“Yes.” Cyril continued to flip through the book.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s a proper answer to many questions. Most others can be answered with ‘No.’”
“Fine. It’s not a sufficient answer.”
The mage closed the book and let out an exasperated breath. “Oh, very well. I told them who you are. Or more precisely, who you used to be.”
Dagorat gagged and spit out a mouthful of tea. “Are you mad?”
“Your secret is safe with them.”
“How? You better explain it to me.” Dagorat placed two fists on the desk and leaned closer. “Very carefully.”
“They need to know you’re not simply a bodyguard, nor a servant, that you’re someone who can solve their problems. Trust me. They believe their souls will spend eternity in some fiery inferno if they ever mention it to anyone, under any circumstances, for any reason.”
“Oh, I feel so much better now,” Dagorat said. “What would happen if Felix or Liberon changed his religion tomorrow? Did you stop and think about that?”
Cyril broke out in a loud, hearty laugh. “Only you could think of such a thing.” He wheezed and regained his composure. “Earlier, Brother Maynard mentioned The Wars of King Faldyr, by Chadwicke. I’d like to have another look at it. There’s a copy in my study – would you be so kind?”
Dagorat stomped off and fetched the book. With great eagerness, Cyril leafed through the pages. “Ah, here it is. Listen well so you may understand the seriousness of our current task.” He stood and recited:
Glorious Orb of creation’s first light
Shining pure and gleaming white
We invoke thy strength and thy might
Send forth thy storm of divine light
To strike thine enemies from our sight
CHAPTER 3
RELIGIOUS RELICS ARE PEOPLE, TOO
WITH A QUICK FLIP OF his fingers, Cyril closed the book. The dull thud reminded Dagorat of the way judges signaled the end of a court session. Once a judge announced a “guilty” verdict, he would pronounce the sentence with a thump of his hand on The Writ of Common Law and Wisdom. He scratched his head. “‘Strike thine enemies?’ What does that poem mean?”
“It means we have no time to lose.”
True enough. The sooner they met the monks at the monastery, the better. Dagorat rued the prospect of another trek through the busy city streets, but made his way to the foyer with his friend. He opened the door and the brightness unnerved him. Averting his face from the light, he said, “After you.”
“I’m sorry about dragging you out into the sun again.”
“It’s all right. Let’s just get it over with.” He preferred the darkness because it surrounded and comforted him like a warm blanket. For another whole day, he would have to wait for evening, for the tranquility of night to return. And this being the Summer Solstice, daylight lasted longer than any other day.
Certainly not all light was bad, he mused, trying to cheer himself up. Dim moonlight and the flickering patterns cast by candles and lanterns had their advantages; sunlight did as well. Dagorat readily made use of the stark contrasts it created along buildings. Shadowy illusions had a way of fooling the eyes of other men, and he’d mastered the art of using that fact to move about unnoticed.
The short shadows cast by the sun indicated midday. Cyril and Dagorat stepped out into the street, closing the door behind them. In a stark change from the quiet of the house, they found themselves immersed in a group of cheerful Solstice revelers.
Bright costumes, wide smiles, and loud chatter pressed in on Dagorat from all sides. He tugged on the edge of his hood, pulling it forward to further obscure his face. These crowded streets meant too many faces, too many eyes upon him. Trying not to bump into anyone, he hung close on Cyril’s heels, staring at his back. After a shoulder jostled him, he moved to his friend’s side and firmly grasped his sleeve. “You’re worried because this Orb thing was stolen,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Cyril gave a grim frown. “Of course I am.”
With a misplaced step, a drunken man fell to his knees and vomited in their path. “Watch out.” Dagorat pulled Cyril around the puddle. “Elven kings, religious objects, Queen Etheldreda. It’s too much for one morning.”
“You may not believe this, but Elves are not so different from men,” Cyril said.
“Why are you talking about them like they’re still around?”
“What makes you think they aren’t?”
Dagorat cocked his head. Myths and legends – and the occasional rare item in an antique shop – were all that remained of the Elves. Everyone knew that. No one had any first-hand knowledge of any living today. Except, it seemed, his old friend.
Cyril continued. “The Elves are practitioners of many things. There are Elven mages, monks, warriors, druids, and followers of The One.”
“The One?” Dagorat asked, feeling more and more like an ignorant schoolboy.
“According to the Order, The One True God who has no name.”
Dagorat raised an eyebrow and waited for Cyril to continue.
“I’m not well-versed in their theology, but I have heard a few things about the tenets of their faith,” the mage said.
“Is their god trapped inside the Orb or something like that?”
They rounded a corner and had to step around a woman who sat against a wall, cradling a sleeping infant in her lap. She held out a cup with her free hand. “A copper-jack for the baby?”
A group of three well-dressed men glared at her with disdainful eyes as they swaggered by. One of them stopped and spat on the ground. “Probably an heir to the Easterlain Throne.” The others laughed at their friend’s joke.
The woman curled protectively over the baby, carefully keeping her gaze to the ground.
“That’s enough.” Dagorat let go of Cyril’s sleeve and moved to confront the crude spitter. “What kind of stingbum spits at a poor mother and child? If you don’t want to give her anything, move along.”
One of the men stared at Dagorat and curled his lip. “Filthy ruffian! How dare you address me thus!”
Cyril spoke up from the side. “This ‘ruffian’ speaks in my name.”
The three moved to encircle them. “As if you’re any better?” one sneered.
“Better? Certainly not. More reasonable, perhaps. Most know me as Cyril the Wise.”
The men froze and exchanged grave glances. One of them whispered into the spitter’s ear. After a moment, he removed his hat and bowed. “Master Cyril, we…uh…regret the misunderstanding.”
Cyril retrieved a silver coin from his purse and, with a kind smile, handed it to the woman. “A silver-shield for mother and child.” He glared at the three arrogant fops, and they shuffled their feet. “Shouldn’t you show a little charity before departing?” Shame-faced, one by one they dropped some coins into the woman’s cup. With a dismissive wave of his hand, Cyril said, “Now, off with you.”
They scurried away. The woman examined her cup, and a wondrous grin beautified her homely face. “Thank you, sirs! We can eat for a week on this. May the Solstice sun soothe your souls.”
Dagorat and Cyril bowed and moved on toward the monastery. Warmth flowed through Dagorat’s chest; years had passed since he brought joy to someone unfortunate. He clapped Cyril on the shoulder. “Just like the old days.”
“Except you didn’t rob or stab anyone. Now, where were we?”
“The Orb.”
“Ah, yes. From what I understand, the Order believes their god created the entire universe, starting with a great burst of light. As the worlds formed, some of the light was captured inside a transparent sphere. Hence, the Orb of the First Light.”
“Sounds like an old superstition. The One?” Dagorat rolled his eyes. “I’ll keep to believing in myself and my own abilities. Unlike this ‘god,’ at least I have a name.”
“More than one, actually,” Cyril quipped. “I can’t say I blame yo
u. It’s a lot to absorb.”
“I’m surprised you believe all this stuff.”
“I can’t answer for the entirety of their religion, but history shows that the Orb and its power are real.” Cyril stopped and put a hand on Dagorat’s shoulder. “If it has fallen into the hands of evil men…well, remember what Brother Maynard told you? Disastrous for us all. All the legends about the Orb are clear on the matter. An army wielding it could never be vanquished.”
“It’s hard to believe that a glass ball can be so powerful. Sounds like another dusty legend from a moldy old book to me,” Dagorat said. He coughed as they passed through a brown cloud wafting up from a niche where an old woman beat a rug with a flat wooden stick.
“You’d understand if you had ever read about the Battle of the Three Rivers. King Faldyr didn’t believe, either. But when his army stood against a vast host of orcs, outnumbered five to one, an Elven monk convinced him to use the Orb. Not one soldier in his army unsheathed his sword, not one archer released an arrow. And when the dust cleared, every single orc had been reduced to a small pile of cinders.”
“Impressive. It still sounds like a tall tale.”
Cyril’s lips tightened. “Faldyr was a great and wise king. He wouldn’t spread such deceits to future generations.” He stormed off through the crowd.
Dagorat caught up and walked quietly beside his friend. The true seriousness of the situation weighed upon him. Cyril rarely worked his blood up over anything without good reason. Perhaps something in the legends rang true. And after all, his Mage-Sense had warned him about a heightened danger. The harder he thought about it, this whole situation grew more and more dire. At first, he’d only been concerned for himself and his family. Now he worried that all three kingdoms could fall. “Now I understand why the monks were so nervous, and eager for your aid.” They kept a brisk pace for another block in uneasy silence until Dagorat said, “If this Orb is so powerful, why did the Elves give it away to Queen Etheldreda?”
Cyril’s gait slowed. “Long ago, the Elves originated the idea of one god, and at first kept their religion to themselves. Their elders distrusted men, you see. But after the Three Rivers, Faldyr became a staunch believer, and after much debate, was admitted to the Elven Order of The One. His family line held to the faith. Decades later, his great-grandson, King Hladomir, impressed Queen Etheldreda with his piety so much, she became a believer as well. At his insistence, the Elves allowed Hladomir to gift the Orb to her.”
He paused, as if his next words would leave a sour taste in his mouth. “Apparently the Elves thought to use her, to spread their religion through the three kingdoms. But it never did. They gained only a handful of converts. This firmly convinced them men were horrid and ignoble creatures, and they withdrew from our territories to live in the wilds. Once they think our civilization has matured enough, perhaps they’ll emerge again.”
Dagorat lapsed into silence, trying to digest all he had heard. Who did those Elves think they were, trying to manipulate the noblest queen who ever ruled? Even the smallest village in Easterly had a plaque or a stone of some type to commemorate the reign of Etheldreda. Yet they had the gall to treat her as nothing more than their religious puppet? He ground his teeth. “How could you know all these things and still be proud of your heritage? First, the Elves treated our greatest queen like a puppet. Then they decided men were too depraved because we Easterlains failed to spread their religion. They retreated rather than be near us. Maybe all the jokes about us are justified after all. Perhaps we are a backwards people with backwards ways.”
“We know the city-folk think so, but where do you think Mentirian and Jalkenese customs originated? A long time ago, the early Easterlain settlers were driven out by orcs and goblins, and had to live scattered among the forebears of the other kingdoms. The Mentirians are proud and haughty about their regal customs, but all their sophistication may well have its origin in the common practices of ancient displaced Easterlains. Nobody truly knows.”
It was truly annoying sometimes that Cyril always had an answer for everything. In any case, it didn’t change how he felt. “Doesn’t matter. I’m glad to have shaken the dust of Easterly off my boots.”
“You were forced to shake it off.”
“I know. I should have listened to your advice before it got to that point.”
“Yes, your deeds caught up with you. Too many powerful enemies. Your allies stayed true, for a short time, because of gold. But there’s always somebody else with more money to purchase their loyalty.” Cyril sighed. “In any case, you should remember that it was our forefathers who resettled Easterly and hacked out an existence by the sweat of their brows and calluses on their hands. They banded together, drove the orcs and goblins out, and later built the great city of Ethelton. Our story is truly something to have pride in.”
That reminded Dagorat. “According to Maynard, those foul creatures are returning.”
“Yes, I was wondering why he mentioned those incursions. I believe he has suspicions about who is responsible for taking the Orb.”
“If he knows who took it, why bother us about it?”
“He only suspects, for one thing. For another, it’s not a specific person, but a group of people. Just as the Order of The One believes they are the sons and daughters of the Light, there are those who despise the light and want to place the world under a banner of darkness. They are the likely culprits, and I believe they are the reason Maynard mentioned those incursions.”
On a near corner, a small band of drunken Solstice revelers sat on barrels, slopping ale down their chins. Their laughs were hearty and loud, and some of the men groped at their female companions. Among polite company, such an act would be met with a slap, but these women giggled instead. One straddled a man’s lap and said, “Why don’t you try both hands?”
“Hmmph. Cavorting openly with Karnalian women,” Cyril whispered to Dagorat.
The group laughed uproariously and swigged more ale as the man put down his cup and took her advice. “These udders remind me of a joke I heard,” he said. “How many Easterlain farmers d’ya need to milk a cow?”
The revelers piped up. “Four!” “No, three!” “None,” the drunk announced. “Easterlain farmers are too poor to own a cow.” The others laughed. One snorted ale out through his nose.
“Ignore them.” Cyril shook his head in disgust. “I surmise the Elves will not return for some time.”
They turned onto Barrel-Rider Street, leaving the roaring laughter behind. Through a rare break in the crowd they spotted some Gnomish vendors near a wagon overloaded with gadgets. Cyril perked up. “I must examine their wares.”
“No, you don’t. We have more important – ” Dagorat huffed and brought his hand to his forehead when Cyril hurried forward.
The mage peeked over his shoulder at him. “This is something I always do on the Solstice. We can take one moment.”
Obstinate old man.
The vendor blinked his oversized eyes and smiled ear-to-ear at Cyril, as only a Gnome could. He held out a small, plain steel box, about two inches square and a quarter inch thick. With a flick of his fingers, the Gnome flipped the top open to reveal a wick and a gnarled metal wheel. His thumb pressed on the wheel and after a quick quarter turn, the wick burst into a small flame.
Cyril raised his eyebrows and stretched one corner of his mouth into an impish grin. “Look at that. Instant fire.”
“I’d hate to hear the price.”
After a hearty round of bargaining, Cyril handed over eight golden-claw pieces. He proudly admired the gadget as they walked away. “An amazing feat of Gnomish ingenuity and craftsmanship.”
“And you accuse me of being impulsive. A mere twelve copper-jacks for our breakfasts. We could dine at the tavern for a whole year on eight golden-claws. Why do so many people trust those Gnomes?” Dagorat raised his shoulders. “It must be those huge childlike eyes.”
“Oh, learn to enjoy yourself.” Cyril moved closer and whispe
red, “Besides, with this little trinket, I have portable fire without suffering the company of dark mages. Or bending to their will.”
Well, that would certainly come in handy, at least. They turned the final corner and halted as the towering spire of their destination came into sight, looming over the smaller surrounding buildings. “Such a majestic looking edifice,” Cyril said.
Dagorat regarded him with interest. “You like these monks, don’t you?”
“Indeed. I’ve never known them to hurt anyone. They live simply and do many acts of charity, and they never refuse aid to those in need. To put it simply, if all were like them, there would be fewer weapons wielded in this world.”
“Weapons like the Orb? They’re the ones who let it fall into the wrong hands.” Dagorat tilted his head back and eyed the spire. “At least we’ll have some answers soon.”
Cyril inhaled deeply and offered him a serious stare. “Or many more questions.”
CHAPTER 4
HOW TO ROAST A GOBLIN
THE THRONE ROOM, CONSTRUCTED WITHIN the lowest recesses of the stronghold, was buried deep into the mountainside. No flow of fresh ventilation relieved the heaviness of the air. Moisture from the breath and sweat of men, goblins, and orcs condensed on the walls. The immense gray blocks glistened with the stench of the horrid dew. Torches provided scant firelight for the servants and guards; the master and the rest of the Golgent mages had perfect night vision.
The floor bore a repeating pattern of the motto of the Golgent. With each tile bearing an arc, every meeting of four tile corners completed an etched circle. A palindrome in their language, “Somra Lu Ketneglo Golgente Kul Armos,” lined the inner edges of the circles. Roughly translated, it read, “Obstruct the Light – Darkness for All.”
Guilder’s innards gave a nauseous rumble as his master Lamortain, lord of the dark mages of the Golgent, tapped his unnaturally long nails on the throne. Trapped in service to this vile man, Guilder spent his days avoiding his anger. He never knew what would trigger Lamortain’s volatile temper. Every hour of every day was a struggle, a battle for survival. Only the faint hope of one day escaping to freedom kept him from going insane.
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