by Ronan Frost
Chapter Six
They were lifting Arc to his feet when interrupted by a war-like bellow and the staccato pounding of hooves on sand. A horde of camels, Quirk’s men atop waving sabres, burst into the clearing.
Thrum hailed and waved a hand over his head. Quirk wheeled in their direction.
“Something happened’sh?” he asked from high on his camel. “Archendorf! Is he ok?”
Archendorf raised a hand. “I’m ok, just took a bit of a burn, it’s nothing.”
“We’ll take you back to the Ivory Tower,” said Katrina. “We have healers there who can-”
“No, thank you. It’s not too bad, really.” Archendorf sat upright and grinned to prove it, only a slight twitch of the muscle around one eye betraying the flare of pain.
“Very well,” she said. She dubiously examined his swollen left eye, the cheek puffy with burn scars, and finally nodded. “I think you’ll be fine. You two wait here, I’ll be back in moment.”
With a covetous eye, Thrum watched Karina’s backside as it strode away. She beckoned Quirk to approach, engaging him in conversation that they were too far away to catch a word of.
“You behave yourself,” Arc said after a pregnant pause. “I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he nodded in Karina’s direction, currently in spirited debate with Quirk and seemed to be haggling over a saddlebag.
“What do you mean? I never-”
“Hey, easy there, no need to get upset. She’s an attractive girl, no doubt about it, and I don’t blame you. But from what I hear, she’s got a husband.”
Thrum did not reply.
“I’m just saying keep those hormones in check. But of course you will, right!” Archendorf slapped Thrum across the back and laughed in such a friendly way he could not help but feel his resentment at the accusation melt away.
“Sure, of course.”
“And if you ever need a hand, just call on me.”
Thrum nodded. “I couldn’t have made it without you. Thanks, my friend.”
Karina had finished her negations with Quirk and came striding over, holding an empty saddlebag. She shook it over her head.
“Okay boys, who wants to volunteer? It’s never safe to leave an Archmage, even if he’s lost his head.”
Archendorf and Thrum looked at each other blankly before realisation struck.
“You want to take back his head?” Thrum blanched.
Karina tossed the empty bag in Thrum’s direction. “Think of it as insurance,” she said.
“Here, let me give you a hand with that,” said Archendorf, and with Thrum’s help managed to get to his feet and get his balance back. Together they walked in the direction where Ladanum’s body still lay.
Evidence of the battle scarred the landscape; here and there were pieces of earthen warriors smashed into small pieces, patches scalded with hell-fire, and a gap that had opened up in the ground more than a hand-span wide, running a good score of paces where the earth had buckled and split.
Ladanum’s head had rolled some distance away from his black-cloaked body, specks of dried blood trailing between the two. Ladanum’s face was into the ground, so fortunately they could only see the back of his head, the greying hair of the Archmage that would grow no more. A copious amount of blood had leaked from the severed neck, the bone cut clean through, a faint blueness glowing about the wound, the aura left by the magical blade. They managed to scoop the head up without touching it, and Archendorf hefted the saddlebag up and closed, keeping it a distance away from his body as redness seeped through the material.
“Don’t forget your sword,” said Archendorf, nodding in the direction it lay, gleaming golden in the clear morning sunlight.
“Oh, yeah, right.” Thrum paced over and picked it up, noting with relief that not even blood could stick to the blade’s slick surface. He flicked it in the motions the dwarf had told him and the sword shrunk back to cruciform size once again.
Archendorf was leaning heavily against a rock wall as Thrum returned.
“You feeling ok?”
“Yeah, just getting my breath back - head’s still a bit woozy.”
“It’s no wonder,” said Thrum. “I really thought that fireball was the end of you.”
Archendorf grinned, but it was a changed grin, no longer characteristically boyish and carefree. The swelling would go down, but his face was forever scarred.
“It’s not so bad,” said Archendorf, lightly touching the burns. “Come on, let’s get back.”
Karina was already saddled up on Hiro and ready to go by the time they got back. She wordlessly took the bag containing Ladanum’s head and tied it to the rear of her saddle.
“We’d best be back to the Tower,” she said. “The Four will want to know as soon as possible of Ladanum’s death and Taukin’s revival. Defensive lines must be drawn up and our forces must be bolstered.”
“You’re going already?” asked Archendorf.
Karina nodded, gesturing with a glance upwards. A reddish hue had come over the sky as if from a summer sunset, even though it was barely midday. Long tendrils of high cloud slashed from the west like the raking scars of long-nailed fingers, their undersides reflecting the unnatural red light.
“What in sod’s name is that?” asked Archendorf.
“Taukin has been restored,” said Karina. Even as she spoke, a huff of a breeze fluttered a stray strand of hair across her face. The wind carried the heavy promise of rain. “If I were you, I wouldn’t stay here any longer than necessary.”
“Sounds sensible to me,” said Archendorf.
Thrum turned to Archendorf, shrugging as he spoke. “I guess, well, this is goodbye.”
“Already? Far out, I guess so.” Archendorf lowered his voice a little so Thrum alone could hear. “Look, are you sure about this?”
“My duty is to return to the Ivory Tower, and to learn to become a magician,” said Thrum, his heart heavy. “I’m the one who lost the scroll, I owe it to them to join their fight against the Crylock. My life is not my own any longer.”
“Remember what I said, the offer is always open. Any time you get into strife give me a yell, any time you need to be kept to the straight and narrow, so to speak.” Archendorf gave a wink. “And anytime, I’ll be willing to fight for the just cause!”
“Sure.”
There followed a time of silence, and in those few moments thoughts flashed unbidden to the surface of Thrum’s mind. The last words of Taukin’s scroll ran through his head, that time he had been pressured to read before they finally attempted to destroy it. Surely, those words could not possibly be true… but the more he thought about them, the more it made sense; the reason Taukin gave directions to save Thrum’s life, why the magicians chasing him never actually tried to kill him, indeed even Ladanum’s portal spell did not intended to maim, but to spirit him away.
Could history repeat?
With an internal scowl that betrayed his emotions as a twitch of his brow he shook away these thoughts – his future was unmade yet.
His troubled expression vanished as Archendorf grasped his hand and shook it roughly. “Goodbye Thrum.”
“Farewell,” said Thrum. He thought he saw a tear in his big friend’s eye. His handshake grip tightened, then released.
Archendorf slapped Thrum on the back.
“Say,” he said as if suddenly remembering, “I have something here.” He fished within his vest pocket and pulled out a dried and very battered stalk, the remains of what had been a flower. “Remember this?”
Thrum shook his head in a puzzled negative.
“It’s from the dwarf shop,” Archendorf said. “That spell you made, just before we buried that creepy sucker under the pile of swords? I kept it, a memento of the Mighty Archmage Thrum’s first spell.”
Thrum grinned, honoured and embarrassed at the praise, and he could not come up with any words, but simply took the proffered dried flower. It brought back a double-edged memory, firstly of his cowardice
. It carried another greater meaning; a reminder of the steadfastness of his friend - come what may.
“You two get going,” said Archendorf.
Thrum scrambled to climb Fawn, one foot in the stirrup the other skittering for purchase as he clung desperately to the saddle. Instinctively Archendorf came to his aid and propelled the small man up, much to Thrum’s embarrassment.
“Goodbye, Archendorf. Thrum, are you ready?” Karina asked.
Giving a nod, Thrum looked down at the man who had become his first friend in the world. He thought of the times they had shared and their bond of companionship. “Come back and visit the Ivory Tower after your journey north.”
“I will.”
Karina dropped into a crouch and spurred Hiro, the mighty warhorse neighing and rearing up on hind legs, pawing the air for a moment, and launching into a blur of motion. Fawn snorted, tossing her head and dancing sideways. Thrum, pulling upon the reins, only just managed to keep her from following after her stable mate. He locked eyes with Archendorf.
“Please, come and visit soon. I will need your help.”
There was a depth to Thrum’s eyes, his voice heavy, like the bluffed bravery of a condemned man at the gallows.
“You can count on it,” said Archendorf. “Now, get going buddy!”
Thrum eased the tension on the reins and Fawn eagerly leapt into a gallop in Hiro’s wake. All at once, Thrum was in motion, launching into a course that carried him away from his friend before he could reconsider his actions. He looked over his shoulder at the waving figures that grew smaller. He gave a return wave.
Thrum turned his gaze away and straightened in the saddle, one hand pressed against the dead flower in his pocket. The rushing wind blew back his hood and through his hair, filling his lungs with invigorating energy. His soul was a cocktail of emotion, of sorrow, dread and optimism for what the future may hold.
He raised his eyes to set them on the new horizon of promise.
Tendrils of thick fog blanketed the Castle Crylock. The air was black, blacker than night, the moat of lava haunting the low mists with a dull red glow. Birds of prey drifted lazily overhead, their mournful cries strangely humanlike. Swarms of movement in the open area surrounding the castle looked like the busy activity of an ants nest, closer examination revealing that the forms are human as a great army amassed. The gate of the castle loomed open like a massive mouth, a broad bridge strung from the mouth and spanned the gaping chasm that formed the moat, moored to the ground by great stakes driven in solid rock. Over this bridge trooped regiments of armoured creatures streaming out of the castle, produced at steady intervals as if pressed from moulds, joining those ranked on the other side.
All windows of the Crylock glowed with bright light from within, a sub-audible hum vibrating the stones, the castle brought to life. In one of the high towers a figure stood, hands clasped behind the back, surveying the growing army.
The door of the room opened cautiously and a head appeared in the gap.
“My Lord?”
“Come, Gehmat,” said the figure at the window without turning.
Gehmat approached, bobbing low in obsequiousness.
“Look how our forces grow,” said the figure.
“Yes, my lord, things do go well.”
They both watched the movement, vague at this distance. Wrought entirely from magic, the army was none-the-less as real as any of flesh and blood.
“Isn’t it incredible, Gehmat, the power of magic... A thousand times a thousand men can slave for an entire lifetime, yet only achieve a fraction of what we have wrought in a single day. Did you ever wonder the privilege afforded us, the ability to channel a power far, far greater than any other? An accident of birth raising a select few above the swarm of humanity.”
Gehmat did not reply immediately, unsure if this was rhetorical. Not one given to philosophy he decided to ignore the question.
“My Lord Taukin, the Council is keen to begin the reclamation. Shall we issue the order?”
Taukin turned to face Gehmat. His features etched deep with lines, the hair on his head and thick eyebrows and his goatee beard the purest white. His eyes, however, were the most striking, the darkest of black, as if they carried secrets from beyond the grave in their depths.
“No, Gehmat. Not yet.”
“Our army is strong, surely now would be the best time, while we are the peak of our powers.”
Taukin returned his gaze out the window and spoke carefully. “The Four have had thirty years of rule to grown soft in their Ivory Tower - a little longer will not change anything. Their Kingdom is weak, Gehmat, for what is peace, if not weakness? A mighty nation must always be at war, the strong must rise from the weak, the clever separated from the stupid. And that strength is what we will return to the land.”
“My Lord, if you were to contact…him” Gehmat fidgeted, clearly nervous. “If he were to join us, we could destroy the Ivory Tower in one swift stroke.”
Archmage Taukin did not speak for a few moments, the only motion of the slight flicker of the hairs of his moustache as he breathed in and out.
“No,” he said finally. “We will wait. I told him the truth before we parted; he now knows who he really is. Those fools in the Ivory Tower have taken him in and will teach him his strength and betray their secrets. In time Thrum will find the Ivory Tower is not as pure as it makes itself out to be, he will come to face his inevitable fate; the time of the Crylock will come again.” Taukin paused, savouring the words on his tongue.
“…And my son will come to us of his own will.”
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