Chronicles of the Planeswalkers

by B. T. Robertson

News traveled quickly where the very earth and its creatures took to spreading it, and Callaway was bad news. Elves and trackers like Mortwar, who had an ear in every port, could make sense of the limitless information thus provided. It certainly was not difficult for a tracker to receive any news swiftly. None of Mortwar's peers would have ever dared to meddle in the affairs of a reprobate like Callaway. Even the Fleet Guard kept out of his business. Bribery burrowed deep in the politics of Caran, and so the unjust went unpunished while the just paid dearly. Mortwar, however, took the liberty during these few days to do some searching of his own for Callaway. He abandoned the group that he had escorted down the Tunin River so he could devote his time to this newest request. And now Callaway sat there, drinking his ale and belching loudly.

  Recently, it was rumored that Callaway had come into possession of a rare item that he stole from an Elvish temple in the city of Lünathar. During the rebuilding of Vaalüna, the races had worked together to recreate their homelands. The dwarves donated beautifully handcrafted stone pieces and marble rock to the woodland elves of Mynandrias, which was used to build the House of Lythardia. For their part, the elves helped erect a temple in the wizard city of Lünathar, which became the resting place of the magic Elfstone, containing Sheevos, Spirit of Light. Thus the Order of Light was aptly named, and the power of the gods held strong with the wizards throughout history.

  Mortwar wondered how a blundering pirate like Callaway could waltz into Lünathar and steal such an item without the wizards becoming aware of the theft until it was too late. To these and many other questions he sought the answers, and this was the chance he had been waiting for. Just one more ale, Mortwar thought to himself as he pressed his lips together, almost willing Callaway to buy another.

  And he did.

  Callaway reached into his coat pocket, drawing some coins out, and tossed them on the bar. The tink of the coins could be heard above the roar of the fire and crowd.

  "Here you go, Mr. Callaway,” the boy behind the bar said as he slid another tankard of ale to the pirate.

  Callaway grabbed the boy by his shirt abruptly and, after pulling him closer, snorted, “Don't ever use my name in ‘ere again boy, do you understand!?” The question needed no answer as the stunned look on the boy's face told him “yes".

  Callaway looked around slowly. His eyes gazed at those who had seen the scuffle, causing them to turn quickly in fear. As Callaway returned to his ale, he flinched when he noticed Mortwar seated next to him.

  The two knew each other vaguely, more so by appearance and name. They had never before spoken.

  "Mortwar is it?” asked Callaway pointedly. He scooted down to another stool, putting an empty one between them. Apparently he did not want his question answered.

  Mortwar nodded as he turned to face Callaway. “Yeh. And you're Callaway?"

  Callaway looked crossly at the bartender, who was cleaning tankards and pouring other customers’ drinks.

  "If you hadn't known me prior, this fool boy would've surely given you my name. Yeah, I am Callaway; now leave me be. I don't like long conversations."

  "If the conversation turned out to be a profitable one, would you reconsider?” asked Mortwar. Appealing to his wallet seemed the only way to coax this half-drunken sailor to talk.

  Callaway raised an eyebrow as he turned his weathered face once again toward the tracker. Amongst the unshaven beard and scars sat two eyes as green as dragon scales. His hair had been pulled back tightly into a tail that was about six inches long. He wore a round-brimmed, black hat that curled up on the sides. He took another long sip from his tankard and burped. The stench was enough to curl the nose hairs of Mortwar.

  "And if it was profitable,” Callaway replied, “what's in it for you?"

  "All I'm asking for is information."

  "What kind of information?"

  "Profitable kind,” Mortwar sarcastically replied.

  The ale started taking its toll on the remaining wits that Callaway had. “Show me the money, and we'll take it from there, eh?"

  "Not a problem,” said Mortwar, reaching into his leather pouch. Out came ten gold coins that sparkled in the dim light of the tavern. He could hear the shuffling about the place when some others caught a glimpse of the coveted metal.

  Callaway's eyes grew wide, though his pupils were becoming dilated as they swam in a sea of potent ale. This was enough for him.

  Mortwar placed the coins back into his satchel quickly, giving enough eye candy to tease Callaway's senses. He knew it would overwhelm the pirate, for whom money and riches were the ultimate prize.

  "Now, I want information on the whereabouts of a certain item, one that surpasses the beauty of those coins a hundred times over. It used to grace the temple in Lünathar."

  Callaway's glassy, bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?"

  "I was hired to find it, and to return it to the Order of Light. They pay well for such things."

  "What makes you think I know where it is?"

  "Because, I know that you sail into that region of sea. Salanthanon holds no news back regarding the pirates that sail there."

  Callaway diverted his attention back to his tankard. He began fidgeting nervously with the handle, and sliding it back and forth on the smooth wooden bar counter.

  "I suppose you know that it was stolen then?” Callaway asked, his right leg starting to bounce nervously now as well.

  Mortwar simply nodded, knowing that a short response would rattle the liar even further.

  Fortunately, Mortwar's reactions were not slowed by ale as Callaway's had been. Callaway suddenly threw his tankard forward, shattering the other bottles on the shelf across from him. He stood and drew his sword, challenging Mortwar to do the same. The other people cleared the floor quickly, tripping over their chairs in the rush. Silence fell through the crowd.

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  * * * *

  Mortwar slid his right hand down to his knife, unseen and unknown to the drunken Callaway. Mortwar acted calm and collected, waiting for an advance. He still needed Callaway alive to get what he needed.

  "It seems to me you know more than you let on, Mortwar,” growled Callaway as he tightened his two hands on his sword. “Out with it."

  "I know you possess the stone I want, and I am willing to pay handsomely for it, Callaway. I am in no mood to kill you this night."

  Callaway ignored the taunt. “My buyer is willing to pay for it as well, and a sum large enough to be out of your reach, Tracker.” Callaway snorted, a nasty smile on his scruffy face.

  "And who might my competition be then?” Mortwar asked, knowing almost surely that Callaway would never reveal that information.

  Callaway just let out a low laugh. “Oh no, you won't get it outta me that easily. Just know that your reward could never suffice. You won't get it from me ... ever!"

  Suddenly, Callaway rushed forward and raised his sword. When he swung it toward the tracker, Mortwar kicked the stool that stood between them. It hit Callaway squarely in the stomach, causing the brute to gasp and buckle over. He crashed to the ground hard, but still held his sword as he scrambled back up to his feet.

  Mortwar was standing as well, knife still sheathed.

  "There is no need for this, Callaway. At least listen to my offer. Is this prize enough to lose your life over?"

  "It is not my life anymore. I am sworn to this wretch! I must give it to him!"

  "Who are you talking about?” Mortwar shouted, pleased that he had kept his cool long enough to let Callaway leak his knowledge.

  Callaway did not answer. His face grew darker than it had been, as if he were influenced by a force more intoxicating than ale. The sword came up again, and was quickly swung in Mortwar's direction..

  At the last moment, before the sword struck flesh, Mortwar dropped to his knees and drew his knife. As Callaway's sword sailed over his head, Mortwar swung his blade. It struck Callaway at the wrist, severing it cleanly from his arm. A bellow of pain ran
g out; the hand flew across the room with the sword still gripped tightly. The nerves struggled to remain in control even after the limb landed in the brick oven fire, torched immediately by the hungry flames.

  Callaway held up the bloody stump and continued to holler madly. He turned and pushed past Mortwar; cursing at him, he fled out into the torrential night. Mortwar put his knife away. The crowd had curiously gathered around the fire, but moved away quietly with the approach of the tracker.

  Mortwar drew nearer to the flames, and noticed that the blade of Callaway's sword turned red hot as the fire fought to dismantle the weapon. The hand had almost completely burned, and that is when the shout came.

  "Hey mister, you'd better have a look at this,” one man said, pointing into the oven.

  There, shining brightly amidst the charred remains of skin, lay a ring. Mortwar had not detected a ring on Callaway's hand, even after he drew his sword against him.

  Mortwar gasped as he suddenly recognized the circle of gold. He quickly grabbed the metal tongs that hung on the outside of the oven, reached into the fire, and pulled the ring out. He called for water as he placed the ring on the stone hearth surrounding the oven. It was much cooler there. After dousing the ring with water, and after the hissing steam cleared, Mortwar examined the band closely.

  It was a simple design, not elegant, not gaudy, but a symbol of a simple life similar to his own. A black stone stuck out from the top of a plain gold band—not a smooth stone, but a jagged one, similar to the Dragon Mountains far to the east in the land of Dunandor.

  Mortwar could hardly comprehend how this ring had gotten there, let alone how it had ended up on Callaway's hand. It was the heirloom of his family, passed down through generations of men. It was a symbol of things past, of things forgotten, of the darkness that once clouded the entire earth. The stone in the ring's center was a Black Moort, the native rock found in the land of Dunandor. A passing stranger had given the ring to his father one day. Mortwar was only a young boy then, alive, vibrant, not bound to the life of the vagabond he had since become.

  Mortwar stood like a carved statue, unwilling to move along the path that had instantly been laid before him now to pursue. His mind was gripped by doubt and fear, horrified at what fate brought to his family. Just when he thought he had some answers, more questions had been thrown at him. He continued to flip the ring over and over again in his hands while the crowd watched.

  Finally, he put the ring on his finger, paid the boy behind the bar, and walked out into the stormy night. His goal was to find the wounded Callaway to press him for more answers, to find out who this other “buyer” was, and to do it silently. There was no other option.

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  Chapter 9—Fenduin Lake

  Aerinas awoke much the way he had many months ago when he found himself in the house of Aeligon. His arm had not been gouged this time, but his ribs ached when he moved. He grunted as the pain shot through his lungs, and stole his breath away momentarily. The realization soon came to him that he was not lying in a comfortable bed with a roaring fire and a dozing wizard, but he was lying in a pool of mud upon the forest floor. His clothes were soaked and he was cold. A slight rain had started, though it could have been raging outside of this forest, since all that fell within was choked. Aerinas stood as best as he could. An eerie silence enveloped the wood ... No chattering squirrels. Not a bird chirped. His horse was nowhere to be seen grazing in the distance. The creatures that had attacked him were gone as well, save for remnant dust piles scattered about. Aerinas walked over to one of them and noticed that, even in the rain, this particular dust never turned to mud.

  The sun had clearly risen even though the light was diminished greatly by the towering trees. Aerinas could see the lake through them not far in the distance. Stumbling through mud and fern-covered ground, he made his way toward the clearing that opened just beyond the tree line. The rain stopped suddenly. The sun broke through the clouds in a fight to illuminate the surroundings. A light mist hung just above the plane of the water. Beneath the surface, creatures swam along, creating waves and ripples that stirred the peaceful vapors. Small insects skimmed along to try to escape being eaten.

  The calm silence shouted louder than any thunder clap or sword clank. It was too quiet. It seemed to Aerinas that all life was drained from not only the surrounding land, but also from himself. This began to frighten him, making him question whether or not he had slipped into the abyss.

  Just as his thoughts pressed their unseen vibrations into the air, a voice called out to him and echoed along its trail.

  "Aerinas ... Aerinas."

  The sound of the voice was enough to cause the hair on the back of his neck to rise. Fumbling for his sword, he found his sheath void of the polished steel. He realized he was also missing his bow and all of the crafted arrows. He possessed only the map, the old tattered map that would prove useless in a hand-to-hand confrontation. Though obviously outmatched, Aerinas braced himself for another onslaught.

  "Aerinas,” the voice whispered again, trailing off in a different direction than it started. The voice moved around him, through him.

  "What is it you wish of me?” he finally shouted into the air. “I am exhausted at all the riddles. Why not show yourself to me now that my defenses are diminished and deprivation inevitable?"

  "Because you are not diminishing, young Aerinas. You are merely being tested for that which you are to face.” The voice remained fixed in one spot, hovering in the air above the water and mist. Through the lifting fog, Aerinas could see a shape forming.

  Aerinas continued to gaze upon the apparition, frozen. He could not tell whether it was fear or astonishment, but he could not move a muscle. Out of the vapor rose a figure that rivaled any in beauty that he had ever witnessed in his lifetime, except for Krüna herself, and he was sure that this was not her. The mist broke and the water parted at the command of the being. As the spirit coalesced, Aerinas could make out the face. It was Krüna after all. Out of his dreams, and into reality, she had come. More questions flowed through his mind in one beat of his heart, maybe less. The same fear that gripped him in the dreams manifested itself at the banks of the lake.

  All grew silent once again. The water calmed to a glass-like appearance, and the mist resettled. Above the surface, a glowing spirit of earth and flame shone with a brilliance equal to the sun, in most respects, yet able to be fully beheld with his elvish eyes. Krüna was there, and Aerinas could barely acknowledge it, fearing he was surely dreaming. Krüna came closer to him, still suspended in the cool air.

  "Now do you understand some of what I came to tell you in your nightmares?” asked Krüna softly.

  "I do, yet I do not at the same time,” confessed Aerinas in bewilderment. “I feel almost as if I am dreaming once again, and that you will not be here when I wake. Long have I feared those dreams, yet I desire nothing more than to return there with you. My mind is full of questions unanswered and answers to questions that I do not yet know."

  Krüna smiled as she said, “Then you have taken the first steps in finding out who you are, and what you mean to this world. Do not forsake these feelings inside you, young elf of Mernith, for they are what guide you in these rough times, and what will guide you into the unseen future."

  "But, why me?” asked Aerinas; he went down to one knee on the soft ground.

  "Because you alone possess the strength and will to devour the evil that plagues our peaceful lands,” answered Krüna. “Not long ago, evil returned to these lands after laying dormant for so long. It has awoken now, like a sleeping giant, enraged and bent on spreading its domination once again."

  "What is this evil that you speak of?” Aerinas asked. “I need to know."

  "It is Hydrais, Aerinas. The rumors are true, yet your father and Aeligon the Healer do not yet know that he is the enemy before you."

  "Hydrais?” gasped Aerinas. “My father and A
eligon both had suspicions that it could have been that sorcerer."

  "He was thought by many to have been destroyed during the War of Calaridis by your father and others. While the giants disposed of the Trolls of Sharumar, a small band of wizards and elves returned to El-Caras where Hydrais fled once his armies were overrun. There, they fought bravely to banish the wretch to the Nether. His fortress was then destroyed and sealed off before due council could be given. If only they would have been patient, they would have been able to see what Hydrais planned."

  "What did he plan? Tell me now.” Aerinas’ eyes narrowed, ire flooding his veins at his father for not telling him these things. So much was concealed from him, and he could not fathom why.

  "Before he was destroyed, Hydrais hid a scroll in the bowels of his underground domain called Trünith. This scroll contained the spell necessary to raise Hydrais from the Nether if ever he were banished. Such a spell was never thought to be possible by the races of this earth. However, it requires more than just a simple recital of the words written upon the parchment."

  Aerinas asked, “What does it require? And what does it have to do with me?"

  Krüna continued, “Hydrais, after hiding his scroll, fled then to his last fortress of El-Caras near the borders of Dunandor so that he could see the last of his forces being decimated by the races of men, elves, and giants. There, Hydrais forged the mirror, the looking glass into the Nether. The purpose of this mirror was protected from most prying eyes, so as not to be discovered by mere mortals. The mirror could only be used by one possessed by the spirit of Hydrais, or at least used to the full extent meant by the warlock. A pure soul could not gaze into the mirror long before being drained of all power. The mirror was also bound by forces unseen by any eye above ground. Even when broken, any shard of the mirror carries enough dark force to enable the possessor to gaze into the Nether. That mirror was used by the wizard Haarath, who was chosen by Hydrais to carry out this deed. Its full purpose is also unknown, though soon a soul will stumble upon answers."