Coinin turned back to Curator Menin, and he realised for the first time that she wore around her neck the very same red stone.
‘I see you have noticed my adornment. It is ancient and provides The Order with some protection. It is called the Rose of Cerathil.’ Menin fingered the necklace draped around her neck.
‘What kind of protection?’ Marrok asked.
‘All in good time. I should finish the story of our beginning. Our ancestors had just met Soliath, and he explained it was the God Rindor who had guided them to safety.’ Menin paused and offered drinks to the young men in front of her. Both refused, eager to hear more.
‘Rindor’s heart was saddened by the tribes of Er’ath and their inability to rule themselves, so he asked Soliath to find individuals who would bring order to the chaos. Rindor had observed our ancestors for some time and liked what he saw. He witnessed creative free thinkers, who were strong of mind and desired an end to injustice. The God Rindor approached Soliath in a vision, and they made a decision that day. Between them, they decided that they would create a safe haven for those keen to learn, and a place where they could worship the gods freely without fear.’ Menin took a drink of water and continued.
‘Soliath sat our ancestors down and talked well into the next day. Morning came, and they had hashed out a plan. One-half of our ancestors would join Soliath, to study religion, philosophy, and the magical arts, for those were the three key ingredients that Soliath most enjoyed. In return, they would create a great Brotherhood that would endeavour to rid the world of injustice through belief, magic, and might. The other half would set in place a High King who would rule as head of the lands that surround Rosthagaar. Our collective task was to unite the tribes of Er’ath under the banner of peace and under one belief. With Rindor’s support, together we soon restored order and brought the people to know the gods. Rosthagaar and The Brotherhood have always remained separate entities yet united in our goals. Since then our order has grown from strength to strength, not only in belief and knowledge but also in the magic arts and swordsmanship. Rosthagaar has ever since ruled the people with a High King.’ Menin stood and crossed to the bookstand and retrieved a large red book. ‘This book contains a historical account of the founding years of our order.’
Menin opened the first few pages and showed them illustrations that represented the founding of The Brotherhood and the travels of the ancestors who ventured into Soliath’s safe haven.
‘What’s that picture?’ Coinin asked with great interest.
‘That is the creation of our protection, and the building of this temple,’ Menin replied. ‘Rindor and Soliath knew that one-day unwanted visitors would find their way to us, so they built the safe haven you see here, and they created a few distractions on the way. Firstly, Rindor hid the stairway from view with a giant boulder and a waterfall, and then he extended the mountain to an incredible height, which made the cliff climb a daunting task. Secondly, he hid the cave entrance behind the vine, and collapsed a tunnel to create that pleasant drop into the darkness I so enjoy, and then he turned the river into blood. If that did not stop anyone from venturing further, the final act was pure genius.’
‘I think I know what it is,’ Coinin interrupted. ‘Is it the falling on air trick?’
‘Correct, although not a trick, we call it the Cliff of Judgment. Soliath added his own mix to the pot and created the illusion that there was an impossible drop, when in reality anyone who had been invited to the temple, and that included companions, would be permitted to fall softly. Those who are not invited, or have not visited the temple grounds, will have a very severe headache.’ She allowed herself a smile. ‘It does, however, cause us no end of trouble with so many goblin bodies. They will persist in their attempt to find new ways down. Ropes or ladders are no use, Soliath saw to that. The only way down is to be invited.’
‘Trenobin said that there was no way back. So how do you leave?’ Marrok enquired.
‘Magic.’ Menin winked. ‘Please let me finish. Since the beginning, our reach had spread, and we dominated religious, scientific, and philosophical thought. Millions worshipped the gods through our direction.’
‘Isn’t that a bit odd, mixing religion and the sword?’ Coinin asked.
‘Some say we are conflicted and have set up rival religions, but I see our order open to all free thinkers who seek a purpose in life. We encourage our Brothers and Sisters to work together to better the peoples of Er’ath. Surprisingly it works, for the most part, thanks to Soliath’s teachings. Sadly, though, in the last fifty years, things have changed, and many of Er’ath’s races have broken away from the true faith and have begun to follow their own teachings. I fear this is something we cannot recover from. It was different thousands of years ago when the peoples had no belief in the gods. It was easier to convert them, and show them the true path. Though, now—’
‘What happened fifty years ago?’ Marrok asked.
‘The High King Hantestum, who rules in Rostha, ousted all but two of the kings, who by Rindor’s decree must reign alongside him in the lands that surrounded Rosthagaar. He replaced them with overseers who have no real power. This was the turning point in our history; people began to believe that they could think for themselves without interference from The Brotherhood or Rindor. We have fought a losing battle ever since to uphold order, and now we only maintain a tenuous religious thought for the human population. Of course, if you look around the temple, you can see many of other races follow Rindor’s teachings, and can be found among our ranks. But new converts seem to be waning.’ Menin looked sad as she finished.
‘Could you not have stopped Hantestum?’ Marrok asked.
‘We sadly do not have any say over political matters. If we had, we would have restored the balance.’
‘Did you reason with him, show him how he has hurt the balance, as you put it?’ Coinin asked.
‘Of course, Archmage Orodor did what he could, but Hantestum cares not for the people’s revolt. He can sit each day and eat and drink his fill, content that he has what he wants: a seat of great power, and control of a grand army.’ Menin shook her head in disgust.
‘He sounds like a disgusting man,’ said Marrok.
‘So how do you intend to restore the balance?’ Coinin asked.
‘There is a prophecy which reads that two young men from the line of Soliath Wulf will restore order and balance in a time of great upheaval. I believe you are the two men the prophecy speaks of.’
Marrok snorted, and Coinin gasped at this news, quite unable to believe it.
A deep, resonant bell interrupted the meeting.
‘That is the signal to meet in the Grand Hall. We will talk later on this.’ She stood to leave.
‘You can’t just leave us hanging like this,’ Marrok objected.
‘I am afraid that I must. I have other official duties to attend to. I promise I will take the time to explain all in due course. But now we really must make a move.’
Marrok was silenced quickly by Coinin, who was not eager to upset the Curator at this early stage. He had just learnt some exciting news about his future and was keen to hear more.
Menin escorted her charges from the room and through the temple. She took the time to indicate points of interest as they went, and it was not too long before they arrived at a long prayer hall, two floors below her study. It was plain, yet functional. Two oak tables ran the entire length of the lobby, at which sat two hundred or more white-robed individuals. The noise of chatter and laughter abounded.
Curator Menin led them to the far end of the hall and invited them to sit at the head of the left-hand table. She walked up the steps to a low, level platform at the far end of the room and sat on the right-hand chair of three. The left seat was occupied by a short, plump man, and in the centre chair, by far the biggest, sat a thin old man with a beard that trailed on the floor before him. He stood carefully and raised his arms.
‘Welcome, Brothers and Sisters,’ he croaked, �
�and esteemed visitors, of course. I am Archmage Orodor. Welcome to Sanctuary. I am pleased to say that word has reached me that our Brothers have defeated the giants who attacked Astanoth for the umpteenth time in as many years. However, we do not have cause for celebration just yet. Many of our order did not survive the struggle, and we have learnt that a rogue Tomorite clan chief is behind the latest attack. We must plan a strategy to defeat this tyrant. A general council will be held later today to discuss the matter, and I invite all to attend. Yet here I prattle on and I see that the time for prayer has arrived, so I will interrupt you no more. Curator Menin, please lead the ceremony.’ Archmage Orodor sat and appeared to doze almost instantly.
‘He’s doing that more and more of late; perhaps the time has come to choose a new Archmage,’ a voice said far too loudly in the front row.
‘Shush, Bealam; Orodor will decide in his own good time when he wishes to ascend to Rol’as.’ A squat brown-haired man noticed that Coinin had overheard and faced him. ‘Please forgive my Brother, he is impetuous.’
Coinin raised a hand. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, not quite understanding what had been said.
❖
Draken awoke like a bear with a sore head, after the consumption of an inordinate amount of alcohol following his murderous act. He had felt the need to hide from himself, and the only way he knew to rid himself of his guilt was to drink it away.
He sat up, and his eyes flicked to Trenobin’s body, which now lay stiff and cold under its bush. He felt a small pang of remorse for his old friend, but he pushed the emotion deep down inside.
He stood and hid his pack behind a large tree and then checked the campfire was out. He now needed to enact the plan he had devised, and this would help to disguise Trenobin’s murder.
He ventured towards the Cliff of Judgment and closed his eyes, and then uttered an incantation, one he had not performed for three decades. He felt light as air and began, slowly at first, to rise from the ground, unsupported by any physical means. He began to perspire from the mental exertion needed to keep airborne, and yet he rose higher and higher until he reached an outcrop of rock and made a grab for it. This arrested his ascent, and he scrambled onto the ledge. With a kick of his leg, he hauled himself over the edge. He lay back, his heart pounding from the physical effort, and it was ten minutes before he felt able to stand up and assess the area. He had returned to the mountain pass in search of his cover story, and this would bring him one step closer to completing his personal quest.
Then he saw why he had returned. A lone goblin poked at the stone shaman with a stick.
Draken crept up to the goblin, smothered its mouth with his hand and placed a dagger to the goblin’s throat. The goblin froze.
‘I know you do not understand me, vermin, but move and you are dead.’ Draken pushed the knife harder into the goblin’s throat. The creature understood the threat more than the words and consented to be led by the man.
As they neared the edge of the cliff, however, the little goblin dug its heels in, frightened. It knew what happened to its race when they approached the cliff. Draken took a firmer hold of the goblin and as he did so, he had to unclasp his hand from its mouth. Immediately the small creature screamed and pleaded in its tongue for mercy. Draken looked up. Thirty or so goblins thundered towards him and his stricken captive.
‘Too soon,’ he fumed. ‘Oh well, come and get me, here I am.’ He picked up the goblin and slung it over his back. It kicked, screamed, and even bit Draken’s shoulder, but he ignored the pain and raced back to the edge. Rocks pelted him and spears were thrown perilously close. He prayed his next action would work and held tight to his captive. He dove off the cliff edge, and for a moment he fell fast, far too fast. His pitiful life flashed before his eyes, and then, just feet from the bottom, the old magic sensed he was there and slowed his descent. He stopped with a jolt, in mid-air, two feet above the ground. He twisted and stood and then gave a sigh. He looked up, and to his delight, three goblins had slowly begun to drop down the cliff face. He quickly dived out of their way.
The goblins had landed safely and chattered excitedly to each other, basking in their glory that they had succeeded where others had failed. Draken thought quickly. His mind raced. Then he raised his free hand high into the air and called out a new spell. Immediately a localised wind kicked up that sent dust and debris in all directions. The wind grew stronger and formed into a small twister.
The column of air grew faster and stronger, and Draken aimed it at the goblins, who turned heel and fled. He took a moment to smile. He had done it, he had broken the spell holding back enemies from the Sanctuary. Now more were free to join the others at the bottom of the cliff unharmed, and that would afford him a suitable distraction to commit an act of theft.
So as to not lose any more time, Draken quickly dragged his captive through the thicket of trees to his campsite.
‘I’m sorry for this, little one, but needs must,’ he said and swung the creature to face him. He plunged his knife into its chest and through its heart. It let out a squeal, and a solitary tear ran down its face. Shock emblazoned its ugly face, and it was seconds before it collapsed.
Later, when the life force had left its body, he dragged the lifeless corpse of Trenobin out of the bush and placed it beside the goblin. He then laid his knife in the hands of the goblin as evidence of its complicity in the murder of the dwarf.
Satisfied, Draken grabbed his pack and ran to the temple entrance, and there he was greeted with sharp spears pointed in his direction.
‘Wait, wait. Trenobin has been killed. A goblin attacked him.’ Draken raised his hands in submission.
‘What trick is this, Draken?’ a passing officer demanded.
‘No trick, go see for yourself, Zaruun,’ Draken sneered.
‘Fine then, but if this is some ploy I shall not go easy on you. Nethlith, seek out Trenobin and check his story. Draken stays here,’ Zaruun ordered the gate guard.
Nethlith laid his spear against the temple wall and jogged over to the campsite. He returned soon thereafter out of breath.
‘He speaks the truth, Zaruun. Trenobin is dead and a goblin beside him.’
‘How can this be?’ said Zaruun in puzzlement. ‘I shall have to consult with Curator Menin. Stand guard in case there are more goblins. I shall fetch reinforcements.’
‘Actually, I do think there were more of those beasts,’ said Draken.
‘Great, that’s just wonderful!’
Draken watched Zaruun leave, happy that his plan had worked this far.
It was not too long before Curator Menin stormed from the temple, accompanied by General Jericho, and marched up to Draken, fire in her eyes.
‘What deception is this, Draken? Explain yourself,’ Menin thundered.
‘I do not know what you mean, Curator,’ Draken blustered, in an attempt to appear innocent. ‘We were attacked by four goblins while we talked. I somehow killed one of them, and the others ran off.’
Menin stood nose to nose with Draken. Her eyes bored holes into his as she searched his depths for the truth. Draken swallowed hard. Now was the time his plan could fail. He had to keep cool. Easier said than done, he thought, while a sharp pain in the back of his eyes invited him to spill his guts. Menin used simple mind tricks, he reminded himself. He had learnt many years ago how to counter the urge to reveal true intents while under duress. He just hoped he could hold out.
To Draken’s surprise, he floated above the cold marble steps, just an inch, and barely noticeable. As the pain behind his eyes swelled, he began to perspire; beads formed on his brow that slid down his nose and stung his eyes.
Seconds later, images began to flash before him: distant memories, ghostly and distorted. They sped by at high speed, a child to teen in mere seconds. This had become dangerous; she was getting too close to his darkest secrets. Curator Menin was reading his mind. She searched for the truth, and he had to stop her. But how?
Moments later, an imag
e flickered before him, a warm memory of a time he and his Great Uncle Neld practised sorcery together. He knew instantly what he must do. He clasped his hands together at his breastbone and summoned all his strength. He concentrated on a little-known piece of magic. It started as a pea-sized ball of force that grew rapidly within his chest until it was large enough that it filled his chest cavity with a pressure wave that pulsated. The wave would break the bond between them, but he had a second attack. He would reverse Menin’s magic, and this would cause it to rebound upon her. He would ensure that Menin could never see into his mind again.
The force began to build, and Draken shook uncontrollably until he could hold it back no longer. With a cry, his arms flung outward. The full force of the magic left his body and hit Menin squarely in the chest. She careened several feet down the marble steps and crumpled into a heap at the bottom. General Jericho and Zaruun immediately seized Draken’s arms and roughly pinned him to the floor.
‘Get off me, what are you doing?’ Draken demanded, his face squashed against the cold marble.
‘Stay still and be quiet,’ Jericho barked. ‘Nethlith, please see to the Curator.’
Nethlith nodded and leapt down the steps two at a time.
‘No real damage done,’ said Menin with an embarrassed air.
‘But Draken, he—’ Nethlith began.
‘A simple miscalculation, I’m afraid. The magic appears to have rebounded on me,’ Menin interrupted.
On the cold floor, Draken allowed himself a smile. His plan had worked; Menin believed she had caused the spell to fail.
‘I will, however, be rather bruised and sore in the morning,’ she finished.
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 7