Now he saw no sign of the woods behind him, and the young mage thought it was good to be removed from the place. He set his sights upon the future, sensing that he would never see that forest again-and the knowledge was more a relief than a fear.
CHAPTER 3
Ends and Conclusions
In the Name of His Excellency Astinus, Lorekeeper of Krynn Notes Pertaining to events 2 PC-1 PC
Scribed this Fourth Misham, Deepkolt, 369 AC
I have regrettably concluded that, for the most part, the tale of Whastryk Kite is the story of a relatively unremarkable life. He left the Tower of Wayreth and made his way to Haven. (It should be noted that in this he was fortunate; several of the other apprentices who departed at the same time as Whastryk journeyed to Xak Tsaroth and Istar; naturally they perished at either site during the Cataclysm. Apparently Whastryk Kite had better instincts-or information.)
In any event, upon entering the city of Haven, Whastryk took up residence there and prepared to put his magic to use. He established himself with the name of the Black Kite and immediately started building a reputation as a sorcerer to be feared-and one who was willing to perform services, for the right buyer at an adequate price.
Within a short time, of course, Krynn was rocked by the Cataclysm. Haven was spared much of the damage that befell other regions of Ansalon; in fact, the good fortune caused the city to swell with immigrants fleeing from regions that had been sorely wracked.
Never a godly place, Haven eventually became rife with the Seeker priests, purveyors of false religions who pronounced their doctrines on every street corner in the teeming city. However, immediately after the Cataclysm, conditions were terribly unsettled. He who had such power and wielded it to his advantage would be able to gain great influence.
Over the years, the Black Kite became well known in Haven as one who not only had such power, but was also willing to employ that power to serve his own ends. His services were used by brigands and warlords, by jilted lovers and jealous wives. Some of the city's most powerful nobles paid him handsomely, for no service other than that he left them alone-and that the rich folk could let it be known that the dark wizard was an acquaintance of theirs, if not a true friend.
Whastryk Kite modeled himself after his master, and the calling of the Dark Mage suited him. Of course, he was never to be as powerful as Fistandantilus, but he was able to wield great influence in the relatively isolated orbit of post-Cataclysmic Haven.
Fortunately the wizard left some rather extensive notes and records regarding those years. I have studied them and reached firm conclusions:
Firstly, Whastryk Kite heard only rumors of the fate befalling the wizard Fistandantilus, his former master. It was said that the archmage had been in Istar when the wrath of the gods smote the world. Since there were no reports of his presence anywhere in Ansalon, Whastryk-and the rest of the world-made the not illogical assumption that he had been killed.
For Whastryk, it was enough to be his own master. Even more, he became one of the foremost black-robed magic-users of post-Cataclysmic Krynn. Of Fistandan-tilus he thought only rarely, most often when he held the small silver vial that had been the wizard's parting gift. It is dear from his notes that he did not know what the potion was for; nevertheless, he kept it ready. Occasionally he would examine the clear liquid, sensing its deep enchantment, its abiding might. He always carried it on his person, holding it for the time when he feared that his death might be at hand.
In the later years of his life, Whastryk became the target of many an ambitious hero. These were people who had come to hate the wizard for wrongs he had inflicted, directly or indirectly. Some were bold knights acting alone, while others were bands of simple folk anxious to avenge an evil deed. At least one was a woman, daughter of a merchant Whastryk had destroyed for his failure to offer the mage proper respect.
All of these attackers were killed, usually with great quickness and violence as soon as they passed through the arched entry into the wizard's courtyard. He developed a tactic effective not only for its deadliness, but also for the sense of terror it instilled in potential enemies. Whastryk would cast a spell from his eyes, twin blasts of energy that would strike the victim in the same place, tearing the orbs of vision from his flesh and leaving gory, gaping wounds. Such blinded enemies, if they still presented a threat, were very easy to kill.
The notes reveal in graphic detail that some of the wizard's foes-including the bold, doomed heroine- were only slain following a long period of imprisonment and tortures of mental, physical, and spiritual assault. (Indeed, the details of this suffering may cause even the dispassionate chronicler to weep with sorrow for the victims.)
By this time, the wizard exerted his control over a very significant part of the city-a region that included many prosperous shops and approximately one quarter of Haven's entire area. It was an area ruled by evil, selfishness, and greed, but it was also a place of one undisputed master. Whastryk collected a great deal of money from those within his orbit, and he commanded the obedience of a great many sword arms.
By thirty years after the Cataclysm, the theocrats were beginning to lay their claims to official rulership of Haven, and Whastryk did nothing to usurp their authority in a visible or ostentatious fashion. Indeed, it is known that he performed many favors, including assassinations, magical disguises, and surreptitious reconnaissance, for the powerful Seeker priests. No doubt the underhanded use of magic served to awe the populace and enhanced the authority of the corrupt theocrats and their false gods.
And always the wizard's power grew, and his influence spread wide across the world-until, in 37 AC, his writings abruptly ceased.
Though this might be regarded as occurring at the height of Whastryk's influence and power, a careful study of the records arrives at a different conclusion. Indeed, I have discerned that, during the five or six years preceding (say, from 31 AC on), the notations of Whastryk increasingly indicate the effects of advancing age. I see a hint of palsy creeping into what had once been a steady hand, and the last volume of records is shoddily kept, at least in comparison to Whastryk's early notes. Eventually, with no reason given, the notes cease altogether.
Perhaps boredom simply caused the mage to lose interest in his record keeping (a historian's worst nightmare!), or perhaps he met some kind of sudden end that has been lost to the history books. Furthermore, though I have pored over the records from Haven during that and subsequent periods, I have found no mention of the silver vial given to Whastryk by Fistandantilus. Whatever the archmage's purposes with that uncharacteristic gift, it seems conclusive that those purposes were thwarted. The vial and its contents, like the life of Whastryk itself, were brought to a terminus in that chaotic city.
Perhaps I shall get to Haven some day to pursue the matter; until then, it seems that there is nothing more to learn.
Foryth Teel,
In Research for the Scale of Gilean
CHAPTER 4
An Unlikely Hero
37 AC
Third Miranor
On the way home from the smithy, Paulus Thwait turned as he always did into the street where he lived. It was more of an alley, he was inclined to admit in moments of honesty, but-more important to him than any outward appearance of status or grandeur-it led the way to the place that he called home.
A smile played across his face, brightening the young man's normally intense features as he thought of the wife and baby awaiting him a hundred steps away. He ignored the close quarters of the taverns and tenements pressing from each side, the squalor of Haven that was so rank around him, and allowed his step to be buoyed by the thought of the cramped rooms that would be warm and aromatic from the cookstove, and by the knowledge that his family would be there, waiting.
It was strange to feel so happy, he thought, remembering that a few years earlier he would have guessed such a life to be as removed from his future as a visit to the farthest of Krynn's three moons. Indeed, how easily he could have fa
llen into a life of thuggery, playing the role of one of the Black Kite's bullies as so many young men of Haven did. After all, Paulus had proved that he was strong and brave, and keen and steady with his blade. And he had a temper that insured his fighting skills stayed in good practice.
Yet he had talent with his hands and eyes as well, talent that had been recognized by one of the city's premier silversmiths. That artisan, Revrius Frank, had taken the young man as an apprentice, allowed Paulus Thwait's talent to grow through the working of an honest trade.
The brawny apprentice had progressed to journeyman in a surprisingly short time, and lately Revrius had slyly hinted that he would soon have competition in this city quarter from another master silversmith. Now, making his way home at the end of a long, hard day of work, Paulus felt a flush of pride at the notion, and his pride swelled into a determination that tomorrow he would do an even better job with his metal and his tools.
But even beyond the gratification of his developing craft, the young silversmith had the best reason of all to be happy. It had been nearly two years ago that a caravan of settlers had come through the city, on their way to the good farming country reputed to exist to the south, in Kharolis. Belinda Mayliss, the daughter of one such farmer, had immediately caught the tradesman's eye, an attraction that swiftly proved mutual. The two had been married before Belinda's family had moved on, and now his bride-and, recently, their young, husky baby boy- had given Paulus all the reason he could hope for to work hard, do well, and be happy.
In the quarter of Haven where Revrius Frank maintained his smithy, Paulus was already developing a reputation as a man who could be trusted to perform skilled work. Indeed, for the last week he had been working on his most elaborate project to date: a silver mirror of perfect reflectivity, a sheet of metal hammered thin so as to be easily transportable, in a frame that would be highly pleasing to the eye. Tomorrow he would put the final polish on the piece, which had been commissioned by the most successful garment maker in Haven.
It is safe to presume that, as he walked home this pleasant spring evening, Paulus Thwait had no inkling of the role he would play as a small but influential mote in the current that makes up the River of Time.
He moved easily up the lane, stepping over the refuse that was scattered in the gutters, skirting the elder hermit who snored noisily, as he did every afternoon, on a small patch of greening grass. Close now, Paulus caught the scents of garlic and pepper, and knew his young wife had found the ingredients for a marvelous stew. The silversmith's stomach growled loudly as he clumped up the steps that led to the narrow balcony outside of their humble lodgings.
"That fat horse merchant tipped me two steel pieces for my work on his bridle," he announced as he burst through the door. Belinda, the babe in her arms, rushed across the room to him, startling Paulus with a gasp of relief as she threw herself against his chest.
Only then did he notice the mysterious figure across the room, in the corner farthest from the fire. It resembled a man cloaked completely in rags of dark cloth, but as he looked closer, Paulus felt a shiver of disquiet. Though the stranger seemed to stand upright, its lower reaches vanished into tendrils of mist! It had no legs, nor did it seem to be supported in any way on the floor.
"It came here a moment ago!" Belinda declared in a rush of fright. "Just appeared-in the corner, where it is now."
"Did it harm you? Threaten you?" His voice choked as Paulus looked at the thing, fear and fury mingling in his emotions.
"No, nor young Dany. It just stayed there, as if it's waiting for something."
Paulus was a brave man, but he knew that it was only sensible to fear magic and the supernatural, both of which seemed well represented by the disembodied figure that now swirled threateningly toward the middle of the tiny room. But this was his home, and that knowledge brought courage and determination to the fore.
"What do you want?" the silversmith demanded in a voice thick with anger. All his brawler's past came flooding back, and he crouched, fists clenching at his side.
"Two steel pieces will be an adequate start," hissed the stranger in a voice that reminded the silversmith of water rolling at a steady boil.
"Why should I pay you?"
"Because you wish to live, to see your family survive, and to ply your trade in my city."
"I am doing all that now." With great effort, the smith restrained himself from striking the apparition.
"Ah, but for how long? That is the question every mortal dreads to answer, is it not?"
"Go away. Leave my home.'"
"I will take the steel for now," insisted the ghostly interloper.
"You will take nothing!"
"Hah! You will pay, as do they all. You will be in my master's thrall from this day forward! And if you do not give steel, then I claim by fee in dearer coin!"
Infuriated, the young man attacked the figure, only to find that his fist punched through a cowl of black, cold air. He felt a chill of fear, but in his anger, he flailed wildly, both hands swinging through the intangible form. The vaporous messenger slipped past him in a hissing spoor of gas, a sound punctuated by a manic, cackling laugh.
Belinda screamed as the insidious vapor swirled around her and the squalling baby. With a whoosh of wind, the gaseous cloud swept the child out of her arms. "You will obey. And to be certain, I will keep the child- one year, to begin with."
The ghostly vision danced laughingly away as Paulus lunged after his son. "After that time, you might get him back. And if you come after him, know that you shall be struck blind, and he will be killed."
With a gust of wind, the ghost whirled away, carrying the baby through an opened window and out of sight in the darkened skies.
The pair charged out the door, but already the apparition-and the child-had vanished into the night air.
"Where did they go?" The young mother's question was an anguished wail. "Where did that thing take my baby?"
Paulus, frantic with grief and fear, knew the answer.
"The Black Kite!" He whispered the exclamation, as all citizens of Haven whispered when they mentioned the name of the feared and hated wizard. "This was his work!"
"But why did he come here-why us?" Belinda turned to him, seizing him by the shoulders. "And why would he take Dany?"
"He wants me-he wants power over me," Paulus declared, stunned by the realization. "I should have expected this. He holds all this corner of Haven in his thrall."
"You can't matter-not to him!"
"I can." Paulus was beginning to understand. "I know that Revrius Frank is forced to pay him, though he never speaks of it. Indeed, he's ashamed of the fact. But the Black Kite takes his steel and leaves him otherwise alone."
"Then why did he take Dany?"
"Because I was a fool," Paulus admitted, slumping in dejection. "I should have paid him."
"No!" Belinda was suddenly adamant. "It's more than that. He fears you. He knows you might stand up to him."
His wife continued, speaking with firm conviction- and affection. "He knows what a stubborn, bullheaded fool you are, and he knows the reputation of your fists."
Paulus flushed with shame, not wanting to recollect the part of his life spent brawling and fighting, but he knew that she was right.
"I won't pay him," he vowed. "But I'll get Dany back for us, and I'll see that Whastryk Kite is the one who pays."
"But how can you? You heard him. You'd be struck blind as soon as you try to go in!"
"I know, but I have a plan." Or at least, he amended privately, I will have a plan. Indeed, Paulus was no longer an impetuous man. Yet his son was gone, and he was certain that if he was going to save him, he would have to act fast.
Leaving his wife with a promise that he would be careful, Paulus went quickly to the smithy of Revrius Frank. There he spent several hours polishing to a high sheen the mirror of pure silver that he had been crafting for the garment maker. The reflective metal had been hammered so thin that it was of very light wei
ght, easily transportable, and perfectly suited to the silversmith's plan. Finally he attached a leather handle to the mirror's back, ignoring the deep gouges he scored in the once immaculate frame.
Next the silversmith girded on a sword, suspending the weapon from his own belt, which was secured by a sturdy silver buckle of his own design. The metal clasp represented most of the saved wealth of his young family, and it seemed appropriate that he wore it now, when he went to fight for that family's very survival.
It was a grimly determined Paulus Thwait who started through the streets toward the wizard's home, which was a great mansion and compound that occupied a full block of the city. Black towers jutted from beyond a stone wall. The barrier was breached only in one place, by an arched gateway, an opening wide enough to allow passage of a large carriage.
The reputation of the place was well known to everyone in Haven. There was no gate that ever closed across the entryway, but anyone who had entered there with hostile intentions had been met by the wizard, then struck blind by those searing darts that emanated from his eyes. Once sightless, the victim was usually captured or killed. Those who had been taken prisoner invariably vanished forever from the ken of the rest of humankind.
"Whastryk Kite! I demand the return of my son!"
Paulus loudly announced his presence, and then made as though to enter the low archway in the gatehouse wall. Here he waited in the shadow underneath the arch, watching the great door of the house.
In moments the door swung wide, and something black swirled forward with impossible haste. The figure was cloaked heavily, its appearance blurred like the ghostly apparition, but Paulus knew this was the wizard, the Black Kite's speed clearly enhanced by some arcane spell. The silversmith took care to keep his eyes low, away from his enemy's face.
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