Wielder of the Flame

by Nikolas Rex

  He was still somewhat mystified by the transformation he had undergone. He was no longer grahk, and yet not quite human either. His fellow pupils, already distanced somewhat by Omech’s level of excellence in his class, were further estranged by his alteration.

  He was an outcast.

  But that did not matter now.

  Now he had been given a special assignment, a mission from the Overlord himself. Sklan had told him only a select few would accompany them.

  Omech knew why he was going, it was because of the transformation. He could feel the Overlord sometimes, an ethereal presence within his conscious. That connection made Omech special to the Overlord. In that, Omech felt a sort of safety, a safety that both comforted and frightened him with its implications.

  Sklan turned a corner, Omech followed silently and obediently. His shoulder bag thumped rhythmically as he walked. Sklan’s pack similarly bumped back and forth with each stride of the grahk Luminary. They were not headed to the stables now, it was clear. They had already traveled several staircases below the main fortress near where the great dome lay. This confused Omech, upon arriving to retrieve his pupil, Sklan had told Omech that they were meeting now with the others, to depart. But if they were not headed to the stables to mount up, then where were they going? Would they travel on foot? Would they head to the stables after they met with the others? Who were the others chosen in any case? Omech wondered, but did not ask aloud. Sklan seemed to be particularly focused and not in the mood to be interrupted with trivial questions.

  After descending yet another staircase, and marching down another long stone corridor, Sklan paused briefly before a set of giant double doors. The grahk Luminary took a moment to compose himself after their brisk walk, and then pulled one of the doors open with a resounding creak of large hinges.

  Sklan stepped in, Omech on his heels.

  The room was vast in height, but relatively narrow, and dimly lit by rows of fiery sconces high along each wall.

  Omech’s attention was quickly grabbed by the immense stone archway dominating the further half of the hall. It stood upon an equally commanding pedestal, with steps leading up to it. The whole construct was carved of a dark but smooth stone with hairline cracks like spider webs covering its surface. The cracks seemed to almost glow with a sickly greenish hue. A single stand, almost like a slanted table, was positioned on the dais near the archway. It’s tilted surface was flat except for a large indentation in its middle, as if a piece of it was missing.

  After a sufficient glimpse of the arch had been established in his mind, the young sorcerer turned his attention to the figures standing near the base of the structure.

  The Overlord stood, most prominent among them, adorned in his dark, extravagant chalta robes, hood, and mantel. Even as he glanced at the Great One, Omech felt the presence of the almighty sorcerer.

  But I know the truth. Omech thought immediately, you are not almighty.

  Omech buried the thought, banished it away, and mentally punished himself for thinking it.

  Omech immediately recognized the other figures.

  The Luminaries of each race, except for the gnomes, stood in a semi circle, with Tremos at their head. Each Luminary was accompanied by an individual, two individuals for the trugs. Standing next to Duwar, the human Luminary, was a figure garbed all in black with a long, slightly curved blade attached to his back because the length of the blade made it impossible to be carried at the waist. Kalkra, the macji Luminary, conversed with a spotted female of his kind who stood near to him. She was dressed in light and supple armor, with small pouches attached at easy-to-reach areas. Nuib, similarly conversed with a simply dressed goblin located next to him. The goblin was small, and wore no armor, only tight fitting plain leather garb.

  Kirgor and Frilug, clan-brothers, stood next to Guag, the trug Luminary. They were dressed in their full battle armor, both wielding deadly axes.

  All conversation ceased when Sklan and Omech entered the room.

  The group turned at the approaching newcomers.

  “Last to arrive,” Duwarr muttered as Sklan and Omech passed the human Luminary and approached their Master.

  Sklan said nothing.

  “Everything is in order,” Sklan said, bowing in front of Tremos.

  Tremos placed a hand upon Sklan’s head for a moment, acknowledging the Luminaries worship.

  The Destroyer beckoned for Sklan to stand.

  “What is this?” Tremos asked, fingering the strap of the pack that was slung over Sklan’s shoulder.

  Sklan looked confused.

  “Did you think you were to accompany your pupil?”

  “Master?”

  Suddenly rage exploded across Tremos’s facade.

  “HOW DARE YOU PRESUME TO KNOW SO MUCH!”

  Tremos thrust a hand in the air, his fingers outstretched and taut like daggers, pointing towards Sklan. Immediately the grahk Luminary cried out in pain, falling backwards.

  “Ma—m—aster?” Sklan struggled to speak through the pain. His face twisted in agony.

  No one moved to stop Tremos, no one dared to.

  The Destroyer brought another hand up, strengthening the assault. Invisible forces lifted Sklan up in the air off his feet.

  Sklan let out a cry of agony and began to writhe uncontrollably. His purple and green scales began to flick off one by one.

  “You thought I did not know about the underwater tunnels?” Tremos said to Sklan, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Ma—ster!” Sklan begged.

  “You thought you could keep it from me?”

  Omech shivered at the display. If Tremos had performed the same enchantment upon any of the other Luminaries, they would have been killed, but Omech knew, as sure as he knew Tremos knew, that Sklan would not die from the attack. The grahk Luminary would be able to regenerate his outer layer of skin by the end of the day, but the pain was clearly still excruciating.

  “Have I been gone so long that you suppose my authority ripe for the taking? That any of you think you can challenge me?”

  Tremos pressed forward, strengthening the hex. The pressure made Sklan begin to sweat a byzantium colored blood. He screamed and tore at his robes, as if in doing so it would alleviate his torment.

  “Ple—ase! Ma—ster!”

  Tremos dropped his hands and Sklan fell to the stone floor in a heap.

  “Behold,” Tremos said.

  He stepped toward Sklan and put an arm around him, helping the wounded Luminary up.

  “I am not without compassion. Am I not your leader, to guide you? I build you a kingdom, I unite your different races and house you in it. I give you power. Do not be ungrateful.”

  He paused and looked at each of them.

  “And, so help me, do not forget your place.”

  Tremos, Sklan still in his grip, slowly walked to the largest of the Luminaries, Guag, and handed off the injured grahk.

  Guag did not want to hold the Luminary, but did not dare refute his Master in that moment, and took Sklan around the waist. The grahk, almost unconscious from the pain, registered the action only enough to put his arm around the trug Luminary for support.

  Tremos returned to his spot at the head of the semi circle and turned to face the group.

  “Champions!” He said, addressing those whom the Luminaries had brought with them.

  “Your Leaders have chosen you because you are the best at what you do. I have confidence they have selected wisely, for the consequences of your failure will rest upon their heads. You know what you have to do, and I expect you to get it done.”

  No, Omech thought, I have no clue what to do. That is what I thought I would find out here.

  Tremos caught Omech’s eye in that moment and Omech was sure the Great One had read his mind because Tremos’s voice suddenly came into Omech’s thoughts.

  You will know soon enough.

  “Now go!”

  The Champions gave short bows of their heads to their
respective Leaders and turned towards the archway. The Great One stepped up to the podium and withdrew a rounded object from his robes. In an instant the object began to glow with iridescent green light. Tremos placed the artifact into the podium and the light emanating from the hairline cracks across the surface of the entire arch greatly intensified. There was a rush of wind and sound and the empty space underneath the arch erupted with an ethereal pulsing substance of the same green hue.

  The first champion, the human garbed completely in black, stepped forth without hesitation and marched toward the green light. After a few steps, the man disappeared with a whoosh. The two trug clan-brothers followed after. Omech stepped in behind the goblin. The macji fell behind the grahk. Omech thought, to make sure that I go with them?

  But of course he would go, he wanted to go.

  The goblin was soon gone, and then he too was passing through the portal Tremos had opened.

  Omech felt a wave of nausea threaten to overtake him as his surroundings twisted and melted away, fading into a single flat landscape of shining silver.

  Then he was being pulled through a tunnel of inexplicable shifting lights and color.

  Then he was suddenly landing on his feet against hard stone.

  He tumbled and felt small arms grabbing him, breaking his fall.

  “It is unsettling a feeling.” The squeaky rasp of goblin came to his ears.

  The goblin champion had caught him.

  Omech straightened up.

  He was in a room completely different from the one they had just been in.

  Long pillars aligned the walls with twice as many sconces both high and low, making for a bright room.

  The other Champions were descending the dais upon which they stood via a small staircase. A large archway just like the one they had entered, rose above and behind them.

  Crimson banners hung in-between the pillars and sconces.

  The banners depicted knights in full battle armor, black and silver in color. Massive two handed claymores were displayed in front of the knights, gripped firmly by two gauntleted fists. A kite shield and vines of thorns and flowers, with a crown of thorns atop the knight’s helmet, completed the insignia. Omech knew the symbol from books he had studied, it was the Terragurion Crest.

  “Where are we?” Omech finally spoke.

  The goblin looked up at him.

  “Tonnden, the Terragurion Capital.”

  Omech was surprised.

  Of course, he had known The Great One capable of walking the Unseen Paths, but he had not known that that power was able to be transferred to others, or to objects. If they were in Terragur, then that meant they had traveled in an instant what should have taken several cycles to traverse by aldom, several more on foot. Not taking in to account the Maw of Desolation, the Sea of Fire, and the Black Peaks, all treacherous terrain, and practically impassable without a guide or foreknowledge of a passable course.

  “Terragur?”

  “Sklan spoke nothing of this to you?”

  Omech shook his head.

  “Not a blunder for The Master to punish him,” the goblin stated simply in response.

  The goblin began to descend the steps, motioning for Omech to follow.

  “Why are we here?” Omech asked, taking the stairs behind the small figure.

  The goblin turned up at him.

  “To meet the King.”

  ***

  Zildjin opened his eyes when the platform shuttered to a stop.

  He had fallen into a dazed almost half-sleep. He was exhausted from the fight, and from their escape.

  Sylandria’s arm dropped, and Zildjin let it fall.

  She was asleep.

  Drake had stopped groaning, but he was still breathing.

  Cydas’s blank eyes stared up at the ceiling.

  Zildjin shivered at the sight of the still man, and the sword skewering his friend played again in his thoughts. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  This was not the way the legends were told. The heroes rose up and conquered evil, slaying monsters and receiving honor and glory.

  Not this, not death.

  Zildjin tried to stand but fell to his hands and knees on his first step. His legs were wobbly and unsupportive, as if his body was a massive boulder too big and heavy to sustain.

  “Goodmother, Goodfather!” Zildjin called out.

  Where are they? They would have heard the platform rising, or seen or felt the magic at work, Zildjin thought.

  “Zania! Someone! Help!”

  But no one came.

  Zildjin got back to his knees, listening for movement in the other rooms.

  At first, nothing, but then he heard what sounded like voices, coming from outside.

  He half crawled, half dragged himself to the large colorful window of stained glass next to the large double doors that made up the entrance of the Fallhaven home.

  He pulled himself up onto the ledge of the window and peered outside.

  Some of the colors of the stained glass were dark and difficult to see through, but, after moving twice, Zildjin was able to peer through a section of mostly translucent window.

  Both of the elderly housekeepers stood near the front of the house, with Zania at their side.

  They were talking with a group of men mounted on aldoms.

  It was not the men’s strange garb that caught Zildjin’s attention, or their skin, light bronze, like Sesuadra’s. They were clearly Kiohopians, blue-bloods as some of the dock workers in Kolima called them. But the man at the head of the group, the one directly speaking to Goodfather and Goodmother was the one that drew Zildjin’s eye.

  He had short dark hair that stood up. And was dressed in the loose flowing pants typical of the Isles. Most interesting was that he had fascinating black symbols painted all across his caramel skin. From his forehead, to his cheeks, then down his neck and upper torso, all the way down to his cerulean colored sash around his waist. As well as his arms, hands, and even fingers.

  Zildjin knew what it meant.

  He had seen Sesuadra reading about it, even read some of it himself when Sesuadra was not looking.

  The man was a Runemaster.

  Chapter Fifty Seven

  Eye of the Beholder

  Marc did not know where he was when he opened his eyes but he was positive it was not in Lyrridia.

  It was a restaurant of some kind, sleek and modern in design decorated and furnished in a minimalistic style. Dark elegant oak tables with glass tops and matching seating were spaced out evenly across the rich maroon carpet. Each table was set with an arrangement of candle-like sticks, white porcelain plates, polished silverware, and tall sparkling clean glasses. Clear but soft light emanated from long strips high on the wall connected by half-spheres.

  It was dim inside the room, not gloomy, but a dimness that evoked a sense of calm and tranquility. People were seated at some of the tables, enough to make the room lively and welcoming with friendly, polite table-talk and quiet laughter, but not sufficient to call it a crowd, nor to classify it as noise. Waitresses wearing smiles and clean black and white uniforms and carrying silver platters arrayed with delicious steaming hot food and tall glasses filled with bubbling drinks made their way in between the tables delivering orders and quietly helping customers. In the back, the far end facing Marc, was a bar area filled with row upon row of wine bottles with all sorts of different colored labels. Behind the counter of the bar stood a tall, broad-shouldered, man. He was bald but had a clean cut black beard and moustache. A simple white serving apron covered his dark uniform, and he had a rag in one hand with which he was using to clean an already clean-looking glass held carefully in his other hand.

  Next to the bar were two port-holed double doors through which the serving girls were continually passing through, trays in hand. Finally, next to the two doors was an elegant set of stairs that appeared to lead upward to nothing but darkness. This was because the room had no roof but instead opened to a magnificent view of the
night sky; billions of tiny white stars and a small, slightly shifting, multi colored nebula. It was beautiful, magical, and of course totally unreal. But Marc had seen similar magic, such as when he and the others conversed with the Oracle, so he was not too overwhelmed by the view.

  The last three things Marc realized, as he continued to glance around, was that a very large, dark, mahogany, gold-lined door stood behind him, that he was dressed in a white and black pin-striped elegant suit complete with all coordinated shirt, vest, suit, pants, tie, matching dress shoes and a bright red rose pinned to the lapel of his suit-jacket, and that he didn’t have any of his gear and things, including, most importantly, the Sword of the Phoenix.

  What is going on? Where am I? And what am I wearing?

  Marc did not stand there long until one of the waitresses approached him, an empty tray in one hand and a tall dark blue folder tucked under her arm. She was a bit taller than him and looked older too, in her late thirties, but still had a youthful beauty to her. She had golden blonde hair pulled back in a long tight braid, brown eyes, tan skin, and a friendly countenance.

  “Hello, Marcus,” She greeted him “and welcome.”

  She paused only for a brief moment.

  When Marc didn’t respond she said.

  “I’m Vanessa and I’ll be your waitress this evening.”

  Marc was silent for a moment as his mind tried to process everything. This isn’t where he should be. He was supposed to be back in Sulendald, with Laura.

  Laura.

  Was she here as well?

  He glanced around, scanning the tables.

  The waitress seemed to know precisely his thoughts.

  “She’s not here, Marcus,” she said, catching his gaze, “But don’t worry, she’s safe.”

  He nodded. It was clear that this woman was no mere waitress and that this was no mere restaurant, but he decided to go along with things with the faith that there would be at least some explanation for all of this at some point. Marc opened his mouth to speak but then shut it again. He was still a little stunned by everything, and he felt extraordinarily tired from his fight with Belator. He opened his mouth to try once more but no sounds ebbed forth. It was clear he was having trouble saying something. After a few seconds of the young man trying to flounder for words the woman broke the silence.