Those Who Came Before
Chapter 3
"We thought we were invincible, that we could beat anything, back in those days. And you know, I think that for a while we were an invincible team. But that's not the way it started. Oh no. In fact, only stubbornness brought us together, I think - we stumbled into something, and we were just too proud to turn tail and run away."
-Hallia to her son Gourry-
"That's the thing about us sorcerers: we're crazy, we know it, and Gods! Don't we just LOVE it!"
-Fezra Inverse to a group of thugs
Estarelle, the second city of the Alliance of Coastal States, was a treasure throve, in many ways. It had grown up from four small fishing villages at a point where two rivers, one flowing all the way from Elmekia to Ralteague, the other crossing from the Demon Sea to the Jekaran Mountains near the northern borders the nation. The centuries had served it well, and it had grown from extensive trade to become one of the most prosperous cities on the continent, surpassed only by Atlas City, Sailune Capital and Elmerkran in sheer concentrated well. With strong walls, clean streets and well-maintained buildings, it was a place people were proud of, and where one could make a nice bit in its extensive port markets.
But that wasn't why Marcus was there. No. Although the idea of selling a bit of the stuff he had collected on his way - he had come across two bandit hideouts, man were those things easy to find! - was very alluring, he put it off for later. For he had read about the city of Estarelle back in Atlas, remembered that the city had once been the capital of a small magocracy. Said magocracy had been quite proficient at gathering enormous amounts of dangerous spells, and were openly, arrogantly gathering mercenaries to expand their reaches. They eventually grew so powerful that several guilds and kingdoms banded together in a short-lived alliance, sending an enormous force of soldiers, knights and sorcerers into the city, nearly razing it to the ground, killing its leaders and crushing the ambitious little realm.
All of this didn't concern Marcus much, and he wouldn't be here now if there hadn't been mention of strange spells in the works when the allied forces stormed and set fire to the city - spells some found 'unconnected to the main flow of magic' Knowing the same thing had been said of some of the spells used against the Mazoku during the War of Resurrection, he had decided to see if records still existed of those events, anything which might give him some kind of clue as to what was going on. Time was getting shorter - a visit from that strange man - Xellos was it - had set off faint alarms in his head, alarms he couldn't explain. He just knew that things were serious now, not just a mission, and that he had to find some kind of trail or answer.
That was why he had gone to the Verha Harwil Librarium, rumored to be one of the biggest concentration of dry tales and old histories to ever have seen the light of day. And so he set about searching in those old folklore tales, pulling old tomes recounting events he usually had no interest in. Still he persevered. He read an account about a great battle between two armies which became legend when both disappeared when a fog covered the battlefield. He heard of an entrapped woman who had been confined into a room of mirrors for atrocious crimes, to stay there until she died of madness. Other stories abounded - of heroism, of people disappearing, of greatly detailed battles, of pains, and legends, and famines, and triumphs. Estarelle had a long, rich history, and many people had contributed to telling it, to uphold it.
"All very interesting, but I just don't have time for that!" he groaned out loud, uncaring if he upset any other readers amongst the tables around, or amongst the endless rows of old knowledge. He put his head in his hands and sighed. "Ceipheed, I'm not a very devout man, but I'd really not mind any lil' bit of help you might want to give me!"
No help came. No wise advice suddenly appeared in his ears, much to his deception, but not his surprise. As always, Marcus Jaderam was on his lonesome, something he had gotten to like over the years but found rather tedious now. Being a loner - even a genius loner - lost its glamour when one could talk a problem over with someone else...
"Do you have a problem son?"
He almost leapt straight to the assuredly high ceiling of the Librarium as a voice seemed to answer his very thoughts. He certainly uncovered his eyes and sat up with a start, coming face-to-face with a middle-aged man who looked as surprised as he must, brown-haired with gray streaks, with a lined face and a somewhat stout - if not fat - disposition. He also noted he wore the blue-green tunic and breaches of the librarium. That calmed him. Just a person working there, no doubt, wondering why he was groaning and moaning, He felt himself flush with embarrassment.
"Ah! Err...no thank you." he said "I was just thinking out loud, nothing to worry about."
He was certain he had sounded sincere, but the man still looked at him, with a strange face, as if pondering something. Marcus wasn't one who flew in the face of people for so little - excepts when it was thugs or bandits, but he also had spent - he looked at one of the large windows of the place and saw that the sun was starting to decline - half-a-day of in fructuous research, and that, to a man used to quick result, was quite unnerving.
Therefore, he was less than conciliatory when he asked the man what was the matter and did he do something wrong or some such thing. That seemed to snap the man out of his musings.
"No, no, but...your outfit...are your a sorcerer?"
He nodded at once, there was no use denying something so obvious. The man nodded to himself. "Are you with those who came last month? Did you forget anything for your trip?"
He felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach as he heard those words, and a kind of surging elation. Here was something - a trail, something he could use - but the implications of it were rather dire. If what he had heard was correct, sorcerers had come and taken things, which would explain why he found nothing on magic or the fallen magocracy. That also means, however, that there had been documents of importance here.
"No, I'm not with them." he said, thinking fast, putting his best bluff face on. "But I'm thinking of finding them. I have to tell them about something fast." Or rather, stopping them from doing something, but now wasn't the time to start sweating the details. In inwardly clenched his teeth as the man seemed to look rather confused.
"I was so sure just now...but then...why are you here for?"
"I...needed to look for things myself, I like old stories." he lied, then plunged ahead. "Do you know, by any chance, where they are going?"
The middle-aged man looked around to see if their conversation wasn't disturbing anyone - small chance given the fact they'd kept their voices rather low - and took an awful long time before responding. Marcus was ready to go shake the man up to see if anything might tumble out verbally-speaking. He held his peace, however, until he saw the man brighten.
"Now that I think of it, I do remember something!" he said in a rather relieved voice "They were planning some sort of trip...ruins or such...an old temple in southern Sailune." before Marcus could blow up about the fact that there were a heck of a damn lot of old temples in southern Sailune, another bit was forthcoming. "Err...Svalom...Svalor...Salvaloim Temple, that was it!"
Marcus frowned. He'd heard the name before. Salvaloim Temple. Situated near the city of Greyhill, once occupied by elves in the study of arcane arts. The entrance was sealed by the elves themselves after the War of Resurrection. Rumored to contain...
"Scrolls of Forbidden Lore!" he exclaimed, startling the older man and having many readers turn to him in annoyance. This time he didn't care about making a show of himself - he was full of the ramifications. The rumors, Rezo's orders, the strange priest, the alarms in his head - they all pointed to something terrible, something lumerian sorcerers were desperate to do now that they were so close to losing the war against Elmekia. Leaving the books and scrolls he had been studying in an haphazard mess on the table, he stood up, and stopped long enough to clap the bewildered man on the shoulder. "Thank you!" he said sincerely, and then he was nearly running to the exit, eager to cross the border and go to Sailune.
Things were about to happen. And he had the intention to try and stop them.
* * * * * * * * * *
As the young, intelligent-looking young sorcerer sped away, the middle-aged man lost his befuddled expression, to be replaced by a crafty one which might have sent chills through even the hardest ruffian. This was the look of a schemer, the look of someone who liked to manipulate. And he had manipulated. Yes. They had been manipulating from the start.
"The game is afoot, Marcus Jaderam. Good luck." he said with a grin, looking at the fast-retreating back.
And without anyone being the wiser in the Librarium, he vanished.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Can't you keep her quiet?!? If any Elmekian patrol comes near us, we'll be hunted 'till we reach Sailune!"
Berwen grimaced as the tall, muscular swordsman once again uttered his exasperation to Narie's whining. This, of course, wouldn't help, she knew it. But the fact that he uttered it more and more often and with greater irritation each time made her worry. Not so much that he would attack them, but rather that the outburst would definitely get one from Fezra, and the two would get one step closer to that direct confrontation which had been brewing for the past two weeks.
It had been like this ever since the night she and Fezra had, with the help of Loerik, managed to free a good portion of the female slaves of the Black Horns Camp. The large group had had to fight its way out, with she and her friend firing spells, Loerik brandishing his sword with a skill that made him worth twenty knights, and some slaves who had grabbed weapons and joined in the defense. Things had quickly become pandemonium as fireballs flared and weapons clashed. Most of the mercenaries had been asleep, which had allowed them to escape, but not before the large group had splintered, until only a few of the defenders, lead by Loerik and Fezra, had escaped back to the forest.
The group consisted, aside from Berwen, her friend and the dark-haired swordsman, had been two priestesses which went by the name of Hallia and Narie, and another named Zashtla, a woman nearly as tall as Loerik himself, and with quite a bit of swordsmanship in her. They had managed to evade the full, prepared search parties sent by the Black Horns, foiling them more then once and twice having to destroy a few of them with magic and steel. They would have been found and overwhelmed if it hadn't been for Loerik's incredible senses and the sorceresses' wood lore.
Correction, she couldn't help but amend in the bitter voice which she felt more strongly these days, no matter how much she fought it. Fezra's wood lore. They almost never ask your opinion. Why would they? She doesn't need it, and why would he ask the lesser of the pair?
She squashed that thought with force, but the emotion behind it lingered. The lesser one...that was what she was feeling like, so often.
"Lets see you get raped, muscle boy!" Fezra inevitably exploded as Hallia, glaring silently, tried to soothe her whimpering, sobbing friend. "Maybe THEN you'll understand that your being a heck of a jerk! Or maybe your too dumb to notice?!?" She sneered at that, the sneer of contempt, the inimitable curving of lips that had always made her friend the flashier, stronger one, the one people felt strongly for. The one who always reaped things - be it glory or damnation. The one people cared to see.
"That's the excuse you've BOTH been giving me for two weeks now, and this time, it just won't bloody work!" he swept an arm at the endless trees, wild bushed and flowers, the forested expanse which divided the Kingdom of Lumeria with the Kingdom of Sailune. "Maybe you've forgotten, but we're not out of the woods. No! We're smack in the middle of a war, on behind the battle lines of the people we've just alienated! And although I AM sorry that whatever happened to her happened, this damn whimpering is getting on my nerves!"
"Getting on your nerves?!?" Fezra said in a hot voice that made Berwen cringe. She knew that tone. It meant trouble with a capital 'T'. "You getting to regretting helping us, eh big boy?!? Well if its that kind of a trouble to you, just get lost and find your own way! Its not like this group needs you with someone like ME keeping it safe."
Loerik's eyes flared, and Berwen knew this had hit home. They had learned things from each other during the past two weeks, and it was clear that if the swordsman valued anything, it was his courage. Once again, the Inverse habit of hurting and aggravating people had kicked in and done a marvelous job. Sighing, she stepped forward to stop the intense argument.
"Hey now Fezra, you should really-" she began, but then Fezra shot her a murderous look.
"Don't tell me what I should do!" she snapped, and Berwen fell silent, shocked, as the two dark-haired opponents resumed their clash "I know what I should do, and its called 'kicking the butt of a dumb warrior!"
Loerik's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. "Try it, Inverse. You might be in for a nasty surprise."
The two stood there, poised, each bordering upon violence as two weeks of constant vigilance, of frayed nerves were coming to a head, seemingly unstoppable. Then the pot boiled over, but not the way Berwen had feared it would.
Instead Hallia rose from the side of her sobbing friend, gathered energy and, before any of the two could register anything, threw it between them. The explosion was small and subdued - the power gathered had been extremely small - but it was enough for both to step back nearly a meter in surprise and turn to the standing Hallia. Standing, glaring green-haired Hallia who wore a look of contempt for them both.
"Ceipheed help me, but sometimes you two are such idiots, BOTH OF YOU." She swung a glare at Loerik. "YOU. You've got no idea what it is to be a woman, you're too big to be raped by another being, so just shove your irritation away and leave Narie be!" the glare went to the astounded sorceress "And YOU, Fezra, what's that habit of yours, always picking a fight, always blowing up and making things worse?!? I've HAD it! With both of you! Why don't you both grow up or something, in Ceipheed's name?!?"
Silence reigned as the two blinked at the angry priestess, then at each other, mouth agape. Berwen was certain her own jaw was just about to hit the floor. She knew that Hallia had spirit, but to see her just bug out like that, after having played peacemaker between the two arguing 'leaders' of the party, was something new.
Finally Loerik broke the silence with a sheepish chuckle. "I guess...I kinda deserve that, huh?" he took a deep breath. "Okay...I'm sorry about this. I just...I'm just tired. And you're right, I guess...I HAVE been acting like...like a jerk." He scratched the back of his head, and looked at Hallia with pleading eyes. Another thing, that. Since when did a master swordsman plead like that?
Hallia nodded at the man curtly, but part of her ire seemed to ebb away with the obviously sincere apologies. She then turned to look at Fezra, who had crossed her arms, frowning. "Fezra?"
"What?" she asked. The priestess flicked her gaze from her to the swordsman, and she groaned. "No way! I'm not going to start apologizing to that-"
"Fezra." she added, in such a disappointed voice that it spoke volume of the descending opinion the maiden had for the sorceress. And lack of respect was something no Inverse had ever been able to take.
"Oh, okay!" she agreed through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry about calling you a coward, Loerik." her tone didn't seem completely sincere, but the swordsman by then knew that it was the best one could expect, and inclined his head in agreement. The fiery-tempered sorceress only humphed at this, and stalked back to Narie, who was calming down, coming out of her pain-filled haze a little. Gods, Berwen whispered inwardly, what did those filthy mercenaries do to her?
She wasn't sure that she wanted to know, was taken with another event which touched her that much deeper - Fezra's dismissal. They were coming on more and more often now that her friend had Loerik to argue with and Hallia to talk to. It was as if their presence had...diminished Berwen in Fezra's mind, that she was being weighed and increasingly discarded. She didn't want to believe it, especially after all the years they had been friends, but something tugged at her, not letting go. Hadn't she become the fifth wheel, the shy sorceress, the one no one wanted to talk to. Zashtla, even gone to scout the environs, seemed to have a greater impact. Even Narie, weak and sobbing, acquired herself more attention, more sympathy.
Was she becoming a nobody? Was she losing everything?
The possibility scared her, and so she sat, musing gloomily, fighting off the dire impressions the days had given her, the fear and the bitterness rising in her, until the brown-haired, muscular warrior-woman came back for her survey and declared the area clear of patrols. She barely heard the words exchange, blindly followed when the group began traveling again, trailing behind. Not one of them turned to see if they followed. No one seemed to care.
Not even Fezra.
Inwardly, the doubts and repressed bitterness grew in strength.
* * * * * * * * * *
"I've no time for this, Mellinius. Just toss it in a corner."
"But sir, this is a special dispatch from the King himself. It states that the Elmekian forces are quickly approaching the capital, and needs the help of our guild!"
"I know of the needs of this narrow-minded old fool!" Dalomir Eshkraly finally spat, looking up angrily from his arcane writings. His eyes gave off an eerie light that Mellinius did not quite like.
They were seated in the highest tower of the Eshkraly Castle, in Dalomir's private reading room. A small window showed rays of sunlight and the cool, brisk mountainous air of the region to the two occupants. From it, they could see parts of the city of Tillam, the market district, residential areas and, farther in the distance, the stone wall which had always served as a secondary defense to this town, which had always had a strong guild of sorcerers. Of course it was hard to judge since he saw no people from this height, but the city had a feel of calm and contentment, probably one of the few places in the entire kingdom where such feelings prevailed.
When news had come of an Elmekian invasion, the people had been quite ready to send anything they could to the crown to aid in the desperate war effort - be it horses, food, weapons or men. Many of the officials even mounted diplomatic expeditions to Sailune, expeditions which only ended in complete failure. Already a militia was being armed, and more volunteers were presenting themselves to enlist in the Royal Army. With its large population, Tillam and its environs could have sent a fair number of troops to aid in the defense of the country.
But one man had stopped all that. Dalomir, the hereditary head of the Tillam Guild and the most influential man in the city, convinced others that the best way to discourage the Elmekians was to fortify each city, make a fortress out of each. The buildup, he had said, should serve to make the city impregnable. To further support his words, he showed a fake order that the city might have to be used as a secondary capital if Lumeris was to fall to enemy hands. It was a rather hollow notion, since the king was too stubborn to leave his capital no matter what entailed. But the others in the city council drank in his words and believed him - as they had ever had when he spoke.
So the city began to fortify itself, its larger and larger militia standing still, not budging, never venturing much beyond the high walls. To secure matters even more, guild members had worked hard at finding and intercepting messages from the king, other guilds, and the war council. It was Mellinius who had to read each one and tell of them to Delomir, for the man wouldn't be bothered with it. And so he read of the struggles, the assaults and the defeats, as month after month the Lumerian Royal Forces had given ground to the immense Elmekian war machine. Now the situation was becoming critical, as the remaining armies of the kingdom were rallying for a last stand before falling back to the capital. Hearing this, and then seeing Dalomir's disinterest, finally ignited the fire which had been smoldering for so long.
"Sir!" he said in a voice which had lost much of its proper respect "The Kingdom's forces are exhausted. The imperials are overrunning position after position, taking village after villages and reducing strongholds to rubble. This message...this message says the King has ordered every available forces to concentrate at the Ferion Hills in order to face the onslaught. They will need our forces sir!"
Dalomir waved an hand. "Even our entire forces added to the Royal Army wouldn't make one bit of difference in the end. You know as well as I that the enemy forces outnumber our by more than a factor of three, with ample supplies, a lot of sorcerers and better weaponry. Do you truly think that our army was ever a match for the Elmekians? Only Sailune and Zefielia have better armies, and they have both refused to help us." he made a disdainful noise.
"At least we would be doing SOMETHING!" he said through clenched teeth, his patience snapping. He had been loyal to the guild and Dalomir because he was, when all was said and done, a sorcerer. But the thought of just sitting on his hands while his realm was being torn apart was too much for him to contemplate.
He had expected many things to follow up from the older, influential man after the outburst. Anger, dismay, perhaps, the Gods willing, some sort of guilt. He hadn't expected, really hadn't, to hear the man chuckle heartily. His anger grew, but with it a sort of perplexed fear. Was Dalomir crazy, was this why he was willing to let the Kingdom go down in ruins?
After a long, soft laugh, the powerful sorcerer, resplendent on satin and silk robes, wearing his auburn hair well on his aristocratic, intelligent face, looked him in the eye, still full of mirth. "Do something! Why, what an emotional outburst! Calm down, my young friend! I've never had the intention of abandoning the realm to those foul Elmekians. I intend to help the best way I can."
"But...then..." Mellinius stuttered. A raised hand stopped him.
"Patience, my friend, patience! I assure you, I will do something, something which I think will allow the kingdom to ultimately win!"
Oh, he wanted to believe it. Dalomir was so strong of voice, his tone so catching, that you wanted to believe anything he said. But still he doubted, still the fire remained. Three years of helplessly reading the losing war his realm was struggling in had left marks on the trust he put on his own guild. "But...but the realm...the kingdom is losing. You said yourself we have no hope of defeating the Elmekians!"
Dalomir stared at him calmly, smiling. "No right now no. But we would if I find what I'm looking for, and I should receive something that will help me greatly!"
"What is that? What could help us against so many?"
"Why, power from Forbidden Lores Spells, of course!"
There was barely enough time for Mellinius to really absurd the rather astounding statement - the Forbidden Lores, no less than that! - before steps were heard from the stone stairs leading to the reading room. Out poked a head, made of a soft roundness, strong cheeks and a reddish glow to the skin giving the man entering the look of a child more than a man. The body itself, although covered mostly by the usual sorcerer cape, was small, frail, and slightly pudgy-looking, finalizing the harmless appearance.
But all of those who knew the innocent-looking, child-bodied sorcerer knew that it was a all appearances, nothing more. The sorcerer's name was Jomekin, and of all the men Mellinius had seen in his life, he was the one he feared the most. Powerful, given to strange mood swings, the sorcerer was highly competent, but also possessed of an obsessive streak which knew no bounds.
"You...!" he gasped out as the man stood before them. He couldn't find words to say more. The childish, intelligent gaze looked up at him, seemingly highly amused by the reaction, then gave Delomir an half-bow which seemed almost mocking, but nothing more could be asked of the man.
Delomir actually smiled and rose, his eyes alight with expectation. "Ah, Jomekin, at last! I was beginning to think you might have found the task too hard for yourself."
"Nothing is too hard for me, sir." the child-like face uttered in a squeaky, cute voice. Everything about this man's exterior hides the true interior, the rather overwhelmed sorcerer thought as he heard it.
"Indeed, indeed. So me: have you found the location?" The eyes now seemed to glow with need and hope, a sickening and yet fascinating sight. In response, Jomekin grinned, a grin that belied the obsessions and strange moods of the man - the smile of a man who had been overwhelmed, at least partly, by his own power.
"The piece we need, the knowledge we seek, is hidden in southern Sailune. So say the ancient texts and in Orlumma's Accounts of the War of Resurrection."
"Good! Good!! Now that we know the place, and have gathered all that we need, there is but one thing left to do - unseal the temple! That, I know how to do." So exhilarated was Delomir that for a few moments, the one listening to the situation felt his mood lighten. Hope was there, but distorted. The distortion he felt calmed his ardor.
"Sir." he dared to venture at last. "What's there in Sailune?"
The older spell caster looked at him with narrowed, surprised eyes. "Why, the salvation of our kingdom, my friend. Nothing less! Only small trip away. Ready yourself. We go now to Sailune - to achieve our goals!"
Despite the fact this had been what he had wanted to hear for so long, despite his curiosity and growing hope, Mellinius found that sentence strange, hollow, hiding something. Still he would go, to see if his people would be saved by Delomir's plan.
And ACT if the older sorcerer had led him astray all this long while!
* * * * * * * * * *
Philionel de Sailune had a lot to think about. Quite a bit too much, indeed, as far as he was concerned. Trudging along on a dusty trail acting as a link between two agricultural villages, he found himself with time to think - more than should be healthy. And so he thought, and found many things wanting.
The days at the castle had gone from bad to worse. The King had been adamant in keeping the borders closed off to prevent massive arrivals of refugees, and had even ordered the garrisons to use force if such means were deemed necessary to stop frantic attempts to enter. The news which later came of over fifty people dying as they tried to fight past one such garrisons had sickened him, and he decided to slip out of the stuffiness and rigidity of the court and the fops which inhabited it permanently.
Before he knew it, he was back on the road, wearing an old worn tunic and breeches, sturdy leather gloves and boots, a backpack containing spare clothes and some other utilities, and a broad blade in a worn leather scabbard. With his strong-lined, squarish face and his tussled black hair, Phil knew he looked the part of a bear-like peasant. Only the cloak slung over his shoulders belied quality, and that would be seen only to the very pointed observer.
He stopped and inhaled a lungful of air, heavy with the scent of pine and the comfortable freshness of late spring. This was the life he liked - to walk amongst the people and find what their needs were, to use his resources to bring charity and justice to those far-away villages who knew neither, not paying attention to hypocritical fops who knew nothing of the outside world, or agonizing over a wedding he neither wished nor had control over.
Weeks of firm walking, ever southward, had brought him back in contact with the people. He discussed with them, drank with some men who had gone through a hard day at one place, helped repair a damaged cart at another, spent a day helping an older farmer with his fields, and even once went to fetch a town midwife for an impromptu birth. His height and musculature made it easy to work with people, and his honest demeanor made it easy to talk. And listen.
And through all of this he had listened, learning. He believed that justice must be served - it was the deciding factor in his life, the thing to which he was utterly dedicated. But to be just meant having at least some wisdom that didn't come from royal tutors or the books and opulence he and his brothers had been raised in. He needed to know those who would serve him, who would pay the taxes and the expenses which allowed Sailune to become a very preeminent power, so he could serve THEM better when his time came. If he could get past that foul wedding and this atrocious war business, that is...
He barely heard the scream for help, muffled as it was, but his senses had been sharpened from his outings, to a dangerous level. The voice was feminine, clearly in distress, which ignited him and propelled him into action. Quickly asserting where the noise came from, his long, powerful legs carried him there with swiftness and speed. He stepped off the road, and entered a clump of trees. There he saw something which was unmistakable.
There were three of them. All of them of medium height and built, wearing swords and dirty clothes. Their disheveled appearance, and the twisted gleam in their eyes told him everything he had to know even before he took in the rest of the scene. One of the men was crouching over a peasant woman, about Phil's age, perhaps a little older, working to undo the lace which held her dress. Another held the woman's arms, leering as she frantically struggled. The third man was standing, laughing at the scene, something which fed the crown prince's ire even more.
Philionel was a staunch pacifist. Or rather that was his goal in life, the kind of personality he wanted to have. The problem was that he was anything but, and knew it. It shamed him at times, the fact that he sometimes could use violence to achieve his ends. It clashes strong against his ideals. Usually. But not this time. This was aggression, a rape, something so lowly he felt dirty just thinking of the notion. This time he didn't even try to hide his violent streak. Rather, he embraced it.
Still, justice being what it was, he felt forced to give the monstrous men an ultimatum. "Release this woman at once, or face pain at my hands!!" He bellowed. He had meant it to sound chivalrous and fair, but the tone had come out hard and angry. So be it, he could live with that.
The standing man turned and looked at him in surprise, then in some consternation. Phil almost grinned. Obviously used to bullying, aggressing women and weaker people, he found himself outmatched by the prince's sheer girth and fearsome appearance. However the effect didn't last long, and as soon the one crouching over the woman had risen, a cocky grin crossed the unwashed face, showing yellow rotten teeth.
"Ya really shouldn't have come here, chap. That was a big mistake." he sneered, drawing his sword, followed by his companion. "But we're in a good mood here, and if ya git right here we won't hurt ya."
That was blatant lie from a blatant liar, and Phil only felt even angrier. "I gave you a fair warning. I suggest you heed it and leave this woman alone. Now."
"And if we don't, chap?"
"Then I'll take measures of my own to make certain you do release this woman. Now OBEY ME!"
The tone of his voice was frightening, he knew, for the two brigands actually faltered a moment. It didn't last long, however, before the one who had been busy undoing the woman's vestment snarled something and charged, his blade thrust in front of him. By that time Philionel was ready. He had known it would come to this, and only his pride and ideals had made him try to settle things with words.
He didn't draw his sword, for he was an ordinary swordsman at best and didn't want to kill even that type of waste. He stood squarely to meet the first blade, but sidestepped at the last second, ramming his clenched fist into the exposed villain's gut with all the considerable might in his arm. The effect was immediate, as the man's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, his tongue flayed here and there and he fell, the sword dropping from a nerveless hand. The bandit crumpled holding his stomach tightly, gasping for rare air. Phil knew that he wouldn't be getting back up anytime soon, but never gave him much thought. He still had one bandit to take care of.
The second man was a better swordsman, although he lacked the ease and training of a real soldier. His trusts had power and speed, and the traveling price had to dodge many a blow, sometimes narrowly. Still he pressed on, staying within range, taking the risk of stabbing to have the man within reach of his hand.
In the end he did it. Not with any grace, not even with a bit of style, but he managed to feint strike to the right and caught the forearm holding the blade - and thrust it aside. Before the man could recover from having his defense wide open, the prince's other arm thrust upward, in a slamming maneuver under the chin.
"Peacemaking Uppercut!" he cried in satisfaction just before he hit. A silly name, he knew, but he couldn't help but to indulge himself to that quirk. After all, he liked the man, and it worked. The second ruffian flew up and backward, landing in a thud and heap, and not moving. Two were down. Nodding to himself in relative satisfaction, he turned his attention to the last of the bandit.
The last man was shocked by the turn of events, it was clear in this. He looked at his fallen comrades and then to Phil with wide, uncomprehending eyes. The captive took the opportunity to struggle, managing to bite him and push him away. He made a move to stop her, snapping out of his shock, but the prince was there in two strides, slapping the hand away, and then grasping the man by the tunic, holding him up with no effort so that he could meet the frightened man to eye level. He had a speech for those occasions, a stern berating he reserved for normal evildoers. But rapists and cold murderers were something else entirely. As it was, he only felt coldly angry.
"Leave." he said in warning, letting the man fall. The last bandit didn't go and try to test his luck, turning away and running like an hyena with its tail on fire. He looked at the remaining ones - one was out cold, the other still gasping for air - and then looked at the peasant girl. She was looking at him with undecided eyes, and he almost sighed out loud. The physique had its bad points as well as its good.
"Do not worry yourself." he said as gently as he could make his voice go. "I am no bandit. I only heard sounds and came to investigate. "What happened here? This road is usually well-patrolled."
She looked at him with wide eyes still, but at least his words seemed to gain a bit of her trust, for which he was glad. "I...there's been...lotsa attacks...'cause lots a soldiers are gone away."
He nodded his head grimly. Yes, that would make sense. His father had pulled much troops and overflowed the borders with men, leaving the inner boundaries less defended than they should be. What a warped way to do things, he mused, before holding his hand to the peasant woman, who looked at it with a certain degree of suspicion.
"Please tell me more. I will escort you to your home." he said amiably.
And she took it. Why not? He might be dangerous looking, but what could be better as a guardian?
* * * * * * * * * *
"Ah, life is good! No one chasin' us, food in our belly, and bandits just waiting right around the corner as dessert."
Fezra's statement should have surprised, even appalled Loerik. After all, the situation they had just emerged from had been awkward, frightening, and decidedly dangerous. But after nearly a month with the strange, lively sorceress, all he managed was a grunt of disgust. It registered on her, and she turned to the rest of their group, spearing him with a look which made him quite queasy, despite his experience and his skill.
"You gotta problem, Lowrik?" she asked with a dangerous edge to her voice. Beside her, Berwen sighed for the hundredth time in that day alone.
"Its LOErik, not LOWrik, Fez." she said tiredly.
"Whatever!! So what's got you all bumped up THIS time, big guy?"
Incensed by the constant nagging, the swordsman was about to tell the sorceress EXACTLY what got him 'bumped up', but before he could launch a strike, a voice stopped everything cold.
"Can't you just STOP squabbling for once?!?" We've been at this since...since we've begun this directionless journey to nowhere! I don't care how, but you two will just have to shut up, make peace, do something that's NOT a quarrel!!!"
Hallia again. Ever since the incident in the forest, where he and Fezra had almost gone for each other's throat, the green-haired priestess had made a point to play peacekeeper, and had often been backed up by Zashtla, who was almost a match for the hot-tempered sorceress in glares, and Narie, who had, for the last few days, emerged from her shell. She was there now, nodding to Hallia's words, although she said none of her own. Zasthly, for her part, looked fierce and somewhat angry - which meant nothing, since she always looked like that. He sighed again, in resignation, knowing he had to make concessions or Fezra would die before calming down.
"Fine, fine. I'll keep it down." not that he'd said anything, actually, but it defused the tension in the air. The sorceress sniffed, then muttered something which looked SOMEWHAT like an APPROXIMATION of what he'd told, then resumed walking quickly, eyes gleaming again at the idea of bandits blowing up and treasure being found.
He slacked his pace so that he was soon walking beside the group's peacekeeper, ignoring Narie' instinctive flinch at having a man close to her personal space. He understood that the girl had been through a lot, that she'd been used like a toy by a man Loerik wished he would never meet again. He in fact had come to appreciate the spirit which was desperately trying to emerge from the trauma. But heck with it, he wasn't going to walk on eggshells every time he got near the priestesses because he had the obvious, born-with-it traits of a rather tall man! Exchanging a sign with Zashtla, he leaned down to whisper in Hallia's ear.
"Fezra is a selfish brat!" he finally hissed. In response was an amused smirk.
"Tell me something I don't know!"
He frowned. "Then why don't you just tell HER to calm down. Its almost always her fault we quarrel, after all."
She gave him the exasperated look he knew well, taking on the shift and posture of a lecturer. Every time she did that he felt like he was a slow, dull-minded fool being shown the ways of those considered highly intelligent. From most people, Loerik would have gone into a rampage at the condescension.
"Now, you know that Fezra never listens when we only target her!" she huffed as if it should be obvious - and it probably was, at that. "If we don't tell her someone else is responsible too, she'll never want to apologize. In fact, she might become worse than she is now. Maybe you've forgotten, but while we had just struggled the Sailune borders - "
"Okay, okay!" he snapped "I get the darn point!" he fell silent, searching for words, finally asking the question that'd been burning him for days now. "You...you want to go home, eh?" he finally asked. She blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly. He had hit right in the center, dead on. Not bad for a slow-thinking swordsman! "Don't bother, I can see it on your face. You DO want to return. Why? Is it because you have people there?"
She bit her lip, nodding after a moment. "Yes, you're right, I want to go back. My father and my brother, I'm not sure they're still alive. They were supposed to hold of an Elmekian army, than go right for the capital to reinforce it! Oh, I wish I was with them!" She closed her eyes for a moment in anguish. Seeing this, Loerik felt understanding. Did a day go by without him thinking about his family, lost to him for now, perhaps forever? He didn't think so. He uncomfortably patted Hallia, and she opened her eyes, giving him a saddened smile which had always had an effect on him, for some reason.
"What would be the point?" Zashtla asked somberly. "Even if we COULD pass the frontier again, which I doubt, what could we achieve? Go and help the Lumerian army? Don't be foolish. The Elmekian forces have ten times the manpower at least, they're better equipped, they have more sorcerers than the Lumerians. We couldn't reach the capital now, much less find your family!"
Loerik turned his head around to look at his fellow sword-wielder. "That's enough, Zashtla! You think we don't -"
"Loerik." He looked down to find her smiling at him, still sad, and yet with something else he couldn't decipher. "Thanks for supporting me, but its alright. I've decided that-"
What Hallia had decided stayed in the immediate realm of his immense ignorance, for at that moment an explosion was heard. Close, quite shaking the ground. And with the explosion came voices, many voices, some in pain, more panicking. He and Zashtla had they're sword out within an heartbeat, but neither had the time to assess more of the situation before Fezra, five meters ahead, shrieked in surprise and rage.
"NO WAY! I'M NOT LETTING ANOTHER SORCEROR GET MY LOOT!" she screamed, and sped off, Berwen on her heels. With a curse, Loerik hefted the Sword of Light and began to run. Why did he feel like something bad was going to happen?
That was quite simple: because Fezra was angry!
Marcus Jaderam, for his part, was having a blast. Literally, as he hurled fireball after fireball at clumps of fleeing bandits. He had been on the road for many days, desperate to reach his destination, when he had come upon this den occupied by many bandits. Nearly a hundred were gathered there, preparing a raid to the nearby villages. It had been more than enough for him to step in.
The young, arrogant sorcerer had once been taken prisoner and mistreated by bandits once, before learning magic. He had learned first hand how depraved and deranged this breed of people could be. Consequently he didn't like them. Not one bit. Normally believing you don't need to hit too hard to down an opponent, firm with moderation in using aggressive magic, he had no compunction on injuring many of that ilk right now.
Besides, it was great stress relief, and boy had he needed something like that for a while now!
He laughed in glee as another of his spells caught a band of bandits, scattering them. "You guys should just quit and tell me where you're keeping all of your gold." he grinned "If you're real nice about it, I might leave some to you." Not that he had the intention to, but sometimes they were more helpful that way. This time, however, only moans answered him. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Okay, if you want it that way..."
"FLARE ARROW!!!"
He had felt the build-up of magic a mere moment before he heard the shout, and only quick reflexes and a natural attunement with magic saved him from bad burns. Turning in the direction of the voice, he saw a streak of crimson coming his way. He raised his hands in front of him, quickly summoning his power.
"BALUS WALL!" he intoned at the last moment, and the arrow of flames struck the barrier he had erected. That had been too close. He had actually felt the impact in his bones. He turned angrily in the direction of the attacker, and saw a sorceress.
But what a sorceress. Beautiful, elegant, with a face - although angry - which he could dream on for hours. Romantic thoughts flicked through his head, and he grinned at her. He opened his mouth to ask what he'd done to anger the woman, but she screamed long before he could utter a sound.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING BEATING ON -MY- BANDITS?!?" she shrieked.
Suddenly, for some reason, Marcus didn't feel he was having a blast anymore. But that girl was sure cute!
Chapter 3
"We thought we were invincible, that we could beat anything, back in those days. And you know, I think that for a while we were an invincible team. But that's not the way it started. Oh no. In fact, only stubbornness brought us together, I think - we stumbled into something, and we were just too proud to turn tail and run away."
-Hallia to her son Gourry-
"That's the thing about us sorcerers: we're crazy, we know it, and Gods! Don't we just LOVE it!"
-Fezra Inverse to a group of thugs
Estarelle, the second city of the Alliance of Coastal States, was a treasure throve, in many ways. It had grown up from four small fishing villages at a point where two rivers, one flowing all the way from Elmekia to Ralteague, the other crossing from the Demon Sea to the Jekaran Mountains near the northern borders the nation. The centuries had served it well, and it had grown from extensive trade to become one of the most prosperous cities on the continent, surpassed only by Atlas City, Sailune Capital and Elmerkran in sheer concentrated well. With strong walls, clean streets and well-maintained buildings, it was a place people were proud of, and where one could make a nice bit in its extensive port markets.
But that wasn't why Marcus was there. No. Although the idea of selling a bit of the stuff he had collected on his way - he had come across two bandit hideouts, man were those things easy to find! - was very alluring, he put it off for later. For he had read about the city of Estarelle back in Atlas, remembered that the city had once been the capital of a small magocracy. Said magocracy had been quite proficient at gathering enormous amounts of dangerous spells, and were openly, arrogantly gathering mercenaries to expand their reaches. They eventually grew so powerful that several guilds and kingdoms banded together in a short-lived alliance, sending an enormous force of soldiers, knights and sorcerers into the city, nearly razing it to the ground, killing its leaders and crushing the ambitious little realm.
All of this didn't concern Marcus much, and he wouldn't be here now if there hadn't been mention of strange spells in the works when the allied forces stormed and set fire to the city - spells some found 'unconnected to the main flow of magic' Knowing the same thing had been said of some of the spells used against the Mazoku during the War of Resurrection, he had decided to see if records still existed of those events, anything which might give him some kind of clue as to what was going on. Time was getting shorter - a visit from that strange man - Xellos was it - had set off faint alarms in his head, alarms he couldn't explain. He just knew that things were serious now, not just a mission, and that he had to find some kind of trail or answer.
That was why he had gone to the Verha Harwil Librarium, rumored to be one of the biggest concentration of dry tales and old histories to ever have seen the light of day. And so he set about searching in those old folklore tales, pulling old tomes recounting events he usually had no interest in. Still he persevered. He read an account about a great battle between two armies which became legend when both disappeared when a fog covered the battlefield. He heard of an entrapped woman who had been confined into a room of mirrors for atrocious crimes, to stay there until she died of madness. Other stories abounded - of heroism, of people disappearing, of greatly detailed battles, of pains, and legends, and famines, and triumphs. Estarelle had a long, rich history, and many people had contributed to telling it, to uphold it.
"All very interesting, but I just don't have time for that!" he groaned out loud, uncaring if he upset any other readers amongst the tables around, or amongst the endless rows of old knowledge. He put his head in his hands and sighed. "Ceipheed, I'm not a very devout man, but I'd really not mind any lil' bit of help you might want to give me!"
No help came. No wise advice suddenly appeared in his ears, much to his deception, but not his surprise. As always, Marcus Jaderam was on his lonesome, something he had gotten to like over the years but found rather tedious now. Being a loner - even a genius loner - lost its glamour when one could talk a problem over with someone else...
"Do you have a problem son?"
He almost leapt straight to the assuredly high ceiling of the Librarium as a voice seemed to answer his very thoughts. He certainly uncovered his eyes and sat up with a start, coming face-to-face with a middle-aged man who looked as surprised as he must, brown-haired with gray streaks, with a lined face and a somewhat stout - if not fat - disposition. He also noted he wore the blue-green tunic and breaches of the librarium. That calmed him. Just a person working there, no doubt, wondering why he was groaning and moaning, He felt himself flush with embarrassment.
"Ah! Err...no thank you." he said "I was just thinking out loud, nothing to worry about."
He was certain he had sounded sincere, but the man still looked at him, with a strange face, as if pondering something. Marcus wasn't one who flew in the face of people for so little - excepts when it was thugs or bandits, but he also had spent - he looked at one of the large windows of the place and saw that the sun was starting to decline - half-a-day of in fructuous research, and that, to a man used to quick result, was quite unnerving.
Therefore, he was less than conciliatory when he asked the man what was the matter and did he do something wrong or some such thing. That seemed to snap the man out of his musings.
"No, no, but...your outfit...are your a sorcerer?"
He nodded at once, there was no use denying something so obvious. The man nodded to himself. "Are you with those who came last month? Did you forget anything for your trip?"
He felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach as he heard those words, and a kind of surging elation. Here was something - a trail, something he could use - but the implications of it were rather dire. If what he had heard was correct, sorcerers had come and taken things, which would explain why he found nothing on magic or the fallen magocracy. That also means, however, that there had been documents of importance here.
"No, I'm not with them." he said, thinking fast, putting his best bluff face on. "But I'm thinking of finding them. I have to tell them about something fast." Or rather, stopping them from doing something, but now wasn't the time to start sweating the details. In inwardly clenched his teeth as the man seemed to look rather confused.
"I was so sure just now...but then...why are you here for?"
"I...needed to look for things myself, I like old stories." he lied, then plunged ahead. "Do you know, by any chance, where they are going?"
The middle-aged man looked around to see if their conversation wasn't disturbing anyone - small chance given the fact they'd kept their voices rather low - and took an awful long time before responding. Marcus was ready to go shake the man up to see if anything might tumble out verbally-speaking. He held his peace, however, until he saw the man brighten.
"Now that I think of it, I do remember something!" he said in a rather relieved voice "They were planning some sort of trip...ruins or such...an old temple in southern Sailune." before Marcus could blow up about the fact that there were a heck of a damn lot of old temples in southern Sailune, another bit was forthcoming. "Err...Svalom...Svalor...Salvaloim Temple, that was it!"
Marcus frowned. He'd heard the name before. Salvaloim Temple. Situated near the city of Greyhill, once occupied by elves in the study of arcane arts. The entrance was sealed by the elves themselves after the War of Resurrection. Rumored to contain...
"Scrolls of Forbidden Lore!" he exclaimed, startling the older man and having many readers turn to him in annoyance. This time he didn't care about making a show of himself - he was full of the ramifications. The rumors, Rezo's orders, the strange priest, the alarms in his head - they all pointed to something terrible, something lumerian sorcerers were desperate to do now that they were so close to losing the war against Elmekia. Leaving the books and scrolls he had been studying in an haphazard mess on the table, he stood up, and stopped long enough to clap the bewildered man on the shoulder. "Thank you!" he said sincerely, and then he was nearly running to the exit, eager to cross the border and go to Sailune.
Things were about to happen. And he had the intention to try and stop them.
* * * * * * * * * *
As the young, intelligent-looking young sorcerer sped away, the middle-aged man lost his befuddled expression, to be replaced by a crafty one which might have sent chills through even the hardest ruffian. This was the look of a schemer, the look of someone who liked to manipulate. And he had manipulated. Yes. They had been manipulating from the start.
"The game is afoot, Marcus Jaderam. Good luck." he said with a grin, looking at the fast-retreating back.
And without anyone being the wiser in the Librarium, he vanished.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Can't you keep her quiet?!? If any Elmekian patrol comes near us, we'll be hunted 'till we reach Sailune!"
Berwen grimaced as the tall, muscular swordsman once again uttered his exasperation to Narie's whining. This, of course, wouldn't help, she knew it. But the fact that he uttered it more and more often and with greater irritation each time made her worry. Not so much that he would attack them, but rather that the outburst would definitely get one from Fezra, and the two would get one step closer to that direct confrontation which had been brewing for the past two weeks.
It had been like this ever since the night she and Fezra had, with the help of Loerik, managed to free a good portion of the female slaves of the Black Horns Camp. The large group had had to fight its way out, with she and her friend firing spells, Loerik brandishing his sword with a skill that made him worth twenty knights, and some slaves who had grabbed weapons and joined in the defense. Things had quickly become pandemonium as fireballs flared and weapons clashed. Most of the mercenaries had been asleep, which had allowed them to escape, but not before the large group had splintered, until only a few of the defenders, lead by Loerik and Fezra, had escaped back to the forest.
The group consisted, aside from Berwen, her friend and the dark-haired swordsman, had been two priestesses which went by the name of Hallia and Narie, and another named Zashtla, a woman nearly as tall as Loerik himself, and with quite a bit of swordsmanship in her. They had managed to evade the full, prepared search parties sent by the Black Horns, foiling them more then once and twice having to destroy a few of them with magic and steel. They would have been found and overwhelmed if it hadn't been for Loerik's incredible senses and the sorceresses' wood lore.
Correction, she couldn't help but amend in the bitter voice which she felt more strongly these days, no matter how much she fought it. Fezra's wood lore. They almost never ask your opinion. Why would they? She doesn't need it, and why would he ask the lesser of the pair?
She squashed that thought with force, but the emotion behind it lingered. The lesser one...that was what she was feeling like, so often.
"Lets see you get raped, muscle boy!" Fezra inevitably exploded as Hallia, glaring silently, tried to soothe her whimpering, sobbing friend. "Maybe THEN you'll understand that your being a heck of a jerk! Or maybe your too dumb to notice?!?" She sneered at that, the sneer of contempt, the inimitable curving of lips that had always made her friend the flashier, stronger one, the one people felt strongly for. The one who always reaped things - be it glory or damnation. The one people cared to see.
"That's the excuse you've BOTH been giving me for two weeks now, and this time, it just won't bloody work!" he swept an arm at the endless trees, wild bushed and flowers, the forested expanse which divided the Kingdom of Lumeria with the Kingdom of Sailune. "Maybe you've forgotten, but we're not out of the woods. No! We're smack in the middle of a war, on behind the battle lines of the people we've just alienated! And although I AM sorry that whatever happened to her happened, this damn whimpering is getting on my nerves!"
"Getting on your nerves?!?" Fezra said in a hot voice that made Berwen cringe. She knew that tone. It meant trouble with a capital 'T'. "You getting to regretting helping us, eh big boy?!? Well if its that kind of a trouble to you, just get lost and find your own way! Its not like this group needs you with someone like ME keeping it safe."
Loerik's eyes flared, and Berwen knew this had hit home. They had learned things from each other during the past two weeks, and it was clear that if the swordsman valued anything, it was his courage. Once again, the Inverse habit of hurting and aggravating people had kicked in and done a marvelous job. Sighing, she stepped forward to stop the intense argument.
"Hey now Fezra, you should really-" she began, but then Fezra shot her a murderous look.
"Don't tell me what I should do!" she snapped, and Berwen fell silent, shocked, as the two dark-haired opponents resumed their clash "I know what I should do, and its called 'kicking the butt of a dumb warrior!"
Loerik's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. "Try it, Inverse. You might be in for a nasty surprise."
The two stood there, poised, each bordering upon violence as two weeks of constant vigilance, of frayed nerves were coming to a head, seemingly unstoppable. Then the pot boiled over, but not the way Berwen had feared it would.
Instead Hallia rose from the side of her sobbing friend, gathered energy and, before any of the two could register anything, threw it between them. The explosion was small and subdued - the power gathered had been extremely small - but it was enough for both to step back nearly a meter in surprise and turn to the standing Hallia. Standing, glaring green-haired Hallia who wore a look of contempt for them both.
"Ceipheed help me, but sometimes you two are such idiots, BOTH OF YOU." She swung a glare at Loerik. "YOU. You've got no idea what it is to be a woman, you're too big to be raped by another being, so just shove your irritation away and leave Narie be!" the glare went to the astounded sorceress "And YOU, Fezra, what's that habit of yours, always picking a fight, always blowing up and making things worse?!? I've HAD it! With both of you! Why don't you both grow up or something, in Ceipheed's name?!?"
Silence reigned as the two blinked at the angry priestess, then at each other, mouth agape. Berwen was certain her own jaw was just about to hit the floor. She knew that Hallia had spirit, but to see her just bug out like that, after having played peacemaker between the two arguing 'leaders' of the party, was something new.
Finally Loerik broke the silence with a sheepish chuckle. "I guess...I kinda deserve that, huh?" he took a deep breath. "Okay...I'm sorry about this. I just...I'm just tired. And you're right, I guess...I HAVE been acting like...like a jerk." He scratched the back of his head, and looked at Hallia with pleading eyes. Another thing, that. Since when did a master swordsman plead like that?
Hallia nodded at the man curtly, but part of her ire seemed to ebb away with the obviously sincere apologies. She then turned to look at Fezra, who had crossed her arms, frowning. "Fezra?"
"What?" she asked. The priestess flicked her gaze from her to the swordsman, and she groaned. "No way! I'm not going to start apologizing to that-"
"Fezra." she added, in such a disappointed voice that it spoke volume of the descending opinion the maiden had for the sorceress. And lack of respect was something no Inverse had ever been able to take.
"Oh, okay!" she agreed through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry about calling you a coward, Loerik." her tone didn't seem completely sincere, but the swordsman by then knew that it was the best one could expect, and inclined his head in agreement. The fiery-tempered sorceress only humphed at this, and stalked back to Narie, who was calming down, coming out of her pain-filled haze a little. Gods, Berwen whispered inwardly, what did those filthy mercenaries do to her?
She wasn't sure that she wanted to know, was taken with another event which touched her that much deeper - Fezra's dismissal. They were coming on more and more often now that her friend had Loerik to argue with and Hallia to talk to. It was as if their presence had...diminished Berwen in Fezra's mind, that she was being weighed and increasingly discarded. She didn't want to believe it, especially after all the years they had been friends, but something tugged at her, not letting go. Hadn't she become the fifth wheel, the shy sorceress, the one no one wanted to talk to. Zashtla, even gone to scout the environs, seemed to have a greater impact. Even Narie, weak and sobbing, acquired herself more attention, more sympathy.
Was she becoming a nobody? Was she losing everything?
The possibility scared her, and so she sat, musing gloomily, fighting off the dire impressions the days had given her, the fear and the bitterness rising in her, until the brown-haired, muscular warrior-woman came back for her survey and declared the area clear of patrols. She barely heard the words exchange, blindly followed when the group began traveling again, trailing behind. Not one of them turned to see if they followed. No one seemed to care.
Not even Fezra.
Inwardly, the doubts and repressed bitterness grew in strength.
* * * * * * * * * *
"I've no time for this, Mellinius. Just toss it in a corner."
"But sir, this is a special dispatch from the King himself. It states that the Elmekian forces are quickly approaching the capital, and needs the help of our guild!"
"I know of the needs of this narrow-minded old fool!" Dalomir Eshkraly finally spat, looking up angrily from his arcane writings. His eyes gave off an eerie light that Mellinius did not quite like.
They were seated in the highest tower of the Eshkraly Castle, in Dalomir's private reading room. A small window showed rays of sunlight and the cool, brisk mountainous air of the region to the two occupants. From it, they could see parts of the city of Tillam, the market district, residential areas and, farther in the distance, the stone wall which had always served as a secondary defense to this town, which had always had a strong guild of sorcerers. Of course it was hard to judge since he saw no people from this height, but the city had a feel of calm and contentment, probably one of the few places in the entire kingdom where such feelings prevailed.
When news had come of an Elmekian invasion, the people had been quite ready to send anything they could to the crown to aid in the desperate war effort - be it horses, food, weapons or men. Many of the officials even mounted diplomatic expeditions to Sailune, expeditions which only ended in complete failure. Already a militia was being armed, and more volunteers were presenting themselves to enlist in the Royal Army. With its large population, Tillam and its environs could have sent a fair number of troops to aid in the defense of the country.
But one man had stopped all that. Dalomir, the hereditary head of the Tillam Guild and the most influential man in the city, convinced others that the best way to discourage the Elmekians was to fortify each city, make a fortress out of each. The buildup, he had said, should serve to make the city impregnable. To further support his words, he showed a fake order that the city might have to be used as a secondary capital if Lumeris was to fall to enemy hands. It was a rather hollow notion, since the king was too stubborn to leave his capital no matter what entailed. But the others in the city council drank in his words and believed him - as they had ever had when he spoke.
So the city began to fortify itself, its larger and larger militia standing still, not budging, never venturing much beyond the high walls. To secure matters even more, guild members had worked hard at finding and intercepting messages from the king, other guilds, and the war council. It was Mellinius who had to read each one and tell of them to Delomir, for the man wouldn't be bothered with it. And so he read of the struggles, the assaults and the defeats, as month after month the Lumerian Royal Forces had given ground to the immense Elmekian war machine. Now the situation was becoming critical, as the remaining armies of the kingdom were rallying for a last stand before falling back to the capital. Hearing this, and then seeing Dalomir's disinterest, finally ignited the fire which had been smoldering for so long.
"Sir!" he said in a voice which had lost much of its proper respect "The Kingdom's forces are exhausted. The imperials are overrunning position after position, taking village after villages and reducing strongholds to rubble. This message...this message says the King has ordered every available forces to concentrate at the Ferion Hills in order to face the onslaught. They will need our forces sir!"
Dalomir waved an hand. "Even our entire forces added to the Royal Army wouldn't make one bit of difference in the end. You know as well as I that the enemy forces outnumber our by more than a factor of three, with ample supplies, a lot of sorcerers and better weaponry. Do you truly think that our army was ever a match for the Elmekians? Only Sailune and Zefielia have better armies, and they have both refused to help us." he made a disdainful noise.
"At least we would be doing SOMETHING!" he said through clenched teeth, his patience snapping. He had been loyal to the guild and Dalomir because he was, when all was said and done, a sorcerer. But the thought of just sitting on his hands while his realm was being torn apart was too much for him to contemplate.
He had expected many things to follow up from the older, influential man after the outburst. Anger, dismay, perhaps, the Gods willing, some sort of guilt. He hadn't expected, really hadn't, to hear the man chuckle heartily. His anger grew, but with it a sort of perplexed fear. Was Dalomir crazy, was this why he was willing to let the Kingdom go down in ruins?
After a long, soft laugh, the powerful sorcerer, resplendent on satin and silk robes, wearing his auburn hair well on his aristocratic, intelligent face, looked him in the eye, still full of mirth. "Do something! Why, what an emotional outburst! Calm down, my young friend! I've never had the intention of abandoning the realm to those foul Elmekians. I intend to help the best way I can."
"But...then..." Mellinius stuttered. A raised hand stopped him.
"Patience, my friend, patience! I assure you, I will do something, something which I think will allow the kingdom to ultimately win!"
Oh, he wanted to believe it. Dalomir was so strong of voice, his tone so catching, that you wanted to believe anything he said. But still he doubted, still the fire remained. Three years of helplessly reading the losing war his realm was struggling in had left marks on the trust he put on his own guild. "But...but the realm...the kingdom is losing. You said yourself we have no hope of defeating the Elmekians!"
Dalomir stared at him calmly, smiling. "No right now no. But we would if I find what I'm looking for, and I should receive something that will help me greatly!"
"What is that? What could help us against so many?"
"Why, power from Forbidden Lores Spells, of course!"
There was barely enough time for Mellinius to really absurd the rather astounding statement - the Forbidden Lores, no less than that! - before steps were heard from the stone stairs leading to the reading room. Out poked a head, made of a soft roundness, strong cheeks and a reddish glow to the skin giving the man entering the look of a child more than a man. The body itself, although covered mostly by the usual sorcerer cape, was small, frail, and slightly pudgy-looking, finalizing the harmless appearance.
But all of those who knew the innocent-looking, child-bodied sorcerer knew that it was a all appearances, nothing more. The sorcerer's name was Jomekin, and of all the men Mellinius had seen in his life, he was the one he feared the most. Powerful, given to strange mood swings, the sorcerer was highly competent, but also possessed of an obsessive streak which knew no bounds.
"You...!" he gasped out as the man stood before them. He couldn't find words to say more. The childish, intelligent gaze looked up at him, seemingly highly amused by the reaction, then gave Delomir an half-bow which seemed almost mocking, but nothing more could be asked of the man.
Delomir actually smiled and rose, his eyes alight with expectation. "Ah, Jomekin, at last! I was beginning to think you might have found the task too hard for yourself."
"Nothing is too hard for me, sir." the child-like face uttered in a squeaky, cute voice. Everything about this man's exterior hides the true interior, the rather overwhelmed sorcerer thought as he heard it.
"Indeed, indeed. So me: have you found the location?" The eyes now seemed to glow with need and hope, a sickening and yet fascinating sight. In response, Jomekin grinned, a grin that belied the obsessions and strange moods of the man - the smile of a man who had been overwhelmed, at least partly, by his own power.
"The piece we need, the knowledge we seek, is hidden in southern Sailune. So say the ancient texts and in Orlumma's Accounts of the War of Resurrection."
"Good! Good!! Now that we know the place, and have gathered all that we need, there is but one thing left to do - unseal the temple! That, I know how to do." So exhilarated was Delomir that for a few moments, the one listening to the situation felt his mood lighten. Hope was there, but distorted. The distortion he felt calmed his ardor.
"Sir." he dared to venture at last. "What's there in Sailune?"
The older spell caster looked at him with narrowed, surprised eyes. "Why, the salvation of our kingdom, my friend. Nothing less! Only small trip away. Ready yourself. We go now to Sailune - to achieve our goals!"
Despite the fact this had been what he had wanted to hear for so long, despite his curiosity and growing hope, Mellinius found that sentence strange, hollow, hiding something. Still he would go, to see if his people would be saved by Delomir's plan.
And ACT if the older sorcerer had led him astray all this long while!
* * * * * * * * * *
Philionel de Sailune had a lot to think about. Quite a bit too much, indeed, as far as he was concerned. Trudging along on a dusty trail acting as a link between two agricultural villages, he found himself with time to think - more than should be healthy. And so he thought, and found many things wanting.
The days at the castle had gone from bad to worse. The King had been adamant in keeping the borders closed off to prevent massive arrivals of refugees, and had even ordered the garrisons to use force if such means were deemed necessary to stop frantic attempts to enter. The news which later came of over fifty people dying as they tried to fight past one such garrisons had sickened him, and he decided to slip out of the stuffiness and rigidity of the court and the fops which inhabited it permanently.
Before he knew it, he was back on the road, wearing an old worn tunic and breeches, sturdy leather gloves and boots, a backpack containing spare clothes and some other utilities, and a broad blade in a worn leather scabbard. With his strong-lined, squarish face and his tussled black hair, Phil knew he looked the part of a bear-like peasant. Only the cloak slung over his shoulders belied quality, and that would be seen only to the very pointed observer.
He stopped and inhaled a lungful of air, heavy with the scent of pine and the comfortable freshness of late spring. This was the life he liked - to walk amongst the people and find what their needs were, to use his resources to bring charity and justice to those far-away villages who knew neither, not paying attention to hypocritical fops who knew nothing of the outside world, or agonizing over a wedding he neither wished nor had control over.
Weeks of firm walking, ever southward, had brought him back in contact with the people. He discussed with them, drank with some men who had gone through a hard day at one place, helped repair a damaged cart at another, spent a day helping an older farmer with his fields, and even once went to fetch a town midwife for an impromptu birth. His height and musculature made it easy to work with people, and his honest demeanor made it easy to talk. And listen.
And through all of this he had listened, learning. He believed that justice must be served - it was the deciding factor in his life, the thing to which he was utterly dedicated. But to be just meant having at least some wisdom that didn't come from royal tutors or the books and opulence he and his brothers had been raised in. He needed to know those who would serve him, who would pay the taxes and the expenses which allowed Sailune to become a very preeminent power, so he could serve THEM better when his time came. If he could get past that foul wedding and this atrocious war business, that is...
He barely heard the scream for help, muffled as it was, but his senses had been sharpened from his outings, to a dangerous level. The voice was feminine, clearly in distress, which ignited him and propelled him into action. Quickly asserting where the noise came from, his long, powerful legs carried him there with swiftness and speed. He stepped off the road, and entered a clump of trees. There he saw something which was unmistakable.
There were three of them. All of them of medium height and built, wearing swords and dirty clothes. Their disheveled appearance, and the twisted gleam in their eyes told him everything he had to know even before he took in the rest of the scene. One of the men was crouching over a peasant woman, about Phil's age, perhaps a little older, working to undo the lace which held her dress. Another held the woman's arms, leering as she frantically struggled. The third man was standing, laughing at the scene, something which fed the crown prince's ire even more.
Philionel was a staunch pacifist. Or rather that was his goal in life, the kind of personality he wanted to have. The problem was that he was anything but, and knew it. It shamed him at times, the fact that he sometimes could use violence to achieve his ends. It clashes strong against his ideals. Usually. But not this time. This was aggression, a rape, something so lowly he felt dirty just thinking of the notion. This time he didn't even try to hide his violent streak. Rather, he embraced it.
Still, justice being what it was, he felt forced to give the monstrous men an ultimatum. "Release this woman at once, or face pain at my hands!!" He bellowed. He had meant it to sound chivalrous and fair, but the tone had come out hard and angry. So be it, he could live with that.
The standing man turned and looked at him in surprise, then in some consternation. Phil almost grinned. Obviously used to bullying, aggressing women and weaker people, he found himself outmatched by the prince's sheer girth and fearsome appearance. However the effect didn't last long, and as soon the one crouching over the woman had risen, a cocky grin crossed the unwashed face, showing yellow rotten teeth.
"Ya really shouldn't have come here, chap. That was a big mistake." he sneered, drawing his sword, followed by his companion. "But we're in a good mood here, and if ya git right here we won't hurt ya."
That was blatant lie from a blatant liar, and Phil only felt even angrier. "I gave you a fair warning. I suggest you heed it and leave this woman alone. Now."
"And if we don't, chap?"
"Then I'll take measures of my own to make certain you do release this woman. Now OBEY ME!"
The tone of his voice was frightening, he knew, for the two brigands actually faltered a moment. It didn't last long, however, before the one who had been busy undoing the woman's vestment snarled something and charged, his blade thrust in front of him. By that time Philionel was ready. He had known it would come to this, and only his pride and ideals had made him try to settle things with words.
He didn't draw his sword, for he was an ordinary swordsman at best and didn't want to kill even that type of waste. He stood squarely to meet the first blade, but sidestepped at the last second, ramming his clenched fist into the exposed villain's gut with all the considerable might in his arm. The effect was immediate, as the man's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, his tongue flayed here and there and he fell, the sword dropping from a nerveless hand. The bandit crumpled holding his stomach tightly, gasping for rare air. Phil knew that he wouldn't be getting back up anytime soon, but never gave him much thought. He still had one bandit to take care of.
The second man was a better swordsman, although he lacked the ease and training of a real soldier. His trusts had power and speed, and the traveling price had to dodge many a blow, sometimes narrowly. Still he pressed on, staying within range, taking the risk of stabbing to have the man within reach of his hand.
In the end he did it. Not with any grace, not even with a bit of style, but he managed to feint strike to the right and caught the forearm holding the blade - and thrust it aside. Before the man could recover from having his defense wide open, the prince's other arm thrust upward, in a slamming maneuver under the chin.
"Peacemaking Uppercut!" he cried in satisfaction just before he hit. A silly name, he knew, but he couldn't help but to indulge himself to that quirk. After all, he liked the man, and it worked. The second ruffian flew up and backward, landing in a thud and heap, and not moving. Two were down. Nodding to himself in relative satisfaction, he turned his attention to the last of the bandit.
The last man was shocked by the turn of events, it was clear in this. He looked at his fallen comrades and then to Phil with wide, uncomprehending eyes. The captive took the opportunity to struggle, managing to bite him and push him away. He made a move to stop her, snapping out of his shock, but the prince was there in two strides, slapping the hand away, and then grasping the man by the tunic, holding him up with no effort so that he could meet the frightened man to eye level. He had a speech for those occasions, a stern berating he reserved for normal evildoers. But rapists and cold murderers were something else entirely. As it was, he only felt coldly angry.
"Leave." he said in warning, letting the man fall. The last bandit didn't go and try to test his luck, turning away and running like an hyena with its tail on fire. He looked at the remaining ones - one was out cold, the other still gasping for air - and then looked at the peasant girl. She was looking at him with undecided eyes, and he almost sighed out loud. The physique had its bad points as well as its good.
"Do not worry yourself." he said as gently as he could make his voice go. "I am no bandit. I only heard sounds and came to investigate. "What happened here? This road is usually well-patrolled."
She looked at him with wide eyes still, but at least his words seemed to gain a bit of her trust, for which he was glad. "I...there's been...lotsa attacks...'cause lots a soldiers are gone away."
He nodded his head grimly. Yes, that would make sense. His father had pulled much troops and overflowed the borders with men, leaving the inner boundaries less defended than they should be. What a warped way to do things, he mused, before holding his hand to the peasant woman, who looked at it with a certain degree of suspicion.
"Please tell me more. I will escort you to your home." he said amiably.
And she took it. Why not? He might be dangerous looking, but what could be better as a guardian?
* * * * * * * * * *
"Ah, life is good! No one chasin' us, food in our belly, and bandits just waiting right around the corner as dessert."
Fezra's statement should have surprised, even appalled Loerik. After all, the situation they had just emerged from had been awkward, frightening, and decidedly dangerous. But after nearly a month with the strange, lively sorceress, all he managed was a grunt of disgust. It registered on her, and she turned to the rest of their group, spearing him with a look which made him quite queasy, despite his experience and his skill.
"You gotta problem, Lowrik?" she asked with a dangerous edge to her voice. Beside her, Berwen sighed for the hundredth time in that day alone.
"Its LOErik, not LOWrik, Fez." she said tiredly.
"Whatever!! So what's got you all bumped up THIS time, big guy?"
Incensed by the constant nagging, the swordsman was about to tell the sorceress EXACTLY what got him 'bumped up', but before he could launch a strike, a voice stopped everything cold.
"Can't you just STOP squabbling for once?!?" We've been at this since...since we've begun this directionless journey to nowhere! I don't care how, but you two will just have to shut up, make peace, do something that's NOT a quarrel!!!"
Hallia again. Ever since the incident in the forest, where he and Fezra had almost gone for each other's throat, the green-haired priestess had made a point to play peacekeeper, and had often been backed up by Zashtla, who was almost a match for the hot-tempered sorceress in glares, and Narie, who had, for the last few days, emerged from her shell. She was there now, nodding to Hallia's words, although she said none of her own. Zasthly, for her part, looked fierce and somewhat angry - which meant nothing, since she always looked like that. He sighed again, in resignation, knowing he had to make concessions or Fezra would die before calming down.
"Fine, fine. I'll keep it down." not that he'd said anything, actually, but it defused the tension in the air. The sorceress sniffed, then muttered something which looked SOMEWHAT like an APPROXIMATION of what he'd told, then resumed walking quickly, eyes gleaming again at the idea of bandits blowing up and treasure being found.
He slacked his pace so that he was soon walking beside the group's peacekeeper, ignoring Narie' instinctive flinch at having a man close to her personal space. He understood that the girl had been through a lot, that she'd been used like a toy by a man Loerik wished he would never meet again. He in fact had come to appreciate the spirit which was desperately trying to emerge from the trauma. But heck with it, he wasn't going to walk on eggshells every time he got near the priestesses because he had the obvious, born-with-it traits of a rather tall man! Exchanging a sign with Zashtla, he leaned down to whisper in Hallia's ear.
"Fezra is a selfish brat!" he finally hissed. In response was an amused smirk.
"Tell me something I don't know!"
He frowned. "Then why don't you just tell HER to calm down. Its almost always her fault we quarrel, after all."
She gave him the exasperated look he knew well, taking on the shift and posture of a lecturer. Every time she did that he felt like he was a slow, dull-minded fool being shown the ways of those considered highly intelligent. From most people, Loerik would have gone into a rampage at the condescension.
"Now, you know that Fezra never listens when we only target her!" she huffed as if it should be obvious - and it probably was, at that. "If we don't tell her someone else is responsible too, she'll never want to apologize. In fact, she might become worse than she is now. Maybe you've forgotten, but while we had just struggled the Sailune borders - "
"Okay, okay!" he snapped "I get the darn point!" he fell silent, searching for words, finally asking the question that'd been burning him for days now. "You...you want to go home, eh?" he finally asked. She blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly. He had hit right in the center, dead on. Not bad for a slow-thinking swordsman! "Don't bother, I can see it on your face. You DO want to return. Why? Is it because you have people there?"
She bit her lip, nodding after a moment. "Yes, you're right, I want to go back. My father and my brother, I'm not sure they're still alive. They were supposed to hold of an Elmekian army, than go right for the capital to reinforce it! Oh, I wish I was with them!" She closed her eyes for a moment in anguish. Seeing this, Loerik felt understanding. Did a day go by without him thinking about his family, lost to him for now, perhaps forever? He didn't think so. He uncomfortably patted Hallia, and she opened her eyes, giving him a saddened smile which had always had an effect on him, for some reason.
"What would be the point?" Zashtla asked somberly. "Even if we COULD pass the frontier again, which I doubt, what could we achieve? Go and help the Lumerian army? Don't be foolish. The Elmekian forces have ten times the manpower at least, they're better equipped, they have more sorcerers than the Lumerians. We couldn't reach the capital now, much less find your family!"
Loerik turned his head around to look at his fellow sword-wielder. "That's enough, Zashtla! You think we don't -"
"Loerik." He looked down to find her smiling at him, still sad, and yet with something else he couldn't decipher. "Thanks for supporting me, but its alright. I've decided that-"
What Hallia had decided stayed in the immediate realm of his immense ignorance, for at that moment an explosion was heard. Close, quite shaking the ground. And with the explosion came voices, many voices, some in pain, more panicking. He and Zashtla had they're sword out within an heartbeat, but neither had the time to assess more of the situation before Fezra, five meters ahead, shrieked in surprise and rage.
"NO WAY! I'M NOT LETTING ANOTHER SORCEROR GET MY LOOT!" she screamed, and sped off, Berwen on her heels. With a curse, Loerik hefted the Sword of Light and began to run. Why did he feel like something bad was going to happen?
That was quite simple: because Fezra was angry!
Marcus Jaderam, for his part, was having a blast. Literally, as he hurled fireball after fireball at clumps of fleeing bandits. He had been on the road for many days, desperate to reach his destination, when he had come upon this den occupied by many bandits. Nearly a hundred were gathered there, preparing a raid to the nearby villages. It had been more than enough for him to step in.
The young, arrogant sorcerer had once been taken prisoner and mistreated by bandits once, before learning magic. He had learned first hand how depraved and deranged this breed of people could be. Consequently he didn't like them. Not one bit. Normally believing you don't need to hit too hard to down an opponent, firm with moderation in using aggressive magic, he had no compunction on injuring many of that ilk right now.
Besides, it was great stress relief, and boy had he needed something like that for a while now!
He laughed in glee as another of his spells caught a band of bandits, scattering them. "You guys should just quit and tell me where you're keeping all of your gold." he grinned "If you're real nice about it, I might leave some to you." Not that he had the intention to, but sometimes they were more helpful that way. This time, however, only moans answered him. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Okay, if you want it that way..."
"FLARE ARROW!!!"
He had felt the build-up of magic a mere moment before he heard the shout, and only quick reflexes and a natural attunement with magic saved him from bad burns. Turning in the direction of the voice, he saw a streak of crimson coming his way. He raised his hands in front of him, quickly summoning his power.
"BALUS WALL!" he intoned at the last moment, and the arrow of flames struck the barrier he had erected. That had been too close. He had actually felt the impact in his bones. He turned angrily in the direction of the attacker, and saw a sorceress.
But what a sorceress. Beautiful, elegant, with a face - although angry - which he could dream on for hours. Romantic thoughts flicked through his head, and he grinned at her. He opened his mouth to ask what he'd done to anger the woman, but she screamed long before he could utter a sound.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING BEATING ON -MY- BANDITS?!?" she shrieked.
Suddenly, for some reason, Marcus didn't feel he was having a blast anymore. But that girl was sure cute!