Stavius

by Gregory Cholmondeley

  The captain leaped upon the carriage, and the centaur galloped off faster than Staven had ever seen a centaur move. He felt a hand on his shoulder and knew they weren’t escaping the Soul Reaper this time. He saw bony, blood-red fingers grasp his tunic and the world went black.

  SOMEWHERE UNDERGROUND, MEARTH

  Staven opened his eyes and studied his surroundings. They were in a dark, musty room carved out of solid rock. There were iron bars along the open side with a flickering light providing the only illumination from around the corner.

  “Oh Mars, I’m in a dungeon,” Staven muttered to himself.

  “I’m still here! This is so cool!” he shouted a minute later.

  “Mark, keep it quiet,” he hissed to himself.

  “I’m sorry man, but I thought it was all going to be over when the Soul Reaper grabbed us,” Mark whispered.

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you, Mark,” Staven sighed. “You’re happy to be locked in a jail cell in a dungeon. We need to talk later.”

  “Um, yeah,” admitted Mark. “So how are we going to get out of here?”

  “I don’t know,” Staven replied. Then he walked over to the grate, shook it and shouted, “Hey, let me out!”

  A teenage boy, who looked to be about Mark’s age appeared from around the corner and walked over to the bars. “Well, look at the heroes sent to save the world. You’re a little late, aren’t you?” he sniggered.

  Staven/Mark stared at him in disbelief before Staven said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about but unlock this gate and let us out of here right now, you little prick!”

  “Let yourselves out,” answered the boy, with a mean smile. “I don’t have a key.” Then he fished an apple out from under his cloak, thrust it through the bars and asked, “Want an apple?”

  “No, I don’t want an apple!” screamed Staven. “I want you to go find someone with a key!”

  “I have no idea who would have a key to that door, or if one even exists,” answered the boy. “But here comes Mr. Urtish. If anyone knows where to find a key, it would be him.”

  The boy walked away as an older man came around the corner.

  “What’s all the noise down here, Janus?” Urtish grumbled. Then he saw Staven in the cell and added, “Oh, I see. Our missing colleagues have finally arrived. You two should know that I value punctuality and that this is far beyond acceptable tardiness. Now come along.”

  Urtish turned and began walking away until Staven called out, “Can you please let us out, Urtish?”

  Urtish paused and turned to look at them. “The name is Mister Urtish, young man and didn’t Janus explain that there is no key? You should let yourselves out. Just grasp that handle, turn it and push the door open.”

  As Staven opened the unlocked door, he saw Janus grin and heard Urtish mutter, “Add diminished capacity to the shortcomings of this candidate,” as he walked away.

  Mark thought to Staven, “I don’t like that kid.”

  Staven thought back, “I don’t much care for either one of them,” and followed the man and the boy out of the room.

  They walked down a small, rough-hewn rock hallway before entering the largest room Staven had ever seen. They were not in a dungeon after all. They were underground in a cave. This room had a high, domed ceiling and could comfortably seat a hundred or more people. There were various frames, pieces of wood and broken cut-outs of people lying around the floor as if the place had been used for some crazy performance and then hastily abandoned. Urtish and Janus ignored all this as Urtish walked over to a small card table with a couple of folding chairs set up in a corner and Janus wandered outside. There were boxes filled with papers scattered on the floor near the make-shift desk. Urtish sat in a chair behind the table, pulled out a form and waved Staven into a folding chair across from him.

  “Host name,” he grunted without looking up.

  “Um, excuse me?” asked Staven.

  “What is your name, young man,” repeated Urtish.

  “Um, Staven, sir,” answered Staven.

  “Age?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Delayed development,” muttered Urtish, as he scribbled on the form. “Rate your magical abilities on a scale of zero to ten, with zero being none and ten being an all-powerful wizard.”

  “Uh, I guess a five,” said Staven with an unsure tone.

  Urtish raised his eyes and glared at him.

  “OK, maybe a two,” admitted Staven. “But I did some amazing work today,” he quickly added.

  “That was your visitor,” said Urtish, as he wrote and muttered, “Diminished magical ability.”

  “And what is your visitor’s name?”

  “Excuse me. What do you mean by my visitor’s name?” asked Staven.

  “Oh, do try to keep up,” grouched Urtish. “You are conjoined with someone from another world. His mind enters yours while he is asleep and dreaming in his world. He has no memories of this place whenever he awakens in his world but remembers everything whenever his mind returns here.

  “So, what is the name of the voice in your head? Or you can just let him speak, and perhaps we’ll get through this faster.”

  Mark was thinking that this portion of his dream was not as much fun as the part with unicorns, dragons, and trolls. He wanted to correct Mr. Urtish about his ability to remember his dreams but merely replied, “My name is Mark, sir.”

  “And how old are you, Mark?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Age mismatch,” Urtish sighed, as he continued to write on the form. “And what do you want to use as your combined name?”

  “Combined name?”

  “Yes, Staven is the name of the host. Mark is the name of the visitor. What would you like us to call the two of you when you are together?”

  Urtish rolled his eyes. It was apparent that he had gone through this process many times in the past without this much trouble. “People typically combine their two names to create a different name for their conjoined entity. That way we have a name for the host, one for the visitor and one for the combination.”

  “So, what are your names?” asked Mark.

  “None of your business. All you need to know is that my conjoined name is Mr. Urtish. Would you rather be called Stark or Marven?”

  “Neither one!” shouted Mark. “Marvin is even worse than Marius!”

  “And who is Marius?” asked Urtish with raised eyebrows.

  “Marius is my real name,” answered Mark.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so,” grumbled Urtish, as he fished around for an eraser. He began correcting the form and asked, “So how about Stavius?”

  “Awesome!” exclaimed Mark. “That sounds like a Roman gladiator!”

  “What’s a Roman gladiator?” asked Staven.

  “A warrior who was fed to the lions for entertainment,” answered Urtish, with a wry smile. “It’s perfect.”

  Chapter 3

  Staven & Mark

  Mark felt relieved and slightly guilty, to discover that Staven also had no idea of what was going on. Urtish appeared to be a low-level administrator going through a standard check-in process. He was trying to rush through a well-rehearsed orientation presentation because it was midday and he didn’t want to miss lunch.

  His orientation overview explained that they were in a camp designed and staffed to train people in advanced magic, fighting, and prophecy. Soul Reapers appeared in the valley every few years with four conjoined candidates to be prepared as heroes destined to fulfill an ancient prophecy. And they would also bring someone like Janus.

  “So, the Soul Reapers aren’t terrifying creatures?” asked Staven.

  “No, they are terrifying,” Urtish disagreed, “but the food will be gone if you keep asking questions.”

  Mark wanted to ask about Urtish’s apparent dislike of Janus but decided not to ask until after lunch.

  Urtish told them that candidates typically arrived shortly after their thirteenth birthd
ays in March or, April, trained hard for two to three months before leaving on their journey before mid-year. Their preparation was arduous and limited because the candidates had to become heroes and fulfill the prophecy before their next birthday.

  “But, why before their birthday?” Mark blurted out.

  Urtish glared at him and said, “Because you can only be conjoined in your prime.”

  “But, that’s ridiculous,” laughed Staven. “Everyone knows you don’t reach your prime until you’re eighteen or, twenty, although perhaps I am already there.” He flexed his arms and admired his physique.

  “No, both your ages must be prime numbers,” grumbled Urtish. and then, seeing Staven’s perplexed expression added, “Mark, would you be kind enough to enlighten Staven about prime numbers while I work on these forms?”

  Mark tried to explain that a prime number is any number which can only be divided by one or, by itself to create an integer. He gave examples like 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17 and 19 but gave up when Staven asked what the term divided meant.

  Urtish shook his head and explained to Mark that the people here had a minimal educational background. Few can do more than simple addition and subtraction, almost no one can read or, write and there is virtually no concept of any form of science.

  “Think about it,” said Urtish. “We have magic, so we have little need to study, build, or, calculate. Who needs engineering if all it takes to build a house is leaning some sticks together and enchanting the structure? Who needs chemistry if you can magically transform a glass of water into wine, or, beer? Who needs medicine if you can charm a cold away? Math and science disappeared a long time ago in this world if they ever existed at all. Now, I must insist. No more questions before lunch.”

  “So, we’re part of the next group of heroes, and we’re going on a quest?” Mark asked, despite Mr. Urtish’s request. Both Staven and Mark were starting to feel excited.

  “No, you are part of the next group of heroes to attempt to fulfill THE prophecy,” groaned Urtish. “There is only one prophecy, and we’ve been training and sending heroes to attempt to fulfill it for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. And please don’t use the word quest. It makes all this sound like some medieval fantasy game.”

  “But, if no one has ever succeeded, what happens to the heroes?” asked Staven as he felt his stomach begin to churn.

  “How are we supposed to prepare you foolish boys to save the world if you can’t even understand and follow a simple rule about no questions before lunch!” bellowed Urtish, as he began walking toward the cave entrance. “No heroes have ever succeeded, and few have ever been seen again. Are you happy? Now, do you understand why we don’t discuss this before a meal? That’s it. We’re done for now. Follow me.”

  Staven trotted after Urtish as Mark mentally started to ask what Staven thought never being seen again meant. Staven interrupted his thought to suggest they follow Urtish’s advice.

  The cave was cool and dry with an aroma of dust and old sweat which swirled up as they moved. The massive chamber rapidly diminished to a ten-foot-high and ten-foot wide tunnel, which twisted around for a hundred feet before opening onto a gravel landing midway up a hill. Staven paused to shield his eyes when they stepped out of the cave into the brilliant sunlight. He took a moment to enjoy the view of the valley below.

  A small river snaked along the cliff base below them to create an oxbow island in the middle of the valley. There was a narrow road leading down the hill from the cave mouth which wound through a broad field before crossing a bridge to the island.

  Mark thought the grassy field looked like it was set up for a sort of knights’ tournament with banners furling in the light breeze. The island was filled with stone cottages with twenty or thirty people milling around a public square. Mark truly felt like he was in a medieval fantasy game, despite Mr. Urtish’s dislike of the comparison.

  “This is no time to play tourist,” Urtish shouted. He was already far below them. “If you don’t hurry, you’ll go hungry.”

  Staven jogged to catch up to Urtish at the bridge, which Mark thought was the most fantastical structure he’d ever seen. It spanned the river in one, graceful arch and was wide enough for two carts to pass. The structure was constructed out of perfectly-shaped stones, so accurately placed that there were almost no visible gaps. The road was smoothly paved, and there were flags and banners draped over the sides and fluttering from poles set in the railings. This was more than a bridge. This was a gateway built to welcome victorious heroes. He thought, “Wow, this is amazing!”

  That gateway was decorated with triumphant statues of heroes atop polished black granite pedestals in front of the bridge. Those pedestals were so highly polished that they not only reflected the bright sunshine, they reflected passersby which enabled Mark to see Staven for the first time.

  Staven was about six feet tall and muscular. He had tight, curly hair, a moderately dark complexion and would’ve been a movie or, rock star on Earth. He stood out even here, where everyone seemed to be good looking. Staven caught Mark staring at the pedestal, and Mark hurriedly looked away in embarrassment.

  Staven muttered, “I’ve seen better.”

  Urtish was so focused on lunch that he paid no attention to the gleaming bridge.

  They briskly walked across the bridge and arrived in the small village. There were nods of greeting to Urtish as they joined the end of the lunch line in the square, providing Mark another opportunity to inspect his surroundings. He could tell he wasn’t anywhere on Earth – it just felt magical. The village looked like a movie set where everything was perfect, and nothing was rotting or under construction. Mark could smell lunch cooking, but there was no smoke. He found that the air was purer than any he had ever breathed. There was no exhaust smell, traffic noise, or airplane contrails. It was pristine. It was too perfect to be anything back home.

  Mark was jostled out of his reverie by a cook gruffly asking what he wanted. He saw corn, green beans, a variety of lentil soup, rice and bread. He asked, “Do you have any meat?” and the cook grunted, “Hey everyone, we have a new arrival!”

  Staven silenced Mark and took a little of everything. He silently explained that all animals, like people, contained magical essence and that consuming magical essence was a painful dietary mistake which should be avoided at all costs. He added that the rule wasn’t limited to meat though. A magically ripened mango would have the same painful result because it was infused with magical essence. However, there was no harm in using magic to weed gardens or, to prepare food.

  “So, you mean there’s no bacon on this planet?” thought Mark.

  “What’s bacon?” thought Staven.

  “Never mind. You just shattered my fantasy of how perfect this place is,” lamented Mark.

  They walked over to the small table where Urtish was waving at them. “Welcome to the heroes’ table,” he mumbled with a mouthful of food.

  Mark and Staven sat at a table with six seats, positioned nearest to the food. The remaining fifteen to twenty people sat crowded together at one enormously long table a few feet away with Janus sitting by himself at the far end.

  “So now that we’re safely eating lunch, can you tell us a little more about this place?” asked Mark, while Urtish stuffed his face with food.

  “Sure. What would you like to know?” mumbled Urtish with a mouthful of food as he reached for a mug of water.

  “Well, why don’t you start by telling us where we are? Staven calls this place Earth, but Mark knows this isn’t the same as his Earth,” said Staven/Mark, who were getting very confused with whose words were coming out of their mouth.

  “You’re both right, of course,” answered Urtish, after he finished his drink. “This isn’t Mark’s Earth, and you aren’t speaking the same language. You can understand each other because you know each other’s thoughts before they get translated into words. And Mark, before you ask, you know what other people are saying here because your host’s mind is do
ing the translation into thoughts you can interpret.

  “So, Earth is just the name both of you give the planet upon which you live. You also use the same words for the moon, the sun and our two neighboring planets, Venus and Mars, although the residents of this Earth prefer to call the moon Luna.”

  “I hear what you’re saying but doesn’t it get confusing calling both places by the same name since they’re so different?” asked Mark.

  “I suppose so,” answered Urtish, as he reached for a biscuit, “but it doesn’t come up as much as you might suspect. After all, our visitors don’t remember their dreams when they wake up, and our hosts can never travel to their Earth. There is rarely a reason to talk about the two places in the same conversation. I assure you that, while it feels awkward right now, you’ll never even think about it once you’re fully conjoined.”

  “But it’s confusing. I’m going to call this place Mearth, which is short for magical Earth,” proclaimed Mark.

  Urtish stared at him and said, “Please don’t. That is just stupid.”

  Mark glared back at him and said, “You call it what you like, and I’ll call it what I like.” Then he changed the subject and asked, “How does time work on the two worlds? It seems like I can be here for days, and yet I wake up the morning after going to bed on Earth.”

  “Ah, a fair question,” answered Urtish, happy to be talking about something other than planetary names. “It will settle down once you’re fully conjoined. Time passages on the two worlds are not well understood but are somewhat synchronized. A year here on Earth lasts about the same amount of time as a year back on Earth.”

  Urtish saw the confused expression on Stavius’ face and relented. “A year here on Mearth lasts about the same amount of time as a year back on Earth. Mark might dream he spent a day or, a month here on Mearth but will still wake up the next morning on Earth. However, he probably won’t have another dream for a month on Earth if he dreamt he was here for that long. It’s not exact, but the two timelines seem to be linked together.”