Wothlondia Rising: The Anthology

by Gary F. Vanucci

  Chapter 6

  Distant Familiarity

   

   “What if we were to attempt to recover the phylactery ourselves?” Tiyarnon voiced aloud what all three of them had been thinking.

  “I been itchin’ fer somethin’ to hit fer days now,” Rolin responded in typical dwarven fashion, adjusting his helmet atop his head as he spat out the words. He scratched his ever-whitening beard and looked to Nimaira, who was hosting the meeting now that she had finished teaching a class. Her silver hair hung over her shoulder, tied back in a pony-tail. The half-elf sat in a chair adjacent to her desk and pondered the question, her eyes glancing down at a parchment she held that evidently demanded her attention, before turning to face her guests.

  Nimaira Silvershade was the current Guild Mistress of Wizardry, deservedly so, and was quite possibly one of the most dominant mages in all of Wothlondia. Here at the University of Wizardry, she was responsible for instructing and teaching the highest level of spell-casting to those who had passed their previous courses. She taught everything from the lowest to the most advanced spells available within the school of the mystic arts, and could be found tutoring novices as well as the very best of the best.

  As the half-elf woman reviewed the parchment, attempting in vain to give it the proper consideration it needed, she unconsciously crossed her legs. The lower half of her garment slid aside to reveal a shapely leg that neither Tiyarnon nor Rolin could miss. How naturally beautiful the half-elves were, Tiyarnon thought, shaking his head in admission as he admired her beauty. There was no denying that Nimaira was stunning. In fact, she was one of the most attractive people Tiyarnon had ever laid eyes upon, but she was extremely unassuming when it came to her attire as she usually wore robes that covered most of her body, especially while she was teaching.

  He read her face as it turned slightly red in embarrassment at the incident and he looked away to allow her to recover. Rolin, however, did not.

  “Whatcha’ thinkin’? I ain’t seen a beautiful woman a’fore? We got plenty of ’em in me clan at Eisenhaum,” Rolin added, with a chuckle from Tiyarnon. The dwarf was referring of course to the city of dwarves within the Brimstone Mountains which the Hardbeards called their home, as had Rolin once, many decades ago. “Some of ’em even got beards!”

  “I will give it a go,” answered the half-elf to the High Priest’s initial question concerning the phylactery, while smiling at the dwarf’s comment. She then pulled the whole of her silvery hair out of her pony-tail and shook it free. She proceeded to make a ridiculous face, further poking fun and allowing herself a certain freedom that she’d experienced over the years with these two, her closest friends.

  “If your frail human body can handle it,” she added in a teasing way, directing her comment specifically to Tiyarnon, who rolled his eyes and coughed as the half-elven woman laughed in a genuine manner. It was common knowledge to Rolin and the half-elf that Tiyarnon was at least one hundred years old. This was universally old for a human, but the High Priest of the Sun God had seemed to slow his aging process in his early forties. The other two knew this because they had traveled the whole of Wothlondia together, prior to the assault of Ashenclaw and the scorching drakes. But how he had done it was a strange and unknown mystery to them both, as Tiyarnon had never offered an explanation for it, nor did they press the issue.

  Nimaira rubbed her eyes and refocused on the task set before her now. “Rumor has it that they were seen by several eyewitnesses heading south out of Oakhaven?”

  “Aye,” Tiyarnon said, nodding. Rolin was mirroring this gesture as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “There be more to this than meets the eye, don’t ye be doubtin’,” the dwarf added, while wiping his nose and scratching his chin.

  Nevertheless, Tiyarnon, the stubborn and wise High Priest of The Shimmering One, had a lofty sense of honor and felt responsible for his apprentices’ actions.

  “Those priests were my responsibility,” said the man, eyes still on the floor and leaning on his staff. Nimaira moved away from her desk and gathered a few things, threw them into a leather rucksack, then strapped it to her back.

  “I have a few instructions for my colleagues and then we can go,” she continued, moving toward the door and disappearing through it.

  “Inform Aldranon and Aeldur of our intentions and tell them we will be back as soon as we can,” Tiyarnon instructed Rolin Hardbeard. The dwarf merely nodded and then headed out the door and down the spiral stairway where the half-elf had just gone. He proceeded out into the afternoon sun. Tiyarnon then sat alone with his thoughts as a bell sounded in the distance.

   

   

  It had only been last evening when the apprentices had reportedly left the city. The guards posted at the gates couldn’t really give a good description of them, as they were always more concerned with who was coming into Oakhaven rather than leaving it. But by all accounts, the men stationed had at the gates had indeed seen Thaurion in their midst, since they collectively described a man with blonde, curly hair who appeared to be leading the others.

  Such a promising young acolyte, Tiyarnon thought, his mind filled with recent memories of Thaurion. He recalled how this individual in particular had shown great potential and loyalty to the Sun God. That sort of reverence reminded him of one other, whom he’d mentored many years ago.

  The thought of this saddened and frustrated the High Priest as he attempted to focus on his meditations and prayers instead. It was at least a brief respite from the grief he carried now. Shortly thereafter, he descended the stairwell and went out into the teeming streets of Oakhaven’s Enlightenment District. From thence he walked through to the main courtyard, passing right by the Hall of the High Council, and on to the gates. He mentioned something to one of the guards, who hurried off, vanishing amidst the multitude of people.

  Rolin and Nimaira appeared just as the guard returned with three magnificent horses in tow. This made Rolin frown—he hated traveling on horseback. Nimaira had quite the opposite reaction as she very much enjoyed riding the beautiful, equine creatures.

  “I’m hopin’ yer not intendin’ on makin’ these horses speed, are ye?” Rolin asked in a phony threatening tone, knowing full well the answer to the question.

  Nimaira looked to Tiyarnon and leaned in, whispering something to him that Rolin could not make out. However he guessed correctly what it was about when his two companions shared a thinly-disguised giggle.

  “You’ll be just fine, my dwarven friend,” Tiyarnon encouraged.

  “Besides, little one, it’s not like we haven’t done this in years past,” Nimaira teased further.

  Rolin, struggling to climb onto the back of his horse, frowned at the pet name she had called him. He did not like it at all, and never had, not since the first time she had used it. But he’d never mentioned his displeasure at it and it was too late now, he figured, settling uncomfortably into his saddle and grabbing the reins of the horse awkwardly.  

  He watched as the other two mounted their steeds. Then the gates of Oakhaven swung wide to allow them passage. Moments later all that remained of their presence was a cloud of dust, which quickly dissipated in the cool breeze of Winter’s Veil. A new year was coming in Wothlondia and Tiyarnon hoped that 66 P.A. would be an even better year than the last for the citizens of Oakhaven, and for the whole of Wothlondia.

   

   

  The three of them traveled for hours heading south along the River Divide, whose current ran in a southerly direction hundreds of feet below them. The river was used by many to bring goods and services to other towns for trade along its banks. The three bridges that crossed the River Divide, including Nature’s Pass, were at extremely high points where ships could easily pass beneath them.

  Nimaira repeatedly used her significant magical abilities to propel the horses forward at increased speeds for several minutes at a time to hasten their pursuit. This, of course, made Rolin fee
l very disgruntled. To him it was bad enough to be obliged to ride a horse at all, let alone having it run at two to three times its normal speed for minutes on end. The dwarf did not like it at all—not eighty five years ago, and certainly not today.

   Tiyarnon and the others concluded that the priests had not taken the northern bridge, as the guards or patrols outside the city would have spotted them and reported this as being the case. Eyewitnesses explicitly expressed that the group headed south out of Oakhaven the evening before last. And they most likely would not have crossed the southernmost bridge. They would be too exposed to detection as the south was barren and known to be full of wild beasts, roaming those open plains.

  This all meant that they had to have travelled over the River Divide at Nature’s Pass, which would have had them passing directly through the heart of Amrel and close to the forest elves who made their homes there. The elves of Amrel would have certainly noticed the acolytes within their domain, although such a route would have also given the travellers cover.  No one—humanoid or otherwise—passed through Amrel without King Dorinthal’s knowledge, for his eyes were vigilant and ever-present.

  Tiyarnon confidently spurred his horse further south toward the elven-made bridge, hoping his theory proved to be sound.

   

   

   Tiyarnon could see the bridge in the distance. It was a beautifully carved bridge made from several trees that had fallen… or so the rumor went. Tiyarnon and a few other historians believed there to be ancient elven magic at work there, though this had never been verified.

  As they got to within a hundred paces of the amazing bridge, Tiyarnon stopped and dismounted. From beneath his coat he removed his holy symbol. It was a depiction of a simplistic orb representing the Sun, with waves of sunlight emanating around its entirety in a symmetrical pattern. As he uttered a prayer to The Shimmering One, his eyes lit up with a radiant light. The horses whinnied, and Rolin was almost thrown from his mount as the brightness grew with intensity, but he managed to hold on, his short fingers clamped like a vise around the horse’s reins.

  “I’ve been fightin’ to stay on the beast’s back with the wind in me beard for the last ten hours and now yer tryin’ a different method to toss me from its back?” Rolin growled accusingly.

  “I am sorry, my friend,” Tiyarnon apologized in response to his oldest companion’s look of disgust. “But I sense other holy symbols of The Shimmering One nearby—perhaps within only a few miles. If we carry on at this pace, we may be able to catch them before they enter the thickest part of the forest of Amrel.”

  The three of them understood that the forest was not very dense immediately after crossing into Amrel, but rapidly thickened thereafter. Tiyarnon hoped to catch up with them sooner rather than later.

  “That be good news,” Rolin stated. “I’m fer getting’ off this durned beast as soon as I be able!” he added, pulling the reins to redirect the horse east across Nature’s Pass.

  Nimaira followed suit as Tiyarnon slowly remounted his horse, a beautiful creature of chestnut hue and one that he had grown attached to over the years. Nimaira noted the effort which the elderly priest exerted in order to climb onto his steed, and speculated if this mission was as foolish as she believed it was. She shook the thought from her mind and continued, following the men with whom she had made a good living and enough fortune with which to begin construction on what was now the University of Wizardry.  Yes, these two had often made unwise choices but, despite that fact, they all three survived.

  The companions rode in silence for the next ten minutes and Nimaira continued to feel a strange sense of trepidation that bordered on hopelessness. She noticed that with each trot of her horse’s hooves, the doubt mounted within her.

  Why are we even doing this? contemplated Nimaira, her wide blue eyes expanding even further. She spent the next few minutes quelling the emotion inside her and calmed down again.

  Rolin Hardbeard trotted along next to his two closest friends. His thoughts suddenly turned inward to his family—his dwarven kin—and he began to give them some consideration, feeling strangely uneasy about having left home those many years ago. He had not seen or heard from them in decades, and now he began to think now of how he had ‘abandoned’ them, as his father and brother often put it, and about how he came to be where he was now.

  This series of disconcerting thoughts had come to him as if from nowhere. He felt suddenly panicked and even slightly guilty about these past events. Nimaira and Tiyarnon had told him repeatedly that he left the confines of the Brimstone Mountains with nothing but the best of intentions, but he still felt like he had forsaken his family and kin, and they echoed that sentiment. It had been more than a decade after Ashenclaw had attacked Wothlondia, and was right at the time when the war between the giants and dwarves was nearing its end. Nonetheless, he had intended only to seek to help the people of Wothlondia rebuild, though his kin often misunderstood his leaving as cowardice or even disloyalty. These emotions had not surfaced into the hardened dwarf’s thoughts for decades.

  His troubles quickly shifted from the past to the present as his horse once more bucked and threatened to throw him from its back. He steeled his grip on the reins and steadied the beast, then tried to rid his mind of the demons from his bygone days.

  Tiyarnon, ignorant of the mindset and doubts mounting within the others, looked skyward, searching for a sign from The Shimmering One that he and his friends had made the correct decision to pursue the young acolytes. He felt confused and second-guessed himself about choosing those apprentices. Momentarily he doubted that they were worthy at all. He wondered if he had made the right choices as his horse trotted after his two friends.

  He looked up at the waning sun and shook the feeling away, only to be visited by something new as a heavy sensation of guilt washed over him. Had he let these young priests down? Was The Shimmering One abandoning his hopes and turning his eyes elsewhere? It was a lingering and confusing set of emotions with which the High Priest struggled this late afternoon, and he did not know exactly why it was happening.

   

   

  None of these human priests of The Shimmering One, nor even the other creature masquerading as one of the holy men, were worthy of carrying him, Cyrza concluded, though he did imagine how savory it would taste to turn them into his master’s playthings. The thought of consuming the one who now carried him, so pure and full of honor, was especially titillating to him. But, alas, it was not to be. He wanted to return to his former host, for this was the will of his lord and master—Sammael. The body of Sadreth was his and he wanted the human back… if human he could still be called, chuckled Cyrza, knowing the answer to that question.

  Then Cyrza sensed a familiar presence approaching. He felt nearing the minds and emotions of the three he hated most in all the planes of existence. Oh, how those three had made things hard for him early on. How sweet it would be to own each and every one of them—those who had avoided his temptations and offers for so many years! It was Cyrza’s greatest fantasy to caress their innermost desires and allow them each to tap into that part of their souls. He wanted so badly to tug at their pride as he had done to so many before them… to possess them as easily as he had done their friend, Sadreth.

  This was not to be—it was not part of their future, realized Cyrza, as the young acolytes of the accursed Sun God continued their journey, so near as to cross the River Divide at the southernmost bridge within minutes. All of this just so he could be reunited with his former host… how sweet that would be.

  Instead of attempting to possess any of the three, Cyrza immediately decided upon another course of action and began to slowly project thoughts of doubt and frustration upon them. It was the simplest of matters for the demon that was trapped within the amulet. He had spent countless years around these three in particular, and had seen their intimate secrets and desires. It was mere child’s play to manipulate them, and this was but the precursor t
o something more delightful. For Cyrza meant to destroy them once and for all this day. With that thought, he projected once more onto the trio of friends and sent emotions into them that tugged at their deepest conceit.

  Their hubris will be the death of them, thought Cyrza from inside the amulet which dangled from the length of chain in the young priest’s hands. A sickening laughter filled that dimensional space within that only Cyrza could hear. It echoed within for a long time.