by Paul Drewitz
The horse walked around the outside of a forest’s wall before finally finding a trail that led in. Many places could be used for ambush, but the path was little used and so no one laid traps along its length.
The trail at first wandered down. It was narrow and Draos had to walk tightly to avoid brush. Limbs hung low and pieces of rock lay in the trail. The path itself was overgrown, mostly used by deer and an occasional bear or cougar. Seldom had it seen the hoof marks of a horse or the prints of boots. Soon the trail leveled off, but it did not grow wider. In several places it intersected the trail of larger beasts like cattle, and the path would become so worn that it showed dark smooth ground.
The trees stopped abruptly, leaving the two in a meadow. Grass was knee high. A few fallen trunks barely rose far enough from the grass to peer at the visitors. The trail took them back up a hill before dropping into a field of wild corn that Erelon would not have been able to see over even if he had been conscious.
The sky was clear. Only a cloud or two drifted by against the dark blue. Their shadows gently moved across the ground, bending and conforming to the contours of the hills. A giant crane swooped silently over the hill towards some invisible pond. The gray points of the mountain’s peaks pierced into the sky. Not long would it be before they again began to climb and the air would grow cold and thin. But here in the foothills, it was mild. Not too warm, not cold. Yet Erelon could not enjoy the pleasant weather. His body was torn, mutilated.
The horse followed the caressing breeze that carried the voice. Draos too knew the voice. Draos even understood to whom it belonged. The horse’s memory had not failed him.
The horse traveled into another mass of woods. Here there was no path, but there was little brush and the trees were far enough apart that the horse easily picked a new path. The sun had gone down. A moon cast a silver glow on all the trees, casting shadows that played games with the trees that bobbed up and down. Another gave off a barely perceptible red glow.
Erelon continued to sleep as the horse broke free of the woods and stood on a trail that went right and left. There was a broken wooden sign. Left led to Pendle, right to Sine. The names were barely visible, but it mattered little as Erelon was not conscious to read them. Straight before Draos lay a path long abandoned but built of uncovered mountain stone, and for this reason, it had lasted long after men had forgotten where it led. Draos stared up the path for a moment before crossing the route that connected Pendle to Sine.
“That is right. This way,” the voice soothed the horse. Draos’s ears twitched a little and then on up the path he ambled confidently.
“Whoa! Where are we boy?” Erelon question and exclaimed to his horse.
The sky was dark, and Erelon did not know how long he had slept. As he looked around, he saw they stood on a well built rock road, but from the moss and mud that covered it, Erelon assumed it was not used much. Looking up, Erelon saw that there were two moons out in the sky not much more than a thumb apart, and that meant he had slept at least a day on the back of Draos.
“Come,” the wind whispered again.
Erelon’s ears became alert to the voice. It was stronger; it came from ahead. Erelon had only wanted to find a walled city to hide in until healthy enough to travel. But this voice on the wind, it aroused curiosity in him. The wizard allowed his horse to lead on. Trees crowded thickly around the path, though none grew on it. The path led up the side of the mountain. It would get thin and then widen. At one moment the trail would have been barely passable by a wagon. A huge block of stone sat beside the path, now surrounded by trees. It was extremely worn, and its surface was covered in illegible, though noticeable, markings.
After some time, the flat stone road disappeared as it was covered in dirt, washed over by frequent rains. Soon the dirt became thick. The remains of deep wagon ruts became visible. Through the trees a stone wall raised its head. Erelon’s thoughts surrounded the fact that he had found the lost city, and his mind began to race, gleaning all information that he knew about it. This thought was immediately followed by the question of how people can lose something so enormous and marked by such a clear path.
The path widened, the trees fell back, and the front wall of an old city was revealed. There was nothing more spectacular about these stone walls compared to any of the other great cities Erelon had visited. Yet it was empty. No one along the parapets, no archers, guards, citizens, travelers, traders, no one, and nothing moved. Erelon uncomfortably adjusted his weight. Draos stood still, awaiting the next command.
“Come in,” the nameless voice commanded.
No longer was the voice carried by the wind. It seemed to enshroud the wizard. It was all around, it lived in the atmosphere. Slowly the wizard allowed his horse to walk through the open gates that had been torn down long ago. Houses—a mix of wood, stone, brick, and adobe—all stood silent.
The horse stepped gingerly, almost as if he felt that if he stepped too heavily the fibers of the earth would give way, and both would fall into a bottomless pit. A dark form, no more than a shadow, disappeared to Erelon’s right. Nervously the horse shifted to the left. The voice guided them on. More than a voice, it became a magical presence, almost a form within Erelon’s mind.
They passed around several corners, always going in the direction the voice seemed strongest. A cloaked figure began to form in the back of Erelon's mind, the form the voice belonged to. It was an old, twisted form, but somehow controlled immense power.
Erelon felt as though he knew the paths they traveled. They strangely felt familiar almost like he had been here before. The rock roads, yards of mud and weeds, an atmosphere so saturated that his skin seemed to absorb the water from the air, and his dehydration eased. Dark, dank, dreary, the city had once housed thousands, but Erelon could not understand why anyone would have voluntarily chosen to live here.
The thought occurred that maybe this city reminded him of Pendle. But immediately Erelon knew that was not the answer. Maybe, he had dreamt of this city. He pried into his mind, back into his past dreams but none of them resembled this decaying city.
A city square opened before them. Destroyed carriages, bones of beasts, and men lay everywhere. The skeletons were now long dried out, the bones scattered by wolves, many crushed, but it was all evidence of a fight, or more likely, a slaughter of unprepared townsmen. This evidence of the destruction of a city lay open for anyone to venture in and see.
A tree grew out of a small square stone basin that was half filled with water. A skeleton lay half in half out. Both Erelon and Draos began to become nervous. This massacre had occurred long ago, but what had caused it and was such a threat still around? Erelon gave his horse a slight kick. Simply standing and staring would not find them safety.
Erelon wanted to find out what was calling to him and escape the city. Erelon had thought about hiding in one of the buildings, maybe locating some supplies that might have survived the age in which the city had been desolate. Now the wizard only wanted to escape.
The path Erelon followed led him closer to the mountain’s wall. Then the path ended, blocked by an old oak door. From within the door came the voice, and into it the magical presence now retreated while beckoning for the wizard to follow.
Erelon slid from his horse and looked up at the mountain wall, at its peaks. The wizard debated bringing the horse along and then decided against it. Draos would not enjoy the close dark corridors that Erelon assumed would wait for him inside. The horse was able to defend itself or flee fast enough to escape. The wizard’s hand reached out to grab the door’s iron handle. Erelon’s body froze. Paralysis took control of him, a magical current racing through his body, stopping all movement.
Slowly, gently, Erelon released the handle. The moment there became space between the wizard’s skin and the iron handle, the magical current ceased. Erelon smirked with a little exasperation before casting sparkling powder in front of the door and uttering a counter spell. The hinges crumbled from the pressure, falling t
o the city floor no more than a pile of rust powder. The rotten door fell backwards, breaking into chunks. Erelon stepped through into a dark tunnel. A strong breeze blew through, pulling the wizard along with it.
Erelon’s hand trailed along the rough wall as he followed into deepening darkness. The opening where the oak door had once stood was the only source of light. Erelon did not carry a torch. The exit to the outside world had only shortly disappeared when small slits of blue light came through another old wooden door.
Erelon stood for a moment, looking for traps, feeling for a spell, observing and meditating, yet he could not feel anything out of place, nothing strange or unusual. His hand searched around in the dark like one who was blind. Finally his hand came in contact with the cold metal of the handle.
Slowly Erelon opened the barricade. Blue light spilled out, the light coming from vents that led to clear mountain air still higher. The light blinded Erelon’s one good eye; the other still lay below a patch constructed of material from his cloak. The corridor was lined by the statues of men who Erelon assumed to be great men, kings and warriors. At the far end stood the stone statue of Chaucer.
Erelon raced forward, tears running down his cheeks. His mind screamed with mental confusion. He had never known what had happened to his mentor, the only father he had ever known. From this spot emanated the presence, the familiar voice out of Erelon’s far past. It was the voice, the magical essence of Chaucer.
Erelon crashed to his knees before the form of his mentor. The wizard’s stomach felt as if it was trying to burst through his throat. His head pounded with questions and possible answers.
What had happened to Chaucer in those last days of his life, Erelon still did not know. This statue did not belong in this alcove. The crowned but splintered figure that lay on the floor belonged in the small recess in the corridor. Surely Chaucer’s body did not lie in the slotted tomb behind, a tomb on which was carved the name of a king. Who would have made such a statue? Who would have placed it here? What events had brought Chaucer’s magical spirit to this room? These questions all raced through Erelon’s throbbing mind.
Erelon’s hand slipped down the statue's robes, his vision blurring. His mind went blank. He was too worn to continue this mental beating, and his mind refused to focus. His hand came in contact with the sheath. It was not stone, it was leather. For a moment the image of a living Chaucer flashed before Erelon’s eyes. Stumbling backwards, startled, the wizard ceased to touch the sword. He looked up. From the sword the magical presence of Chaucer emanated.
With the resolve to discover what was actually happening, Erelon stood and slowly, respectfully, approached the figure and sword. Slowly Erelon held out his hands and grasped the sword’s handle. Erelon’s entire mind and body were gripped by a magical power that held him rooted in place. Quickly Chaucer’s life began to flash through the mind of Erelon. The wizard not only saw his mentor’s life, but for a moment, he lived it. For a moment, as Erelon held the sword, he became two wizards, two men.
Erelon watched Chaucer as a young boy, wandering the streets of Sine. Chaucer had been feared. Men refused to turn their backs on him. Women and children would hide around the corner of buildings until he had disappeared down the street. He had grown up when no man who controlled magic was a real man; they were a mutation, an abomination. Magic was left to other races, specifically the elves. Early on Chaucer had come to the city of Ristine, the city of Erelon’s birth, where he met Jace, one of the few who would accept wizards.
The images skipped faster and faster. Chaucer made elves and dwarves his allies. He started trouble at Sine, fighting those who claimed to rule but only used their power to suppress others. Through Chaucer’s eyes, Erelon watched in pain as Ristine started on its downfall. Slowly the city would fight, the rich against the poor, and it devoured itself.
Chaucer fled from the trouble to find other wizards, to make a home where he could find peace. The rumor was true. There had been five original wizards who practiced their skills in a shack. Soon, together, the five gave a good name to wizards. They gave council to kings, aided in noble wars, took on noble causes. They traveled long distances, helping whoever called. Chaucer had seen much of the world. He had given advice to the Kingdoms of Westeron and Sirus, bringing multiple short lived truces between the kingdoms. Others had gone south, past the dwarves of the Rusted Mountains, beyond the Mushroom forest of Tix. They would disappear for years before returning to the shack they considered home, each time returning with more treasures.
Then had come the flow of others, those who had been corrupted by their power. Too many were there for the original five to fight. The newcomers enslaved the locals to build the Keep. Though the natives had been released from the spell after construction, many became those who populated the villages of the Keep. They were completely unaware that they had been forced to build Mortaz. Many felt they had volunteered, such was the nature of the spell they had been under.
Several disgruntled wizards who felt their skills were being underestimated discovered knowledge that they did not have the skill to control. Knowledge of King’s Time. Into the machine they went, and it destroyed them. Chaucer and the others knew of the troublesome wizards before they fell, and yet they did not stop them.
Erelon watched as Chaucer stormed into a council demanding that the wizards who were using King’s Time be stopped. He had begun to watch as the power rippled out from the ancient site. The River Fallas slowly began to dry, the grass turned to a lighter green. The war waged between Sirus and Westeron was impossible to stop. Others yelled back, and the meeting disintegrated into a fighting match, more about who controlled more power than what needed to be accomplished.
Chaucer rebelled against those that stood for everything he hated. And in the center of the meeting hall, he held a debate. Chaucer was eloquent with words and pulled his enemies apart. They abused the ranking system, always giving rank and prestige to friends, not those who deserved it. They used their magical prowess to take advantage of individuals and kingdoms, always looking to gain more power, land, gold. The peasants in the villages were suppressed so that they could only work for the wizards. Chaucer's complaints continued on, his words biting deep and quick.
But Chaucer's enemies were many. Erelon could not hear the words bellowed throughout that meeting, but he felt the hatred that Chaucer had felt. He felt his own heart burning, melting. His chest hurt, his skull throbbed, and every muscle in his body shook and twitched.
Tears rolled from Erelon’s eyes as he watched Chaucer flee from his own home, the one he had helped to make. Chaucer was humiliated. He had not left willingly. Lightning bolts, magical energy, fire, and ice all blasted through the Keep. An observer from outside could follow the fight as windows lit up.
Chaucer escaped through tunnels that led to the bottom tier after casting a screen of smoke. He fled into the night and across the prairie on foot. Later, he found the gnomes and reestablished himself.
The image blurred, faded, and when it came back, Erelon saw himself, as a baby. Erelon watched as his mother gave him to Chaucer who raised him. Rage filled the paralyzed wizard as he discovered his roots in this town, destroyed by the wealthy, the greedy. His mother, Erelon could feel little for her, he had never known her. Curiosity of who she was dissipated from his mind as quickly as her image had from Chaucer's memory. He had known little about her and this short memory left Erelon holding onto the image of a soft face and a kind voice. Finally, the troll battle flew by. Chaucer’s eyes had already begun to grow blurry, as in his old age, his mind was not as clear as it had been.
Still Chaucer had proudly watched as his apprentice had become a respectable man. Erelon cried out in terror as he watched the end, as Chaucer had built the sword and slowly turned to stone.
Tears rolled as Erelon reached out and grasped the air as he yelled, “DON'TTT! I needed you, I need you.”
An entire life flew by the eyes of Erelon in a few moments. The humiliation, pain,
and death of his mentor, his father. In his own way, Chaucer had answered all of Erelon’s questions. When Erelon was in the greatest need of help, mentally and physically, Chaucer had equipped his apprentice with the greatest weapon made by a wizard and had brought him some form of mental equilibrium.
Slowly Erelon’s mind cleared as the last few scattered images raced through his mind, and he was finally released from the spell. The statue of Chaucer slowly began to lose its form. Erelon did not notice until Chaucer's nose began to disintegrate, turning to dust before the wizard. Erelon grabbed frantically at the powder, trying to hang onto his mentor, put him back together, and bring life to his final form. He tried to push the dust back together, trying to will it to become the man it had once been.
Yet the dust floated into the cave, swirling around, not resting until it had disappeared. The weapon Chaucer had forged to help with the final destruction of his enemies, and to help all those in dire need afterward, fell forward, into the arms of Erelon.
The wisdom, the energy, of two wizards filled Erelon, one his own, the second his mentor. Erelon felt as if he had lived the lives of two men. He breathed a heavy tired sigh. His shoulders now held the failure, the struggles, and the pain of two men, of two lives. However, there were also the victories, the successes. He had finally found the last resting place of the only man Erelon had known as father, and here he had finally gained full knowledge of his mentor’s life.
In the last minutes of Chaucer’s life, the deceased wizard had made sure that his apprentice would learn everything he needed to know. Chaucer gave Erelon full knowledge of his own life so that he covered anything Erelon did not already know.