Thal thought for a moment before he replied. “I would guess that it was the sword that did it, since this power of the sword to open a doorway directly and instantly to a place far away disrupts all known laws of time and space. The sword, in the act of opening the door, brought Rokwolf’s time stream into sync with ours, allowing them to enter his room. I’d bet that now that the door is closed, they are caught in that moment, unable to move until we open this door. That also means . . . ,” he started but stopped for a moment, lost in his own thoughts.
“What does it mean?” Klaybear asked.
“What?” Thal said, startled. “Sorry, my mind wandered off. We are about to open the door and let Tevvy go do his job.”
“And you were wondering what would happen,” Tevvy noted, “when we open this door, and then we got sidetracked into a highly theoretical discussion about time and the sword that makes no sense to me.”
“Never mind,” Thal said, “but it was you who asked the question that sidetracked our conversation.”
“Let’s just open the door and get on with it!” Tevvy exclaimed.
“All right,” Thal said, “brace yourselves.” Thal placed his right hand into the indentation to open the door. Again, Klaybear perceived a subliminal flash of violet light, then the door slid open. The cavern outside the door shook and bucked, but the chamber where they stood did not move.
“Interesting,” Thal said simply, as they watched the cavern floor heave and shake, shards of stone falling to the floor. The motion calmed, then stopped, while the dust settled more slowly. Thal raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t try to explain,” Tevvy said before Thal could speak, “I wouldn’t understand the explanation anyway.” He looked at them for a moment before speaking. “I’ll be back in an hour.” He turned and walked slowly up the ramp and disappeared from view.
Thal and Klaybear turned and moved back to the main chamber. “What an amazing room,” Thal whispered.
“Its creation?” Klaybear asked, “or its contents?”
“Both,” Thal replied, moving toward a pedestal near the door. “Take a look at this,” he said after a moment. “It is the original.”
“Original what?” Klaybear asked, now joining him and looking down.
“The original prophecy,” he whispered, “and it was corrected by Shigmar,” he said, pointing, “‘Darkness and evil surround them, light guides them, rumor precedes them, destruction and disturbance follow them; choose to aid them to suffer, choose to oppose them to die,’ and notice here, at the beginning, the word is dhund, meaning ‘they will end’ the kingdom of Gar.”
“We should copy this,” Klaybear said.
“Not copy,” Thal said, “make a rubbing. If we copy it, others could make the claim that Ghelvon did: that we altered it to hide our true intentions, since they fear us.” He took a bit of charcoal from one of his pouches, and pulled a blank piece of parchment out of his robe. “Help me hold this in place over the stone.”
Gar howled; flames exploded from his body as he reached out to grab the two who fled. The room around him caught fire and started to burn; he took no notice, as he had to knit the pattern of his own mind back together before it unraveled. He knew instantly who had done it; he also knew precisely where they were. He started to open a doorway into the space, but he could not. For some reason, he could not access the space, and instantly, he knew why. Rage filled him again, exploded as flames from his body, blowing out the side of the room and inn. He howled, and the ground shook, making the patrons of the inn who were trying to flee, and all those in Shigmar, to reel about drunkenly. He recognized the “curse” that sent him into the underworld thwarting his desire for vengeance, hedging him up from all sides. He howled a third time, and the inn, although made of stone, burned around him, turning in seconds to ash, burning anyone still in the inn or nearby out of existence. As the ash collapsed, he fled in the only direction he could go, the “curse” forcing him, chasing him, tormenting him into madness, back into his prison deep underground, back to Kolu. The few of his servants who entered his hall, especially those who did not notice his blazing anger, burned to ash in the face of his fury; the hall melted and rained fire from above, gobs of liquid, superheated stone crashing into the floor, filling the floor with holes, a floor that bucked and heaved under his feet.
After a time, his anger cooled, his sense returned, and he reached out to re-establish the compulsion set on two of the chosen, but he could not reach them; he could see them, but something prevented him from touching either of them. One was sleeping, watched over by her mate; the other moved through the sewers of Shigmar, nearing some of his servants. He tried to reach the other chosen, but they were each as inaccessible as the two he had previously controlled. His anger flamed again, recognizing why he could not touch any of them. His servants, from the least to those nearest to him fled to the farthest reaches of Kolu, knowing that the tantrums would continue for days.
When his anger cooled again, and his sense returned again, he reached out again, but not to any of the chosen, rather to one of his servants, stationed in Shigmar, working to bring another of his plans into motion. He could still thwart them; he could still act. He sent a warning to his servant that the enemy was watching, ordering him to act sooner than they had planned. He could still salvage his plans from the wreck the chosen had made of them; still destroy one of them and break out of his prison when all of creation crumbled again into chaos.
THE END of Chosen of the One. The story continues in The Staff of Shigmar: Book 2 of The Redemption.
Staff of Shigmar
Book 2 of The Redemption
By Clyde B. Northrup
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 Clyde B. Northrup.
To my dear wife, who has supported me through the entire process. . . .
Prophecy of the Chosen
At the center of the ages come those chosen of the One, they who will end Gar’s dominion; two from my own order: one more powerful than all others, doubled of another; one who opens the forbidden way, sprung from my home; one from Karble, myth reborn, dear to the people, bearing the living waters; one from Melbarth, fire of logic burning in his mind; three from the new order, one king, one queen, mirroring each other, one aperu slayer, sacrifice for another; and the cunning mouse, who penetrates all secrets; all maimed and marked by the burden of their choosing.
Darkness and evil go with them, light guides them, rumor precedes them, destruction and disturbance follow them; choose to aid them to suffer, choose to oppose them to die. . . .
Prophecy of Shigmar
Prologue
The young are foolish in that they allow feeling and prejudice to dictate their actions, landing themselves in one difficulty after another. . . .
Tarlana, Headmistress of Shigmar, 167-194
Atno 3500, Spring
The sun rose above the horizon, casting long, pink shadows across the road north out of the village of Artowgar; the peddler shook his reins, urging his mule along, confident that his servants, who lived in a tower about 20 miles west of the village, would soon discover the boy he had left in the care of the village innkeeper late the previous night, the boy they were meant to train and adopt as their own son and apprentice, one of the chosen. The peddler jerked his head up, his eyes focusing on the empty air just above and in front of him, as if he were looking at something only he could see, his head cocked, listening.
“I’m on my way there, now,” he spoke to the empty air.
“I just delivered him to the innkeeper, who will see that he is found by our servants,” he said after a moment’s silence, as if he were answering an unseen, unheard inquiry.
“Has he?” the peddler replied, shaking his head sadly. He listened for another moment, then his eyes went distant, as if he were seeing far, far away.
“I can see no other alternative,” he sighed, “and it will have many unfortunate consequences.” His eyes focused again on the air above and before
him, air that still appeared to be empty.
“I will take care of it now,” he noted a few moments later, “they must be protected at all costs,” he added, raising his right hand and gesturing; an archway of blinding white light opened before his mule, large enough for both mule and cart. The archway shimmered a moment and resolved itself into a different country road, many leagues to the northwest, where the rain still fell and the sun had not yet risen. The mule plodded through the archway without missing a step or even taking notice of the abrupt change of location and weather; the peddler pulled his hood over his head, smelling the moist air, heavy with salt, and reaching for the cart’s brake as the road plunged steeply down toward the shore of the Western Ocean and the small fishing village that was the peddler’s destination.
A hungry, crackling sound caused the old wetha to look up from her knitting and set the colorful wool and her wooden needles aside.
“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice quavering; she stood slowly, her hands on the smooth arms of her rocking chair as she peered blearily into the shadows in the direction of the sound. As quickly as it had come, the crackling sound ceased, and a hissing, bubbling voice spoke a word that she did not understand; purple light enveloped her, putting her into a deep, dreamless sleep. She slumped back into her wooden rocking chair, causing a sudden creaking sound that slowed and then fell silent as the chair stopped moving.
A figure, hooded and cloaked, stepped out of the shadows, its feet flapping gently on the scrubbed pine planks of the wetha’s sitting room floor; the figure held a diamond-topped rod in its two-fingered hand. A second figure, also hooded and cloaked, followed the first, its booted feet clacking with each step across the floor; two points of red light were clearly visible inside the shadows of its hood.
The first figure looked around the room, then focused on the old wetha. “My lord,” his voice, hissing and bubbling, began, “what do we here? What does she have to do with the chosen?” he finished, pointing the diamond-topped rod at the wetha now slumped and asleep.
“You will place a compulsion on her mind,” the second figure answered, his voice suave and sophisticated, “to poison a wetha named Marissa; she will be calling for her soon to deliver twin sons,” he went on, moving next to the wetha and slipping a small bottle into the pocket of her smock. “Make sure she knows where I have placed it, but does not remember it before or after–she always gives them a bitter drink to ease the birth; it will be a simple matter to add the poison to the drink.”
“But, my lord,” the first hissed, “have we not already altered the two about to be born in the future? How do you expect to poison them in the past, knowing they already exist in the future?”
A hand shot out from the second figure and gripped the first around his neck, but the second did not choke the first, only threatened him. “You dare question me?” the second growled, all marks of sophistication gone from his voice, his red eyes so bright they illuminated the green face of the first.
“No . . . my lord!” the first hissed. “I do not understand the subtleties of moving through time.”
The second released the first; his eyes cooling and darkening, no longer visible in the shadows of his hood. “If not for your ability to use that rod, I would destroy you where you stand,” the second noted in a calm voice, “now, do what I asked!” he snapped, the red of his eyes momentarily visible.
“At once, my lord,” the first replied, moving closer to the wetha, the diamond-topped rod surrounded by a sickly green light. The wetha twitched, although still caught in the sleep orthek.
For a time, while the first worked, neither figure spoke, until the first straightened and the light of the rod winked out.
“It is done, my lord,” the first noted in his hissing, bubbling voice.
The second did not move. “I have every confidence that my meddling brother,” he spat the word with derision, his red eyes again visible in the shadows, “will arrive in time to save the two brats; in fact, I want him to save them, since the chosen will do more to further my cause than all of my most faithful servants combined, although they will believe they are doing my father’s work!” he laughed, a low guttural sound, and the first hissed and bubbled in what must have been his version of laughter. The second raised one hand and gestured; a black archway opened before him, and the two figures disappeared into the black doorway, the archway winking out an instant later.
“Something’s gone wrong,” the old midwife told Delgart; the tall wethi stood by the door into his house looking up at the gray-haired wetha, wringing his calloused hands. His muscled hands and arms were bare and bore many tiny burns; he wore a leather apron that fell past his knees and was covered with blackened, burned spots. His sandy-brown hair was long and straight and tied by a leather thong at the base of his neck; his gray eyes were bright. A gangly boy who was a spitting image of his father stood clutching the leather apron; the fires of the forge had burned low while they had waited for word from the midwife.
“We must be allowed to see her,” Delgart said, his voice hoarse.
“Father, what’s wrong?” the boy asked.
Both adults ignored the boy.
“I might be able to save the babies,” the midwife said, “but only by sacrificing their mother.”
“Babies?” the elder Delgart asked, surprised.
“Twins,” the midwife replied, “which is why they have come early . . . ,” she added and halted when someone banged loudly on the doors to the smithy.
The elder Delgart went to and unbarred the doors; the boy, Delgart, followed his father more slowly, his gray eyes wide and staring at the midwife; his father pushed open one door, and the peddler rushed in out of the rain.
“Oh, it’s you,” the elder Delgart said, recognizing the peddler and taking his hand. The father tried to speak, to tell his friend what was happening, but only a sob came from his mouth. The peddler, seeing his young friend’s distress, embraced him, and the embrace gave him the courage to speak. “I don’t know what to do,” he told the peddler.
“You must decide now,” the midwife said, “the longer you wait, the less chance of saving the children.”
The peddler released Delgart. “Let’s go and see,” he said in his calm voice, shooting Delgart a reassuring smile; there was something in those deep blue eyes that caused Delgart to smile in return. He led the peddler and the young boy into the house, following the old midwife into the room where Marissa lay. The elder Delgart sobbed again on seeing his wife looking so wasted, so near death; he went at once to her side and took her hand, feeling how cold and damp her delicate hand had become, seeing how pale her skin was. Her chest only moved feebly.
“She has been poisoned,” the peddler noted in his calm voice.
“Poisoned!” the midwife exclaimed. “That is not possible! I have been with her the entire time!”
“Nevertheless,” the peddler replied, “I know poison when I see it; you must take the boys before it is too late.”
“Boys?” the midwife asked, surprised. “How do you know . . . ?”
“No time!” the peddler interrupted. “Quickly! Before it’s too late for the babies!” He touched Delgart’s shoulder. “Take your son away, and hurry! We’ll call you back when it’s done!”
Delgart nodded once, kissed Marissa, then pulled his son with him out of the room and closed the door, leaning against it.
“What’s happened to mother?” the boy asked.
“She’s very sick, son.”
“What about my brothers, are they sick, too?”
“Maybe,” he answered, not noticing the boy’s calling them his brothers.
“Mother looks like Grandma did, before she went away.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is mother going away?”
Delgart shrugged.
“I don’t want her to go away, like Grandma.”
“Nor do I, son,” he sobbed, squatting and embracing his son, “nor do I; I can’t imagine wha
t I’ll do without her, how I’ll take care of you.”
“And my brothers.”
Delgart laughed through his tears and sobs. “And your brothers.” He stood, holding his son in his arms. For a time, they stood this way, the boy patting the father on his back while the father shed silent tears, the boy’s head resting on the father’s strong shoulder.
The door opened a while later, and the peddler beckoned them both back inside.
“We were in time to save your sons,” the peddler spoke in a hushed voice.
“And Marissa?” Delgart asked.
The peddler’s expression did not change. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “You should go to her before . . . , she is holding her newborn sons,” he went on, changing what he was going to say.
Delgart entered the room still carrying his older boy, looking down at his wife, Marissa; her face had no color, her skin was waxy and hung loose on her face, and he could barely recognize that it was her. The old midwife brushed Marissa’s hair, although it had lost its luster and was limp instead of wavy. The two newborn boys were nursing at her breasts, propped in place by blankets and pillows; one of Marissa’s hands was placed lovingly on each head, one with hair like Delgart’s, the other with hair like hers. Sensing his approached, her brown eyes sought and found his; she tried to smile and speak, tried to say his name.
“Del–,” was all she managed, and the last air escaped from her lungs, and the light faded from her eyes, still focused on his.
Delgart sank to his knees beside the bed, letting his boy slide to the floor beside him, his face falling onto the pillow next to Marissa’s, the light of his world going out.
“Welcome, chosen of the One,” the peddler whispered, placing one hand on the head of the elder Delgart, and one hand on the head of the younger, letting feelings of comfort flow out of himself and into them both. He turned away, leaving the house and the forge to unload the goods he had brought and stack them carefully inside the smithy. When he was finished, he went out into the rain, climbed onto the seat of his cart, urged his mule forward, and disappeared through a blinding white archway.
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 30