by M Norton
Peter pulled his log closer and nudged the ball of light over the page.
Evil, like a dark rain, bathes the land.
Benevolence, present but strained, cannot survive.
A young noble will rise amidst great distress.
A child to lead a lost nation.
Wrought from the bowels of the land,
The stones of power are his symbols of hope.
They will purify his heart
And separate chaste from wicked.
A wizard of great influence comes forth,
His strongest ally.
Yet, great loss will come,
Testing steel and resolve.
Goodness will prevail.
And it shall remain so.
“What does all that mean?” asked Peter.
Krys shrugged.
“Evil bathing the land? Lanterra?”
“It’s got to be. What other land is there?” Krys looked up from the page.
“But none of this makes any sense,” said Peter.
With his thumb, Krys flipped through the pages. “It’s mostly empty.” He furrowed his brow, then closed the old book. “This is all too strange.” He gazed at the cover. “It’s old. Maybe the passage was true of its time.” He turned the book over. “I wonder if there’s a date anywhere.” He flipped it to the front again and noticed small writing embossed at the bottom. “Look here. This was written two hundred years ago.”
“During the reign of King Reth,” said Peter. “The last king to rule Lanterra. Then, this is about him.”
Krys shook his head. “He wasn’t a child when he began his reign.”
“Shh,” Peter said. “Did you hear something?”
The unmistakable crunch of dry leaves and the snap of twigs filtered through the passage.
Cupping the light in his hands, Krys whispered, “Someone’s out there.” A wave of fright made him tremble. He dropped the journal.
“Or something,” Peter whispered back, extinguishing the light.
Complete darkness surrounded them.
Krys held his breath and listened as the sounds drew closer.
The temperature dropped several degrees within seconds.
“What if they find us?” Krys whispered.
“Let’s hope they don’t.”
“They are here. Ssssomewhere closssse,” said the voice of one of the lizardmen. “The boy musssst have opened the journal.”
The air grew even colder. Krys’ apprehension grew in the pitch-blackness of the small hollow. If the creatures found the entrance, he and Peter would have no escape.
“He hassss the ssssecretssss,” the other voice said. “He musssst be sssstopped.”
Krys heard something stir in the thick underbrush outside the hideout.
“Ssssomething isssss over there,” said one of the lizardmen.
After several long minutes, the sound of the lizardmen ceased.
“Thank the Creator for wild animals,” whispered Krys.
“It wasn’t an animal,” Peter whispered back. “I conjured a roving ball of air to deceive them.”
“Good thinking,” Krys whispered back.
They sat in darkness for a long time.
Finally, another ball of light, dimmer than before, appeared atop Peter’s finger.
Krys plopped onto the log once more and picked the old book off the dirt floor. “I wonder who this journal belonged to.” He brushed the dust from it and turned to the inside of the front cover. “Norris Anderwood.”
“Is he a relative of yours?”
Krys shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve never heard Father mention him.” He glanced at the passage he’d read, and then turned the thin page of parchment. He ran his finger across some of the lettering on the next page. “The great fortress must relinquish its secrets.” He raised his brow. “The great fortress?”
“Ravenwood Castle?” asked Peter. “No one’s entered it for—”
“For two centuries.” Krys read the next line, “Centuries-old rivalries must clash again before balance is restored.”
Peter dug in his pack and pulled out a handful of yeast rolls. “I wonder which rivalries.” He lobbed two rolls to Krys and shoved one into his mouth.
His stomach churned when Krys looked at the rolls. He couldn’t eat, at least not right then. He set them down and squinted at the parchment in the dim light. “Maybe this’ll tell us.”
Peter reclined against the wall; his brow furrowed and jaw tight. Krys knew his friend was more afraid than he was letting on.
Extending his hand, Krys urged the ball of light closer to the page. “Let’s see,” he mumbled as he scanned the thin sheet. “In the early days of King Reth’s reign, hundreds of masons, carpenters, blacksmiths, and other workmen were summoned to the site to build a great castle at the very center of the land.”
“Yef, Ray’ood caff’ul.” Peter’s full mouth muffled his words.
“The castle and surrounding forest,” Krys read further. “Share the name of Ravenwood, as well as the Village of Ravenwood, renamed by King Reth in honor of the great wizard which carries a form of the name.”
Peter sat up. “Raven? I never knew that.”
“Me neither.”
Leaning sideways, Peter snatched one of Krys’ abandoned yeast rolls, and slumped back on the wall.
“For many years,” Krys continued reading, “the wizard protected the kingdom, becoming the king’s trusted friend and advisor. Upon completion of the castle, Raven placed nine magical stones representing the nine powers of the land in its center.”
“Hold on a second.” Peter leaned forward. “What powers?”
Krys glanced ahead in the writing. “It explains them here. Seven of the stones are powered by the area or influence they represent, wind, water, soil, wood, fire, ice, and stone, keeping the land balanced. The last two, which represent pure love and hate, the rule of man’s life-force and inner light, give additional power to the seven. When housed together, the nine stones keep the magic of Lanterra balanced, and give the king incredible power.”
“So, the king wielded all that power from a bunch of rocks?”
“I guess so.” Krys carefully turned the page, paused and stared at the open book.
“What is it?” Peter sat up straighter. “Why’d you stop reading?”
“Look at this.” Krys held the journal out.
The pages held no writing. Instead, a single picture covered both sides.
“Will you look at that?” Peter pulled the journal closer and stared at the elaborate drawing of vibrant colors and rich sounds. “The people are moving.”
A dark-haired man with silver at his temples, wearing a gold-trimmed, knee-length blue robe and a gold crown, stood in a throne room next to a wizard with long dark hair and beard, wearing deep green robes and holding a white staff with a gleaming emerald on top.
“They must be King Reth and Wizard Raven,” Krys said in an astonished, yet hushed tone.
Through a stone archway, a guard rushed in and gave the king a hurried bow. “Your Highness,” he gasped. “Something approaches from the North.”
Concern masking his face, King Reth ran from the room, followed closely by Raven and the guard.
“This is amazing,” said Peter.
The journal projected an all-encompassing, three-dimensional realism as the trio ran through the castle rooms, passageways, and battlements, halting when they reached the mighty keep. The skyline beyond the walls showed the approach of an ominous, black cloud.
“That’s not a cloud,” Krys whispered as he panned the picture’s horizon. “It’s a horde of dragons.”
Peter squinted. “There must be twenty of them.”
The flock was upon the castle in seconds. They circled in wide rings. Their number diminished the bright light of midday. Each dragon’s wingspan extended twice the length of their huge bodies. As their circle of flight tightened around the castle walls, details revealed themselves. Red eyes gleamed from
massive, scaled heads. Rows of long, sharp teeth filled enormous mouths. Thick, black smoke escaped from maws and nostrils, a burnt smell drifted from the pages of the journal. Bulky, scaled skin armored their reptilian bodies. On the back of each dragon rode a wizard in black robes.
Krys closed his eyes, startled by the horrific realism of the dragons.
“Archers and wizards ascend to the towers.” Krys heard King Reth command. He looked at the journal once more. “Pike men, protect the gates.”
Hundreds of warriors, archers, wizards, and others poured from the passageways around the central yard within the castle walls and rushed to their battle positions. Pike men and guards closed and barred the thick doors to the keep, then dropped the heavy iron portcullis and braced the stout wooden gates with heavy timbers.
As preparations to protect the king and castle were underway, more black-robed wizards arrived, materializing from ebony mist on the grounds surrounding the castle. They raised their staves and pummeled the kingdom defenders with waves of magical energy.
“Where did they come from?” Peter asked.
Krys had no answer. All he could do was shake his head.
Arrows, spears, and spells filled the air. In the midst of the aerial attack, only a few defenders seemed to notice the swarm of horse-mounted warriors charging from the hills and gullies. Just before the riders arrived, one of the dragons dropped into the courtyard. Its wizard cast a spell at the portcullis while the dragon tried to sever the cable holding up the drawbridge. Warriors within the castle cut them down before they succeeded.
Mounted combatants thundered across the moat, leaving the guards butchered in their wake.
Krys’ head reeled experiencing the brutality of the scene.
The attackers laid ladders across the moat and onto the outer walls, screaming battle cries as they ascended the rungs. Kingdom archers fired volleys at the laddermen, bringing many of them down. Grappling hooks flew through the air, their metal tines clinking against the wooden gates as they dug in. Their ropes pulled taut as lines of men on the ground heaved on them.
Dozens fell on both sides of the battle in the first few minutes.
From nearby Ravenwood Village, wizards, farmers, smithies, and other supporters of the kingdom flanked the aggressors.
“Look.” Peter pointed at the village on the edge of the page. “It looks a lot like it does now. Hey,” he said, indicating a small building. “That’s my cottage.”
Krys jabbed Peter in the ribs with his elbow. “Pay attention!”
The villagers, young and old, bore pitchforks, flails, axes, quarterstaves, and crude spears and bows. Village wizards carried staves that glowed and sparked with magical energy, ready to be unleashed. The battle outside the castle walls became hand-to-hand. The enemy’s cavalry cut down the brave defenders in great numbers.
The aerial attack by the dragons and wizards intensified. Balls of fire flew through the air and incinerated victims on contact. Vicious spells transformed the living into pools of smoldering goo or piles of ashes.
Even though Krys wanted to look away, he couldn’t pull his gaze from the terrifying scene.
Arms and legs were cut from many of the defenders as dragons swooped low, slicing at the warriors with sharp talons. The screams of the dying permeated the air.
The scene fell silent and still. Krys looked at Peter.
“Turn the page,” Peter urged, his eyes wide.
With a shaky hand, Krys turned the thin parchment. A new picture appeared on the next double-page.
Scores of dead and dying warriors and wizards lay everywhere inside and outside the castle walls.
“How horrible,” Krys said, a lump in his throat.
Scorched and smoldering skin hung from the bones of many. The stench of burning flesh assaulted Krys’ nostrils. He blinked back tears of disgust.
Scores of bloody bodies lay in heaps. Impaled by arrows and spears anchored to the ground, many warriors stood upright, but dead amid the carnage. Dragon flesh and carcasses littered the battlefield.
“Eew.” Peter shook his head.
“What a massacre.” Krys frantically looked over the pages, searching everywhere for signs of life. Several dozen people writhed in pain on the ground.
Krys wanted to do something to help these poor people, but he was only a spectator to an event that occurred two hundred years before.
Three figures came into view, walking toward each other through the smoke-filled air.
“Look.” Krys pointed at a wizard in black robes. “That has to be Grimm.”
“You mean the evil wizard of legend?”
Krys nodded.
“The one who cast the curse over the land?”
Krys nodded again. He indicated the other two. “And there’s King Reth and Raven.”
“Grimm,” Raven said, contempt clearly evident in his voice. He jumped forward, staff in hand and released a spell. A blast of wind knocked the black hood from Grimm’s head and the smell of decomposing flesh wafted from the pages. The dark wizard’s face was impossible to see under wild, snake-like locks.
The evil sorcerer countered with a wave of sizzling violet smoke that caused Raven to tumble backward a dozen feet.
The air exploded with sizzling bolts of energy, streams of sparkling filaments, and balls of fire. Krys watched spell after spell knock the two wizards around and blast them through the air.
His sword in his hand, King Reth stood at the ready. He looked for an opportunity to assist his wizard.
Grimm’s arms shot up in the air and the ground rolled in waves of stone and dirt. Dead bodies bounced around Raven and the king. They jumped and dodged the gruesome projectiles.
From Grimm’s staff a billowing black cloud shot toward the other wizard. It surrounded him and launched him into the air, dislodging his staff. His arms thrust outwards and his body broke free of the ebony mist. Dropping to the ground, Raven extended a hand and summoned his staff. He discharged bolts of lightning from it, which struck his nemesis in the chest and drove the evil wizard back.
Grimm countered with a blast of fire.
Raven dodged the flames then wrapped Grimm in sparkling strands of energy that tightened like ropes and held the dark wizard tight.
Straining against the bonds, Grimm finally broke their hold with a huge explosion. Flaming particles burst outward in all directions.
Krys leaned forward. He held his breath as he watched the tiny figure of Grimm run at Raven and touch a black crystal to his arm. Raven dropped his staff, the crystal enveloped him before he could cast any spell. A bright flash caused Krys to blink, and when he looked back at the page, Raven was gone.
“So the stories of how Grimm took Raven prisoner are true,” Peter whispered with a side-long glance at his friend.
Krys nodded numbly, pointing at the page. “Look, it’s not over.”
Reth turned to face Grimm, stern resolve covered his face as he held his sword in front of him. He rushed forward, slashing at the black-robed wizard. The king’s lacerating weapon sliced through the robes of his foe but didn’t seem to touch the sorcerer’s body. Reth raised it high over his head and blue fire rose up his arms and coated the edge of the blade. With a mighty down-swing, Reth contacted Grimm’s blazing staff, incinerating it.
“Impressive,” Krys said.
Grimm raised a hand and sent a crimson cloud toward the king.
Reth raised his sword, dissipating the vapor.
The evil sorcerer bent and retrieved an abandoned sword from the ground, then advanced on the king and forced him back. Reth tripped on a fallen warrior and lost his weapon. He regained his footing but was unable to defend himself further. The wizard was upon him in a split-second, sword raised high overhead. The metal gleamed as it reflected a ray of sun.
“Oh no,” Peter whispered.
The wizard brought the tip down and ran it through Reth’s chest. The journal shook and Krys felt a rumble as the king fell.
Krys dropped the
journal. He had never witnessed such violence. His body began to shake; he couldn’t stop it. He felt nauseous and lightheaded. Placing his hands on his knees, he took several deep breaths.
He looked down at the open pages. Everywhere he looked in the picture, he found blood-soaked carnage. Nothing moved but the thick black smoke. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the burnt stink drifting from the pages.
Peter held the sleeve of his tunic over his mouth and nose.
The open journal showed a darkening sky. This time it wasn’t a horde of dragons. Ominous shadows enveloped the doomed castle; they billowed, and rolled, and agitated with crackling energy. Then, the picture went black.
Krys picked up the journal and turned to the page. It was blank. “What?” He flipped through a few pages, but found them blank also. “It can’t stop here!”
“We need to know what happened,” Peter said.
Krys flipped back to the first blank page. “There has to be something else here!”
From the joint between the facing pages, a thin mist arose. From the mist, a dim face appeared.
Peter pointed at the disembodied head. “He looks kind of like you. L-Look at his eyes.”
Leaning closer, Krys gazed at the strange face floating above the book. He sucked in a breath and a knot formed in his stomach. “I-I think you’re right.”
“Krystomere Anderwood, my descendent,” the man in the mist said.
“How does he know who I am?” Krys whispered.
“Never mind that,” said Peter. “You’re related to him.” He pointed at the journal. “That must be Norris Anderwood, the guy that wrote this journal!”
The man continued, “Your coming was foretold centuries ago.”
Peter leaned closer to the journal. “Is he one of the entities the old woman spoke of?”
“Must be.”
“After the battle that ended King Reth’s life and imprisoned the good wizard Raven,” Norris said. “The evil Wizard Grimm sealed the castle for an eternity and stole the sacred Stones of Wisdom, destroying the balance of magic. Unknown to Grimm, the castle holds a strong enchantment, protected forever from evil magic. The same magic protects Raven from death, and allows our great wizard to be freed again. It is your duty, and honor, to rescue Raven, breaking Grimm’s curse, restoring the fallen Kingdom of Ravenwood. Otherwise, the magic of the land may never be balanced again. If you fail, all of Lanterra succumbs to evil.”