Chosen (Majaos Book 1)

by Gary Stringer

  He cleared his throat, a great oaken staff appeared in his right hand and his attire changed to greyish robes. Raising his arms, he cried out in a loud voice.

  “You shall not pass!” The Molten Man roared in response and Eilidh could feel the air crackle with magic, but Kismet was unmoved. “You are two separate entities and cannot exist as one. You will split again. Now!” There followed a clap of thunder and though none of the companions could see anything, the Molten Man acted as if it had been hit by lightning. The creature flashed and it appeared as if two creatures - the fire dragon and Magic Man were separate once more, yet still occupying the same space at the same time. Two superimposed images. It flickered once, twice, three times and then the split was complete. The fire dragon was alone, the other becoming nothing more than a stream of high-purity Life, fading and returning to the natural Life flow of the world.

  “There,” Kismet declared smugly, “that sorts that out.”

  Kismet turned his back on the fire dragon and began to walk back to the party, but Phaer saw the creature preparing its fiery breath, and the half-elf called out in warning.

  “Kismet,” he cried. “Get down!” The strange man threw himself down onto the stone bridge just in time as the blast of fire shot overhead, right where he had been standing a moment ago. His staff flew into the air and promptly vanished, as its connection to the illusion was broken. The fire hit the bridge between Kismet and the party, blasting a huge chunk of stone out of it and melting a significant portion of the surrounding structure. In its already weakened state, that was more than the ancient bridge could stand. The quakes were fierce and growing in magnitude, causing the bridge to sway in a kind of continuous wave, a macabre dance. More chunks of stone flew into the air and disappeared as the party clung to one another for dear life. When they could move safely once more, they began to try to move towards Kismet. Maybe they could find a way to rescue him. But Kismet yelled at them to get back.

  “Leave me! Get to the tunnel; this bridge could collapse at any moment!”

  Eilidh sent most of the others onward. Only Phaer and Toli refused to leave her side.

  “Get back! All of you! Go!” Kismet cried, desperately. He was right. There was nothing they could do. The gap between them was too wide. The trio started to back away, the bridge shaking ever more violently. There was a great groaning, tearing and grating sound as stone moved against stone. The cracks widened rapidly until a whole section fell away, nearly taking Kismet with it. He was left hanging over the edge, barely holding on by his fingertips.

  “Kismet!” The three cried out as one.

  “Oh dear,” Kismet said, as a notebook and pen appeared in the air by his nose. “It looks like I'm going to have to clear my diary for a while.” The fire dragon looked dazed and drained of strength from whatever had happened with the Magic Man, and the next wave of vibrations knocked it off-balance. Time seemed to slow down, everything happening in slow motion. The fire dragon had apparently forgotten how to use its wings as it teetered on the edge. Kismet lost his grip with one hand.

  “Kismet!” They cried out again.

  “Go I tell you! Run! Flee!”

  For an instant, all was calm and still as Kismet looked directly at them and spoke in a quiet voice that seemed to fill the air. His message was simple.

  "Fly, you fools.” With a hideous sound that set their teeth on edge, a further section of bridge collapsed, sending Kismet and the fire dragon spiralling down through the air towards the ground far below. The trio cried out again in horror and their voices still rang in the air when both Kismet and fire dragon broke through the illusion and vanished from view.

  A new wave of shaking and groaning snapped the companions out of their shock, however, and heedless of the danger they ran as fast as they could over the last few feet to the tunnel through the mountain. Once they were all inside, they began to follow the path more slowly - it was unlikely that an entire mountain wouldcollapse and if it did there wasn’t much they could do about it. Slowly but surely they made their way through to the other side.

  * * * * * Eilidh voiced her concern over how they were to find their way back to familiar territory, now that the bridge was gone. She did not want to discuss what had happened to Kismet - she wasn't ready to deal with that yet.

  “Oh I wouldn't worry about that,” Rochelle reassured her. Bunny agreed. “A kidnapper is a kind of thief. Now, I don't take children, only possessions, but many of the same principles apply and the golden rule is `never go to ground without leaving yourself a back door`. If this kidnapper is smart enough to steal something so valuable and precious from under the nose of the Prince Regent of Shakaran, and plans to make his stand somewhere around here, he's bound to have an alternative escape route. We just have to find it.”

  “In some ways,” Phaer put in, “this actually makes things easier. We won't have to go back through Avidon. Compared to that, how bad can it be?”

  “Uh-oh,” Toli remarked. “You really shouldn't have said that.”

  “Why not?” “Don't you know? In every good story, whenever one of the heroes asks `how bad can it be?` things tend to get very bad indeed from then on. It's a bit like when the villain says `nothing can stop me now`. There are certain things one should never say.”

  “Thou needst not concern thyself, Toli,” Hannah soothed. “This is real life, in which things do not happen as in the tales of storytellers.”

  “Who knows?” Rochelle wondered, philosophically. “Maybe all this really is a story and there's somebody out there making all this up.”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” the ever-practical Eilidh reprimanded her.

  “OK,” Rochelle accepted, “but that wasn't what I meant anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, you know, when I said you shouldn't worry about getting back...?”

  “What did you mean, then?”

  “Well, I simply meant that the rate we're going, we'll all be dead long before it becomes an issue!”

  That cheery thought caused a blanket of introspective silence to descend upon the group.

  * * * * * The party had taken a short break from walking; resting and sharing food, which served to return some of the general chatter and conversation to the group. Still none of them said a word about Kismet, but each one knew the others were grieving in their own ways. Even those who had met him only briefly were affected by his loss.

  They stood before a pair of once-proud wrought iron gates, gilded with gold, though they were now blackened in places. The right hand one hung only on its lower hinge, presenting a forlorn picture of surrender to forces unknown. The gates opened out into a sleepy little village. All around there were signs of civilisation, but no signs of life. Only death. Doors to shops, businesses and homes were left open, windows were smashed; signs were blackened and hanging from walls, or bent and twisted on the ground. Some fires were still smouldering, while bodies and body parts were strewn casually about the landscape. A stunned silence descended on the group. The irrepressible hobbit, Toli, was reduced to tears as this sight, coupled with the death of Kismet, made their quest seem suddenly...real.

  WELCOME TO MARINA FELLS said the sign, but someone had painted on extra detail in blood, to transform the symbolic twin hills into something obscene. To the right were a general store, a blacksmith and a herbalist's shop. Straight ahead there was a small Temple dedicated to Patrelaux, and a bank. To the west was an area of farmland and private residences and to the east they could just make out what appeared to be mining works.

  “The princess must have been brought through here,” Loric offered drawing his sword in case trouble was still waiting around. “There’s nowhere else the kidnapper could have gone. “And judging by the carnage, they weren't alone,” Phaer added, his bow at the ready, scanning the area with his elf sight. Suddenly, his eyes widened. In shock? Anger? Eilidh wasn't sure. He guided Eilidh to one side, away from whatever it was he had seen.

  “What is it, Phaer?”
she asked, gently. “Please don't ask me to show you, Eilidh,” he said, eyes pleading silently for understanding. “You shouldn't have to see that. No good can come of it. Just stay here. Calandra, please, you too. In fact, all you ladies stay here let Loric, Granite and me do what needs to be done.”

  “Thy courtesy is most becoming,” said Lady Hannah, “but the sight of death doth hold no fear for me.”

  “It's not the death part that's the problem,” the ranger replied. “No,” Eilidh insisted, guessing his meaning. “I appreciate the sentiment, but no. I want to see,” then she corrected herself. “That is, I need to see. Everyone must choose for themselves, but I need to see exactly what horrors have been done here.”

  In the end, nobody stayed behind. Some moved forward hesitantly, uncertainly, but nobody tried to rush them or hold them back. The sight was horrific, as was the stench of death. Dozens of bodies were strewn about the place. Mostly human, a few other races and chaos creatures, too that appeared to have been killed in the struggle. Some bodies were spread out; some were piled on top of one another. Many bodies were no longer in one piece, and in some cases, even the individual's race was in some doubt, as decapitated heads were swapped and placed on different bodies. Had there been anyone left alive to identify the bodies, many would have been unable to find their loved ones. The point was moot, however. There were no survivors of this dreadful holocaust.

  The bodies were blooded and torn. There were many deep, ugly scratches and gashes - it was impossible to be sure whether the victims had been still alive at the time the injuries were sustained. But most sickening of all was the way many of the bodies were grouped together with injuries to their lower abdominal areas. This is what Phaer’s sharp elfsight had picked out, and while the precise details of their ordeal were best left unimagined, the general point was clear enough.

  The group did what little they could to give the victims some measure of dignity in death and worked long into the night to dig a mass grave for them. Between them they did have magic that could have made the job easier, but nobody even suggested it. They all felt that this job should not be easy. Their efforts were the only thing they could give these people now.

  When the job was finished, nobody wanted to talk about it. The group splintered. Some huddled around campfires, seeking comfort in each other, while others preferred to be alone with their thoughts.

  Phaer for one excused himself from the group and went off by himself for a while. In elven forest clans, he knew, there was a very potent sense of `oneness` among all individuals. The pain of one was the pain of all. Phaer could remember times when elf friends would cry for days over the loss of an individual elf whom they had never met and could not have pointed out in a crowd. Humans, in Phaer's experience, tended to react very differently to loss, depending on how close the association was. Several times, Phaer had heard one human ask another in grief, “How well did you know him?” The half-elf was still not sure he understood that question.

  But in this case, it was not the death itself that had so affected him; it was the horror of the pain and suffering that these monsters had not only inflicted, but also seemingly enjoyed. In the elven forests, an assault like this would send an entire clan into mourning for half a human lifetime. Or start a war.

  Although, he thought, grimly, I suppose the war has already begun.

  In silence, then, Phaer of the House of the Fountain simply walked, allowing the open grasslands to gently cleanse his soul.

  Chapter 15

  The robed and hooded figure was seated in an ornate golden chair, at a solid, magically carved mahogany table. The room was dimly lit by a pair of suspended fiery bobs floating in the air, in which the faint smell of sulphur lingered. Yet the darkness in the room was oppressive. The door facing the figure opened to admit two individuals. The first was a male gnome dressed in robes of black, the second, towering above him was an elf female dressed in dark brown leather the same shade as the desk. She moved with the silent grace of her kind, and her face displayed an arrogant superiority as she looked down upon other lesser races, as she viewed them, for she was a dark elf.

  To most other races, in modern times, this was simply considered to mean an elf that was given to the worship of Mortress and followed her dark teachings. But to the ancient elves, there was more to it than that. Much more.

  There existed a fundamental difference in philosophy between the dark elf clans and the rest of their race. The dark elves believed themselves superior to all other mortals. They were taller, stronger, faster, more graceful, more magical and possessed more acute senses of sight and hearing. They believed that the elves were the natural rulers of the world and all other mortal races should bow down before them. The other elf clans expelled the dark ones in pre-Ancient days from their sacred forests, because they wanted to live in peace and co-operation with other races. Even the dwarves, despite their cultural differences, were held in respectful regard. For the elves believed that each individual, each race had a place in the world and a particular role to play. They felt no superiority because of their natural advantages. The dark elves were repulsive to them, as they threatened the social order, but beyond banishing them from their forests, they would take no action.

  The gnome spoke first. “Your Divine Excellency, I respectfully present the individual whose presence you demanded.”

  “Indeed,” the female voice answered from within the hood of her golden robes. “Leave us now.”

  The gnome bowed and left, closing the door behind him, while the elf approached the desk with two strides and folded her arms.

  “Who are you to `demand` my presence, human?” “Ah, so direct! My name is not important for you to know, elf child, but you will know it soon enough, along with everyone else on Majaos. I am the future of this world,” the robed figure continued, cryptically. “I am also its past.”

  “Oh really,” the elf said tartly. “You're having paranoid delusions; I'm so glad you chose to share them with me!”

  The woman chuckled. “Your spirit is encouraging, Z'rcona, but your attitude needs some adjustment.”

  “You know my name, then. You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Ah, elf child, you have no idea.” “Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?”

  “I would prefer you viewed it as a warning. I have chosen you to work for me and that is what you will do, one way or another.”

  “I do not work for humans,” she spat. “I work only for my own interests.”

  “But you will be working for your own interests to preserve your life.” “Alright, that's it; I've had enough of this. Time for you to die!” Quick as lightning, the elf sprang at the robed figure with her dagger, but the weapon instantly vanished from her hand, dematerialised by some unseen force and then she herself was knocked to the ground and pinned there by that same force.

  “How?-”

  “Magic,” came the woman's acid reply. “Perhaps you're familiar with the concept. Oh no that's right, you're Magically Dead aren't you? No weapon you possess can possibly harm me.”

  The elf found herself released and she stood up with new respect. “You're a mage? I've never seen a mage in golden robes before. What power do you have?” “I am power beyond your imagining. Come, elf child,” she said, rising from her chair. “Let me show you what I mean.” Seeing the elf maid hesitate, she assured her, “I am not going to harm you, although there would be no way for you to resist, were I to choose otherwise.”

  Z'rcona took a deep breath and walked slowly over to the golden-robed human. She would cooperate, but in her own time, thus retaining a certain degree of control. “Dignity in the face of a superior force,” remarked the figure in gold. “That is commendable. You interest me, elf child, which is of course why you are here. Now, prepare your mind to receive the knowledge of who and what I am. Are you ready, elf child?”

  “I am ready, but calling me `elf child` hardly seems appropriate,” she protested, sullenly. “I am a good deal
older than you, after all.” “You're certain of that, are you, Z'rcona?” Without another word, the one in gold placed her hand above the elf's head, fingers like claws touching her scalp. Z'rcona felt a jolt like electricity and a white light formed in her mind. The light faded and was replaced by images. People, places, events flashed before her. Z'rcona gasped as the images accelerated to the point where they blurred into one another, and yet her mind could still comprehend what she was seeing. She saw this woman before her at the centre of great, terrifying wonders of magic. Vast battles she fought, often alone. She was magic's power unleashed, untempered, ungoverned. The images slowed and she saw this woman facing another mage - she could sense his power and authority, but the woman was defiant.

  In the vision, she told the man that he should give up the pretence. “Ye shall not fight me, old man. Ye know well what will happen should thee try. Our combined power shall surely destroy the world.”

  “I thought you cared not for the world,” the man shot back. “Ye have always misunderstood me, old man. I care for the world as it ought to be. I care for the world that achieves its full potential. I care for the world growing my way, under the natural order. My order. This world shall rise to fulfil my vision or it shall be destroyed. It is for the world as it exists at present, that I care not. But ye do care. That is why thy threats are surely empty and hollow.”

  The woman had miscalculated, however. The man called down power she did not know he possessed, and physically threw himself at her, transporting them both beyond this world, this reality. Z'rcona had no way to judge when these events took place, but as the images paused, she sensed that this woman was truly Ancient even by elven standards, yet she looked to be in her early twenties - a young adult on a human scale.

  The images resumed and showed her more recent events from within her own lifetime, around two hundred years. The images were accompanied by an understanding - this woman had been studying, learning, observing this world as it had changed in her long absence. More than that though, it was preparation. To what end, Z'rcona was not sure, but the elf was certain of one thing: this power was not to be opposed.