Wielder of the Flame

by Nikolas Rex

  Redmor just finished one of the fruits and turned his head and looked Marc in the eye, as if to say where is the next one?

  “One more, but just one, or you will spoil your dinner,” Marc said with a grin. He reached down at the small stash of fruit by his side. “Of course,” he continued, “You don’t know what dinner means anyway. What do you call it? Last meal,” he nodded to himself, remembering. “What a horrible name, I mean, I know it means the last meal of the day, but, what if it really was your last meal, like, of your life?” He smiled and patted the creature, “Oh well.”

  He handed the fruit up to the aldom and Redmor plucked it from his open palm carefully.

  Marc was amazed to see such intelligence in a creature. It did not speak, at least not in the way he did, but he felt he could communicate with it nonetheless. He had begun to form a close bond with the creature since his first encounter with it weeks ago in the yard when Topar introduced them. It was a mount, but it was more than the horses where he was from, there was a magic to Redmor.

  Marc finished washing Redmor down and stood up.

  “There you are, now go on, you can eat.”

  Redmor lowered his head and nudged Marc playfully.

  Marc smiled and gave the creature a hug around the neck and patted his back.

  Topar and shown them the proper way to care for the creatures and Marc took extra effort in doing so. When they were on the yard, running and training Marc felt as if Redmor was watching out for him, moving and doing things before Marc could even give the command to do so. He smiled again, watching as the creature trotted over to his two fellow aldoms.

  It felt good to have so many friends.

  “Did you finally finish!”

  It was Zildjin.

  “We are heading out soon!”

  “Be right there!” Marc called.

  He stowed away the fruit and emptied the soapy water bucket, putting everything in its proper place.

  He was excited. It had been a few days since they had heard a good story and had planned to head over to the Silver Star Inn to see what entertainment was in store that night.

  ***

  The sun was setting as Marc, Sesuadra, and Zildjin, reached the Silver Star Inn.

  The Gathering was fast approaching, the crowds in Kolima were greater than recent memory could account for. It was getting harder and harder to secure a good spot for listening during storytelling, but the stories and entertainment were rising to the occasion as well. The three friends would hustle through the last bit of their training with Topar in the evening to be able to enjoy their free time and to find a good listening spot.

  Marc looked up in awe at the sky. It was not as strange anymore to see two planets above him, there between the stars, instead of a single moon. It was very beautiful.

  They arrived quickly, almost out of breath.

  It was a large place with white washed walls lined in thick dark mahogany wood trim. Yellow lanterns cast their light from poles on each side of the road, and from nearby windows and from the inside the Inn itself. They walked in to find the Inn common room busy with excitement. People were eating, drinking, and two figures dressed in bright colors, playing string instruments Marc had never seen before, performed music on a small stage in one of the far corners of the room. It had a large vaulted ceiling, like the Magic Emporium, reinforced with thick wooden beams. Barmaids served orders and attended to the customers. A thick fellow in an apron kept appearing and disappearing through a large open doorway leading to what must have been the kitchen, various trays of food in hand. Outside it had been cooling down and the warmth from the Inn was comforting. The air smelt strongly of ale, roasted meat, leather, and slightly of dust. They had arrived just as the music entertainment of the evening was drawing to a close and before a large crowd could gather for the bard’s tale of the night.

  The three boys stepped in casually. They knew the routine, though the Innkeeper did not charge for the entertainment, no one could stay who did not first buy something, either to eat or drink. They bought a few drinks, nothing strong, and found a small empty table in the back corner by the booths. They were almost uncomfortably close to the booths, it seemed as though the Innkeeper had shoved in a few extra tables and chairs to accommodate the increase in customers due to the upcoming festivities.

  The boys were chatting about the highlights of the day to each other when the minstrels ended their music and the room clapped and cheered. The official spokesman of the Inn, someone the Innkeeper had hired to add a little bit more class to his entertainment, stood up on the little stage near the back of the room.

  The man raised his hands and gestured the room for quiet, “Gentlemen, and ladies if there be any here tonight aside from the pretty lasses serving the food and drink,”

  The crowd laughed and one or two of the more rowdy men hooted and one whistled.

  “Tonight I introduce, for this fortnight only, Master of Verse, Talespinner, Legendary Cantatore, Omer Lidenild, the traveling balladeer!”

  The audience erupted with clapping and cheers.

  Omer took his place on the small stage, a stringed instrument that looked to Marc somewhat like a guitar, around his neck. He smiled and bowed a few times, then gestured with his arms and hands for silence. When it was quiet he cleared his throat and brought the guitar up.

  He struck a few perfectly balanced chords and spoke in a well projected and dramatic voice, “From the stars above, to the dirt below, a sonnet from me, you now shall know—”

  Zildjin, Sesuadra, and Marc all frowned, disappointed. They had already heard the story five days or so ago, and though it was good, the narration was still fairly fresh in their minds.

  “You would think in all his travels he would have picked up enough stories to tell a different one each night of a fortnight,” Zildjin half grumbled.

  “It is a good story,” Sesuadra offered, though he agreed with Zildjin and he let it show on his face.

  “At least we didn’t have to pay for more than the drinks,” Marc added, “most of the other places charge just for the storytelling.”

  “I just wish we had not already heard it so recently,” Zildjin replied.

  “I have read it before somewhere as well,” Sesuadra finished.

  Marc had come from a world saturated with millions of different forms of amusement and distractions at the touch of a finger. Multi-tasking with music playing at the same time, even simultaneous kinds of visual stimuli at once was not unusual for a person to experience multiple times in a single day. He found the simplicity of the merriment here refreshing and did not mind hearing the same story twice, but it appeared as if his two friends wanted to do something else.

  “We don’t have to stay,” Marc said, “We can find another Inn, or go down by the beach. Fishing?” He suggested.

  “Something,” Zildjin nodded with a shrug.

  Sesuadra nodded as well.

  They drained what remained in their mugs and began to stand up quietly.

  “Sorry to interrupt,”

  The three boys turned at the voice of an old man sitting in a nearby booth in the corner.

  “What?” Zildjin said.

  “I could not help but overhear you,” The old man indicated the closeness of their table to his booth. He had a gruff white moustache and beard, two small braids on each side of his face, and thick eyebrows. His nose was large and red. The nearby lantern-light reflected in his dark brown eyes. He was dressed in tan robes with a dark brown leather vest and cowl.

  “And?” Marc said.

  “You say you have already heard the good bard recite this ballad,”

  “Yes,” Sesuadra responded.

  They all spoke in just a little above a whisper, as to not disturb the bard’s presentation.

  “What if I told you I had a story to tell, one you have probably never heard?”

  The three stood, unsure of what to do.

  “A tale of swords and magic.”

  The old
man stretched forth his hands. A small purple ball of glowing light appeared out of nowhere, hovering in his palm. He sent the light into the air and caught it with his other hand, extinguishing it with a small puff.

  The three friends exchanged glances.

  The old man motioned for them to sit at his booth across from him and the three boys obliged. The bench just barely sat the three of them.

  The elderly figure raised his hand and waved down a barmaid to come and fill their cups. He ordered some food to be brought to them as well and then turned to the boys to begin his story.

  “In ancient times, before the War of Power, the horrible conflict of which much is recorded and spoken of, there was a small village, in the lands beyond the black peaks. This was in a time when the black peaks were nothing but grassy plains and peace ruled the lands, The Illuminated Era was hundreds of cycles yet to come. Magic was new in the world, and the race of man was still learning of its wisdom and power. The high elves, the fae ones, and the other mystical kind, tried to guide the humans to understand the ways of magic. We humans were of the hard and brutish variety back then, slow to learn and quick to battle. Only a few of us in many cycles proved worthy and able to master the forces of magic.

  Sesuadra and Zildjin had heard much of this story already. It was taught as the most general history of Lyrridia.

  Zildjin told the old man such, “This sounds more like a lesson in history than a tale of adventure,”

  Marc, of course, had never heard it and wanted the old man to continue. Marc nudged Zildjin.

  “I’ve never heard it,” Marc interrupted his friend.

  “Indeed,” The old figure replied to Marc, and then glanced at Zildjin, “patience, young friend, I speak merely of the prelude, and have not yet come to the adventure,”

  Zildjin nodded, and rubbed his ribs, glowering at Marc, then grinning and elbowing Marc back.

  When the two boys settled, the old man continued.

  “I speak now, then, of this small village, Darper. A young man was born there,”

  Sesuadra, usually the quiet one, spoke up, “Tasard, Kinyrr of Darper, Firebringer.”

  “Quite right,” the old man nodded, “Tasard Firebringer, a name of legend that has been spoken for ages, and will be spoken for ages to come, to be sure. A simple boy in a large family, some say they were woodworkers, others claim he tilled the land with his father and brothers. It is not as important as what the boy would become later in life. He learned the ways of magic quickly and even at a young age, was soon more powerful than even the oldest of the high elves. There are many different accounts that differ widely as to his abilities and his deeds. Some tales describe Tasard as able to singlehandedly withstand the assault of entire armies, destroying legions of foes with a mere sweep of his hand. Others give accounts of a strong willed, but gentle man who spent his entire life advocating peace, ruling the lands with a perfect balance of justice and mercy, resolving even the greatest of troubles with unprecedented wisdom and grace. He unified all the many separate tribes and people of men under a single banner, incorporating the high elves, the fae ones, and all the other races peaceably in his realm. Many believe he was an avatar of the First Ones, some believe he was one of the First Ones incarnate, to walk among his creations. What is unerringly true of the man may always remain a mystery, but the impressions he left upon our history are undeniable.”

  Sesuadra and Zildjin did not seem as interested. Sesuadra began poking at his food. Zildjin pulled out his medallion and played with it across his knuckles. But the old man noticed that every word he spoke completely held Marc’s attention.

  “As your friend has already pointed out,” The old man gestured to Zildjin, “this is basic knowledge that most everyone knows, if it bores you, I can stop.

  “No, no,” Marc said, “go on.”

  “Very well, then I shall continue. Rynar, Thalinad of Lisskel, The greatest blacksmith of all time, was one of the Firebringer’s closest friends and personal blacksmith. It was in the regions of Lissek that this tale begins. Before Tasard became the great ruler of Lyrridia, he journeyed across the lands, learning and growing in his special abilities. The legend goes that in his travels Tasard came upon a quiet village not unlike his own that made him think of his home that he had left behind many cycles before. They were a humble, quiet people who tilled the land nearby a tall mountain that loomed overhead. They gave him a warm welcome into the village, sharing food and drink with him, though they had little to go around, Tasard quickly discovered why. A monstrous beast, whose mountain was its home, raided the village from time to time, terrorizing the people. The beast demanded every cycle that a young maiden, untouched, be brought to its domain near the top of the mountain as a sacrifice. A righteous fury rose within Tasard at the injustice being done to the villagers. A man of charity, and of action, he quickly determined to help the villagers. He rode to the nearest town, thinking to refute the local leaders in turning a blind eye to the small village’s dilemma and demand that they take action to resolve it. Upon his arrival he discovered that it was not only the small village near the mountain that was subject to the monster’s whims, but the entire countryside gave up tribute, even the ruling city of the region, Lisskel, yielded to the thing which they called The Dark One.

  When Tasard put his mind to something, he would never give up on it, he vowed to slay the beast, and release its terrible hold upon the lands round about. He appealed to the city rulers, requesting their aid on his quest. The rulers would not help. They had sent men to the mountain before, to kill the beast. The Dark One had not only slaughtered the men they sent, but in response to the attack he had come down from the mountain and burned several villages and towns with a vengeance. To this, Tasard simply said, that he would go to face the beast alone. It was at this time, in the now long gone city of Lisskel, that Tasard met Rynar. Rynar wanted to help, but he was not an adventurer, he was a young talented blacksmith that was different from any other blacksmith of his time. He created his weapons and armor not only with the heat of the forge, but with the power of magic. Rynar offered his services to help this stranger. The blacksmith marveled and respected the fact that this stranger, Tasard, with no previous tie to their troubles, could have simply walked away, but instead was single-handedly volunteering to solve their problem.

  Tasard told Rynar that a good suit of armor and an enchanted sword would be most helpful indeed. Rynar and Tasard quickly became friends as Rynar began his work. Rynar spent many fortnights in his workshop, Tasard keeping him company. Finally, the time came when Rynar was finished with his work. It was the finest workmanship Tasard had seen in all his travels. He equipped himself with his new items, thanked his friend Rynar for them, and left Lisskel for the mountain.”

  The boys had finished the legs of meat, slices of bread, and fruit, and were finishing another round of drinks. All three now listened intently to the story.

  “Well?” Marc asked, “What happened to Tasard?”

  “He survived, of course,” The old man replied, “remember, this is a story from his youth, he had yet to accomplish all his other deeds,”

  “Right,” Marc nodded.

  “But how did he conquer the beast?”

  “Exactly how he did it has been lost through the ages. But the villagers at the base of the mountain confirmed the death of the beast. It had been almost a mid-fortnight since Tasard had climbed the mountain, the villagers had all but given up hope, and every day arose in fear of the attack that the Dark One would make in return for the visitor’s intrusion. One morning there came a terrible noise from the mountain, a thundering sound. The rumbling grew louder, the ground began to shake and tremble. The villagers guessed it was a rockslide, and prepared to evacuate to safety. But before they could leave a gigantic object fell from the sky and landed with a tremendous thud in the earth not far from the village and the trembling stopped.

  It was the head of the beast. Tasard had taken it off with one fell swoop.


  Later, after the region spent many a fortnight throwing festivals and celebrations for Tasard and the death of their troubles, Tasard told Rynar that he could not have done it if not for the sword and its powerful magical properties and expert craftsmanship.”

  The old man paused, the three boys did not notice as the old man glanced down, as if he could see through the table, at the weapon strapped at Marc’s side.

  “The sword, as Legend goes, was passed down to Tasard’s son. Tasard’s son was a fool, however, and unworthy to wield the magical blade. After the boy’s short life came to an end the sword was taken under the care of another powerful magician. Eventually it was lost for a long time. Finally, after many cycles, the sword was recovered by the Ascendant Sages, who kept it well. Every generation, the Ascendant Sages would seek out one worthy, and powerful enough, to wield the blade. Those who were chosen began to be called Wielder of the Flame, and the Prophecy of the Flame was born! In the right hands it seemed the weapon had no equal on the battlefield. During the War of Power it was coveted by many.

  It is written that the sword was lost after the battle at Garduan’s Keep, never to be found again. It is a powerful weapon beyond imagining. It is light, like unto a feather, yet strong, and impervious to the ravages of hard use or time.”

  The old man had begun to speak faster, he was becoming more and more excited. Sesuadra was the first to notice it, then the others.

  It seemed odd.

  The old man’s voice began to change strangely, unnaturally.

  “And when the wielder releases its power the blade burns with a magical, unquenchable flame that can be sent forth, to pierce the realms of Alfhyym above, and across the field of battle with great sweeping arcs.”