The Redemption, Volume 1

by Clyde B Northrup

  “You recognize me,” Sir Opnimon said without preamble, “good, that will make things easier, and I have little time.”

  The Wesento turned from the door to regard the newcomer and looked directly into his laughing blue eyes; he wore a friendly, reassuring smile, making it easy for the Wesento to speak.

  “I only know the name,” the Wesento replied. “I was told to treat you as if you were our founder reborn.”

  Sir Opnimon nodded once. “That will do,” he noted, then hurried on. “I am here concerning one of your apprentices, named Blakstar.”

  “Yes, one of our more promising,” the Wesento replied.

  “When is he scheduled to go to the Mountain?”

  “This coming fall. . . .”

  Sir Opnimon began shaking his head before the Wesento could finish his sentence, causing him to break off. “Events are rushing forward,” Sir Opnimon said. “He must go now, or all will be lost.”

  “Now, my lord?” the Wesento replied. “There is instruction that he must receive before leaving. . . .”

  “How much time?” Sir Opnimon interrupted.

  “Two weeks, at least.”

  “We don’t have that much time–you have five days to get him ready,” Sir Opnimon replied with a tone of finality that brooked no argument, and one the Wesento understood.

  “Yes, my lord,” he replied, inclining his head.

  “Go and make the arrangements,” Sir Opnimon added, “then return with the Fereghen, but only the Fereghen–no others, not even his advisor. There are other plans that must be set in motion, other contingencies that we must make while there is still time.”

  The Wesento bowed stiffly and turned to go; Sir Opnimon stopped him.

  “One more thing,” he added, “do not tell anyone else that I am here; tell Wothgart only my name: he, like you, will understand what that means.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” the Wesento replied, then left the room.

  Atno 3523, Early Spring

  The air beneath Rykelle was thick and too warm for this early in the season; the day had been unseasonably warm, owing to the winds blowing from the south, off the Inner Sea. Two small figures, almost invisible, flitted from shadow to shadow, trying to evade members of the local Thieves’ Guild, who pursued them through the sewers. The first stopped the second, then stooped beneath one of the many large pipes that passed out of the walls and ceiling of the service access, turned and pushed open a panel. The second crawled into the small opening and the first followed, closing the panel behind him. They crawled in silence for a time, the small space beneath the pipe leading them into another small hallway, and this hallway had even more pipes running through it than the one they had left, but the hallway did not seem to go anywhere. They waited, motionless and silent, until they were both sure this new hallway was empty before pulling open the grate and dropping to the floor on silent, bare feet. The first, slightly larger than the second, led his companion to a small, out of the way corner of this second hallway, where they could huddle together out of sight of anyone who might stumble into it, but where they could watch in both directions.

  “Do you still think coming with me was a good idea?” the first whispered into the ear of the second.

  The second placed her arms around the neck of the first, then kissed him quietly; she laid her head gently on his shoulder. “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be,” she whispered, “nor anyone else I’d rather be with.”

  The chest of the first puffed up with pride; he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer to his side, then he returned her kiss. Although it was dark to most eyes, to their eyes the hallway glowed dimly with violet light, and they were clearly visible to each other. Their eyes met, and for a long while they simply stared into each other’s eyes; understanding grew slowly in the mind of the first, and with that understanding he noticed that he was now grinning stupidly. He shook his head and looked away down the hallway, but the action did not remove the wide, idiotic grin from his face. He tried stretching his mouth open, as if he were yawning, but this caused his female companion to laugh softly.

  “It took you long enough,” she whispered, smiling up at him.

  Her puzzling statement did not help him stop grinning. “What do you mean?” he whispered back.

  She grinned in response, pulled his face toward hers, and kissed him more soundly than she had ever done before. He felt his knees weaken, and was glad he was sitting, and the grin on his face got wider and stupider when she released him.

  “I meant,” she went on, fixing her eyes on his, her tone intense for a whisper, “that it is about time you recognized how you felt about me; I was beginning to think that you would never come around,” she added with a slight pout in her voice.

  “What?” he hissed, slightly shocked. “No, we . . . , I mean, I . . . , that is, they have kept us so busy, that I . . . ,” he tried to go on, but she stopped him with another kiss.

  “Don’t,” she said, “I was only teasing,” she added with a mischievous smile. “I was a little worried that you might . . . , since we will soon graduate . . . , you will leave, and you will forget about me.” The pout returned to her eyes and lips, but she could hold this pose for only a moment before smiling again.

  “Absurd!” he replied with mock anger. “We were made for each other,” he went on in a more serious voice, “so how could I possibly forget you?”

  She looked up at him again, her eyes wide. “Do you mean that?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

  He looked into her eyes for a long moment before he replied. “Yes, you know I do.” He noticed that the wide, silly grin was back on his face.

  Her face mirrored his. “I just wanted . . . ,” she began, but what she wanted, she never said, for both were distracted by an odd sound, like branches breaking or dry bones cracking, and both saw an archway of absolute blackness open in the hallway; out of this archway stepped two figures: one was taller, glowing brightly, and the second shorter, whose glow was not as bright as the first. The shorter, dimmer figure seemed to raise one of its arms; a ball of light, the same brightness as the figure, flew toward them, engulfed them, and snuffed-out all conscious thought.

  “You handle the little potuka,” the taller figure growled, “and I’ll take care of this one,” he gestured. “I need only set things up so that, when the time is right, I can tie him directly to me, and through him, keep watch on the others.”

  The second figure said nothing; he nodded, which caused his large, bulbous head to sway behind him as he stretched out the rod over the awema and began to alter the patterns of her mind.

  Atno 3523, Summer

  The kortexi shone like a miniature, golden sun in the night sky, riding upon his white stallion, the golden chain mail he wore clinking musically as his stallion cantered across the stone bridge toward the granite dome known as Morokolu. The strange-looking, green-skinned monsters standing as sentries in ornamental sconces the entire length of the bridge shied away from the brilliance of the lone kortexi, whose glow chased away the shadows that hung heavy on the Mariskal although it was midday; the very presence of this figure of golden light pierced the hearts of these creatures with fear, a feeling that had become unknown to them. Many of the sentries threw down their weapons and hurled themselves over the parapet of the bridge and into the murky, slow-moving water of the swamp, risking encounters with the negumflum, whose name meant floating teeth of death, rather than facing the kortexi. The steel-shod hooves of the great white stallion echoed hollowly on the stone pavement of the bridge, further frightening the swamp wedaterem, who acted as sentries lining the bridge; the kortexi rode with his visor down, an ominous sign, short lance held in one hand, his long sword held in the other. The stallion’s reins were wrapped around the horn of his white leather saddle, and the shining figure guided his mount with his knees, but no one challenged him . . . yet; all were too surprised, or too frightened, by his sudden appearance to do more than stare at him as
he rode past, marveling at his brashness.

  As he came to the southern end of the bridge, he halted, facing what must have been an embassy from the fortress; one of them came forward, with his right hand held up, palm out.

  “Kortexi,” a harsh voice began, “what do you here?”

  “I have come,” he replied, after settling his lance in a socket next to his stirrup and raising his visor, “to speak with your master.”

  “Why?”

  “My business is for his ears alone, but I come on behalf of the Wesento.”

  A momentary silence followed the kortexi’s declaration broken suddenly by harsh, guttural laughter that echoed all around. The kortexi looked around and saw that the swamp wedaterem had come up behind him, blocking his escape; he looked up and saw that the huge cypress trees were filled with more of the creatures. Many of them started to move toward him.

  “And if your master,” the kortexi added hastily, “desires to hear my master’s message and you kill me, what will he do to you then?” He left the question hanging in the echoing silence that followed.

  The monsters closing on him stopped as the import of his words dawned on them; the wethi who had spoken motioned and barked a command; the creatures withdrew, grumbling.

  “Dismount and follow,” the wethi commanded, “but if you try anything foolish, the wedaterem will have kortexi for lunch!” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the entrance to Morokolu, sending a messenger ahead. They stopped at one of the guard houses next to the bridge while the wethi issued orders to his underlings, which took much longer than it should have, since many of his underlings were also in fear of the kortexi’s shining presence. By the time they reached the gate, the morgle was already there waiting for him.

  “Welcome, Sir Fregren,” the morgle spoke in a voice that hissed and bubbled, “we have been expecting you.”

  The visor clapped shut; the sound echoed dully in the ramp cut into the ground that lead to the gate of Morokolu. “How . . . expecting?” he stuttered.

  “Yes,” Motodu replied, “we invited you, although you might not remember the invitation. We do, however, have an important service that you can perform for us, a service for your master,” he added, and into his sea-green, two-fingered hand slid a diamond-topped rod that he raised, the huge diamond glowing sickly green, “but first, we must bend you to our will.”

  A ball of green light shot from the rod and smashed into the kortexi, snuffing out his golden glow even as it engulfed his figure and invaded his mind with a single thought: pain, pain beyond anything he had experienced or imagined. Every nerve screamed, and sound pierced his ears, or was that the sound of his own voice screaming in agony that he heard? And with that last thought, the pain wiped his mind clean, sending him into senseless oblivion.

  Chapter 1

  We have further discovered that it might be possible to attune the rod or staff to a particular individual or group, preventing the artifact of power from being seized by an enemy, even actively attacking the enemy who attempts to take it from its rightful holder. . . .

  from Annals of Melbarth, Seventh Series, Early Lectures of the Hierarchs

  Lecture by Sedra Melbarth

  Atno 3524, “The Great Year,” Spring

  Motodu was weary; the battle had drained him, using the rod had drained him, and he was hungrier than he had been for a long time. He rang the nearby gong, calling in one of his servants. One came almost immediately, her webbed feet slapping on the cold stone floor, and she bowed on one knee, her dark green, wet-looking hair brushing the floor as she placed her hands on the stone in front of her. She, like all the pleugle, had only two fat fingers on each of her webbed hands, with a short thumb beneath, green skin that looked oily, gills for breathing underwater on either side of her long neck. Her head and face were narrow and long, nose flat with narrow slits, eyes bulging out of the sides of her head, mouth that went all the way back to the tiny flapped holes that were her ears, with short tentacles dangling over her mouth.

  “Master,” her voice hissed and bubbled, “you have returned. What do you wish?”

  “I hunger,” Motodu said, his voice hissing and bubbling behind the long green tentacles that covered his mouth, the tentacles twitching convulsively.

  “At once, master,” she hissed, bowing again then rising to go, her feet flapping across the floor.

  “Hurry,” Motodu added. “There isn’t much time.” He sat down, fingering the diamond-topped rod he held clutched in his two-fingered right hand. He wondered how long it would be before the Great Lord learned of his failure, and the loss of the legions he had used to assault Shigmar, the city of the kailum. The power of Shigmar’s staff was phenomenal, and he had barely escaped the wave of destruction. What had happened to the company he had sent to capture the chosen who had both staff and sword? The last report he had received said that they were approaching the city, followed by silence, followed by the wave of power released by the staff, which meant that the chosen had somehow escaped and activated Shigmar’s staff. He needed time to think, but he was so weary from the battle, from controlling so many minds, that even with the power of the rod it had been extremely draining. He resisted the urge to ring the gong again as he knew his servants had to descend to the dungeon level of Morokolu to retrieve one of the prisoners. He focused on the rod, trying to draw more energy back into himself, but there were no reserves left, the huge diamond as dull gray and empty as the rod itself: he had drained the last reserves opening the archway to return to his fortress deep in the Mariskal, leaving his entire army to face the power of accursed Shigmar’s staff alone.

  The door opened, and two pleugle servants forced a struggling wetha into the room, holding her by either arm. She looked up and saw Motodu moving toward her, and she screamed, thrashing around trying to escape. Motodu touched her with one of his fat fingers, and she stopped struggling, standing rigid between the pleugle servants, who released her and backed toward the door, bowing. Motodu circled behind her, grasping both her arms with his two-fingered hands. The wetha’s eyes were wild; Motodu’s tentacles, covering his mouth, moved and wrapped around the wetha’s head. Her eyes widened as the tentacles tightened around her head; she began to struggle again, opened her mouth to scream, but the scream trailed off, turning into an empty sigh, and her eyes went blank even as her body went limp. There was a crunching sound, followed by a squelchy, sucking sound, and the morgle released her. Her head slid out of the tentacles; her body slumped on the floor. The two servants came forward eagerly, grabbing the limp arms and dragging her from the room, her blood dripping onto the stone floor from a hole in the back of her head. A flat, lizard-like creature, about three feet long, scuttled across the floor, licking the blood from the stone and following the two servants out of the door.

  Motodu went back to his desk and picked up the rod; harsh laughter came from behind him.

  “Stimulating, that,” the voice laughed, “although I would have used her before eating her brains.”

  Motodu turned quickly, holding up the rod, the diamond glowing with sickly green light. “I do not have your puri appetites,” he hissed. “What do you want, ponkolu?”

  The winged fiend stepped forward, and the scent of burning sulfur and smoke filled the room. Motodu coughed once.

  “I’ve come to take you to the Great Lord,” the ponkolu growled; “you should have come straight to him, once you had fled the battlefield, leaving all the Great Lord’s forces there to be destroyed by the accursed ones.”

  “I do not think so,” Motodu hissed in reply, sending a bolt of green power at the ponkolu.

  The winged monster of Gar deflected the bolt, which smashed into one of the room’s walls, burning a hole through it. “I was hoping you would say that,” he grinned, showing his fangs. He shot a bolt of red flames at Motodu.

  “Plotoskoit,” the morgle hissed and surrounded himself with a shield of flowing water, quenching the flames with a bubbling and hissing of steam; the ponkolu c
ontinued to chant, pouring more energy into the flames that now engulfed the morgle. He laughed, thinking he had overcome the wielder of the Rod of Melbarth, when a storm of icy arrows flew out of the flames, ripping through the ponkolu, whose laughter suddenly changed into a scream of pain. Motodu moved out of the flames as they died, reaching out to touch the ponkolu, who went immediately rigid. Motodu moved behind him, the tentacles hanging from his face quivering with excitement as they wrapped themselves around the ponkolu’s horned head, whose eyes widened then went blank as his scream of pain changed into an empty sigh. There followed a crunching sound, then a squelchy sucking sound, and the limp body of the ponkolu slumped onto the floor. Motodu staggered back, his tentacles quivering, and all his nerves tingling with the power he had consumed. He turned and hammered on the gong.

  Moments later, his female servant came in and saw the body of the ponkolu. “Master, no!” she screeched. “What have you done? They are the Great Lord’s favorite pets!”

  “Silence, Fatawssy!” he hissed at her. “Take the body below; make sure there is nothing left!”

  “Yes, my master,” she replied, bowing. “I’ll see that everyone joins the feast.” She called for the other two servants, who entered with the lizard-like creature following. They went to the body and dragged it out, the lizard-like creature again following and lapping up the smoking blood spilled on the stone floor.

  Several hours passed in slow silence; Motodu waited, ready for what must follow. With an idle flick of the platinum rod, the diamond flashing with orange light, he repaired the freshly-burned hole in the wall, and he waited. Finally, he felt the room change, smelled the odor of burned sulfur and smoke, and saw a pair of ponkolum stepping out of the wall and into his room. Again, he shot a bolt of sickly green flames at them, but since there were two, one of them deflected the bolt while the other sent red flames at Motodu, who barely had time to raise his shield. Hissing and steam filled the room; both ponkolum poured more power into the flames. Motodu felt his shield weakening as he felt his oily green skin dry and begin to burn. When his shield collapsed, he was surprised to find that the flames no longer surrounded him. He looked up, and felt a hand clamping around his neck; he was lifted struggling into the air.