“Later. Right now I need to walk, and think. There are also some people I need to talk to.” Magi stroked his chin, covered in coarse hair, and climbed out of bed.
He wasn’t counting on his legs being a bit wobbly still from the electric shock, plus the pain from the missile he’d taken. He caught himself as he stumbled slightly.
Kyle put his arm around him. “Look. Just rest today, ok? You can go see Ragor tomorrow after the finals, Magi. There’s no good that can come of heading out right now. Marik’s right—a little rest, and then we’ll figure out what happened. Ok?”
“Yeah, if Tricky-Thicky was up to his tricks, we’ll take care of him. Heck, Tarsh might fry him extra crispy tomorrow for you, won’t you?” said Nugget, a wide, playful grin across his face.
“Sure. I’ll do my best,” was all Tarsh said, never taking his eyes off Magi.
“Very well. Perhaps you’re right. I am still a little tired.” He crawled back into bed, and as everyone was leaving, Magi called out to Tarsh. “And Tarsh—kick his butt tomorrow,” he said without the hint of a smile.
Magi
The tower bell rang loudly three times to draw attention to the Finals. The sleepy village of Brigg had been awake and active for hours, with peddlers and blacksmiths and hawkers and merchants and traders and fletchers and thatchers all pursuing their work. At least, until the bell rang.
There weren’t many festivals or fairs that came through Brigg; Marik’s annual Tournament was a big deal to the villagers, who were looking for any diversion from their everyday labor, washing, and fixing—from life.
Magi looked around at the gathered villagers, having met most of them over the course of his life. This is a peaceful place, but hard.
In the gathering crowd, he spotted Melanie Goodwin, the old widow famous for her Mikenese melon patch and a bit of a magic-dabbler herself; she winked at him. Tarsh’s parents were there. Black-John the smitty had even put his hammer down and left his forge to see the young mages compete. Most villagers tried to grow their own food, but some of the larger farms belonged to Horace Packard and Brandon Gains. He also spotted the village Elder, Phillip Xavier Trenton. Like most villages, Brigg had no mayor, but an Elder with whom many sought council for judgment. The Elders were typically appointed by the King (or Queen), especially in the East. Here in the West, where Rookwood’s control was far more limited, it was more important that the Elder’s curry favor with the locals than with the crown, as few swords came all the way from Rookwood to enforce the law. The current village Elder had only held the position the last five years or so, and Magi thought that in his case the title of ‘Elder’ was a misnomer: he hardly looked old. The widow Lady Goodwin must have 30 years on him, Magi mused.
Phillip spotted Magi and walked over. He had a beard, but it was neatly trimmed and oiled, and barely sprinkled with grey around his chin. He and Marik may have been the only people in town who could regularly afford new clothing, for Phillip was always sharply dressed. In particular, his boots had a high shine and every tunic bore the unmistakable crest of Rookwood stitched into the breast, marking him as the Elder lest anyone forget. Today his tunic was a deep violet, embroidered with gold thread outlining the signet of the mountain stronghold, an eagle whose wingspan engulfed a mountain range of five peaks. It was a majestic crest on a banner, shield, or armor. It looked pretentious sewn into a tunic.
He smiled at Magi and extended his hand. Magi took it, politely. “I saw the match yesterday. To be sure, I’m sorry you’re not in the Finals. I know many in our village were looking forward to seeing you in action.”
“Yes, it’s—unfortunate.” Ragor cheated. But Marik had put that to rest earlier this morning, saying he talked to Ragor and he denied any wrongdoing. Shocker. “Tarsh has a chance though. If you’ll excuse me, Elder.” No point getting into it.
“Magi—a final word. If there is anything I can ever help you with, a problem or a—difficulty—that you may have, I would very much like to be someone you feel comfortable confiding in. That is why I’m here, Magi, to help. Of course, Marik is a wise Master, but sometimes you may need additional council—a different perspective, perhaps. My home is always open to you.” Again the warm smile that always made him uncomfortable.
“That is, uh, good to know, Elder. I will certainly keep it in mind.” Magi shook his hand, again half-heartedly, smiled in return, and turned back to the Square.
He found a spot near the front of the crowds next to Kyle and Kari. Today she wore a forest green tunic and travelling breeches, with a small dagger tucked into her belt. Unlike mages, Kari’s magic required few spell components, so an illusionist usually didn’t walk around dressed in robes and carrying pouches full of exotic ingredients. Their work was mostly the shifting of light, which required words, gestures, and the force of will in one’s mind. Once, Nugget had dared Kari to transform Lady Goodwin into a young lady again. She did, briefly, as human illusions were incredibly complex and difficult, not only to cast, but also to sustain for long. To this day, Magi wasn’t sure whether she had changed the way Lady Goodwin actually looked, or whether Kari had only changed the image of her in the boys’ mind. She just smiled and said those were her secrets. The green in her tunic seemed to make her eyes even more stunning. Is that an illusion, too? Like Magi cared.
Marik began. “Good morning, my friends. Thank you for joining us to watch the final battle in this year’s Tournament. Today we have a tremendous contest from two fine young magic users who are coming into their own. On my left is Ragor Stri, a man 18 years old, who has studied magic for nearly 10 years at my school. He came to our village from the seaport of Raag-Kan, a continent away across the Strait of Holstine. The story of his journey is worthy of a telling in its own right, but that must be for another day.”
Marik turned to his right. “His opponent will be familiar to all of you. On my right is Tarsh Minster, from our very own village—” He had to pause as the villagers cheered loudly. Magi looked around and saw Tarsh’s parents on the other side of the square, also shouting proudly. “—a man 18 years old, having studied magic for 10 years as well. Both students have reached this point by defeating three of their classmates, in many cases their friends—and even roommates.” Marik turned his head to regard Magi. “They battle today for a significant prize: a rare treat of cleanliness in this Dark World. We may no longer recognize the winner after they soak in this,” Marik joked, holding up the jar of scented soap to a smattering of applause and some headshaking at his humor. Magi surveyed the crowd and saw most, however, fixated longingly on the jar of soap. The jealousy is almost palpable, he thought.
“Without further fanfare, mages, prepare yourselves… BEGIN!” Marik shouted, the sun reflecting off his bronze skin and clean-shaven face and head. Once more, red sparks flew out of his hands with a dramatic flourish as the villagers oohed and ahhed at the dazzling display. Magi smiled to himself at the simplicity of that spell.
And so, the final duel began. Nugget leaned over to Magi and whispered, “Tricky Thicky is going with the missile darts that Tarsh tried on you, yesterday. Tarsh looks to have his shield up.” Nugget was intent on providing a running commentary, it seemed. Magi just nodded, trying not to think of what could have been, and focusing on watching and encouraging his friend.
Tarsh tried a water snake spell, but Ragor evaporated it with white fire. Ragor kept his barrage of missiles aimed at the other boy, and also summoned a swarm of insects to buzz around his head, distracting him. Tarsh’s shield failed a couple times, and the darts hit his legs, bringing him to his knees. Ragor then created one of the coldest blasts of wind Magi had ever felt—freezing the hair inside his nose—and it wasn’t even directed at him. He felt it through the protective barriers that Marik had put up as well. Tarsh tried to get some fire going, but his fingers couldn’t move fast enough. At a word from Ragor, vines burst up from the ground to encircle Tarsh’s legs and arms. Pinned awkwardly, half-frozen, with both legs wounded, Tarsh tried one
final spell as he saw Ragor advance on him. Magi thought he could tell what Tarsh had in mind—the same air hammer spell he had cast earlier on Kyle.
Ragor waved the air hammer aside with his shield as easily as if a large ladybug had tried to land on his shaggy head. On his knees and unable to move, Tarsh held both hands above his head in the universal sign of mercy.
Ragor did not ask Tarsh to yield, however. Instead, he fired ten more missiles point-blank into his chest.
Queen Najalas
“I must say, the reputation of beauty and wonder that you hear about Thalanthalas is more than justified, Chocktaw. It is amazing how the forest and this fortress seem as one.” The Queen said as Simon, Lady Elyn, Chief Chocktaw and she walked down a hallway past several rooms to arrive at a sitting room. The walls were contoured, giving the room an oval shape. Glass was fitted into one end, and the Queen saw that they had actually ascended a couple floors during their walk, for the view opened up over the city proper, where you could see Elves milling about everywhere. The other curved walls were covered with several bookshelves that also hugged the wall, creating undulating rows of different tomes. The last patch of wall space had a tiny fountain, where water flowed perpetually from a pitcher being poured from a beautiful woman over a single flower, sculpted from clay and brightly colored. There were several comfortable looking chairs facing one another near the center of the room. And on the table next to them was a large decanter of spiced wine that gave the room a warm, exotic aroma.
“Ker-tok,” he said as they sat down. The glass darkened, shielding their meeting from anyone on the streets who might be looking up into the Chief’s sitting room. “You are kind to say so, my Queen. I hope you find this chamber comfortable for our discussion.”
“How did you do that?” asked Simon. As light from the outside dimmed, small, hidden glowballs began to grow brighter, bathing the room in soft light.
Chocktaw smiled. “You will find that Elvish Druids are full of tricks, Simon.” He turned to his daughter and winked. Pouring a glass of wine, the Chief himself served first the Queen, then his daughter, and offered Simon a glass as well.
“Thank you, but I am fine at the moment, Chief.”
Nodding politely, the Chief took the glass for himself. He took a long drink and then turned to the Queen. “So. I understand you are on your way to see Pilanthas.”
“I am. I have need of his council, but I would have yours as well, for my news will certainly affect you. I believe an army is being amassed, its intent being an attack on Rookwood. My new General Strongiron has seen the beginnings of this. He travelled to Kekero to earn his mark as a True Warrior, and returned with news that a man called Xaro had emptied the pits and convinced those men to form the backbone of his army. He has taken them somewhere.”
The Queen sniffed at her glass and took a rather undainty gulp before continuing. “Not that I doubted Strongiron, but I also wanted to verify this account, for there is more that I’ll get to. I sent a small group of knights across the Strait to see for themselves. Not only did they verify that Kekero is deserted, but they brought Lord Kensington back to Rookwood, at his urging. He had been whipped fiercely, and he, too, corroborated what I had been told.” She took another drink and set her glass down more forcibly than she intended. “Chocktaw, war is coming.”
The Chief looked grimly at his daughter, and also at Simon, who sat there stoically, nodding at the Queen’s story. “This begins to make sense.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Queen. “Have you heard similar reports?”
“I have heard some reports of many ships sailing east, though we never saw it. We don’t get too close to the Great Whirlpool, and if they left from the eastern seaboard of Oraz, our scouts would not see them. But we have spies in ports all over Tenebrae, as far east as Shinty-Moore on the edge of the world. The Elves that settled there run a forestry outpost, outcast from Filestalas, as they seem to be more concerned with trading on their wood lore than on living in harmony with the very forest that runs in their blood. Still…we have eyes and ears there as well, and their business has increased tenfold. That would seem to support your story as well. An army will need a fortress, and training grounds, and all manner of materials to consume, not the least of which is wood, trees, and plant extracts. I fear your words ring true, my Queen.”
The Queen narrowed her eyes and helped herself to another glass of wine. “There is something else you should know. This Xaro claims that he comes in the name of Kuth-Cergor. A name our great-grandparents would have forgotten as children. He talks of Gods, and is more than just a fighter. He is a True Mage as well, though he somehow disguises it.”
At this, Lady Elyn’s eyes grew wide, and the Chief turned and shared a look with his daughter. It is true what they say about her—I’ve not seen a more beautiful woman in my land mused the Queen.
“I see. As Elves, our memory traces back farther than you humans, and I most certainly recall the stories of Kuth-Cergor, his fall from heaven, and his supernatural powers. They were stories only, fables meant to scare or impress young children—or more commonly framed as ancient worship practices long discredited by a modern world. We Elves turned long ago to what is real—to our trees and our Druidic Art that yields practical goals: the shaping of wood, the growing of food, the healing of herbs.”
The Elvish Chieftain stood and walked to the fountain, placing his hand atop the woman holding the pitcher. “I, however, have always kept an open mind, I suppose. We worship the forest Gods, the Seasonal Gods, and also pray to the Gods of Weather. And yet…” he trailed off.
He turned back towards them. “You are wise to consult Pilanthas—he is older than any Elf living today. He will give you clarity on these matters. But there is one more piece of information you should hear, my Queen.” He nodded to his daughter. I was wondering why you included her in our discussion.
“My Queen,” she started, head bowed. Looking up, she smiled sadly at the Queen, her almond-shaped, light brown eyes seemed to staring off into the distance behind her. She shook her head and focused on her Queen. “It is with great sadness that I tell you that our hospitality was taken advantage of recently. And we have paid for it with the theft of my amulet, the Purple Sun.”
The Queen looked at the young woman with a mix of empathy and confusion. “I am sorry to hear that, Lady Elyn. The jewel was beautiful; I remember seeing it on you when last you visited our court at Rookwood. It is quite possibly one of the most famous jewels in Elvidor, if not all of Tenebrae. I will gladly issue a bounty for the thief, if that is your wish?” she offered, uncertain of the relevance given the weight of their discussion.
“Yes, thank you. We have dispatched our own hunters for this thief, but a Queen’s bounty will garner far more attention. Alas, there is more to this event than a stolen gem. You see the Purple Sun was more than just a jewel, your Majesty. It is also a key. An ancient key.”
“A key to what?” asked Simon.
“A key to unlocking the Alchemist’s Challenge. In the hands of someone with knowledge, that jewel is the final part of a formula that will transform common metal to gold, though it is destroyed in the process. We Elves have kept the jewel—and its secret—for uncounted generations. If this True Mage Xaro has studied ancient religions, I fear these events are somehow connected. A True Warrior/Mage, building an army with unlimited gold in this Dark World will be a terrible adversary, my Queen.”
CHAPTER 7: THE PRICE MEN PAY
Herodius
The day’s work concluded like most days on the Uncharted Isles. Warm, tropical winds kissed the beaches and blew the smell of the sea into the tiny hamlets and farming villages that formed the communities on these fertile islands. Long ago, settlers left the mainland, some to avoid the realities of war, some to avoid the realities of peace, and many in the hope of owning their own land. The chain of islands were tightly grouped, maybe two dozen in total, and all were populated by subsistence farmers, or community farmers in some c
ases. Surplus food was bartered and traded for livestock and some other essentials, mostly farming equipment. The tight-knit community was a simple life, free of Kings or Lords or Elders. Simple rules governed their existence, and a panel of nine wise men and woman were chosen on each island to settle disputes. Thievery was virtually nonexistent. Over generations, the population exploded as families grew to increase the number of hands available to work the land. Now more than a hundred thousand men, women, and children made the islands their home. Herodius Cromwell was one of them.
Tall, broad, and chiseled, Herodius had the physique of a man accustomed to working the land. The islanders had no definitive race; Dwarves, Men, and Elves all made up the population, and over time the generations had blended together to make distinguishing characteristics rare. His curly brown hair was decidedly human. But the slightly reddish-brown hue to his skin was unmistakably Elvish, and the barrel chest suggested some Dwarvish as well. At well over six feet, his height could have been anything. Some teased him that he was even part Ogre.
He lived in a nice-sized hut that he had made himself, along with his wife, Maria, and their five children; three sons and two daughters. The oldest boy was twelve; his youngest son was two, with the rest falling in between. He came in from the fields like any other day—dirty and tired, but proud of an honest day’s work. Today he had helped one of his neighbors repair a small pen for his hogs. His hut and his fields were only a half-mile from the beach, so he often took a walk down to the shoreline after dinner to watch the fading sun, hoping to see a green flash. His oldest son was capable of watching the kids for a few minutes, allowing Herodius some quiet time with his beloved wife, Maria.
The sun fell, and the briefest flash of green light splashed across the horizon. “Look, Maria! It’s so beautiful here, isn’t it?” He reached over and kissed his wife.
“It is, Herodius. I wouldn’t change anything for the world.” She gazed up at him through her blue eyes, honey-colored hair falling clean but wild about her shoulders. “What a blessing to be here. Here with you…” and she kissed him back.
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 15