The man stood up. “Well, I am Helmut Bowhistle, but I can tell you that our captain doesn’t take to freeloaders, and we’ve all the labor we’ll need. So unless you’ve got gold to spend—”
Trevor anticipated this long before it was brought up. He didn’t bother to negotiate. He had half-again as much gold as he’d need to buy passage already bagged, and he tossed it to Helmut. “When did you say the Mermaid departs?” He asked, motioning the barkeep for another round as he sat down with the sailors, uninvited.
Helmut opened the small bag, looked up at Trevor, and smiled. “You throw dice?” was all he asked as the ale arrived.
Magi
The Elf’s Bane Pass was a curious split in the terrain. Marik led Magi and Kyle out of Briz at a quick pace, steadily marching south toward the large city of Shith, on the western edge of the great forest Filestalas, home to many Elves. Shith was near the sea toward the south, where the Strait of Holstine separated Elvidor from the continent of Oraz. To the northeast was Lake Calm, the massive body of freshwater that stretched out for miles to form another barrier to the Elven homeland. To get to this cosmopolitan city from across the Crystal Mountains, the Elf’s Bane was just about the only way through. And the pass was aptly named.
It was enormously wide. Magi could envision a sea of people crossing fairly easily through the pass. There were some jagged hills to his left and right, both impassable for an army or horses, but the way through could easily serve as a battlefield itself. Though nobody knew for sure, legend had it that Quixatalor “blew a hole through the mountains to keep the Elves from withdrawing completely from the affairs of the world.” Thus the name, or so Marik said with a smirk and a shrug.
As they passed through the mountains, Magi grew annoyed by all the travelers they were passing. It was entirely too crowded, and after many months of travelling in a small group, he found it more of a nuisance having all these people milling around through the gap. Wagons, horses, some warriors and knights, merchants, gypsies, and all sorts of other travelers were slowing progress down, even though they were just walking. It made it difficult to concentrate and mentally rehearse his spells. What’s more, Magi was increasingly sensitive about his personal space as well, having somehow lost his ring the last time they were packed together like this.
“Pardon me, good sir,” an older man said as he was jostled into Magi from the other direction. He tipped his cap sheepishly.
Time seemed to slow as Magi called forth his magic. He could almost feel the mountains on either side of him, and could easily pick out individual conversations from everyone packed into the pass. He released himself to his Art…and sent a magic missile into the old man’s shoulder, knocking him and about six others close by to the ground from the point-blank blast.
“Get the hell away from me!” he shouted. “Move aside!” he said loudly to everyone in his general vicinity.
The middle-aged man cried in pain as he held his smoking shoulder. Several of the other travelers cursed Magi, and he thought he saw a couple swords rattle in the scabbards of some wandering knights. But no one confronted him. Except Kyle.
“Magi! What are you doing?” Kyle ran to the hurt man and helped him sit up. “Master, please help him,” he called to Marik.
Marik smiled to himself before rounding on Magi to rebuke him. Then he walked over and crushed some dry leaves on the man’s shoulder, healing him with relative ease.
Magi just scowled and kept walking.
Queen Najalas
“So, war is coming, Pilanthas.” The Queen said it as a statement, not a question.
“I’m afraid so. It shall be the great conflict of this Age. Perhaps of any Age, I fear.” The old Elf set his favored mead aside, instead joining his Queen in common ale from common cups. It was perfect. He took a long pull and wiped his ageless face with the sleeve on his green tunic before continuing. “My Queen, as I have said, my council is that peace cannot be kept. You must concern yourself with winning. Or prepare to die by whatever means best suits you.” The Elf allowed himself a modest laugh.
He acts more like an imp than a prophet. Still… Queen Najalas couldn’t help but like Pilanthas. “Tell me again how I might win. All this talk of Gods is a bit much.”
“God. Not plural. You are facing a foe with almost unlimited resources.” The Elf paused. “Surely you have heard stories of Kuth-Cergor?”
“I have not lived 250 years, nor have I read a tenth of what you apparently have. Pretend that I know nothing.”
“Very well, but there are some basic truths that you must come to grips with if we are to discuss your future, and strategy. The first thing you must understand is that Kuth-Cergor is real; he is not a phantom. He is a demon, and he has considerable power in this Dark World.”
“So you say.” She took a swallow of her ale. Simon was aghast at the prospect of his Queen swigging ale with an Elf in this overgrown library.
“So I know. You would do well to trust me, my Queen. The second truth is harder to grasp than the first: Kuth-Cergor fancies himself a God, but he is far from it. God does, however, exist.”
“Many Gods exist, Pilanthas. You Elves have Gods. So do the Dwarves, and we Humans worship all sorts of Gods to suit our needs. What is your point and how does this help me win this war you say is coming? I grow impatient.”
Pilanthas put his mug of ale down, stood up, and fixed the Queen with a piercing stare. It was the first time he looked old and wise. She actually flinched. “You have much to learn, my Queen, if you would hope to win this war. Listen carefully to me now. You cannot defeat Kuth-Cergor with your troops and political alliances. He seeks to raise an undead army as we speak, and a young man travels to me this very day to learn of his prophecy, upon which much of this conflict will hinge. You will need swords and you will need spears, yes. But what you need most is God to enter this conflict. Your general is not the match of Kuth-Cergor’s chosen one, and you are nowhere near the match of this demon or any of his minions on your own. But there is a way. You Humans, we Elves, the Dwarves, the Ogres—every race upon Tenebrae has been sold a Great Lie—that God has left us to our own devices. We live in a ‘Dark World,’ that is what we all say, correct? Well, God has not left this world.”
“Then where is He?” the Queen shouted.
The Elf shook his head. “He never left. Her name is Dymetra. Find the True Clerics, and you can fight Kuth-Cergor. As I have said, you will need fighters, and you will need mages. Many, for sure. And even then, it may not be enough—our world may be too far gone for Dymetra’s liking. But the True Clerics have it right, and with their help—even one True Cleric of Dymetra—you can change the world.”
“And where do I find a ‘True Cleric’?” she asked, doing her best not to sound sarcastic. Simon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“You may not be able to find one at all. The good news is that I believe one will find you. And when they do, my council is simply this: help them with everything you can.”
Malenec
Malenec knelt in supplication, his black-rimmed eyes closed, his long hair stretched back into its usual severe pony tail.
It was midnight, off the western coast of Urthrax on a crystal clear, warm night this far south. He had left the comforts of the port city of Ilbindale and traveled toward the interior of the wreath-shaped continent, where it was heavily wooded. Urthrax had always been a mysterious, holy land. The sea slipped through the straight near the southern edge to form a massive lake, which wasn’t quite freshwater. Beautiful trees grew in massive groves near the edge of this holy water that clerics had come to worship for centuries before they disappeared. The clerics have the truth of it, at least the True Clerics.
Malenec began his prayers to his God, hoping this time that his faith would be rewarded. “My God, all I do is for you and your coming coronation. You have given me the power to raise the dead. Kuth-Cergor, in your name, I ask now that you will give me the dead to raise! The power you granted me is only effe
ctive while the flesh still clings to memory of life—after three days, I am powerless to animate the corpse. Grant me a plague across any continent, and send me there that I may reap a mighty harvest for your army. Grant me this, and I swear that I will hand you this world!”
Just then, a bird fell out of the sky and landed dead at the Dark Cleric’s feet. His God’s answer also came straight into his consciousness…
“…No…”
Malenec got up and kicked the dead bird out of his way. Very well, my God. As you wish. He had received the same answer every night since he gave Xaro his last update weeks ago. But he knew better than to stop asking—Faith is the hallmark of any True Cleric’s life, of course.
That did not stop him from pursuing other options, however. Perhaps Kuth-Cergor was testing his creativity. Perhaps his God did not share his cleric’s vision of an undead army of 50,000 walking corpses. To date, he had just over 50, having slaughtered villagers by the handful near the port city. He would not meet with Xaro until he could deliver an army worthy of their God’s approval. Oh no—that would not do. He would bring that conjurer a mighty undead army. Let Xaro crow when he sees that.
But Sands End, off the far western coast of Ipidine, was a world away. Clearly, Kuth-Cergor was spurring him to make a bold decision, perhaps to prove his worth over his current favorite. Malenec contented himself in the knowledge that he had a connection to their God that Xaro would never understand.
“I have three choices,” he said out loud to himself as he walked back toward his encampment. “I can leave this holy land and head to Elvidor or Oraz, where there may be more inhabitants. I can stay here and keep praying for more freshly-dead bodies. Or I can unleash my modest army on the city of Ilbindale, which would certainly announce to the world that Kuth-Cergor has returned.”
“…Now you understand…” The voice of his God was as clear as a bell in the middle of the night, so much so that Malenec stopped and looked around.
Ilbindale it is.
Veronica
Veronica approached the place where the abandoned mine was supposed to begin (or end) near the end of a long day of hiking. She sold her horse and bought a month’s worth of supplies for her journey—mostly food, water, flint, and some climbing tools in case she had to get through some tight spots. Her pack for such a lengthy journey was oversized and odd for a woman travelling alone to be carrying.
She detested having to kill people without a contract, considering it a waste of her talent, so she preferred not to attract attention in the first place. Fortunately, her craft had taught her how to disguise herself quite well. With a few modifications, Veronica-the-Beauty transformed herself into Vernon-the-Nobody. It was not the first time she had chosen to travel in the guise of a man. With her height and athletic build, it wasn’t too difficult. It’s not as if anyone will get close enough to check.
She was pleased that she had not had to waste her energy eliminating anyone since she left Barnabus the half-dwarf. With her supplies and the map, she stared up at the rocky slopes she approached. She was well into the foothills of the Crystal Mountains now, above the tree line. The path she had followed, if one could call it that, had pretty much ended. She looked for the “smooth stone,” which the map indicated was the mine’s entrance.
Nothing was smooth at this height; all around her were sharp peaks, cliff faces, and sheer drops. However, there was one stone ahead that was about the size of a large bear. It was oval, and lay on its side. It did not look out of place on the mountainside, that’s for sure. It was, however, about the only thing truly smooth that she could see.
She walked over and smiled. She leaned her back up against the smooth stone and looked at the mountain wall in front of her. It was all rock. She walked up to the side of the mountain and put her hand up to touch the rock face. A cold wind stirred, blowing from the rock itself. Moving closer, she pressed her hand up against the mountain.
It sunk right through rock face into nothingness beyond…the rock wall in front of this stone was an illusion, just as the map had said.
Lighting the first of what she suspected would be many torches, she plunged through the perfect illusion and into the darkness of the mine.
Magi
After a couple hours of walking in silence, and now well through Elf’s Bane Pass, Kyle tried again to talk to Magi. “Can we talk?” he asked as he fell in next to his best friend.
“Talk about what?” Magi continued strolling effortlessly along a few paces behind Marik. Kyle considered his best friend. He seemed to have grown, if that was possible. He thought he looked almost as big as Ragor, but far more fit. The wind blew back his hair, which fell in a wave about his shoulders. No wonder my sister fancies him…
“About you. Something’s bothering you. I know. Talk to me, Magi. What’s going on? I’ve never seen you unload on someone like that. It wasn’t more than a few months ago that I thought you’d kill Ragor for doing what he’d done to Tarsh.” Kyle stopped short of saying what he really wanted to say.
“I don’t know. I just want to meet this Elf and get back to school. This process is getting on my nerves, and the thought of walking all the way back to Brigg puts me in a bad mood.” Magi turned to look at Kyle, as if to say, I’m done.
Kyle, however, pushed further. “Magi, are you sure it’s not something else? Are you positive you can’t put your finger on anything that’s upset you? You don’t quite seem, well, yourself.” He paused, then plunged ahead. “I know something’s nibbling at you. I saw in my own proph—” His mouth completely seized up. He couldn’t speak.
“You’re mumbling. What did you see?” Magi seemed to only be half-paying attention to his friend.
“P—” Kyle started to cough and had to take a swig of water. So, they mean it when they say we’re forbidden to speak about our prophecy. Very well. “That thing we’re travelling to Shith for—you know why we’re going to see Pilanthas?”
“Yes, my prophecy. What are you getting at?” Again, Magi was uncharacteristically annoyed.
Kyle tried to talk around it, but couldn’t get a word out. His tongue was simply not cooperating. He finally gave up. “Never mind. I just wanted you to know that if you ever wanted to talk about anything, you know you can tell me anything. We’ve been friends forever, Magi.”
Magi nodded and kept walking in silence. Kyle, however, couldn’t shake the images he had seen during his time with the Ol’ Shakoor, which had been only a month ago, but felt like a lifetime now…
As he cast a simple spell, the Ol’ Shakoor “lifted” Kyle’s prophecy, taking the fingerprints of his magic. Her golden eyes sparkled, and she weaved a series of images out of the air between them. Kyle saw:
…Magi, with his auburn hair flowing and his white eyes blazing, wielding a large staff…
…Kari, beaten, angry, and terrified, staring at Magi as he walks away…
…Kyle himself, falling away, looking up at his best friend…
…And then—the face of a man—smiling. It was a horrible and beautiful face. Handsome and wicked, flawless white teeth, black eyes, and black hair that fell to his shoulders. It was the most attractive face he had ever seen, male or female, but the smile was joyless. Rather than spreading mirth, when this face smiled, it only spread dread.
Elsa, the Ol’ Shakoor, ended their session and brought Kyle back into moment, the wispy images disappearing like smoke on a windy night. She looked aghast, but Kyle noticed how quickly she regained her composure when she saw him staring at her.
He desperately wanted to know what this meant. None of this ‘fit’ with Magi. Or himself, for that matter. The Ol’ Shakoor, who called forth all these storylines and had seen them all as well, was painfully cryptic. “Many possible paths for you, Kyle. But it is clear to me that your destiny is linked to the young man outside who awaits my audience next. It would appear your friend—and therefore you—will be at the epicenter of many momentous events.”
“So, I should forget abo
ut climbing the Staircase?” Kyle asked. The whole point of this foolishness was to warn would-be mages of dangers they could avoid if they pursued a different path. He could almost hear Marik’s voice inside his own head.
“Why would you draw that conclusion?” The Ol’ Shakoor asked.
“I saw myself dying. Isn’t that the type of warning that Quixatalor intended to dissuade certain magic-users from pursuing the life of a True Mage?” Kyle’s voice was soft, and almost crestfallen.
Elsa stood and walked to the young mage. Her hair looked like molten honey, and she smelled like spring. “Kyle. Your future is a challenge to unravel. I have seen the futures of many, many mages. Almost all of them are more straightforward than what we saw. Dying? I saw you fall, and I saw your friend close by, but we could not see more than that, could we? While it is true that all must die, I can’t say that what we saw represented your death, nor would I associate the Staircase with that event. I’ve shown mages a life of heartache after attempting the Staircase. In your case, it appears as if the Staircase has precious little to do with your future, good or ill. So, climb if you wish.”
Kyle’s face brightened, and he couldn’t help but hug the Ol’ Shakoor, who smiled warmly and returned the young man’s hug. As they walked toward the door, one thing still bothered Kyle. “I do have one more question, if I may, Ol’ Shakoor.”
“Yes?”
“Who was that man we saw at the end of my prophecy? I’ve never been more scared in my life.” Kyle stopped and stared at Elsa. Those golden eyes are wild.
“Our greatest threat. It appears an ancient evil has taken an interest in Tenebrae. We live in a Dark World, and he means to stake his claim.”
“What can we do?” Kyle asked.
“Pray that he is not the only one with renewed interest in our world. Pray.” She smiled curiously at Kyle and showed him the way out, knowing he was leaving with more questions than when he entered.
Magi
As the sun started to set, the sky began to darken into that pre-twilight color that Magi always loved. Today, however, he just wanted to meet this damn ancient Elf and be done with it all. He had already moved past Marik, easily out striding him as Pilanthas’s large home, interwoven with several living trees, came into view. Without waiting for Marik or Kyle, or even saying so much as a word, he walked up to the doorway and knocked.
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 26