Terrible Cherubs: Tales of Sinners, Mistakes, and Regrets

by Steve Wetherell

  The door swung open showing that the wizened face belonged to a bent old man. “Travelers, come in, come in. Welcome to the city of Capistrael and the home of the sorcerer Ramund.”

  “This is a mistake,” Vittaro whispered.

  “Oh, your hood is on too tight,” Sigmeyer returned as he stepped across the threshold into a foyer of darkly oiled wood walls and plush, cushioned furniture.

  “Come sir,” the old man said to the hesitating Vittaro. “You have nothing to fear in our abode. Ramund is an honest man.”

  Vittaro did not budge. “An honest man who fears the king?”

  “Ramund was an advisor to King Levant,” the old man said. “Since the queen’s disappearance last year, the king has dismissed all his advisors, but there is no enmity between them, I assure you.”

  Vittaro looked past the old man to where Sigmeyer now sat in one of the cushy chairs. “There’s drama here, something neither of us need involve ourselves in.”

  Sigmeyer rapped the butt of the spear upon the polished floor and gave his head a tilt. “Pass me your pouch and I shall meet you later at the inn.” He turned to the old man. “This city has an inn, does it not?”

  “Several very fine establishments, yes.”

  “Which of them is best, but also most dimly lit?” Sigmeyer asked.

  “That would be The Stormfront,” the man said without raising an eyebrow. “It lies just a quarter turn up the Avenue of Three Thousand Steps.”

  “There you have it, Vittaro,” Sigmeyer said. “Just give me my share of the money and wait for me there.”

  Vittaro slipped through the doorway and sat across from Sigmeyer. He answered his tall companion’s grin with a shrug. “Every city has drama.”

  “I shall inform Ramund that you gentlemen are here,” the old man said as he closed the outer doorway. He crossed the foyer to a black silk curtain that separated them from the remainder of the building. “I am sure he won’t be but a moment.”

  Sigmeyer turned to his small companion after the curtain settled behind the old man. “You have a weakness, my friend. It is clearly not women, for I have never seen you partake, nor is it fine drink for you drink only most sparingly. You will, however, enter the most foul and disreputable of locations in the pursuit of gold.”

  “Hmmph. So you sit there and grin,” Vittaro replied. “Which is this place, foul or disreputable?”

  “Neither. Tis far worse, far more dangerous. The tower of a sorcerer holds mysteries in abundance, but also a swift death for those who cross its master.”

  “And this you know how?”

  “Did I not just a few passing moments ago tell you I was party to certain mysteries? This is not the first time I have been in such a place.”

  “So you’re cautioning me to behave? Me? I’m always the soul of discretion.”

  “I am not asking you to behave nor to be discrete,” Sigmeyer said. “I am telling you that whatever you may see, whatever fine glittery thing catches your eye, do not do it. Leave it. Pretend it does not exist. I say this in the hopes that you and I both will leave here wearing the same bodies in which we entered, and living ones at that.”

  “I know we just stepped off the boat, but I’m no fool,” Vittaro replied. “Since we met, I believe it is you who have added the most scars to his thick hide.”

  The big man chuckled. “Only because I am a fighting man. It is my stock in trade to exchange blows with other men and more than a few beasts. I would also add that the reason you have almost no scars is because I am there to take them for you, so please, this once, do as I ask.”

  The smaller man blew out a sigh from beneath his hood then nodded his head.

  “Good.”

  A moment later the old man parted the curtain wide. “Please enter, gentlemen. Master Ramund is pleased to aid you this morning.”

  Both men rose and followed the bent old man. They entered a room shrouded in vibrant blue drapes spangled with luminous silver stars. Of any other entrances or exits, they could see none. Beyond a long table of black ebon in the center of the chamber stood a tall, thin man of middle years. He wore tight-fitted white garments from his neck to his feet. With a nod of his blond head he greeted them.

  “Welcome travelers,” he said.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” Sigmeyer said, with a gracious nod.

  “Hmm,” Ramund began. “Before we do any business together I must know one thing.”

  “I am sure your man has told you that no one sent us here,” Sigmeyer said.

  “Yes, yes he did. No, the thing I must know is which god do each of you serve?”

  Vittaro and Sigmeyer shared a glance. “Pardon me?” Vittaro blurted.

  Ramund straightened his shoulders. “I must know what god you owe allegiance to, if any, and I must know true.”

  “May I ask why?” Sigmeyer said. “Neither of us are men of any great faith.”

  “One of the ancients, a Gifted One, said it best: ‘It is not for us to believe or have faith, rather it is for us to earn the belief and faith of our god.’ Now, most men who come before me seeking knowledge are in the service of one god or another, though some know it not.” Ramund’s eyes narrowed. “There are dark forces at work in this age, and I would not aid in one of their nefarious causes.”

  “I know the name of the Gifted One who said those words,” Sigmeyer said. “And by his name I swear we do not knowingly do the bidding of any one god. We are men who follow our own hearts and the knowledge in our heads. We roam Vorallon free.”

  “This is a mistake,” Vittaro muttered earning an elbow from Sigmeyer.

  Ramund raised an eyebrow and a corner of his lip twitched upwards. “If this is so, speak this Gifted One’s name. Swear me this oath.” He made a broad gesture around the room. “My enchantments will tell me if you lie.”

  “Very well,” Sigmeyer said, taking a deep breath. “By Hethal’s name, high priest of Lord Lorn and survivor of the Cataclysm, he who was gifted with sight of the future—I swear, to our knowing, we serve no gods.”

  Ramund collapsed into a chair like a puppet with its strings cut. “Impossible.”

  Sigmeyer turned his head just enough to wink at Vittaro. “Why do you say this? Is this not the oath you asked me to swear?”

  “Yes,” Ramund said, raising stunned eyes to them. “But I expected a cavalier response, a lie. Not whatever that was. That was the truth; that or the enchantments I have cast upon this room have failed me.”

  “For now, why do you not assume that I am an honest man, and I spoke only the truth. Knowledge freely given is priceless.”

  “His name was Hethal, this I knew, but how can you know the rest? His gift? The time he lived. Such facts are hidden from even one such as I. No god will speak of them to their followers. This knowledge has been lost for thousands of years. Some say it is forbidden.”

  Sigmeyer gestured toward the table. “If we have satisfied the one question you would ask of us before doing business, may we sit?”

  Ramund limply nodded and Sigmeyer advanced to the table and took a seat, unsurprised that Vittaro did likewise.

  Sigmeyer let out a satisfied sigh as he enjoyed the comfort of yet another plush cushioned chair. “Now, as for your other questions, I have the answers to them as well. True answers, and I offer them in trade for your service in divining for me the nature and lore of this great spear.” He lifted the spear and thumped its butt down upon the carpeted floor.

  Vittaro jolted in his seat, then relaxed with his own sigh, one hand on the heavy pouch at his hip.

  Ramund sat forward. “Yes, of course. You must tell me how you came by this knowledge. Everything.”

  “No,” the big man said with a slow shake of his head. “I will tell you how I came by this spear, and perhaps a few other tidbits, but the entirety is still forbidden.”

  “But you say you serve no god, nay, you swore to the fact. How can you consider this knowledge forbidden if that is true?”

  “I swore th
at we served no god, knowingly. To swear otherwise would surely be a mistake for any mortal as you yourself admitted. It may be that in your divining of this spear we shall all discover the answer.”

  “Are you saying the spear is linked to this source of knowledge?”

  “I could not whistle that song any better if I knew the words,” Sigmeyer said with a chuckle.

  Ramund shook his head with a sigh. “Bertram, fetch the Cloth of Adawa.”

  The old man, forgotten until that moment, slid behind one of the blue drapes to return a moment later with a swatch of dull black cloth, which he spread across the top of the table.

  Ramund rose to wave a hand over the table and cloth for several moments before speaking. “If you would be so kind as to lay your spear gently upon the cloth, good sir, I shall begin.”

  Sigmeyer raised his spear and lightly laid it across the length of the table.

  “This cloth is my most prized possession. It is imbued with the magic of one of the ancients.”

  “If it does what I think it does,” Sigmeyer said. “Then you have pronounced her name wrong.”

  Ramund’s shoulders dropped. “What is your name, sir? I would know the name of the man who would turn my world upside down in one breath.”

  “In this age I am known simply as Sigmeyer,” the big man said, then laughed. “Nay, I am just throwing you in the middens—I love that phrase. I am just a man, and my name is indeed Sigmeyer, as my mother shouted while smacking my backside.”

  “An event I’m sure she had many just occasions to repeat,” Vittaro muttered.

  Sigmeyer leaned toward his companion and winked again. “She did indeed, my friend. That might explain why I am able to roll with a blow that would fell another man.”

  Ramund gave a disgusted chuff, then laid his palms on the black cloth, one to either side of the broad head of the spear. He remained thus for several long heartbeats, neither blinking nor apparently breathing.

  “Is he doing it now?” Vittaro whispered.

  “I imagine so,” Sigmeyer whispered in return. “This should be most entertaining.”

  Vittaro turned to give the big man a dark look from under his deep cowl. “After all those words about not messing with a sorcerer. You have set him up, haven’t you?”

  Sigmeyer kept his eyes straight ahead. “I am sure I do not know what you mean. We have come here simply to learn the nature and lore of this spear, as I have said before.”

  “But you know something else he will learn, don’t you? Something else that will shock him perhaps?”

  Sigmeyer shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  Ramund leaped back from the table as if stung, his slender chest heaving. Vittaro half rose from his seat and clasped two hilts at his waist.

  “Sit,” Sigmeyer growled. “Do not make the man’s day any worse.”

  After regaining some of his composure, Ramund turned and threw back one of the draperies, revealing a bookcase stuffed with thick tomes. He ran his fingers across one row, as if caressing a lover. “Do you know what these are?”

  “Books?” Vittaro said as he settled back into his chair.

  “Yes, they are books,” Ramund said. “And these in particular are the Histories of Vorallon as passed down from the sages, those who pieced together the world after the Gifted Ones vanished.”

  With one shove he dashed a dozen or more books to the floor. “They’re all lies. None of them are true. Do you know how I know this? Because by their lore, that spear should not exist! Its makers should not exist, nor its intended target.” The sorcerer shook his head. “Lady preserve us if it exists.”

  “Easy now,” Sigmeyer said raising his palms. “Take it one thing at a time, and slowly. I spent months digesting the knowledge I was given. Trust me, you are meant to know these truths.”

  Ramund returned to his seat and sat, staring at the spear. “It was crafted by the first great sorceress of the ancient ones. Her name was Lady Iris, but that is not the whole of the story, no. She had aid in its crafting. Do you already know who, or what, aided her?” He raised his gaze to Sigmeyer. “Have you just been baiting me this whole time?”

  “No. This time sir, you tell me things that I do not know.”

  Ramund gave a dubious nod of his head. “They were only legends, tales crafted to scare young children, but this proves their existence. The Lady Iris was aided by dragons, great dragons, each of them so powerfully gifted that their spirits alone sustained Vorallon in the years after the Cataclysm while men and other creatures were too few to do likewise. Sustained his living, sentient spirit.”

  “You speak of the world, Vorallon, as a living thing?” Vittaro asked.

  Sigmeyer chuckled. “You are not the first to utter such a thing, my friend.”

  “Oh, it is,” Ramund said, answering Vittaro. “The spirit of Vorallon is the source of all our magic. When a sorcerer casts a spell, he is drawing upon that spirit, and at the same time feeding it.”

  “Go on then,” Sigmeyer said with a gesture toward the spear. “Do you know why the Lady Iris and these dragons crafted this spear?”

  “To slay another dragon, of course,” Ramund said. “One of their own, a betrayer from the world who gave them birth. His name is written upon the base of the spearhead just there, ‘Ferdahl’.”

  “I do not understand,” Vittaro said. “Why does the existence of dragons make all of our history wrong? Doesn’t it simply mean that the sages were wrong about them? If they never saw one, and who has, then it is just a mistake on that one matter. They simply missed the count of one tree in all the forest.”

  “No, no,” Ramund said. “It is far more complicated than that. The sages kept their histories simple. According to their writings, following the Cataclysm, the survivors, men, elves, dwarves, all the beasts and creatures, spread outwards again from the few places where they had escaped the destruction.” Ramund gestured toward the books scattered on the floor. “They tell the story in great detail, filling those books with who and what went where. You and me, all of us, we’re all descended from those survivors. Or so they would have us believe.”

  Vittaro leaned forward on his elbows. “What do you mean?”

  “The dragons came from another world, survivors of their own Cataclysm. They sustained Vorallon, but only for a brief time, less than a single generation of men. The world needs us, needs our emotions, our highs and our lows, our losses and our triumphs. Vorallon feeds and grows on those energies. Without them, and enough of us to generate them, he would succumb to a slumber that would leave us without magic. This is something every sorcerer knows.”

  Sigmeyer leaned towards his smaller companion. “These dragons would have had to sustain Vorallon for many generations, long enough for this spread and growth of the survivors to have occurred. And there is no note in the histories that magic went away during this period of regrowth.”

  “I still do not follow the sense of this,” Vittaro said with a shake of his head. “Such things are beyond me. From the lore of this spear you can tell that the dragons sustained Vorallon only briefly?”

  Ramund nodded. “Yes, that spear is why. Once its construction began, the majority of their energy flowed into it. And it still does.”

  “These dragons are still alive?” Vittaro leaned back from the spear, nearly spilling his chair over. “I knew this was a mistake. Only bad things will befall us. I am surprised calamity has not found us yet.”

  Sigmeyer smiled as he reached out and retrieved the spear. “So how do you account for this missing energy, sorcerer, this sustaining power? Perhaps Vorallon did sleep and the sages lied about that?”

  Ramund shook his head. “Impossible. The energy flowing to the spear has been uninterrupted for over four thousand years. If Vorallon had slept, such a flow would have halted, for it is the essence of magic as well. No, we know the Cataclysm happened, even the lore of the spear tells me such. Not enough people and creatures survived to have sustained Vorallon, and the dragons only did so brief
ly, nowhere near the amount of time required to have repopulated the world.”

  “But you know what happened?” Vittaro asked the sorcerer.

  “I know what must have happened,” he replied. “The dragons came from another world; the lore of the spear tells me this. It must also be that we did as well. We are no descendants of the ancients, the Gifted Ones.” He stopped and thought for a moment before continuing. “Well, some of us may be. It is said that the children of the ancient ones built this city and other marvels that still stand. But for the most part it must be that the people and creatures of Vorallon came here in a manner similar to these dragons.”

  Vittaro looked down at the scattered books. “So these histories are a lie?” He looked back up at Sigmeyer. “Why would they lie? Wait, you yourself said that the half elves came to Vorallon after the Cataclysm. I thought you were just making a joke. You knew all this.”

  Sigmeyer shrugged. “I said I did not know about the dragons.”

  “Perhaps it is time for you to hold up your end of our bargain, northman,” Ramund said.

  “I shall, but I would know of this ‘Ferdahl’ first. The one this spear was made to slay.”

  The sorcerer leaned back in his chair and gave Sigmeyer a level stare for several moments before answering. “I think I will hold onto that until you tell me where you found the spear and how you came to know what you know of Vorallon’s history.”

  “You are sure I have not shaken up your day enough?” Sigmeyer asked. “We could return tomorrow once you have had more time to digest things.”

  Ramund came to his feet. “No, and no again. You will tell me what you know now.”

  “Very well.” Sigmeyer leaned to Vittaro. “I did ask him, you heard me.”

  “Enough nonsense!” Ramund thundered loud despite from his narrow frame.

  “You know the coasts of southern Erenar?”

  “They are rocky, inhospitable,” Ramund answered.

  “Just so,” Sigmund said with a nod. “I was rounding them from east to west in the very same sloop I sailed upon today. She is quite seaworthy. In the eve of one day a storm came up out of the Vestral Sea, and I brought her in among a shelter of rocks within a natural storm break. But what I took for rocks were the remains of a castle fallen into the bay, and on the cliffs above yet stood a single tower, the last standing remnant of this castle. As the storm raged I scaled the cliffs to learn what I could of such an edifice, standing in a place where none lived. The castle was very old, but I knew it could not have been a structure of the ancients for those stand without decay. I was wrong.”