Wielder of the Flame (20 page)

When Tasard put his mind to something, he would never give
up on it, he vowed to slay the beast, and release its terrible hold upon the
lands round about. He appealed to the city rulers, requesting their aid on his
quest. The rulers would not help. They had sent men to the mountain before, to
kill the beast. The Dark One had not only slaughtered the men they sent, but in
response to the attack he had come down from the mountain and burned several
villages and towns with a vengeance. To this, Tasard simply said, that he would
go to face the beast alone. It was at this time, in the now long gone city of
Lisskel, that Tasard met Rynar. Rynar wanted to help, but he was not an
adventurer, he was a young talented blacksmith that was different from any
other blacksmith of his time. He created his weapons and armor not only with
the heat of the forge, but with the power of magic. Rynar offered his services
to help this stranger. The blacksmith marveled and respected the fact that this
stranger, Tasard, with no previous tie to their troubles, could have simply
walked away, but instead was single-handedly volunteering to solve their
problem.

Tasard told Rynar that a good suit of armor and an enchanted
sword would be most helpful indeed. Rynar and Tasard quickly became friends as
Rynar began his work. Rynar spent many fortnights in his workshop, Tasard
keeping him company. Finally, the time came when Rynar was finished with his
work. It was the finest workmanship Tasard had seen in all his travels. He
equipped himself with his new items, thanked his friend Rynar for them, and
left Lisskel for the mountain.”

The boys had finished the legs of meat, slices of bread, and
fruit, and were finishing another round of drinks. All three now listened
intently to the story.

“Well?” Marc asked, “What happened to Tasard?”

“He survived, of course,” The old man replied, “remember,
this is a story from his youth, he had yet to accomplish all his other deeds,”

“Right,” Marc nodded.

“But how did he conquer the beast?”

“Exactly how he did it has been lost through the ages. But
the villagers at the base of the mountain confirmed the death of the beast. It
had been almost a mid-fortnight since Tasard had climbed the mountain, the
villagers had all but given up hope, and every day arose in fear of the attack
that the Dark One would make in return for the visitor’s intrusion. One morning
there came a terrible noise from the mountain, a thundering sound. The rumbling
grew louder, the ground began to shake and tremble. The villagers guessed it
was a rockslide, and prepared to evacuate to safety. But before they could leave
a gigantic object fell from the sky and landed with a tremendous thud in the
earth not far from the village and the trembling stopped.

It was the head of the beast. Tasard had taken it off with
one fell swoop.

Later, after the region spent many a fortnight throwing
festivals and celebrations for Tasard and the death of their troubles, Tasard
told Rynar that he could not have done it if not for the sword and its powerful
magical properties and expert craftsmanship.”

The old man paused, the three boys did not notice as the old
man glanced down, as if he could see through the table, at the weapon strapped
at Marc’s side.

“The sword, as Legend goes, was passed down to Tasard’s son.
Tasard’s son was a fool, however, and unworthy to wield the magical blade. After
the boy’s short life came to an end the sword was taken under the care of
another powerful magician. Eventually it was lost for a long time. Finally,
after many cycles, the sword was recovered by the Ascendant Sages, who kept it
well. Every generation, the Ascendant Sages would seek out one worthy, and
powerful enough, to wield the blade. Those who were chosen began to be called
Wielder
of the Flame,
and the Prophecy of the Flame was born! In the right hands it
seemed the weapon had no equal on the battlefield. During the War of Power it
was coveted by many. 

It is written that the sword was lost after the battle at
Garduan’s Keep, never to be found again. It is a powerful weapon beyond
imagining. It is light, like unto a feather, yet strong, and impervious to the
ravages of hard use or time.”

The old man had begun to speak faster, he was becoming more
and more excited. Sesuadra was the first to notice it, then the others.

It seemed odd.

The old man’s voice began to change strangely, unnaturally.

 “And when the wielder releases its power the blade burns
with a magical, unquenchable flame that can be sent forth, to pierce the realms
of Alfhyym above, and across the field of battle with great sweeping arcs.”

Sesuadra, nearest the edge of the booth began to inch out,
getting ready to stand up. Marc, in the middle, and Zildjin at the end began to
follow suit. The old man’s eyes had begun to widen with a hunger, glazing over
almost.

“Any who have spent many cycles studying the ways of magic,
and are strongly attuned to its different auras, can sense the power of the
sword, even from a distance. Like a beacon of energy. Just like the sword you
have Marcus,
JUST LIKE IT!
”

One of the old man’s hands shot out and clenched a large
handful of Marc’s shirt in his fist. He yanked the boy forward and tried to
tear the belt from off his waist, grabbing at the sword.

“Get off of me!” Marc yelled.

A number of those at nearby tables turned at the scuffle.

“Get off!” Marc grasped at the old man’s hand.

The old man was impossibly strong, his grip, like iron.

Sesuadra wrapped his arms around Marc’s shoulders and
pulled.

“Let him
GO!
” Zildjin cried and punched the old man
squarely on the face.

The old man let go of Marc.

Marc and Sesuadra fell down in a heap. The old man flew sideways
with the force of the punch, knocking a barmaid, who was rushing over to try
and contain the commotion, into a man who was taking a long swig from his mug
of ale. The ale flew out of the man’s hand and splashed all over a bulky
bearded man nearby. The bearded man stood up, furious and punched the man
responsible for the mess.

Things escalated quickly.

“Let us get out of here!” Zildjin said.

Sesuadra nodded.

“Yes, let’s,” Marc agreed, straightening his shirt and sword
belt.

The three boys ducked and crawled through the brawl, able to
escape in one piece.

They raced off back to the Magic Emporium, not wanting to be
there when the city guard arrived.

Marc kept looking behind them to make sure the old man was
not following them.

Marc was relieved that no one had pursued them.

At least none that he could see.

The old man at the Silver Star Inn
watched from behind a large stack of crates quite a distance away, as the boys
entered the back courtyard to the Magic Emporium.

When the three young men were out of sight the old man
turned and began walking away from the magic district. The night was young, and
the city was still alive in many areas. The old man made his way to a dark
quiet part of an alleyway where no one was looking. He muttered some choice
words of power and moved his hands in a specific way. Immediately after this
his clothes began to change as if they were melting and instantly being
replaced with other attire of different color and texture. From rough, plain
grays and browns to rich blue silk and gold embroidery. The old man’s face
changed as well, his bushy beard shortening and blackening at the same time,
morphing into a carefully trimmed goatee. The wrinkles in his face lessened,
leaving a much younger countenance in its wake, the well groomed visage of
Safral, one of the elite of the Overseer’s Hands.

Now back in his usual appearance, he emerged from the
alleyway, his strides quick and businesslike. He desired to return to his
office, and quickly.

The city and its people were as a blur to him as he made his
way to his destination. He was furious with himself. What had gotten into him,
reacting like that? The magic of the blade was intoxicating to him. He wanted
the sword for himself, wanted it badly, but badly enough to ruin his own plans
with such a lack of self control? He was better than that! Or so he had
thought.

He was surprised when he suddenly found himself approaching
his office.
That was quick
, he thought.

There was someone at the door, locking up. It was Nyrith,
his apprentice.

She was young, but had very promising abilities, and she was
very impressionable, he had been easily able to steer her loyalties to reside
in the right place.

She turned at his approach, the key still in the door.

“M—Master?” She said in surprise,

He pulled down his hood. Nyrith recognized the strong and
unrelenting features of her Master’s face. He had eyes so black they seemed
able to turn one to stone if stared at too long. His long curly hair was
equally black, with streaks of dark brown, almost red, at his temples and in
his beard below his chin. His face was very preserved for his age, oily but
smooth, aside from a few craggy scars on one cheek and his chin from some
childhood blemish.

“I did not expect your return till the morrow,” She finished.

He waved his hand dismissively, “I am well aware of the
instructions I left with you.”

She looked at his hands and his belt, expecting to see
something there. When she saw nothing she knew then that her Master’s plan had
not gone according to his desires.

He saw her looking for the sword and knew that she knew he
had not obtained the weapon.

“What shall we do then?” Nyrith said loyally, she was
already unlocking the door.

Safral was very pleased to have chosen her out of the others
that day. She was quick, and smart. He imagined how a lesser apprentice would
have acted. They would have spoken words of encouragement, or boasted of his
abilities, trying to appease his anger with hollow flattery.
Your next plan
will work, Master. Nothing can stop you next time. You are the most powerful
wizard in all of Itherin, it was only luck on their behalf that you did not get
the sword this night, nothing more.
But not Nyrith, she knew he was furious
that his plan to retrieve the weapon had ended with him empty handed. Instead
of waste time discussing it, she simply moved forward: what was the next plan
of action?

 Late at night, near the most important celebration in the
Freelands, a city bustling with excitement and a thriving nightlife, and here
she was, ready to go back up to the office and help him work out how he was to
achieve his personal goals, instead of participating in pleasurable but
frivolous activities for her own enjoyment. She was striking as well, black
hair pulled back from her face to show her sharp and sensuous features and her
hard and determined yet dazzling green eyes. She wore the dark blue grey lined
robes of an apprentice to an Overseer’s hand, simple, and yet she gathered them
in a way that accentuated the curves of her figure. Yes, he was very glad he
had chosen her.

“There will be much to prepare for the next attempt, come
with me.”

They went inside, locking the door behind them, and quickly
climbed the steps to his large workspace. A building constructed solely for him
and his experiments ‘in service of the Overseer and Kolima’, it was one of
elegant collections of magical artifacts and finely crafted things. There were
bookshelves of ancient tomes and scrolls from past ages along one curved wall,
towering to the ceiling with a large ladder to navigate through the extensive
library. Great rare animal pelts decorated the dark polished wood floor. Long
stone arches held up the ceiling. Much of one wall was stain glass windows, all
covered for the night.

“Bring me
Summoning of the Ages
,” he told Nyrith.

“As you command,” She nodded, and quickly made her way to
the ladder and bookshelves.

He strode over to his desk and sat down, shuffling through
some scrolls he had been studying, clearing the way for what he knew would be a
large, heavy, tome.

If illusions and subterfuge will not work,
he
thought,
then I will have to try a more direct approach.

He closed his eyes and thought of the power within the
sword, of how close he had been to it.

He wanted it for himself.

And was willing to kill for it.

Soren stood upon the dock and looked
up at the view before him.

The sun was high in the sky, a warm salty breeze in the air.
Soren’s stomach growled at him, he was happy to be ashore once more and ready
to find something fresh to eat.

Belwick was the second largest city in Kolima, kept busy
with the amount of trade it received by the Tiusk river and the ships that
arrived in the harbor. Rocky shores made it not quite as accessible as Kolima,
however, leaving most business traffic to flow through Kolima.

Buildings in Belwick were constructed mostly with stone
straight from the nearby cliffs, some had tile roofs but most of the smaller houses
had thatched roofs. Twelve ships, much larger than Soren’s single mast sailboat
occupied the docks that Soren had just tied his boat to. Sailors and
shipmasters were going to and fro about the docks, loading crates and barrels
on and off their respective boats.

“Just small fry today, huh?” a nearby young man said.

“Pardon?” Soren asked. Being a sailor himself he knew the
expression meant that a fisherman’s day’s catch was only newly hatched juvenile
fish and nothing too good or large. He guessed the boy was mentioning it
because Soren was on a small ship all by himself and probably a new face among
many that were regulars to the area.

“You look new here,” the young man continued.

The boy was dirty and smelled of fortnights without a
washing.

“I could show you around for a small price, only a few koons
or so.”

“It has been a long time since my last visit,” Soren
admitted, “but I grew up here, I know my way around.” He knew the boy was a
street urchin fishing for coin and would more than likely bolt after Soren gave
him the money than actually show him the sights. He tried to seem friendly but
really didn’t want to give the boy anything.

“Things have changed since then.”

Soren was quickly tiring of the kid’s attitude.

“I can handle myself, thanks kid,” Soren said, a bit more
dismissively.

“Suit yourself,” the kid replied with irritation.

A loose bit of dead fish lay nearby and the boy kicked it at
Soren, before scrambling away.

What disrespect.
Soren thought.

He gathered up his personal items and valuables and put them
in his shoulder bag.

Better keep my things close.

He then shook his head trying to focus on his whole reason
for being there.

He looked up at the nearby cliffs. Near the base of the
cliffs stood the grand Kinyrr and Shadowhand Library. It was a grandiose
building, even as only a shell of what it once was. The core of the library had
been reconstructed over time for safety and because it was still in frequent
use, but the outer portion had been left alone to preserve history. Massive
arches rose up from the ground surrounding the inner part of the library,
though most were broken and unconnected at the top save a few of the largest.
Equally impressive spaces between the arches were empty but had once housed
breathtaking scenes made of multi-colored glass. Legend claimed it that Tasard
himself founded the Library during the Illuminated Era, and was why it bore his
last name in his honor. It was the Great Burning ordered by Reyxo the Dreadful
that spurred Itherin and others to rebel against the Noble Kingdom. Reyxo
wanted to destroy all ancient records of the Illuminated Era and magical texts,
deeming them aberrations against the Exalted Spirits. The Freelanders, of
course, opposed the idea, wanting to preserve as much as they could of the
past. During and after the rebellion, Itherin and his followers rescued as much
history as they could from being destroyed. Many cycles later, they uncovered
the remains of an ancient Library, naturally leading to the founding of Belwick
around the building. A record within the library hinted at its origins and they
named it the Kinyrr Library. It was the perfect location to preserve everything
that had been saved by Itherin and his followers and eventually all of those
records were placed within the Kinyrr Library and they renamed it the Kinyrr
and Shadowhand Library after the good deeds of Itherin.

He skirted around the many workers scrambling about the
docks and headed up to the city. He stopped by a few food carts on the streets
and pieced together a small meal of fruit and fried meat. The Library remained
always in sight as he made his way through the city. The streets were busy with
the everyday goings on of the city and packed with people.

Never seen Belwick so full.
He thought while he ate.
Like
the kid said, though, it has been awhile.

He felt anxiousness welling up inside of him. He had not
seen his father in a long time. He was unsure if he would be allowed to enter
the library, after what he had done when he was younger. But the appearance of Marc
and the two magical beings was more important than old grudges. He would have
to swallow his pride and overcome whatever obstacles may come up because of his
past misdeeds.

With his belly full and shoulder bag secured around him, he
headed up the path towards the Library.

The common folk became less present as he walked. Those
heading upwards or coming down were the academic type. Scholars, philosophers,
intellectuals and historians of all kinds came to visit the Kinyrr and
Shadowhand Library and many were there on the road with Soren. He realized how
out of place he seemed, with his scruffy appearance and travel worn clothes,
nothing like the carefully pressed and fine robes of those around him. He
sighed and thought perhaps he wouldn’t go up after all.

But then he thought of the magical beings and knew that he
must go up.

A single surviving window stood near what was being used as
the entrance to the Library. It showed two couples, both each with a male and
female. One couple was human, and the other elvin. The couples were standing in
unison, the males had their arms lifted up, supporting a large white
many-faceted crystal about ten times their size above their heads, called The
Summoning Stone. The females had their arms wrapped around their significant
others, their heads lifted up to the Summoning Stone. A bright light was coming
out of the crystal, dominating the upper portion of the window. It was simply
beautiful.

Two armored guards stood before the entrance of the Library.

Soren knew from experience that there would be plenty more
nearby if needed.

Knowledge was power, especially the knowledge within this
specific Library.

And the Overseer of Belwick would want to preserve that
knowledge.

Soren approached the entrance, afraid that perhaps his
appearance would be suspicious enough to tip the guards off to stop him, and
that they would then recognize him.

Do not be silly.
He thought.
I was just a kid back
then.
It has been many cycles, no one will recognize me now.

Except your father
.

 There was a loud creak as one of the tall granite doors
opened and a small group of elderly men in robes came out. Soren quickly ducked
by them and went inside.

The Library was just as grand as he remembered it, perhaps
even more so now that he was older and able to better appreciate the
architecture of the building.

A long red carpet lined with gold lined the marble floors,
centering the room and starting from the entrance. A giant sphere was near the
entrance as well. It was magically light, illuminating the nearby area
brightly. A large portion of the globe depicted Lyrridia in great detail. There
were other lands marked upon it as well but Soren did not believe that anything
else listed was accurate as it was only speculated what lay beyond the Black
Peaks and past the Great Western Waters aside from the Isles of Kiohopi. Giant
ornate pillars rose on each side, supporting massive bookshelves lined with
large tomes and scrolls. Everything smelled of parchment and ink and grandeur.
A great marble desk was placed near the front to welcome patrons of the
Library. The tall ceiling allowed for sound to carry easily, and Soren could
hear the chatter of scholars discussing philosophy as they poured over their
books. Even so there was a sort of imbued quietness about the place. Large
magically lit stones had been placed in holders throughout, since fire was not
permitted anywhere near the Library and the windows did not allow for a great
amount of light. Soren immediately saw a familiar face near the counter and was
pleasantly surprised. 

 “By the Exalted! Soren, is that you?”

It was an elderly man, with white hair and a dark beard
streaked with white, dressed in the red and silver robes of the Library
Stewards.

Soren approached the man and grasped his forearm.

“Steward Warim,” Soren replied, “You are still here!”

Soren was relieved to have someone he knew and trusted find
him first. Warim was ancient when Soren was a boy, and he was older still now. Warim
was a devout follower of Ahvere, and therefore a peaceful man with a very
forgiving nature.

“And going strong!” The old man chuckled, “It is good to see
you after all these cycles!”

“But the exile?” Soren asked. Not that he hoped he would be
denied entry, on the contrary his entire purpose on coming was to enter the Library,
but he knew it was a thing that would come up sooner or later and he wished to
get it out of the way.

“Exile be consumed! There may be some who will not be
pleased by your return, but there are some who welcome it.”

Soren nodded, “I thought it might be as such.”

 “I must ask you, what brought back here after all this
time, after everything that transpired?”

“The Exalted Spirits sent me here.”

An individual stood at the bar of
the Tart Fruit Tavern, finishing his drink.

The figure was cloaked, masking their appearance, but they
had the rough size and shape of a young male of twenty or so, with long dirty
blonde hair. The person was dressed in a dark cloak colored in various greens
and browns that almost touched the ground. His black leather boots were heavily
worn with travel. His plain peasant clothes were covered with light leather
armor, including shoulder plates, arm guards and a chest plate. His hands were
covered with fine black leather gloves and strapped to his belt was an extremely
large two handed longsword.

“You going to get a room for the night?” The bartender
asked, picking up the patron’s now empty mug and proceeding to wash it.

“Just passing through,” the cloaked figure said.

He placed a gold coin on the counter.

The bartender picked it up with a grateful nod.

Besides him and the bartender, there was only one other
person there. A young woman, sleeping at one of the tables near the back.

“Really no trouble at all to get a room,” The bartender
tried again.

The patron shook his head.

The bartender shrugged, “Wouldn’t blame you, ever since
those things started terrorizing the surrounding area, business has been bad.
Mayor set quite a bounty on ‘em, but not a single merc succeeded in slaying
either of ‘em yet.”

The patron nodded their head, pretending to listen.

“If you have any traveling companions, tell them that Terga
is still open for business, we have not closed down—yet.”

The patron turned and began to walk towards the exit.

He did not have any more time to waste here. He had to make
it to his next destination.

He opened the door and let it shut behind him. The wind
whipped at the man’s cloak and hood as he descended the path, leaving the
tavern and the small town of Terga behind.

He had barely registered what the bartender had said.

Marcus’s death was on his mind.