by Mark Shane
A short, round man wearing a stained white apron approached them. “The Creator favor you, Max,” he said as the two exchanged a hug. “It’s been ages. How are you?”
“Tired and hungry, my friend. Tired and hungry.”
The innkeeper laughed. “Well, we can fix both!”
“Michael, Garen, Falon, meet Serin, the owner of this fine establishment.”
“Pish, posh! Flattery will get you nowhere. Pleased to meet you,” Serin said greeting each with a handshake and a flattering comment about Falon’s beauty.
Serin escorted them to a separate room away from the noise of the grand hall. The furniture was nice, but not fancy. Two chairs and a matching sofa bordering a tightly woven rug in front of the fireplace made Michael realize how weary he felt. A large dining table, darkly stained walnut, dominated the opposite side of the room. Few adornments covered the walls; a nice painting of a sun setting behind green, rolling hills hung over the fireplace and a dartboard on the far wall, but Michael had no interest in trying out his new shurikens at the moment. On the opposite wall, past the table, stood an oak bookshelf.
Serin stoked the fire, apologizing for not having the room ready for them when they arrived—despite the fact he could not have known—and left with a promise to bring food. Michael took off his pack and the Sword then sank onto the sofa, legs stretched out toward the warm fire. It felt like the best sofa he had ever sat in. For once he felt too tired to critique the room’s workmanship.
Garen settled into the opposite side of the sofa, propping his feet on the arm of the nearby chair with a sigh of relief while Falon glanced over the books on the bookshelf. Michael watched her, a little surprised she had the energy to peruse a bookshelf. He found himself wondering who she was and why she came in search of them. It seemed like a job for a scout or professional traveler like A’lan had been. She came across as rugged and strong–traveling would do that to you–but Michael sensed she was cultured and refined under that hard exterior. He could almost picture her in the court of nobles.
A young boy entered and began taking their packs before Michael realized the Sword rested in plain sight against the sofa. The boy misinterpreted his reaction, apologized for startling him, and left with their packs. Michael looked at Max, worried.
“Relax, Michael, he can’t see what he doesn’t know is there,” Max assured him.
The spell of illusion would take some getting used to. “How does it work?”
Max warmed his hands by the fire. “By manipulating Spirit to make others see or not see what I want them to.”
Michael looked at him askance.
Max smiled. “Let me illustrate.” He made some waving gestures with his hands and twiddled his fingers back and forth then said, “Turn around and tell me what you see on the table.”
“Nothing but a candlestick,” Michael replied, noting it was off center, haphazardly placed on the table.
“Garen, what do you see?
“Same thing, just the candlestick.”
“Falon, what do you see?” Max asked.
She smiled with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I see two candlesticks,” she replied.
Michael jumped out of his seat as the second candlestick appeared. Together, the pair were equally spaced on the table. “How is that possible?” he asked as Falon picked up the candlestick.
Max chuckled. “The mind relies on what it knows and senses to determine what it perceives to be true or real. I wrapped one candlestick in Spirit to hide it from your senses. I used the waving of my fingers to simply distract you while I did it. Only when someone revealed the truth to you did it appear. The candlestick would have remained hidden if you had not believed Falon.”
“I didn’t see the second one appear until she picked it up,” Garen said. “Why?”
“Michael took Falon at her word while you needed more proof. Truth is the only defense against a spell of illusion. Secrets are its ally.”
Max’s expression turned serious. “There’s a great deal you must learn, Michael, and very little time for you to learn it, so listen well.”
Max began pacing in front of the fire. “First off you need to understand what magic is and where it comes from. The gift of magic is no different than the gift of singing or painting or swordsmanship. It’s just that, a gift, a natural born talent if you will, and the Creator chooses to bestow these gifts at His discretion.
Michael smiled at Max’s scholarly tone. He envisioned the healer teaching at the university in Tallijor, except for the topic. The fact Max was a wizard still did not quite register. It was all far too surreal, but he loved the man and trusted him completely.
“Man tends to measure things by strength and power,” Max continued, “but the Creator sees devotion and sacrifice as far greater. Magic isn’t inherently good or bad any more than a sword is. It’s the motivations and actions of the person wielding the magic that are important. As is common with man, there are those who use their gifts, magic and non-magic alike, for selfish gain and power. I trust the Creator will deal with people who squander their gifts accordingly, so I do not worry about such people.
“There are magichae, however, that I do worry about. To be quite honest, they often consume my thoughts. There are those who have gone far beyond petty, selfish desire and whose hearts are truly evil. Their lusts for things that should not be desired draw them to the Soulless One. While the magical gifts bestowed by the Creator are benevolent in nature, those from the lord of demons are perverse. His disciples and their associates are known by many names: servants of the dark, dark wizards, hell’s knights, but warlock and witch are the most common.
“I know of several groups that operate collectively for a common goal. The largest and most dangerous of these is the Brotherhood, which I mentioned in your father’s quarters,” Max said, motioning to Garen. “Blinded fools. The whole lot! So desperate for power they do not realize the Soulless One hates all things made by the Creator. If released, he will destroy everything. There are plenty of demons to do his bidding; he has no need for mortals except to release him from his confines. It is one of the Brotherhood that we can thank our current predicament on.”
“Who is he?” asked Michael.
“His name is Aleister Cain, and he was once a student at the Wizards Keep in Shaladon. He wasn’t exceptional in any way, something he could not accept. He grew angry, blaming his teachers for his own failures. His perception blinded him to the truth.”
“Which is?” Garen asked.
“Great power does not make one great; it’s not the sum of the person. Skill and the wisdom to know when to use your power carry more weight than sheer force. His lusts drove him to seek powers unnatural to this world, and now he’s aligned with the Brotherhood. But enough about such dark things,” Max said with a wave of his hand, “we will discuss them more at a later time. Let’s talk more about magic itself.”
And with that Max continued his lecture on magic without any hint the discussion had taken on a dark tone. Michael knew the topic would come up again, and he did not look forward to it.
“Most magichae are Elementals, people who can manipulate the five Elements: Earth, Fire, Water, Air, and Spirit. Spirit is actually the common thread that binds all magichae. Every magichae can manipulate Spirit to some extent, but it manifests itself in different ways for each person. There are some groups of magichae who can only manipulate Spirit and even then in very specific ways.
Male Elementals are most commonly strong in Earth and Fire while females tend to be more powerful in Air and Water. Keep in mind these are generalities and not the rule, but there are very few in the history books with notable strength in three or more Elements. I suspect the Creator designed it that way so we would have to rely on one another. As a point of fact, it took twelve magichae, male and female, combining their powers in all five Elements to create the Eye.”
“So where are my powers?” Michael asked. Part of him feared to ask, but maybe, just maybe, if
his powers never manifested he could go back home to his simple life.
“They are there,” Max said. “You have used them, on occasion, without realizing it.”
“I have not!” Michael said.
“They tend to emerge during times of great stress. Often the wielder does not realize what he is doing the first few times. The wilder might fall but not get hurt, or get angry and somehow the barn catches fire or get attacked and somehow escape unscathed. Once you recognize your powers for what they are, then you can begin to call on them at will and develop control. Provided you’re willing to accept that you have them.”
“I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if fireballs shot out of my hands,” Michael replied.
Max leaned forward, leveling a steel gaze on Michael; one perfected over years of being the headmaster at the Wizard’s Keep in Shaladon.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
A knock at the door stifled Michael’s retort. A stunningly beautiful young woman glided into the room carrying a tray full of food. Her auburn locks radiated in the light, and her green eyes glowed with life.
***
Garen sat with his mouth hanging open; he had never seen a woman so beautiful. He could not take his eyes off of her as she glided to the dining table and set the tray down. Her cream colored skin was so smooth, so perfect; he thought no woman could compare. He found himself tongue-tied when Max introduced her as Alisa, Serin’s daughter. He finally managed to get his name straight after several attempts. Feeling foolish, he wished he had Michael’s confidence with girls. Still, she giggled at his distress and said she liked his name. He felt a sense of loss as her hand left his and she glided out the door.
The group conversed little as they ate. Garen helped himself to three helpings of roast beef, wild boar, and venison complemented by cheeses, fruits, and hot bread. As they were finishing their meal Serin and Alisa joined them. With their appetites overly satisfied they settled into the chairs and sofa near the fire.
“I can get you additional supplies to accommodate four riders tomorrow,” Serin said.
“We will only need supplies for three, my friend,” Max replied.
“Why only three?” Garen asked, his tone sharp.
“Because you have no need to continue this journey,” Max replied. “Time was of the essence this morning, so I did not argue, but you will be able to return home safely when we leave.”
“I’m going with you,” Garen stated, the image of Michael’s dead body hanging from a noose vivid in his mind. He would be going on this journey even if he had to follow them from a distance.
“This is not some simple adventure to Blackstone or Glokstein, Garen. It will be long and dangerous. And we will not be returning to Whitewater’s Forge...ever.”
“It doesn’t matter. If it’s important that Michael reach Shaladon, then I must see him there safely. Once this Aleister guy is defeated, I can return home.”
“This trip will involve magic, something you seemed to have little interest in last night. Why are you so adamant now?”
Max watched him closely. Garen felt a compulsion to confess everything, but he beat it down. He doubted Max would believe him anyway.
“I was surprised last night. If Michael posses’ magic, then I believe it’s for the good of us all. Sounds to me like stopping Aleister is important to all of us. If you fail where does that leave the rest of us? Better to have another sword by my estimation.”
“What of your father? What would he say to your—”
“He already knows. He gave me his blessing last night.”
Michael looked at him. He knew why. But he didn’t know what the vision entailed. And Garen saw no reason to lay more on his shoulders.
“Just like that?” Max asked.
“Well, he wasn’t excited about it,” Garen replied. Truth be told his father had been adamantly against it at first. Garen expected the sun to rise before they saw eye to eye, but surprisingly his father had come around quickly. General Baldwin grilled him hard, challenging every reason given till he forced the truth out. Reluctantly, Garen recounted his vision, leaving no detail out. He had been fearful of what his father would say, but there was no other way to convince him. Afterwards, his father had simply given him a hug and said, “Go pack. A soldier cannot traipse across the Ma’ Shal Dar unprepared.”
Garen’s hand had been on the door latch when General Baldwin spoke. “Wherever your path leads you, son, I know you will make me proud.” With that Jensen Baldwin, one of the greatest generals of modern time, had snapped his fist to his chest in a crisp salute. Garen held on to that last memory for a moment longer.
“He could see this is something I have to do. Why can’t you?”
Max grunted stubbornly, contemplating something for a moment as he sized Garen up. His stare was unnerving, making Garen feel like he sat on a set of scales.
“Are you truly ready for the sacrifices this trip might require?”
“For Michael, for my own country, yes.” He matched Max’s stare. He would not back down from this task, not from the Sword’s calling. “It’s nothing less than he would do for me.”
Max looked from Garen to Michael and back. “Very well, we would be honored to have you.”
***
With the matter settled Max pronounced it was late and rather forcefully encouraged everyone to turn in. Alisa escorted them to their rooms while Serin stayed behind at a tug on his sleeve from Max the others did not notice.
“I’ll get the extra supplies in the morning,” Serin said once he and Max were alone. “Will you be leaving under the cover of night?”
“Oh, no! We’ll have to leave with the sun rising. Those bloody nightstalkers will see to that,” he said with disgust.
Serin jumped out of his seat. “Nightstalkers! What bloody madness have you brought, Max?”
“The kind you want to forget, my friend.”
“Then it’s true. The Final Battle is upon us.” Serin sounded resigned.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Max replied. “A rift has been created, that much is true, and someone has released hell spawn, but that does not equal Armageddon. It’s a rogue warlock attempting to force prophecy to follow his own designs.”
“Does it matter?” Serin said, pacing in front of the fireplace. “Nightstalkers! In Timmaron! What’s next, another siege by dragons?”
“Peace, my friend, peace,” Max replied motioning for Serin to calm down. “The Creator has all things in his hands.”
“Doesn’t seem like it at the moment,” Serin retorted.
“Don’t lose your faith, Serin,” Max replied sternly. This was not the time for the man to start panicking. “The Creator has a great plan, and both you and Alisa have a part in it. It wasn’t luck, fortune or coincidence that placed me at your door when she lay dying. Remember, I wasn’t even planning to be near Anista, but the peasant uprising near Telaruk sent me on a detour. For me to end up in Anista, at your inn, just in time to heal a girl of a fever that could not be healed without magic can only be attributed to the hand of the Creator. And He does not waste such energy. You both have a role to play, and He will see you through this turmoil.”
Serin’s pacing stopped, head hanging low. Max knew how strongly he felt about that debt though the only thing Max ever asked of him was to be faithful to the Creator’s plans and be ready when he was called upon. Ten years past and Serin had always been prepared with supplies when Max came to visit.
“I’m...I’m sorry.” Serin regained his courage. “You’re right, the Creator’s plans shall prevail.”
Max smiled as he grasped his friend’s shoulder. “This will pass, and we will be victorious. Trust me.”
Serin nodded his agreement though he was still shaken. Understandably so. It was not every day someone told you nightmares roamed free. Still, Max knew Serin would stay true to the course.
Leaving Serin to his thoughts, Max mulled over Garen’s statement that he had his father’s bl
essing. He would have discredited the statement except for the fact Garen did not lie. Ever.
He remembered catching Garen and Michael near his house when a certain pie Nacy Maple had left on his window sill disappeared, hot from the oven. When he asked them if they knew anything about the pie Michael paused in answering, but Garen stood up straight and admitted to taking it. He was not challenging Max, simply owning up to the crime. From that moment, Max knew Garen would make a fine leader.
Garen claiming to speak on his father’s behalf in the same manner concerned him. Garen’s desire to help his best friend would not suffice for Baldwin; duty to Timmaron would come first. The general’s acquiesce suggested of matters that did not bode well in Timmaron. He suspected General Baldwin believed Garen would be safer with them than at home.
Max pondered this mystery as he walked the halls to his room. It still nagged at him when he crawled into his bed noticing the warmth. Alisa had put hot plates under his covers. Such a wonderful girl. He shrugged off the mystery, accepting the fact that he could not, unfortunately, see the future and quickly fell asleep.
CHAPTER 11
Life is a Gamble
Michael winced at the bright sunlight flooding the room.
“Rise and shine, boys!” Alisa said loudly, tying back the last curtain.
“Was that necessary,” Michael growled, hiding under his pillow, seeking the darkness. She yanked it off his head.
“Well, someone had to get your lazy butts out of bed.” She slapped Garen on the behind. “You might say I drew the short straw with Falon, but um...,” she glanced at Garen, in nothing but his underclothes, and smiled a mischievous smile, “I think I actually got the better end of the deal.” She slipped out the door leaving Garen with his mouth hanging open.