“Tonthor was poisoned! I found this in his neck. We have an intruder in the castle! It must be that stranger Cherokum brought. Curse that blasted Elf’s soft heart. Our walls have been violated!”
“Search the path. He must be on it.”
“Do not kill him when you find him. We must find out what he was doing here first.”
“And then he must suffer. It is said Elves are gracious, but let it also be known that Elves are brutally just. His death must not be as quick as Tonthor’s.”
And on they went. Quietly, Trevor moved with all the stealth of a man to whom silence meant life itself. When a branch moved, it made less noise than it would have in a gentle breeze. The noonday sun passed and evening fell, then night. As the hours inched along, so, too, did Trevor. The Elves continued searching the trees along the path high and low, climbing up and down. But they didn’t venture onto the other surrounding trees much—too sparse and most were too far to jump across. They did not count on their intruder being part squirrel.
As dawn broke, Trevor found that he had wormed his way through the trees undetected in nearly a day in what had taken him less than half an hour to walk up on his arrival. He was incredibly sore and stiff. But beyond some thorny scrub brush immediately below, he could almost see the point at which he and the other Elves stepped out of the creek to begin walking up the stone path. A heavy mist hung in the air as the grey light of dawn struggled to hit the valley that marked the gateway to Thalanthalas.
Unsurprisingly, there were three Elves standing at the creek bed, each with a bow. They were thirty yards away—too far for his darts. Not too far for their bows. Trevor allowed himself a silent sigh, as he eavesdropped, trying to figure out what to do next.
“You make breakfast, Manoramoshi. We’ll make sure no one passes.”
“We could do with some rabbit or something. This might be awhile.”
“Wishful thinking—no time to go chasing rabbits, Mano. Just build a small fire to warm us and cut through some of the dawn mist.”
Trevor heard some grunts and watched the one Elf effortlessly build a fire. Druids. He thought he saw a butterfly or a moth flittering below him, on one of the thorns. One of the thorns…
Moving down and concealed behind a tree, he was about ten feet from the ground, and inches away from the top of the bed of thorns bushes that covered the forest floor. He looked at the thorns closely. The poison was inside and outside—he could see tiny drops on the tips of the thorn that were sticky, judging by the occasional strands that dangled from the tips of some them. And they were yellowish in color; definitely not dawn mist. The plan began to form in his head as he began breaking three-inch thorns off the bushes with a gloved hand. When he had fifty or sixty, he climbed back up to the top of his tree. He found a thin branch that he could snap off without too much effort or noise, and began jamming the needles into the wood, making a crude, one-handed staff with spikes lining it. He couldn’t take a chance fighting hand-to-hand; too easy to sound the alarm, and he only had one dart left.
He knew he had one shot here. Soon the mist would lift and he would have even less concealment. He hoped they wouldn’t see him in the fog till he got close. He couldn’t climb down into the thorn bushes, nor could he jump over them from ten feet up. There were no good paths to climb back along branches back toward the path, either. That left one option as he flung a rope over another tree, testing the length and the grip. This was his swing to freedom. Club in hand, he took a breath, and broke his silence, swinging through the mist as wispy branches noisily slapped at him.
The three Elves turned and grabbed their bows at the whooshing sound. Out of the mist swung Trevor, and he had slapped one on the arm and the other across the face with his thorny staff before the first arrow was loosed. It glanced off his thigh, and he let go of both his staff and the rope, dropping into the midst of their camp. He had his blowgun in hand as his feet hit the ground, though his leg nearly buckled. He fired his last dart into the neck of the third Elf, who dropped to the ground while he was nocking his next arrow.
The other two Elves drew their knives, but stopped to grab their waterskins. They looked at the staff, with its broken off thorns, some on the ground…some stuck to their skin, and were both infuriated and parched. Draining their waterskins, one of them started to advance on Trevor, cursing him, before he hurled his knife at him and ran toward the river.
The other followed suit, hastily throwing his dagger in Trevor’s direction, but he dodged them both. With a slight limp, he followed them at a distance and watched them plunge headfirst into the water. They stayed under for minutes until Trevor saw their legs lift off the shallow creek bottom and their bodies float away. Both had drowned.
Hurrying past, Trevor went to the spot where he thought the sinkhole was, and he chanted the same thing he’d heard from the Elves upon his arrival. He took a deep breath and plunged his head beneath the surface, patting his pocket one last time to make sure the fruit of his labor was still secure.
Magi
It did not take long for both Magi and Kyle to get the hang of riding again. Once they cleared the city and had grown accustomed to the saddle, they prodded their mounts into a gallop. It did not take long for them both to return to the home village of Brigg from Gaust, their horses spent from hard riding along the edge of the Elomere all the way back. It was past dusk, two days since they had “borrowed” the mounts and trotted out past the city gates. It was not even a question whether they would or would not wait until morning to discuss the situation with Marik. They rode straight to his barracks upon entering the village.
“Master! Master Marik!” They both shouted at his door. “Please, we have returned and have news!”
A man slightly shorter and thinner than Magi came to the door and opened it. He was middle-aged, but fit. His bald head was usually matched with a clean face, but this late in the evening caused the presence of a heavy shadow of stubble—black with flecks of grey. His overarching feature, as it was with every True Mage, was his eyes. Marik had the pure white eyes of a mage who had successfully climbed the Staircase and earned their rank. He was dressed in night robes—a bit of luxury in this day and age, but Marik could afford it. “Boys? It is late. I’m glad you’re safe. What is it?”
“Lionel and Sindar are dead! They have been murdered!” Kyle exclaimed.
Marik narrowed his eyes and turned to Magi. “WHAT? Do you have the Scroll? What happened?”
Magi told the entire tale from when they had first entered Gaust, and then handed him the Scroll. “Master, what should we do? We have no idea who killed them. Do you think it had something to do with this Scroll?”
Marik looked at the rolled-up Scroll, then back at Magi. “I don’t know. Perhaps. People get murdered in this Dark World all the time. If there is a God, He sees fit to leave us mortals to our own base devices. Even in Brigg. Yet in a large port city such as Gaust, it is even worse. Theft, rape, hate, greed, jealousy, corruption, torture, murder—it is a Dark World indeed. Still—it is beyond troubling that your two seasoned guides and protectors should be cut down, while you remain unharmed and with all your possessions. I can’t begin to explain that. But I will make some inquiries. You were wise to leave the way you did—it would be too easy for Lord Corovant to pin these murders on you.”
Kyle nodded.
“What does the Scroll do?” Magi asked pointedly. “Is it a spell you can teach me? I didn’t recognize it.”
Marik looked at Magi and smiled sadly. “It’s actually a fairly innocuous spell. Someday I’ll share it with you. But for now you must rest, and I must tell Lionel’s family. Sindar had no family that I’m aware of. But I thank you for this Scroll, and commend you both for such resourcefulness. I sent Lionel and Sindar to protect you, though I hardly would have expected them to lose their lives for such a privilege. Clearly I must spend more time on offensive and defensive spell casting with my students. You should have had more weapons than a sleep spell. My failure wa
s almost disastrous.” Putting the scroll inside his robes, he put a hand on both their shoulders and fixed his white eyes on both of them. “You must be exhausted. Get some sleep. My annual Tournament begins in a few days, and you’ll both want to be at your best to represent your class.”
With that, he dismissed them. Kyle turned to Magi. “Well, I guess it’s to bed. Master is right; I am so very tired after that ride.”
The wind blew gently in the deep hours of the night, stirring leaves in the village. “Yes, let’s get some sleep.” Right after I finish taking another look at my copy of the Scroll of Tralatus, still in my pouch. Whatever the scroll does…I doubt it’s ‘innocuous’. They walked back to their barracks, Magi tucking his hands deep into the folds of his travelling cloak as they went.
Marik
After the two boys left, Marik sat down and poured himself a glass of spiced wine, which he heated. This was nearly disastrous. He swirled his wine in a goblet far nicer than anyone in the village typically owned. Sleep was the furthest thing on his mind.
“I send those two young men out to see a city, learn some practical skills from experienced men…and to retrieve a scroll of interest to my studies. I never thought any harm would come to them.” He spoke out loud, alone with his thoughts and his wine. “Surely this must be part of some larger plot.” He took long sip that was hot on his tongue. “Thankfully the boys came back unharmed.” He took another sip, and began to pace.
What I don’t know is why…
Xaro
The noise of the crowd surrounding the large central training pit was always loud. It was a boisterous affair, watching men bleed for the chance of earning their Mark. It was only on rare occasions, however, when more than half of the two thousand fighters cared enough to stop their own training to gather together to witness the battles between and amongst their brethren. Such had been the case with Xaro, and with Tar-Tan and Strongiron…but those were exceptions. Usually less than five hundred fighters gathered at the same time and place while training in the pits.
Except this cloudy afternoon, when all two thousand were assembled, having been told that there was an announcement from Lord Kensington. When they had all fanned out into the stands around the pit, however, it wasn’t Lord Kensington that walked out into the center to address them. It was Xaro.
“Fellow warriors,” he began. “You have been told that Lord Kensington has a message for all of you, and we shall hear it soon. But first I have something to say.
“These many months I have trained beside you. Fought with you. Ate with you. Laughed with you. Each day, a new challenge. I won’t insult you by saying we’re as close as brothers, for many a brother will kill his kin to feed himself in this Dark World.” He paused here and saw some of the hardened men in the crowd snickering and nodding. Good. He pressed on.
“We say that a lot—that it is a ‘Dark World’. Have you ever wondered why? Have you ever envisioned something better?” He drew his sword from its sheath in a dramatic arc. The crowd began to mutter.
“The Gods hate us!” someone yelled.
Xaro let the crowd yell a bit while he just slowly turned around the pit, looking at the assembled warriors. He couldn’t miss Strongiron’s resolute jaw in the back, staring down at him with unblinking blue eyes.
“They abandoned us!” another yelled.
Xaro took his sword and jammed it into the dirt at his feet.
“NO!” He shouted. Such was his voice and presence that the crowd quieted. He calmed himself. “No. The Gods never abandoned us. We abandoned them. It is a Dark World, for it is a Godless World. You come here to learn how to fight—for what? So you can kill. For what? So you can steal or protect what you already own. For what? So you can eat and live and thrive. Look around. This is what we are reduced to with the absence of God: fighting to gain what is not ours, and fighting to protect that which is. All darkness in this world flows from this simple fact.”
He looked around and saw more heads nodding, some fists shaking at the sky in both agreement and anger. He shut his eyes and uttered his silent prayer to Kuth-Cergor: let me have these men and I will build you a mighty army, Master.
Opening his eyes, he continued. “My fellow fighters…I would offer you a better vision. A bolder vision. It does not have to be like this. One God—a True God—has taken an interest in us, and if we take an interest in him, there will be more than plenty for his followers. Plenty of food, of gold, of slaves, of women—all that your heart desires. Those who join me will have the choicest of spoils, as peace is delivered through conquest. You have seen my exploits in battle…now let me show you who my Master is.
“Behold, Kuth-Cergor!”
Holding his hands outstretched, palms up, two columns of flame erupted from his palms toward the sky, twisting and weaving in and out as they shot upward. The grey clouds above the pit ripped apart, but instead of a blue sky behind the grey, it was orange and red, and the flames converged on the terrible opening in the sky. Xaro raised his hands higher still, and the ground began to shake. Violent lightning poured out of the rip in the sky, striking the ground around Xaro in a perfect circle, like needles sliding through cloth in precise pattern. As the last bolt of lightning charred the dirt, a deep voice that seemed to come from the sky cut through the commotion and chaos: “I am Kuth-Cergor, and I am returning.”
Xaro closed his palms into fists and brought his arms across his chest like an X…and there was silence. The orange/red rip in the sky was closed as grey clouds converged like salve in open wound. The closing of his palms extinguished the two columns of flame. Wisps of smoke rose from the two-dozen scorch marks encircling him on the dirt from the lightning blasts. The ground settled and stopped shaking.
Xaro raised both arms above his head. “Join me, and you shall be the cornerstone of an army that ushers in a New Age where God is no longer absent from our lives, where there will be order and plenty and peace and fairness. Join me, and I will brand you True Warriors myself. Ask yourself this: who is best suited to complete your training, Xaro, a True Mage, True Warrior, the God Finder and Griffon killer, or him?”
At that signal, Tar-Tan entered the pit, dragging Lord Kensington on a metal neck-leash. The noble Lord had been stripped down to a loincloth, and bore the open lashes from recent brutal whippings. He dragged the leader of the city in front of Xaro and stopped, stepping aside to stand at Xaro’s right hand. He jerked the leash down, and Lord Kensington fell to his knees.
Looking down at the beaten Lord, he allowed his eyes to become pure white as he directly addressed him softly, out of earshot of everyone. “You bowed before me a week ago, now bow further and kiss my feet if you wish to keep your arms and legs.”
Whimpering, Lord Kensington put his lips to Xaro’s boot and kissed them.
“I say again,” his voice rising. “Who would you follow—Xaro, favored by a True God, or this pitiful man kissing my feet who would presume to judge your talent? If you fight for yourselves, then you are limited to yourself. If you fight for a True God, you shall have no limits. Who will you follow?” He yelled.
Someone shouted “Xaro!” Then another. And another.
“WHO DO YOU FOLLOW?” bellowed Tar-Tan, the half-ogre.
“Xar-o! Xar-o! Xar-o!” the crowd chanted.
Xaro smiled as he took in his new warriors. He did notice, however, one man riding off across the hard-packed plains away from the city, north toward the coast. And so it begins.
CHAPTER 5: GAMES AND PLANS
Marik
The day of Marik’s annual tournament had arrived. There was a larger crowd than usual this year. Everyone knew Magi’s class was going to be competing, and his skills were well-known throughout the village of Brigg. A palpable buzz simmered in the air; Magi was somewhat of a village celebrity.
Looking down at his scuffed boots, he caught a glimpse of the frayed cuffs around the bottom of his too short trousers. They had been handed down by Marik, who was his Master, teacher, and for
all intents and purposes, the only father he had ever known. He was grateful for the worn cloth, still bearing stains from his hard journey a few nights earlier. Celebrity indeed.
Magi looked across the 50-foot square at his opponent—and best friend—Kyle Quinlan. He had always been smaller than Magi, but fit, not fragile. Wiry-strong, with slender, quick fingers, Kyle could run forever.
But he cannot match me, Magi allowed himself a moment’s pride. He rarely allowed this type of thinking to come to the surface. In fact, his next thought was where’d that come from? He had known Kyle for more than ten years now, often studying together as roommates long into the night. Having recently returned with him from the harrowing trip to Gaust, he was a little distraught to be paired against Kyle in the match right away.
Marik had called for a tournament every year that he run the school, this being the eighteenth year—the same number of years he had effectively raised Magi. He thought it was a fitting way to harden his graduates for the real world, as well as to prepare those who chose to pursue the life of a True Mage and attempt to climb the Staircase. The rules for the tournament were simple: knock your opponent unconscious or get them to yield, all the while keeping your spells to the confines of the grassy square.
Hundreds of villagers encircled the tournament boundaries, some pressing dangerously close to the field lines. Marik had set up invisible protections, but one could still get hurt if the crowd of commoners pressed you up against the barriers. Several shoving matches (usually instigated by parents) and more than a few insults set the tone as the match was set to begin. The fact that the two best friends were about to fight only heightened the drama.
Magi surveyed the crowd, saw Lady Goodwin, the old widow who was actually a magic-user herself. He saw Black-John the smitty, the large scale farmers Horace Packard and Brandon Gains. He also recognized Phillip, the Village Elder (whom he tried to avoid whenever possible), but his eyes were searching for someone else when Marik signaled for the match to begin.
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