Highmage's Plight (Highmage’s Plight Series Book 1)

by Aire, D. H.

  Abruptly the fall ceased and he found himself off his feet, suspended in stygian nothingness, a limbo. He slowly stood erect in midair, struggling to regain his sense of balance. Only the brilliant light from his crystalline staff allowed him to see at all. That light revealed, out of the depths of the darkness, two rather large hunched slit nosed, scaled creatures with luridly glowing eyes.

  They leapt at George, who swung the glowing staff to fend them off. They shrieked in pain, shying away from the light, then charged as the light receded. George struck one on the side of its belly as it neared, at the impact: smoke and searing. The creature hastily fell back with a cry. Yet they were not long deterred, and returned to their attack. Their powerful teeth gnashed at him as he beat them back. They swiped their horrible talon-like claws at him as he ducked aside. One of the beasts finally broke past George’s guard and tried to disembowel him.

  The staff flared to even brighter intensity as he hastily struck out to block the sweeping talons. The glowing staff connected with but a glancing blow, yet at the touch there was a resounding burst and the creature shrivelled as the light danced about its skin.

  The next beast raked George’s exposed flank with a powerful swipe of its claws. He screamed in agony, twisting to defend himself from further attack. The creature’s fiery eyes gleamed in delight even as the ground seemed to suddenly give way beneath them.

  George fell once more through eternity. He clutched his computer staff for dear life as it flared with light like a beacon across a stormy night. Then, out of the darkness, George struck the ground hard, losing his grip on his staff at last. His only impression before he lost consciousness was of ghastly shocked faces surrounding him, edged by firelight.

  Carwina awoke from the strangest dream, which was already beginning to fade from memory. She had seen Gwire falling, the last days nearly upon its people. She shook her head, knowing it was only a bad dream, as she heard her father cry out in agony. She raced to her father’s study and saw light from under the door. She entered and cried “Father!” in sudden horror.

  She hurried to her father who lay bleeding on the floor. She recoiled at the sight of the wyvern’s dismembered head and leg on the wall, locked in its moment of death. The servants heard her and rushed upstairs. They stared aghast at the wyvern as Carwina shouted, “Summon Master Ofran!”

  She summoned her own courage and began a healing chant for her father.

  At the courtyard, the Cathartan lord, Sire Ryff, was led to a cot. He sat dejected as his Mother Shaman took her place beside him and hugged him.

  “It was all for naught, De’ohr,” he lamented.

  “No, Ryff, it was not,” she whispered.

  “The prophecy brought us here. It’s been the only hope I’ve had to cling to. Yet to learn that they can provide no help at all?”

  The woman shook her head. “I cannot explain it. The prophecy was quite explicit. ‘When the secondson descended of the Shattered House falls to the Curse, to the Empire its lord must take him, else succour of House and world fall with him.’ Here is where I foresaw we must come if there was to be any hope. Destiny demanded our presence here, at this very moment. We are here for a reason, Ryff, and as long as your son still lives, there is hope of healing him.”

  Tears misted his eyes. “You are truly crazed. I too must be to cling to such a forlorn hope.”

  “The Curse warps our whole nation, Ryff. Today there are only thirty-six men in all of Cathart. The first secondson in generations is a great blessing. We cannot afford to lose him. I feel the current of fate. Our trek here has not been in vain.”

  “What would you have me do now?”

  “Rest. Accept what help the Master Healer offers young Vyss. After that, we shall see. Events will make matters clear.”

  Chapter 3: Ruins

  Ashra Kodiu, once seat of Elvin power, now lay a ruin in the Great Waste. The dozen hunters of Prect had scouted before Greth was certain enough that the goblins had actually migrated north. Ashra Kodiu was a prize they could rarely hunt.

  They scavenged during the daylight hours then retreated into one of the least damaged structures in the exact center of the city. It seemed safe enough, so Greth permitted them the luxury of a fire. The chamber was high ceilinged and well screened from outside observation. One never knew when goblins were about.

  The hunt had gone well. They had found several old elvin swords, some shields and armor, and, most importantly, enchanted jewels. The best had been discovered in a bespelled cache deep in the warrens. Finding the cache alone had made their mission worthwhile; especially, since it would likely be a long time before they ever got another chance to raid there.

  Greth gripped his sword hilt and rose before his men.

  “Tomorrow we will continue the Hunt. But I want the watch doubled! The goblins covet this city and are likely to have left a few surprises for us!”

  The others nodded. Prudence was a necessary quality in successful hunters and openly engaging goblins and others of their ilk was not the best strategy, not if they wished to see their home of Prect again anytime soon.

  The fire burned low as Greth slept after his watch. He was awakened by a frigid breeze as the guard on duty shouted a warning and pointed toward the far wall. An arched alcove was glowing and wind now began to whistle forth.

  Pulling his sword from its sheath, Greth readied himself, fearing he had made a terrible error in choosing this place to rest. A figure was propelled out of the absolute darkness of the elvin gateway and fell hard on the stone floor.

  The chamber was momentarily bright with light from the staff that the intruder clutched in his hand, which slowly tumbled out of reach. Greth and his hunters gathered and stared in wonder at what the sudden intense light had revealed. It was a man.

  There was a terrifying roar and something else bounded from the gateway. At the mere sound of it, Greth yelled and charged. The sword’s touch raised smoke on the creature’s scaled but leathery hide. It shrieked at the presence of the bane metal.

  The hunters’ blades were all of the same discolored alloy that elvinkind abhorred. The wyvern roared once more as it found itself under attack on all sides. It struck and one of Greth’s fellows was knocked aside.

  Another quickly took his place as the beast leapt over them, trying to get at its unconscious target, the man from the Gate. Greth slammed his sword upward. With a scream, the wyvern fell short of the man and the hunters hurried to block its path.

  The fight raged on and on. A second, then third hunter fell back, clutching injuries as Greth began to gasp for breath. Pulling out his knife, Greth leapt upon the wyvern’s back. It bucked as he edged forward and thrust his dagger into the hilt into the wyvern’s skull.

  It shrieked in pain, staggered a step, then seemed to gain strength. To Greth’s surprise, it would not die. The beast knocked Greth off its back, its eyes blazing with unholy fire as it ignored Greth and his fellows, focusing exclusively on its fallen prey from the ether of the Gate.

  The staff glowed ever so faintly from where it lay, just centimeters from the unconscious man’s out-flung hand. It quivered as the wyvern stumbled forward, closing on its target. The staff rolled across the ground and came to rest against the man’s fingertips.

  The staff flared and a charge like lightning arched to the wyvern’s wounded skull. With a shrill scream of agony, the wyvern convulsed and fell dead. Smoke rose from the body as the staff’s glow diminished. There was a startled silence for a moment then groans as Greth and his companions slowly rose to their feet.

  “Is everyone alright?” Greth asked.

  His men acknowledged him then looked incredulously at the injured man and his now quiescent staff.

  Carwina stood over her injured father.

  “I’m fine,” Alrex muttered weakly as a blue flame played across the gaping wound at his side.

  Carwina, visibly perspiring from the exertion of maintaining the healing chant, was preventing further blood loss.
<
br />   Master Ofran replied, “No, you are not,” and directed a concerned look at Stenh.

  The Highmage rasped, “You do not understand…. I have no time for this.”

  Stenh frowned, “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “No time for this… There are things I must do,” groaned the Highmage.

  “The only thing you must do, my friend, is rest,” Ofran advised, knowing that the injury was grave. Wyvern borne wounds were notoriously difficult to heal. Many faced a painful lingering death from such wounds.

  “Gwire is safe,” Alrex whispered. “I can feel it.”

  Stenh frowned, “What are you talking about? Of course Gwire’s safe. The legions are allied with the Rangers, after all. The Northland border is well defended.”

  Alrex blinked in surprise, “Rangers?”

  Stenh looked at the healer, “Can you help him?”

  “I could do more at the Healers Hall.”

  The mage shook his head, “Any rumor of the Highmage being incapacitated must not be allowed to leak! It could set off a panic!”

  Alrex lay back and frowned, “Rangers…”

  Ofran frowned, “Stenh, I must fetch my colleagues downstairs.”

  Alrex coughed, “No need. I know what must be done. The Demonlord will be livid, realizing what I have wrought.” He coughed again, wetly. “His victory is no longer assured.”

  Stenh gestured for Ofran to stay and rushed to send up the other healers, faintly hearing the Highmage say, “I must live long enough to see this through.”

  “Alrex?” Ofran muttered. He heard the Highmage begin to chant.

  Carwina abruptly stopped her chanting and gasped, “Father, please! Please, do not do this!”

  “What is happening?” Stenh asked as he returned from calling the healers. Behind them ran his kind hearted but rather useless apprentice, Aaprin.

  Alrex’s chanted spell came to a whisper.

  “Father,” Carwina begged. “Please, don’t.”

  “Alrex, give us a chance to heal these wounds!” Ofran pleaded.

  “Please, Father, let us help you!”

  Two young healers had taken up the chanting, leaving Master Healer Ofran to try to stop what Alrex had put in motion.

  It was too late. The spell was complete. Alrex took a deep breath.

  “I am the Guardian,” he rasped. “I am too old to battle as I must. My death must not be a victory for the Demonlord.”

  “Father,” Carwina cried.

  He smiled at her. “I do what I must,” then he opened his hand, revealing an ancient stone rune. The rune had an embossed image of a rearing unicorn. It pulsed with darkness that welled outward over his palm, wrapping around him.

  The healers ceased their chanting and retreated.

  “Speak with the Empress…” Alrex muttered. “The Gate shall hold my death at bay, allowing me the time I need to impart gifts that shall assuredly be to the Demonlord’s rue.”

  Tears flowed over Carwina’s cheeks as the darkness seethed and covered her father. He vanished within an opaque cocoon.

  A piece of the Highmage’s spirit fled from his enchanted body. It left the capital and flew free, heading eastward. It quickly left the Empire, crossed the clouds that hung above the Crescent Lands, and as the morning sun rose it came to the Barrier Mountains.

  As it ascended over the peaks an elderly man looked up from his tent and gasped. The spirit hardly paused, tasting a comforting presence unfelt in many years.

  I seek him. Must seek him. He must come. Must!

  “Alrex, what have you done?” the old man whispered as that bit of spirit sped past and descended into the Great Waste, seeking, searching amidst the desolation, where nothing of humanity or elvinkind should survive.

  None of the hunters had been able to touch the glowing staff. Each time one tried, they had been burned. Finally, Greth hit upon an idea. He skinned the wyvern’s side of its magical hide and draped it over the staff, wrapping it.

  “We must hurry. The Demonlord will summon his minions here.”

  The hunters dressed the unconscious man’s wounds then carried him away from Ashra Kodiu. Many of them were bandaged, yet held close their prizes. Greth carried the staff, which gave off not the faintest bit of light now. The wyvern hide seemed to shape itself around the crystal form. Soon, the staff began to appear as if merely wood. The hunters looked at him with worry.

  “It is alright. Wyverns are masters at disguising themselves with their surroundings. Now we know their secret.”

  Something unseen arrowed across the terrain. Greth felt it as a breeze that suddenly swirled around him.

  The man from the Gate groaned as it struck him full force. The hunters watched him closely, wondering if the man was waking. But he remained unconscious as they quickly trekked home.

  In a dream, George fell through the void and screamed, “What’s happening to me?!”

  A voice answered, You will come.

  An image arose of a strange multi-tiered city with high defensive stone walls.

  Come you must!

  Darkness shrouded the image as a voice shouted across the depths of the overwhelming blackness.

  “Find him! Destroy him or all my plans will be in ruins!”

  The other voice whispered softly, You will come. Answers you shall have. You are the cusp of paradox and the only hope for my world.

  George physically shook, feeling as if part of him had been ripped in half. “What’s happening to me?”

  This time there was no answer.

  Chapter 4: The Waste

  Casber sat at the cliff’s edge, his favorite perch. The Barrier Mountains stretched north and south for as far as could be seen. Below him was the Great Waste, seemingly an endless desert. He daydreamed about the times of legend, when the barren land had been the cradle of human civilization, destroyed in the ancient war between man and elves.

  The Waste conjured images of magical forces in conflagration. Weapons devised by the lost and forgotten humans had been wielded to devastating effect. The result was the barren land before him.

  He sighed, surveying the land of his fancy as the sun settled lower. Fire raged and great beasts fought long forgotten heroes in his memories. The once lush land had been laid waste and mankind had been forced to flee, seeking green undamaged land in the west beyond the mountain chain where he lived.

  With a smile, Casber imagined the ancient struggle. White fire blasted shapes of opacity. The light flashed as the attackers were driven back, only to rush forth once more. The answering blast of light brought with it the sound of thunder.

  Casber blinked and his face sullied. He leaned forward, realizing he was seeing real mage fire, not some memory of it. The final rays of daylight dimmed upon the Great Waste and suddenly he saw nothing more.

  “Casber!” his brother shouted, jogging up the trail.

  The boy quickly rose, pausing to glance once more down at the Waste. He cried, “Did you see that, Niel? Did you?”

  “What are you talking about, Cas?”

  “Down there! There was a battle!”

  “Have you scared yourself silly with your games again? Come on, we’re gonna be late for supper!”

  “But, but…” he tried to explain as his older brother grabbed his arm and dragged him away.

  “Do stop your prattling and don’t try telling any tales. Papa’s had quite enough of your foolishness. Now come on!”

  And so it was with the whole family at supper.

  His Uncle Wane laughed, “Magefire and battles in the Waste, indeed!”

  “What do you suppose you’ll see tomorrow?” his younger cousin Cort muttered, glancing at Niel before laughing.

  “Probably a dragon,” was his brother’s reply that carried clear across the serving tent.

  That brought universal laughter which rang in Casber’s ears. His father glared at him with a glint in his eye that was a promise of summary punishment at his foolishness. Casber sighed, knowing they wou
ld not understand. He dreaded the extra duties he was sure to be given.

  Then his elfblooded uncle, Balfour, came over and whispered, “Elder Winome wishes to speak with you afterward.”

  Casber swallowed hard.

  “Who, me?”

  His grandfather, Elder of Clan Winome of the Barrier Mountains, was in the tent he shared with his half-cast unmarried son. Balfour swept the hide covering the doorway aside and ushered his young nephew in.

  Casber stood before the wizened old man in trepidation. The Elder ruled the Clan with but a word. His sons respected his wisdom and authority. Casber had never before been invited alone into his grandfather’s presence. Always before he had come with his cousins and siblings to be regaled by the Elder’s tales and lessons from his travels across the Crescent Lands and the Empire beyond, but never before had he solely been summoned.

  It was the Elder who taught Casber to respect the Great Waste, which most of the Clan ignored as just a fact of life. He too had taken the Great Waste for granted until the Elder told them the stories of its history.

  “So, grandson, you claim to have seen one of the legendary battles?”

  “No, I – uh, I mean that I thought so at first. But only at first,” he resigned.

  The old man grinned wryly. “Well, why don’t you tell me exactly what you think you saw and let me judge.”

  Casber nervously wringed his fingers. “Might I, uh, sit down first?”

  The old man chuckled and gestured, “Please do.”

  As Casber sat, his grandfather called out, “Balfour!”

  His elfblooded uncle glanced back into the tent.

  “Yes, father?”

  “Do be so kind as to bring us some of that juice. The boy looks parched – I doubt he even ate supper.”

  “I’ll bring another serving as well then.”

  And with that, Casber found himself once more alone with his grandfather.