

  "He is very wise indeed and counseled me greatly, Foran. It was like he could read my mind and see the future. He spoke of a great many things, including the Great War of Calaridis and of my father."

  The two talked far into the night until they both grew silent. As they kept watch over the forest on the west side, the fog grew thicker, similar to those that covered the quagmires and bogs to the north called the Cursed Glades. Thankfully, the moon forced its will against the night, piercing through the lid of dark, causing the fog to shimmer and glisten in places. The night was still somewhat thicker than it had been, and the two seemed to notice the stiff staleness of the air they breathed.

  "Keep your eyes alert, Foran,” said Aerinas softly. “I feel that something is amiss in our peaceful forest."

  His words were barely on the ears of Foran when, all of a sudden, the forest began to stir. Some sinister force had been using the murkiness to shield the creeping adversaries from the keen eyes posted near the west wall of the city. Amid the swirling and stirring haze, silhouettes outlining large forms rose up and continued to stalk toward the gate. Aerinas and Foran looked in disbelief as a group of fifty or more direwolves revealed themselves at the brink of the West Gate. They had slipped past the faithful guard of the elves. Perhaps the forest aided the moon on its quest to penetrate the veiling darkness to reveal the creatures.

  Aerinas drew back his bow, and fired an arrow down into the chest of one of them. It fell to the ground with a sickening howl, its lungs collapsed. Foran grabbed the new warning horn that hung against the tree and blew it forcefully. The warning was met instantly with a return call in the direction of the House of Lythardia.

  The city came alive, not with panic and screams, but with the silent rush of the Krayn running toward the western perimeter of the city with bows and swords ready. A storm of arrows rained down into the fog. Horrifying screams and howls shattered the air as death fell upon the wolves. The elves of Mynandrias had answered their calls and were upon them with a speed that no wise man could have predicted. A few of the direwolves fell back out of range, their yellow eyes glowing in the distant dark of the forest. Even the wolves who held their ground did not last long during the assault. They fell promptly to the arrow's bite.

  Suddenly, a shrill cry rang out that was different in pitch to the wolves’ howls. The rank of the wolves broke, and widened like a stream to a wizard's word. Out from the mist, a horde of goblins came rushing. With scimitars held high and shields held close in hand, they ran in a tight formation.

  Aerinas cried out, “Goblins!! Goblins are approaching from the west!!” The people of the wood paid full attention to the threatening mass of screeching beasts. The goblins had hewn down a large oak and carried it in their center, huddling close to it as many of them bore its weight.

  The sound of arrows being released rang out. Many of the goblins fell in unison. Some fell and were trampled underfoot by the legion that came from behind with the charging tree at their front. Their aim was the West Gate itself. Another storm of arrows sliced the air and struck their foes, but it did not stop the full force of the battering ram against the gate. Shudders ran through the wall, and shook the army of elves. Several were shaken to their

  * * * *

  * * * *

  death as they lost footing and fell over the edge. The gate held strong, so the device backed up for an attempt at another strike. More streams of arrows pierced and tore at the goblins. This time the effect was far more damaging and the tree swayed to and fro before finally crashing down hard against the ground, routing some of the goblins under its weight.

  With that, the gate opened, and a swarm of elves poured out. The twang of bowstrings and hiss of fletching were the only sounds to be heard, between the shrieks and death screams of falling goblins. The Krayn Elves were as deadly as they were silent.

  Aerinas and Foran were among the aggressors pushing the line of goblins and wolves back into the forest. Satisfied that they had all fled and fearing to run into the darkness too far, they halted. About the land lay bodies and carcasses of fallen enemies. Arrows were buried in trunks of trees, while others stuck out of the earth like pricks on a porcupine's back.

  "Hurry,” urged Aerinas, “we must gather our dead and get them inside our walls. Goblins are known to return with reinforcements.” He turned to Foran. “Help me, my friend."

  Foran had drifted off as he gazed into the forest, still breathing heavily and eyes full of anger. Aerinas clutched his arm.

  "Foran, it is over,” said Aerinas calmly. “Help me with our dead."

  Foran blinked and, saying nothing, made his way back toward the gate where his comrades had fallen. After aiding the others in dragging the dead back into the city, the two friends helped close and seal the gate.

  Aerinas stood atop the gate, peering out into the night. The moon was full and had cleared the hold of the cloudy sky to the east. Just then, a blinding surge of lightning shot down and struck a point in the forest in the distance where the pack of minions had headed. After that, all fell silent once more. Aerinas descended into the city to face the sorrow of the fallen.

  Aerinas stopped at the foot of the gate: horse-drawn carts escorted the bodies to the place where they would be prepared for their final journey. A great sorrow clung to his heart, that was far worse to bear than any affliction he could imagine. He stood in a stupor that kept the others silent in questioning him. Finally, he set down his bow and followed the carts that rolled down the path into the heart of Mynandrias.

  Twenty-three lost their lives and ten were wounded at the hands of an unprovoked attack, or so most thought. Counted among the dead was Duhaden, son of Drohan, a great craftsman and friend to Aerinas and his family. Mourning and grief swept over the city while the dead were laid upon the engraved stone beds, as was the custom to honor them. The Krayn called the holy place the Grove of Souls due to the ever-present spiritual energy there. Several granite stones, flat on their tops and gray in color, lay evenly spaced in a meadow of well-kept grass directly in the center of Mynandrias. The area was enclosed by a short, stone wall that ran around it in a circle, with a gap at the western edge. It was used as an entrance to the holy ground. Shorter trees, saplings that never grew tall, adorned the outer banks and the soft light of Lenthan crystals shone down into the grove. A small waterfall was carved into the northern portion of the stone wall. Water trickled down until it spilled into a stone basin. Once the dead were prepared and laid atop their resting places, water was taken from the pool and sprinkled over the bodies in a fine mist. This was done to release their souls peacefully to the Plane of the Dead, or the Zamas Plane, one of the many otherworldly realms that made up the fiber of the world. A lament would be sung by the people, with the trees themselves seeming to bow in bereavement. The bodies were kept there only until the ceremony concluded, then were taken to be buried.

  The ritual was almost too much to bear for many, but the custom was highly respected. Though it brought many tears, the dead were cared for in this way to accent the importance of life well-lived. Aerinas’ soul was uneasy and that night his sleep was interrupted frequently with nightmares.

  * * * *

  Nothing was heard or seen of the mob that had attacked the city, despite the number of scouts sent out to gather reports. There were still whispers of many creatures running wildly across the lands to the north and east. It was natural for the elves to not meddle in such affairs, unless it became too impossible to ignore. Evil had come t
o their peaceful city, though for some time after no one spoke of it. Aerinas blended in with the daily life that he was accustomed to and soon the battle was put out of mind, so that the dead could rest in peace.

  The month of Ovrün arrived, two months before the end of the elvish year, according to their calendar. The fall season grew late. The pyre of the trees was fading; the leaves continued to fall to their doom. It was in these spots of piled leaves that Aerinas played his lyre. The wind and snow were too much to bear near the treetops. The elves, though they had lived there for so long, could never grow accustomed to the bitter cold. The sounds were not as pervading as they were when they fell from above. The hollowness that came to the wood still carried his tunes far. He longed to venture outside of the city again, but he knew he would be chastised and lectured at the mere mention of it to his father. How he missed the gnomes that he adored, and he wished to find the winged sprites who had aided him on that dark night that seemed ages ago. Dreariness and longing filled his heart, yet he kept steady with the alliances he had made. Many of the elves that stood atop the west wall, who had helped slay the goblins and direwolves, were brave lords and maidens, but Aerinas had known little of them previously. He and Foran spent many nights telling tales and discussing the happenings abroad with them.

  Several hours later, Aerinas sadly said goodnight to them all and retired to his space for the evening. Fatigue had taken its toll, and his body was not fully healed from his encounter a few weeks earlier. Aching returned to his limb and his eyelids struggled to stay open long enough to get him into his bed. Once his head hit the pillow, it did not take long for him to fall fast asleep.