The Redemption of Wist Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3: The complete collection

by David Gilchrist

  ‘I feared what would become of the people of my city. The numbers within the walls had swollen as the army had marched towards us. I sent emissaries out to meet the leader of this army of course, but they were executed before they had a chance to deliver their message. The voices on the council that called for war grew louder with every passing day. In my heart, I feared the consequences of conflict. But also, I feared the destruction that this force would inflict upon us, and so I allowed fear to guide my decision. I decided to send a force out to engage this threat: to forestall it and to measure its strength. I hoped that it would give me some time to decide what we could do next.’

  Eliscius wept as he described the disastrous initial engagement of the city guard with the horde. Wist’s memories filled in the holes that Eliscius left, whether through ignorance or deliberate omission., though his voice was stolen by grief and the brutality of the past. Nikka sat in rapt silence as Eliscius spoke, absorbing every detail of the retelling; Faric displayed no emotion, sitting listening impassively. Dregan studied Eliscius’ guests as if the tale had no meaning for him. Perhaps he had heard it all before or simply was uninterested, but his attention was focused on the three companions. Wist felt his unwelcome scrutiny like an attack on his senses. Neither Faric nor Nikka appeared unsettled by the unsubtle examination.

  As Eliscius told the companions how the remnants of the routed army had fallen back behind the walls of Mashesh, Wist recalled the abject terror that had gripped the city. They had sent some of their finest military leaders alongside their own sons and daughters out to their deaths. What hopes could they cling to that their city would endure the full power of this eldritch force?

  ‘The Church called on me to surrender, least I bring down the vengeance of God. Instead, I poured all of my hope into searching the deep vaults and archives for something that would give us hope,’ continued Eliscius, ‘but nothing I could find had any mention of such a disparate force ever being assembled. While I searched despairingly for an answer, I left the preparations for the inevitable siege to those more suited to that task. In my heart I prayed that we would be able to hold them for long enough to force them to settle for slowly strangling the city, rather than a prolonged, concerted, co-ordinated attack.

  ‘We heard the approach of the horde two days before we caught sight of it. The day before it crawled over the horizon, the ground began to tremble at its approach, but still I was lost in study. I could not comprehend how so large a force could have been gathered and how it could be controlled. But the question that vexed me above all was “why”? What could anyone hope to gain by crushing an entire city? The question I should have been asking was “who”?

  ‘I watched in abject horror as it poured over the desert plane north of the city, bleeding its way towards us. Like an avaricious infection seeking a host, it came on without cessation. Then, just short of ballista range, it stopped and waited.

  ‘The terrible fear in the city built each day, fed by the howls and cries from our tormentors. Perversely, the tension we felt was mirrored in the horde’s camp. Where ours came from a united fear of destruction, theirs rose from an ungodly blood-lust. Like a rabid dog, the horde strained at its leash, begging permission to sate its cruel appetite.’

  Pain was written across the creases of Eliscius’ face like a sheen of sweat. He spoke as though he still looked out over the barely contained mass of inhuman hate.

  ‘I asked the Lyrats to reroute a few of their scouts, to try to garner as much information as possible. When they returned, they told me what little they had learned, at great risk to themselves.’ Eliscius inclined his head to Faric as he spoke, acknowledging the ancient debt. ‘The Lyrats informed me that the man behind the army, the driving force and linchpin that held it together was Tilden.’

  Wist shuddered, pain echoing in him like a reflection of that forgotten time.

  ‘My shock at this was understandable, but I was to have no time to question the Lyrats. Word came of a messenger from the horde.

  ‘Then the demand came. All our problems would be solved. The horde would be banished, the city spared - on one condition: we hand over the boy,’ Eliscius gestured to Wist. ‘No explanation was given and it was made clear that there would be no negotiation. At first, I struggled to believe that this could be a serious demand. Of the hundreds of thousands that Mashesh held within its wall, why would he be of any particular value?

  ‘My answer would have been the same if he asked for one person or one thousand. I would not sacrifice innocents. Therefore, I dismissed the messenger and sank deeper into thought. Many were outraged at my decision, and the Church… well they called for my head.

  ‘And then you told me that you would go and face him,’ said Eliscius to Wist. ‘I dismissed you out of hand, but I underestimated the impetuousness of youth: of course you went. I tried to rally support within the council to make an attempt to free you from the horde, but it found no support. To risk more lives for the sake of one vagrant boy was seen as lunacy.

  ‘Then came the Cataclysm; the Sundering as it has been called in more recent times.’ Tension held the air in the cool chamber. ‘I will not re-tell that tale, but the force of the detonation in the desert ought to have been enough to end my life and every other within the city. But I was not among the thousands that fell that day.

  ‘What was left of the horde fell into panic and, freed from their bonds, carnage ensued. As if their appetite for destruction had been whetted by the conflagration, the creatures determinedly and viciously rent itself from existence.’

  The pain on Eliscius face brought Wist a sudden image of N’tini writhing in agony from the disease that claimed his life. That frail, old man, the first man to show him anything resembling friendship in a very long time, who had been treated with disdain and rejection by his neighbours, preferring to live clinging to their ignorance... how much had he known?

  Eliscius’ tale rolled on, telling of the Church’s grasp of power in Mashesh, of the trial of the council members and their executions. ‘The Church seized their opportunity ruthlessly, weaving a tale of Wist the martyr who had saved the city from a fate much worse than it had suffered.

  ‘I had thought that I would suffer the same fate as my fellows. I held no grudge against any of them, despite their turning on me at the end. Most of them broke under questioning, placing the blame for Wist’s death on me. Even with the burden of guilt I carried, I was only too willing to accept the responsibility for the demise of my city. My place upon the gallows was assured, I thought.

  ‘But the Church sentenced me to the execution reserved for the most cowardly and heinous of law-breakers. I was commanded to leave the city and walk into the desert through the only portal that remained undamaged - the North Gate. With only my raiment, I was escorted to the edge of the city.’ The emphasis he placed on his word told Wist his treatment had not been gentle.

  ‘Ejected from the city to which I helped give birth, I left it shattered and walked out through the ruined desert. The horde had abandoned their destroyed encampment and I thought that I might go there and await my demise amongst the rubble, but I could not bring myself to stop, so onward into the heart of the desert I walked. I was astonished by the change that the violent convulsion had wrought, not only in the ground under my feet, but even the horizon was unfamiliar to me now. It was as if I had been translated from my world to another.

  ‘On I walked into this broken vista, but still death failed to claim me: I was as unwanted by it as I was by my city. For days uncounted, I wandered in the traumatised land. With no goal and no hope, I simply walked on. Fatigue and exhaustion finally forced me to stop. Hunger and weariness devoured me from inside. But still I did not die. As I lay on the desert floor, unclaimed by time, I feared that I had become something ghastly. Perhaps this was where some of the darker creatures were spawned: rejected by death and doomed to roam for eternity.

  ‘Images flooded my brain. Foreign and unintelligible pictures of places
I had never been, both horrific and beautiful: people I had known and trusted, and those with which I had simply contended. Time lost any grip on me as I fluctuated from present to past, watching the parts of my life thrown together. But at the centre of the maelstrom, at the heart of all the turmoil, one reflected scene returned time and again: a welling tide of blood. Crimson fluid poured across the land, enveloping all life; suffocating it beneath its irrefutable pressure. It was as if the blood seeped from the land itself, pouring from myriad unseen wounds.

  ‘I was brought back to myself some time later by a Lyrat, who found me prostrate in the desert. He took me to his tribe and gave me sustenance, although I felt no need for it. It transpired that the remaining Lyrats had been driven from the city, along with the dark-dwarves. They had been handed culpability as payment for their service protecting the city. The shame of their betrayal at the hands of my people was another burden upon me. Yet I had to bear what could be borne. There was not a trace of animosity from the Lyrats towards me. In fact, there was no hostility at all, only a great desire to cut their slender bonds with the city and be free upon the desert once more.

  ‘And so I agreed to travel with them for a time. For the first time in my life, I had no purpose, no responsibilities, no destination. Every day up until then I had served the people of Mashesh; every day I strove to make a difference. And now I drifted.

  ‘But wherever I went, the visions of blood followed me. Not a night passed without a glimpse of the deep red flood that awaited the world. I soon abandoned fear and sought comprehension. The Lyrats counselled that it was a portent, a vision of the future. A great evil threatened the world and I had been charged with locating its source. I doubted their interpretation; my failure in Mashesh was too recent, too powerful to allow me to believe in myself once more. But the visions were insistent and unrelenting: I could not ignore them. Therefore I resolved to find someone who could answer my questions, or enable me to find my own answer, and my journey began.

  ‘Initially I moved from one Lyrat tribe to another, speaking to all who would listen. With patience and grace, they listened to me but there were none who could offer an insight to my problem. My thoughts turned to the dark dwarves of the mountains and so I moved onwards.

  ‘There I found no succour. I was not even admitted into Sordir, their great city. With their expulsion from Mashesh and the extensive damage to their own city, their eyes had been turned inwards and they would admit no travellers. Once my identity was discovered, I was lucky to escape with my life. The dwarves were bitter and with just cause. They had come to the aid of my city and they had been apportioned a share of the blame in its downfall. Like the Lyrats, they had turned their back on Mashesh, but they had gone further; retreated further into their own domain: I would find no aid there.

  ‘And so I moved onwards. Once I was around the mountains, I headed for the far north. Many of the travellers that had come to Mashesh before my exile had brought with them news and tales of distant places, of wonders and mysteries. If a portion of these contained a little of the truth, buried within exaggerations and inventions, I had to explore them. And so I carried my fragile hopes across the desert. Throughout my sojourn, I faced no peril or threat that was not directly aimed at me. The animals and beasts ignored me. Through their midst I walked like a ghost and never did one as much as acknowledge me. The only hazards I faced were ones of my own design.

  ‘When I reached Bohba, I sought out the most learned of the scholars, but they too had no answers for me. So I turned to the arcane arts and began to delve deeply within the dark places of the world for my answer. All I was given for the price I paid was further glimpses and hints; oblique and incomplete were the clues I garnered. There was no true answer to be found along this path. My only hope was to journey on, but where could I go now that I had reached the end of Tapasya? Only the Mpah lay past Bohba.’ Incomprehension showed clearly on Wist’s face. ‘Mpah – the sunrise sea,’ informed Eliscius. ‘With no other course open to me, I took the first ship out from Bohba that would take me.

  ‘The journey across the Mpah to Pyrite took many weeks. This was the first time since my expulsion I had been forced to remain still. With nothing to distract me, I gazed inwards in an attempt to see what had become of me out on the great desert. Much of the journey had passed before I came back to myself. From my introspection, it was clear that outwardly nothing had changed. I was still susceptible to harm and violence, but otherwise it was as if I had stepped outside time. The Cataclysm had damaged the bonds of reality: the physical laws of life still applied, but I did not age.

  ‘Once I had arrived in Pyrite, I headed for Medicaut - the great monastery and centre of magical learning – for surely there I would get some help in solving this great riddle. What were my visions and what did my dissociation from time mean? Underlying these questions was another, far more important question: how were these linked to you, Wist?’

  Eliscius paused for a moment, lost in memories and pain. Unable to answer any of the questions, Wist sat once more in an uncomfortable silence. Dregan’s air of impassivity cloaked his emotions and Wist’s other companions waited patiently for Eliscius to resume.

  ‘What a magnificent place Medicaut was. Set high in the rolling hills of Pyrite, amongst the giants, it provided a perfect place for meditative study. I remained there for many years and, for a time, I even managed to stop the visions from returning. I believed I had found a new home. I spent time studying all manner of mysteries. Indeed, I became a powerful wielder of magic. I quickly became an asset to the community that thrived amongst those glorious hills and so no-one ever did anyone question my long life.

  ‘But even in that tranquil place, a carious ill lurked. People who fell ill would deteriorate beyond the point that life could sustain them, but they would not die. Instead, their soul would rot until they were animate corpses, randomly seeking harm and destruction. These poor souls were put out of their misery, but their plight chimed too closely with mine. Was this what would become of me once I fell ill? Would I rot from the inside, leaving only a shell to shamble on? Had I brought this chancre with me?

  ‘I was soon forced to flee my adopted home. With this plague spreading, some started to ask questions. How long I had stayed there and how aged I was? Perhaps I had become infected? Once again, I took to the road, although among the massive hills of Pyrite there were few paths that could truly be named a road.

  ‘After a brief sojourn with the giants, at last I came to the highest point in Pyrite. I accepted my absolute exhaustion I collapsed upon its summit and there I waited for death or the end of time to finally claim me. As the merciless bite of cold penetrated my bones, the visions returned to me. Awash with blood and destruction, I rode the tide of the vision, refusing to give into the fear that always caused me to withdraw from its hold. This time I pushed onward, seeking to find what lay behind that vision. I no longer feared the suffocation that enveloped me as I sank beneath the flow. It was then that I realised the blood I was seeing was diseased and impure. Heavy and putrid, it flowed through me until it ran in my veins, eating at me from the inside.

  ‘And then it was over. I had traversed that foul river. But I no longer had form or substance – it had been consumed in the process of transferral. Not only had I been translated in form, but also in place. No longer was I high in Pyrite, imprisoned by cold. Now I was in a land completely unknown to me. Disembodied, I watched as I separated from another being … one who was not myself. There was no physical sensation in this division, but I felt a huge sense of loss as I departed and looked back down upon where I had been.

  ‘The small room I found myself in contained many objects completely foreign to me – I could guess the purpose of some, others were a mystery. As I looked back at the figure I had become separate from, I realised that I recognised him.

  ‘His face was not as I knew it: but I knew him. I could not be mistaken about it. Even in this foreign land where nothing was familiar – I
knew him.

  ‘It was you, Wist.’

  Eliscius’ mien was torn with grief as he spoke, ‘I looked down upon your form, naked and prone, in a small white pool. You lay almost fully immersed, with the water motionless around you, touching only your chin. But I could see that the water you lay in had been spoiled. At first, I thought it was black oil or some form of taint that corrupted the pool. Then I saw the truth; the gaping wounds in your wrist and the blood which seeped from them; it was your life escaping into the water.

  ‘I tried to shout, but I had no voice. Too nebulous was my form to make any attempt to rouse you from your stupor. In my ignorance, I believed that you had been attacked. A wicked act it would be to render a man helpless and then let him watch as his life ebbed away; but, again, I was mistaken.

  ‘Your breathing was too calm; your cheeks damp, but not with the water in which you bathed,’ Eliscius’ voice broke as he forced the bitter words out. ‘But there was no panic in your eyes and not even a trace of fear. You had the look of one who had accepted their end.

  ‘You had accepted this because you had chosen it for yourself. This was not an assassination. You had chosen this fate’. Tears streaked down the ravines that marked Eliscius’ face. ‘This was suicide.’

  14 - At First Light

  The plaintiff denial that Wist issued echoed off the cold stone walls. ‘I don’t understand any of this. I’m here and alive, how could I …?’ His voice trailed off in revulsion. ‘I would never, could never, do that!’

  ‘Where have you been, Wist?’ asked Eliscius. ‘Whilst I have been forced to live through the centuries and wander this vast world, you have been completely absent. Where my face displays many of the decades I have seen, you appear only a handful of years older. Your dislocation from time is different from mine. I endure and, although death has failed to claim me, time still extracts a price. Without the deep healing and magic learned throughout my travels, I would be a helpless cripple, forced to witness time’s passage without the ability to influence it. For you however, it is as if time has hardly moved.