"They say that the war started because of madness, hard on the heels of the Elmekian invasion. That's what the historians and scribes and royals keep saying. But we knew it wasn't true. The war didn't start because there was any sort of build-up leading to the horrors and pain SHE unleashed. The war started with us. Because of us. Because, when it all came down to it...we failed a friend...
-Loerik Gabriev, commenting on the Chimeric War, 997 AR
Chapter Six
They had crashed to the floor, spent beyond their strength. Pride couldn't hold them up, and rather than falling into a deadly trap unprepared, they had unanimously decided to rest for a while. Fezra Inverse, a young, brown haired and - let the world never forget! - extremely powerful sorcerous beauty that she was, never gave one ounce of protest, as everything on her seemed bruised despite the healing.
From where she sat, she could spot some of the others. Zasthla, lounging near the only door leading out of the room they had chosen to rest. She was busy sharpening her sword with a rock, yet Fezra had no doubts that nothing escaped her eyes and ears. If danger came calling, it would find a very much ready swordswoman ready to pounce.
There was the big prince to the side, sitting on the collapsed remains of what had probably been a statue of some kind, his muscular frame menacing even at rest. Fezra shook her head. If appearances deceived, Phil's simply HID. Taller than even the tall Loerik by an head, with brawns enough to intimidate by presence alone, a roaring voice and a face which simply WASN'T handsome, one would immediately mistake the man for some sort of bandit lord. However, that was the appearance. Underneath it, underneath the speeches and the roar and the intimidating physique, they had all glimpsed the future king of Sailune, and a man of honest character.
And then there were THOSE two. Namely Loerik and Hallia. They were sitting on the floor, the master swordsman's legendary blade next to him, ready to be drawn in the space of a heartbeat. The green haired priestess was busy examining Loerik's arm, looking it over as the two talked in low whispers. The glow given by the magical light illuminating the room couldn't quite define their faces, but the sorceress was more than smart enough to guess. Bemused expressions, mingled with hope, uncertainty, longing. They had already started the gimmick while escaping Lumeria, but the infatuation was taking root, and the dancing which always preceded romance was beginning. It was something both amusing and frustrating to look forward to!
"Watching the lovebirds, Fez?"
The sorceress smirked as Berwen, her childhood friend and fellow sorceress, sat beside her. She looked strange, her eyes not as vital as she remembered, but that could be a trick of the light. "No way! I've got better things to do than stare at these two!" she whispered in mock indignation. This prompted a soft giggle from beside her, and it caused her to look at her friend again. That giggle...it had sounded strange. Not really humour, but rather...bitter resignation?
"I'm sure. I think I can tell what could be attracting your interest then."
She blinked, then flushed - she understood where this was going. "Now look here Berwen, you've got it all wrong..." she said, but her friend wouldn't be denied, continuing relentlessly.
"I think that your main interest is of average height, dressed in a sorcerer's outfit, with red hair and good physique. Bright, dedicated almost to the point of obsession, adventurous..." she trailed off. With a sigh? Had it been a sigh. Then Berwen gave a teasing look, and the impression vanished. "Don't try to lie to me, fuzzy Fez! I can tell you're starting to feel things for this guy!"
She flushed at that. "I wasn't even looking at him!"
"Right. Your were looking at everyone BUT at him." she hesitated, and something flickered in her eyes before the mischief came again. "That's even worse coming from you! The boys you liked the best were always those you affected to ignore. You've got it bad. I think Loerik and Hallia are on their way to a relationship. Not you and Marcus Jaderam. But you want to. Admit it!"
She couldn't fight back on that point, and it bothered her more than anyone could imagine. Marcus Jaderam. Proud, extremely confident and arrogant. Brilliant mind always bent on some new problem. She could relate him on many points, although he was more bookish and less inclined to spur-of-the-moment decisions, which made treasure hunting so fun. He wasn't someone she would have looked down upon no matter what day or year. Yet, she'd set her eyes on other men before, some of them sorcerers. What set him apart? What made him somehow more important than the others?
It was rather simple in the end: the magic.
Of all the guys she had ever met, there had been many winners and losers, each with their strange quirks, qualities and faults. But none of them would ever have been able to fight her to a draw, something the redhead had somehow managed to do. What a fight it had been! Fireballs and lightning bolts, wind barriers and ray wings, mano bolts and burst rondos! She had found herself fighting as hard as she'd ever had in her life, giving it all she had, and yet he held on, giving as good as he got! She had felt the adrenaline, the thrill and fear of meeting a peer, an equal.
And at one point during the fight, she had almost wanted...almost, with her mind running high on the ecstasy of channelling huge amounts of magic...she had wanted...she had wanted to...
She shut off the thought before it staggered to its conclusion. She wasn't ready for that, not yet. Instead she looked at her friend.
"Yeah, well, we'll see. It'll take more than good looks and bein' a good mage to settle ME down! This guy's in for some major reviewing."
"Well, you'll be able to start pretty soon. The 'guy' is coming to see you right now."
Fezra looked and saw that, indeed, Marcus had risen from his seat against a stone wall and was shuffling to them with a confident air. Fezra stiffened at the emotions that rolled through her for a moment, and Berwen shot her a look, which, for one fraction of a moment, appeared full of something...dark? But before she could look more into it, the look was replaced a smiling face, a mask hiding something else. She couldn't delve into it before her friend was off to the other side of the room, carefully keeping herself away from Marcus' path. It didn't escape the male spellcaster, and he shot the retreating back a bemused look before continuing towards her.
"Hey, Fezra." he said with confidence and yet with a sort of unease. Good. She wasn't the only one feeling uneasy. "I was poking around this text I brought about ancient traps," at that he showed her a weathered, leather-bound book "and I'd like your help on trying to find out where the First Knights laid the rest of them. I noticed you were pretty good in finding those."
That sort of comment from a powerful sorcerer was rarely given, and she knew it counted for more than praise. Her ego inflated, and she was nearly puffing her chest when she replied. "You betcha I am! Better than all of you put together, that's what I am!" then her temper turned more curious. "But weren't you discussing it with that weird guy...Xellos, I think?"
He shook his head with a bitter chuckle. "Didn't you notice? The guy left us a little while back. Told me he had other business to clear out and just went off with a wink and a grin!" he sounded a little upset at being brushed off like that, and she could entirely relate.
Xellos. Garbed in a sort of priestly outfit, the strange man had come along suddenly, tagging along and offering little else besides cryptic sentences and an annoying habit to say 'That is a secret!' when one of them pressed. In the end she had preferred to zone him out completely, lest she start fireballing the guy out of existence. She was surprised he was gone so suddenly, especially after going out and telling them how to enter the place. But she wasn't feeling bad about him being gone. Not one bit. Behind the grin, there was something...well...creepy about him.
"What a no-good, purple-haired, effeminate little slacker..." she muttered nonetheless, then looked up at her fellow sorcerer. "I guess I'll have no choice then. Gimme that book and lets start puzzling out this place before it gets us!"
"Right on, Inverse!" he grinned, handing it to her before settling in closer than she imagined she would let him "With minds such as ours, there's no way this team could ever fail!"
She liked that. She really did. Most of all she believed it. She knew she was way brighter than the norm, always puzzling out codes, spells and problems before anyone else, and she could easily admit that Marcus' knowledge base was wide. He was as bright as she is, perhaps more focused and scientific. Definitely not a mental loser. She found herself deciding that working with someone like that was definitely more funny than making all the decisions. Berwen always bowed to her. Him, she felt, would never bow, only bend. And even then with difficulty.
She was looking for the challenge. She was looking to find something in this sorcerer. And it was only later, as they talked and she realized he had no real need for her expertise that she wondered if he hadn't come to talk to her as an excuse. To know her better. To look for something.
Oh blissful, blissful uncertainty!
* * * * * * * * * *
The battlefield.
More than any other place in the world, it was when an intense melee was churning all around him, that his sword was wet with fresh blood, that the swordsman named Kalarus felt truly alive. More than gambling, more than sparring, heck, more than having a woman even! It was what gave him direction and purpose. When he was in the battlefield, he felt complete.
At least, that was what he used to think.
Dressed in his customized armour, a suit of mail and interlocking metal plates, with larger shoulder guards engraved with the shape of a running unicorn, his hair waving as he moved, his eyes wide and filled with a terrifying glee, he was a sight to behold. Drenched in the blood of his enemies, spurning the need for shields, he was running towards any enemy soldier he could find.
Three men charged him, two armed with swords, one with an axe. Leapt towards them with a raucous laugh, deftly deflecting one of the swords and sidestepping the axe all in one single action. The axe struck the ground, wedging itself in the trampled, muddied ground. Without missing a beat, grinning widely, Kalarus pressed his boot upon it and slashed the man holding it away, cutting off the nose and plucking out an eyes in the process. The man let go of the handle, screaming in pure agony, and the third swordsman hesitated.
That was a mistake, as the swordsman batted the nearby soldier's sword with his own, pushing him away, then griping the handle and heaving with all off his might, forcibly tearing the axe off. Hefting it one-handed, he proceeded to tear into his opponent, ignoring the other for the moment. He gave a terrific slash, which the man blocked, but it left his left side open, and the axe bit into flesh in one, bloody swipe. The men staggered back, and were beheaded an instant later.
The third swordsman decided that the battle wasn't going well, and started running off. Kalarus would have none of that - a fight should always end with one on the floor - and he took the bloody axe, hefted it, and launched it, catching the fellow in the back. With a scream and gurgle, the soldier fell flat on his face, contorted, and then didn't move. Not far away, the axe man was convulsing in his death throes, the trauma too much for him.
Eighteen dead today. Eighteen he had killed with his own hands, proving his skills as the scourge he was. No one came at him anymore. No one dared to. He was too dangerous in their eyes.
It had once pleased him. Now it didn't matter. They were ordinary armsmen, with little knowledge of the true way of battle. Little things to be run over by people such as he. They were easy vermin. They weren't swordsman. They weren't Gabriev.
Gabriev. Despicable man. Gabriev, the proud swordsman who'd never looked at a battlefield as he should have, instead always returning from victory disgusted. Gabriev, who should never have been so skilled with a blade. Gabriev, who had bested him when they had fought blade for blade.
"UNFAIR FIGHT IT WAS, GABRIEV, I TELL YA!" he screamed, uncaring if anyone heard him in the press and melee around him. "UNFAIR FIGHT!!"
Yet that didn't change the outcome, did it? Fair or not, the damnable man had beaten him, the first to EVER have managed since...since SHE had. Unacceptable. Impossible. At least she had been a warrior renowned when she had defeated him that one time, one of many battles and of hardened battle skills. Gabriev hadn't been on the battlefield for three years! How could he have gained that much strength, that much skill with a blade?!?
He could remember the night as clearly as if he'd just lived it. He was having fun with a new woman, a pretty little brown-haired trollop, when a crazy girl with green hair had burst into the tent, and had attempted to attack him. Physically at that! He had fought her off, and had eventually beaten her outside, taking his blade to finish her off. And that's when that bloody damn Gabriev had come strutting with that insufferable, naive chivalry! It had irked him, and he'd challenged the black-haired man to a full-blown swordfight.
He hadn't expected it to be easy; he had known the fellow was good. But Gabriev was more than good. His form was quick and precise, his blade darting with cool swiftness. Again and again their blades met, and more than one time the blows had almost gone in, until finally one had, smashing his shoulder, rendering the world fuzzy. Rage had taken over, rage and shock. But before he had attacked the insolent pup, the man had summoned a blade of magical light, and struck him down as if he was...as if he was...
...Hardly worth the effort. After all, Gabriev hadn't killed him.
Damn him! Damn him!
How could he have lost that badly? How?
The thought kept burning him no matter what he did to sate it. Once, it seemed long ago, forcing a woman to submit gave him a sort of sweet pleasure, a feeling of true dominance. No more. Now he didn't care about women. The only woman he felt he'd like to bend to him would be that green-haired witch, but that paled before the need he had to slaughter Gabriev limb by limb for his insolence!
"I can't take it anymore, Gabriev! I can't take it, you dog!! DO YOU HEAR ME?? I'LL REND YOUR WITH MY HERE BLADE, I TELL YA, GABRIEV!"
He would. He was certain of that. He was certain!
Was he?
The battle ended too soon for his taste. Only eighteen dead today. Amateurs, bloody sword-wielding peasants who didn't know the first thing about the artistry of the blade. Not one true swordsman in the bunch. He was feeling almost nauseating by the ease with which the battles were being won by the Elmekian forces now. He'd heard that it was because the King of Lumeria was pulling up all of his asset near the capital, perhaps to launch a last defiant attack, perhaps to defend Lumeria's last standing strongholds. Kalarus hoped it would be the former, yet knew that it would be the latter.
It didn't matter for the present. The battle was over, and his raging shame still burned in his soul. He could see his relationship with the man who had unfairly bested him unfold.
Loerik, young, hungry and desperate, enlisting in the mercenary band. Already he had been much better than many of the others.
Loerik, rising in skill and prowess, until Kalarus heard talks that the black-haired swordsman might be able to beat the older mercenary. He had dismissed these talks as folly, even as stupidity. Yes, the kid was good, he'd had to give him that. But equal him? Get real here! Kalarus had years over Gabriev in swinging a sword. No one could outpace him in three short years.
Yet, no matter how he looked at it, no matter how he rationalized, the fact remained that it had happened. The young man had stood his ground and won, humiliating the former number one of their band. It burned him. No one else knew but them, yet it burned. Because Gabriev was a swordsman, and would always have the right to look down at him. And that insufferable kid would! He would! He would! He knew he'd come back to gloat! In a year? Two? Three? Probably when he'd refined his techniques even more. Kalarus would be crushed, his dignity stripped away, all of that by a kid his younger by nearly a decade!!
"Won't happen. Won't happen. Won't happen. WON'T HAPPEN!!" he howled, his frayed mind unable to fully take the stress. Other mercenaries looked at him fearfully and with pity as he walked out of the field of corpses. To damnation with them! What could they know?! His strength had been put under question, the thing that made him better than others. He no longer seemed invincible even to his own self. That was what Gabriev had done. That was it that was it that was it that was that was it. BASTARD.
He couldn't and wouldn't live that down. Not until he had Gabriev beaten. Crushed! Reduced to nothingness! DEAD! DEAD AND BURIED!!! No more doubts after that. He would be unchallenged once more. He would have the respect he deserved, from himself if no one else.
"Yup, Gabriev, yup!" he chuckled a bit shrilly, seeing everyone was avoiding him. Good. They feared his skill. Good. "You're gonna die, I tell ya! Soon, I tell ya! I'll make sure o' that, I tell ya!"
And with this maddened beginning of a guffaw, Kalarus returned to his camp, dreaming his own private dream.
* * * * * * * * * *
"FIREBALL!"
The projectile was launched expertly, a powerful ball of fiery magical energy swirled in the space between Mellinius and the towering guardian of the doors. It smashed with enough force to shake the walls, the power of its heat a testament of the strength of those who mastered Black Magic.
But when the fumes cleared, the immense iron golem, four times the height of a man and crafted to resemble a fully armoured elf. Jomekin grimaced as it swung its slender blade and smashed into the sorcerer's hastily erected wind barrier. It held, but wavered. The flows of magic wobbling as the mental strain began to take its toll. The childlike spellcaster thought quickly as the situation unfolded dramatically.
They had made it - or nearly enough - thanks to Dallomir's instructions. Past traps and dead-ends, past false trails and deadly hopes, they had come to what was undoubtedly the central vault. It was an enormous chamber, as immense as a small temple all by itself, carved into the rock itself with finesse and a style that decidedly placed it as Elven. It was a very old place - Mellinius had supposed it might have been just under five thousand years, a relic from a time when magic was a new thing even for the elves.
On the centre of the immense chamber was a dome of marble, which had its only opening in the form of a silver gate crafted to make it look as if birds and fairies were dancing about as leaves flowed among them. A work of art to be admired. Even the two guardians on each side of the door had looked marvellous in their detail, probably being made to the image of ancient elven warriors legendary when the War of Resurrection wasn't even on its way.
Of course, the awe they had shared, the hopeful glee, all that had faded to blunt fear as the two guardians had activated, and had transformed into nearly full-blown panic as they resisted the magical attacks. Definitely meddling from the First Knights. They had crafted these things to make sure no one could ever enter the dome. A last-ditch effort if one managed to bypass or survive all the traps. Magic resistant, of course, and strong as the Abyss.
Still...still, there must be some way to defeat them. The First Knights must have imputed a failsafe somewhere - a good idea when dealing with magical constructs. But then, wouldn't they have taken such means with them. Perhaps it truly was hopeless...
That was when he noticed the orbs embedded on each side of the door - one blue, one red, the same as the one on each of the golem's chest. That was it! That just had to be it! Jomekin nearly jumped for joy, and it was only when a sword and its severed forearm crashed just behind him, forcing him down painfully, that he refrained from the need. Panting, he grimly looked over his shoulder.
Dallomir had squared off against one of the guardians by himself, and had hurt it, ripping much of an arm off the thing. But the giant still walked about, ready to give its share of punishment, while the older man was visibly tiring. This couldn't go on.
Without caring about Mellinius' situation, he called his senior to him, and Dallomir launched a powerful Burst Rondo at the steel construct, actually making it stumble, before coming running over. The older mage's clothes were almost wet with sweat, and it was clear from the slight tremble that Jomekin detected that the man had depleted much of his great powers in the battle. Having aided the fool who was still desperately fighting, his own reserves were low. But if his idea worked...
"These constructs." he said hurriedly, they didn't have more than a few moments. "They are shielded against us."
"Hard not to notice. Golem animation of that magnitude...it needs two high-level spellcasters, one in Shamanism, one in Black Magic...and more than that, such a construct would need..."
"A constant power source!" Jomekin finished, seeing the Golem had stabilized and was turning towards them. He flung his arm towards the dome and the great orbs on its surface. "Like these! I sense a faint radiance. Could these be it?"
"We can only hope they are!" was the hurried response as the golem began shambling towards them once more. "Run!"
And they ran. With his smaller body, his childlike physical features, it wasn't a wonder that he was outdistanced quickly. Curse his frame, curse it! Still he managed to stay ahead of the golem, as the construct was slow and not build for very fast movements. Still, it was a near thing, and he prayed to all the gods that his hunch had been correct. He didn't want to die here! He couldn't!
Dallomir had already reached the orb, obviously sensing them, while Jomekin was still running like mad. He pointed to the one the childlike man was heading towards. "Prepare a spell! Hit the red sphere with a shamanist attack!! Shamanist, nothing else!"
Jomekin barely had the time to register the shouted order before he stumbled. Whether a snag or his fatigue had managed to land him in this predicament meant nothing. He crashed face first to the floor, breaking his nose, breath cut off. Fear shot through him, fear that reached paroxysm of panic when he heard the golem right behind him, ready to crush him. His composed mind nearly fled, yet something held within the strange man. Something at his core forced him to heave upward, channelling all of his magic at the risk of burning his own body out. The rumble was close.
"NOW, JOMEKIN!" Dallomir shouted, as he worked a spell, creating a force made of shadows. The golem was just behind him, and Jomekin screamed what might well be his last spell.
"BRAM GUSH!!" he shouted, immediately followed by Dallomir's "DARK CLAW!"
A spell of shamanism hit the red orb at the moment one of black magic hit the blue one. Energy crackled within both, an inner light shone brightly, then went still just as suddenly. Jomekin held his breath, closing his eyes, waiting for the end.
The Golem's steps could no longer be heard. Tentatively, he raised his head, twisted his body to the side, and looked behind him. The golem had stopped barely three steps from stepping on him, and the other one was standing just as still, facing a spent and dazed Mellinius. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, chuckling to relieve the fear he had felt, the childlike sorcerer pushed himself to his feet while Dallomir, just ahead, was whooping.
"Just as I thought!" the man was shouting. "We inverted the energies, forcing the constructs into a dormant state until the energies level back for the spells to work..."
"What happened? Did we do it?" Mellinius breathed, wobbling near them. His composure regained, Jomekin only gave him a sneering look before responding.
"I think that's plain. For now at least. And no thanks to your superb brand of help." he wasn't fazed by Mellinius' angry flush. Why was this one here, anyway?
"Let us go. Our power awaits us!" Dallomir announced in triumph. Without adding anything further, he walked to the entrance, and started murmuring words while holding what appeared to be a key made of glass. Within a few moments, it began to glow, until it shone like a piece of the sun.
"Spirit of all that protects, allow me to enter this sacred hall, for my need is great and my time passing." the older mage said slowly and clearly, holding the shining key aloft in front of the carved door. "I ask for thy help, for thy opening. By the Brand of Oerlus, I beseech you, open your doors and help me in my need!"
The key flashed once, then again, then again. More quickly, until it flashed so much it hurt Jomekin's eyes. And then, like drops of stars released from a cosmic jar, it burst into many pieces, striking the door, engulfing it, until it shone in a surreal gold. And opened, silently, upon magical hinges. At once, the feel of magic intensified, becoming a true gale. He couldn't believe it. His senses were overwhelmed. It almost seemed to be a living thing.
"This power. All of this is brimming with ancient magics..." Mellinius whispered in awe, and for once, the man-child had nothing to say, merely nodding his head in total bewilderment. Even their leader seemed fazed by what he felt. Before he broke into a grin of anticipation, of unadulterated pleasure.
"We have found them. The Hidden Lores. Some of them anyway. What the First Knights sealed away so carefully, is now ours for the taking! Let us go, gentlemen, and take all we can so we can save Lumeria!"
"And other things besides..." Jomekin muttered, but he followed the others as eagerly as a puppy presented with a really, really, juicy bone.
* * * * * * * * * *
Fedoniel Parrel Di Sailune, Protector of the Light, Lord of the City of White Magic, Priest Emeritus of the Order of Ceipheed and the forty-six kings following the noble steps first traced by Sai Lune the Blessed, was a patient man. Ever since his youth, and the tumultuous marriage, which he suffered through in many ways, he had kept a solid grip on situations, and had rarely let his temper get the better of his judgement.
However, today he was having difficulty restraining himself, for his eldest son, Philionel, had not returned from yet another foolish quest. Another political blunder to add to his wayward heir. And not a small one, this time! He could understand forays when no pressing matters of state were stirring. He couldn't endorse them, but at least he could understand - Phillionel had always been too adventurous for his own good.
But to be absent the day one's promised wife - the niece of another nation's leader no less! - was absolutely inexcusable.
His eyes drifted from the nobles and well-dressed courtiers waiting to either side of the throne room's wide halls, sliding over the ranks of knights holding position, in polished armour, an honour guard waiting for the person to honour. He barely saw the red carpet of rich Lizeillian Duvet, a thick, gold-embroided line from the wooden doors to the steps leading to the king's throne. He didn't care for any of this. Instead his gaze fell on the boy of fourteen who was holding himself like a young lord already. His youngest son, and the one who resembled him the most.
"Christopher. You say Philionel gave you no indication of the time he would return. What did he say?"
The young man stiffened slightly. "As I have told you, Father, Philionel only told me of his intent to venture into some of our lands to investigate."
"Investigate." the King scoffed, glad they were keeping the conversation too low for the people to overhear. "His 'investigations' have often nearly cost him his life!"
"But if I may, Father. They may have endangered him, but the risks he willingly took are paying off in the end. Already the people loved him." his youngest told him, his tone meticulously polite, yet ever so slightly defensive. "I am certain Phil...ionel has a good reason for not making this event."
He had never been able to understand it. Philionel took his personality almost squarely from his departed wife - a woman of intelligence but of burning idealism, while Christopher had inherited Fedoniel's pragmatism more than anything else, as had his second son Randy, who was busy even now learning on how to be a priest. Yet it was as if the sibling between them didn't exist. From the first days, Christopher had trotted behind Philionel instead of Randy. They had done everything together, and a solid bond had formed between them, heightened and tempered by their mother's death, only four years past.
He could admit his heir had done well then. If he had grieved, it had been privately. Instead he had focused his efforts on helping Randy and Christopher pull through. While Randy had rejected the help, Christopher had clung to his oldest brother for support. Ever since then, the young one had always taken the heir's part in all things, rarely ever disagreeing.
Children. They were even worse of a headache than the one, which had been faintly pummelling at the back of his head. He was glad he hadn't taken part in their upbringing; it would have driven him mad.
Suddenly the doors opened to admit the royal crier, who uttered in stentorian voice. "Her Royal Ladyship Valmatia Della Sar Elmekun, and her entourage!" At that he bowed, and stepped to the side. That was the signal. The Knights, already at attention, stiffened so that they looked liked statues, half of the nobility and wealth of the realm hooked their eyes towards the opened door, and trumpets sounded clear, triumphant notes in perfect symphony.
Two knights entered first, dressed in the armour and colours of Elmekia. They bowed swiftly and precisely, and stepped to the edge of the red carpet. Then she came. Valmatia, the emperor's niece. Dressed in an intricate sky blue gown embroided with gold and silver, a belt of cream-coloured silk around her abdomen, she wore her dark hair perfectly combed and straight, cascading down her shoulders, yet never hiding the circlet of gold gifted with a ruby, a sign of her royal blood. She stepped ahead of the knights, followed by they and four maids. Her step was graceful yet firm, her beauty ripe despite her age, and her face showed a dignity befitting a queen, as well as a sparkle of wit and cunning.
The king congratulated himself. She was perfect. Yes. Perfect. She would be the ideal consort for his fool of an heir to have. Perhaps she could bring some sense into the lad. He certainly had never managed to.
The small cohort passed bowing and curtsying nobility, and stopped near the marble stairs leading to the White Throne. Both knights went to one knee and the maids curtsied in reverence. Valmatia, for herself, bowed her head in respectful acknowledgement.
Pushing his runaway thoughts aside, still congratulating himself despite it, the King nodded his head gently. "Honoured Lady Valmatia, I give you welcome to the capital of Sailune. I dare hope your journey has been without incident?"
She raised her head, and her youthful face looked the king calmly in the eye. Yes, indeed, this one was born to be a queen. "You do me much honour, Your Majesty. And I am touched by your graceful concern. Indeed, my way has been freed of harm, and no danger ever muddied the tranquility of my travelling."
King Fedoniel sincerely hoped so, especially with the four hundred Sailune armsmen he had sent as an escort. But he liked the tone she had taken. Respectful, but not too much. Firm, not arrogant. He fancied himself a good judge of character, and he saw no fault yet in this one that could impede his goals. Magnificent.
"I am pleased to hear this. Think of this castle - no, this whole Kingdom - as your own. For from now on you will have the same powers as any of the royals, save for myself and my heir, Crown Prince Philionel."
Again she bowed her delicate head for a moment. "Your kindness flatters my, Your Majesty." then a slight squint took over her eyes. "If I may ask, however: where may the Crown Prince be located. I did not see him in this assembly. I see only Prince Christopher. But I hope I am not too forward. If so, please forgive me, my King."
He had known she would ask the question, had been ready and prepared for it, yet those simple words managed to put him slightly ill at ease. Was it the slight inflection in her voice, was it the very subtle change in her posture. Whatever it was, it spoke of her disapproval at her chosen husband not being present. He couldn't fault her for the thought, and that made him draw upon his many years of diplomacy to cover his eldest son's unforgivable faux pas.
"Yes, I was certain you would notice." he answered smoothly, his face perfectly serene. "The Crown Prince was sent on my orders in a routine survey to look on southern lands. It is important for him to know the land he will one day rule." he privately hoped he'd be quite dead when it happened - he didn't want to cede the throne to the boy, his whims would probably destroy the powerful country so many generations of House Sailune had worked to build.
It was a lie. She could feel it in him, he knew. She had had training like most royals had, and the people of Elmekia, living in a land where intrigue could be so dangerous, were especially good at rooting out untruths. Yet she didn't say anything on the matter, only raised an eyebrow for a single moment, indicating she didn't believe a word of what he'd just said, before bowing one more time.
"Wise words, Your Majesty. I acknowledge and accept them."
At that, Fedoniel rose from his throne, all eyes fixed on him. He descended the stairs regally, until he faced his future daughter. He asked her to turn around, which she did, facing the assembly of nobles.
"Noble of Sailune, faithful friends," he called. "I present you Crown Princess Valmatia Della, your future Queen!"
At once the nobles started to cheer, shouting things like "Long live Sailune!" and "Bless the Crown Princess!" They were all quite taken by her beauty and her noble bearing, he saw. She had, in a few minutes of presence, done what had taken his eldest son years - she had gained the admiration of the nobility. She would be perfect to keep the bumbling Philionel from doing too much damage to the country when the idealistic fool's time came.
Yes, overall he had done the best thing for his beloved Kingdom!
* * * * * * * * * *
There was a quality to loneliness. A deep quality, actually, in that you were absolutely free to rummage through your thoughts and your feelings without anyone saying a word on it. It WAS Something she had excelled at, when she had been just a young girl in a backwater village in Zefielia. Although she had grown a bit rusty after joining her Guild, training to become a sorceress and then following Fezra around, mostly keeping her out of trouble. She had not had many instances of loneliness then.
But for the past few weeks, she had had increasing amounts of practice and had gotten back in shape.
She didn't understand how it had happened, really. It had initially only been a whim on Fezra's part, to help prisoners escape. Just another escapade, like so many before then. But it had been different that time. The swordsman and the two priestesses - one of whom had been severely traumatized - went on a journey to reach Sailune, dodging both Elmekian and Sailunean patrols. Fezra and she had stuck to them. Just another whim. Except Fezra had taken a liking to stable priestess named Hallia, a sort of respect for Loerik Gabriev and sympathy for poor, hurt Narie. Things had changed, but the loneliness hadn't yet cloaked her. Although less present, Fezra still talked to her about anything pertaining to Black Magic.
And then he had come. Marcus Jaderam. A young mage, red haired, arrogant and powerful, wise and straightforward, he had taken the stage and pushed Berwen outside completely. For although Berwen was a skilled sorceress, her powers paled next to his. He was Fezra's equal, a fact he had proven when he had fought her to a draw. Her old friend had been frustrated when she's found out she hadn't actually won the fight, and yet completely taken.
It had sparked something between the two. And now she looked back to see Loerik and Hallia walking side by side, making every effort to look casual and yet each giving the other looks of longing. Fezra and Marcus were just behind them, muttering excitedly about something, making extravagant gestures. Even Philionel and Zashtla, although not being romantic towards each other, were in a friendly conversation. Everyone had a bond to each other in some ways. Except for her. Perhaps it was fate?
"Interesting. Other travellers." a voice cackled "Are you seeking the Hidden Lores? If so, you come too late."
Berwen couldn't believe it. One moment the corridor they were travelling through was empty of everything but mold and dust. The next, three men stood there - although one looked like a child with old, mature eyes. She had felt no presence, no shift of power, and they were standing what, fifteen feet in front of her? How could she have missed it? Had her mind wandered off that far?
She pushed that thought for later, instead taking in the expressions of those who had arrived by unknown means. They had a tired look, all three of them. Bruised beyond what healing could do in the field, their sorcerer outfits in tatters, and yet they had eyes that spoke of triumph, of a mission well accomplished. And for the oldest and tallest, the elegant man who had surely spoken, there was something more. A light in them that filled her with fear.
She put her hands together, summoning the power of black magic. It came, tingling around her skin, drawing on her fear and loneliness. More powerful. Was her loneliness the strength of her magic, as Fezra's temper was? Behind her, she heard movements, and a flash of bright light following the uttered 'Light Come Forth!' words. In her state of semi-trance, she vaguely heard the other stepping closer behind her.
"Are you the ones who are after the Hidden Lores?" Marcus' voice rang out coldly. This seemed to amuse the tallest of the trio.
"Yes, you are right. But not after them, mind you..." his smile became even more triumphant. "Because we have the Lores we sought."
"What?!?" Zashtla growled.
"Fiends! Don't you know the dangers of that knowledge? It was sealed for a reason!"
"A reason..." the child with adult eyes muttered. "They were sealed by idealistic fools who only saw the dangers and none of the benefits, a tired band who wanted to make sure no one ever came close to their powers."
"That's twisting history to your own advantage. The First Knights only wished for humans not to use such dangerous spells and concepts! The scriptures tell of the devastation these things wrought in the War of Resurrection!" Hallia shouted in indignation. The tall sorcerer sighed.
"Believe what you will, if it pleases you. The fact is that I have what I want, and I wish to depart. So if you will excuse us, we will take our leave."
"Ohhh, I DON'T think so, buddy!" Fezra growled, and Berwen felt magical energies being gathered for a spell. "We just can't let you walk off with those things! BURST RONDO!!"
Spheres of energy streaked past Berwen, aiming for the man standing before her. The three seemed unperturbed by the power coming their way, although one of them, the one who looked and felt most normal held a pined expression, as if the confrontation itself left a bad taste in his mouth. The one in front, however, only flung one of his arms, which she saw sported a strange armband, green and red and gold, with filaments of blues connecting each section. The effect was immediate. The Burst Rondo dissipated like snow in a strong wind.
"If that is your wish...then by all means." the man said. And at that pandemonium was joined.
Marcus fired a fireball, which was deflected as well, as the two sorcerers on both sides of the tall one fired Flare Arrows. Berwen erected a Wind Barrier, but was knocked to her knees when they impacted. The power of those spells was obviously increased somehow. Loerik sped past her with Zashtla, slashing at the two, as Marcus appeared next to her and let loose with an Elmekia Lance. The walls shook as powers met, but Zasthla's blade was deflected by the man-child's magical barrier, to be immediately knocked back by a magical gust of wind. A fireball formed in his hands, streaking towards the stunned swordswoman.
"MOS VARIM!" Came Hallia's voice in the nick of time, as a ball of magical energy absorbed the fireball. Hallia appeared on Zasthla's side, and both women faced the man-child with determined mien.
On the other side, Loerik and Philionel were squaring off against the least frightening of the three, who was nonetheless giving them quite a workout. A Flare Arrow burst towards Phil, who slapped his hands in a strange fashion, shouting. The Flare arrow burst on him, yet he emerged only slightly singed. Loerik rushed forward at that, bringing his magical blade squarely against his enemy's shield. The man staggered, but sent a pulse of magical strength, which pushed the swordsman away. Both men, however, were barely getting started, and carefully closed in upon their enemy.
It left Fezra Marcus and she to take care of the one with the frightening eyes, who stood calmly to withstand their assault. The armband he wore shrugged off conventional spells. His own attacks impacted over Berwen's Windy shield in response, sending her to her knees. Hearing her groan, he gave off an amused, superior chuckle.
"Fools. With this armband I can't be hurt by magical attacks! You efforts are useless."
Beside her, Marcus smirked. "Wouldn't be so sure of that. VICE FLARE!!" he shouted, and the huge gout of fiery energy impacted the ground near the sorcerer, knocking him off his feet. Both Marcus and Fezra rushed the man as he lay down, but he was up with surprising speed. He had his hand up and shouted the last thing one should shout in an underground corridor.
"DUG HAUT!"
Berwen barely had the time to stand before the effect of the spell worked its deadly magic. The walls cracked like thunder, splitting, pieces falling everywhere, as the place they were could shook crazily. She stumbled, and before she knew it, she had fallen next to the strange man. Events blurred in her eyes - the manic sorcerer pulling a scroll as the other two staggered to him in panic, Loerik looking upward in terror, Marcus, Fezra and Hallia with their hands towards each other.
Energy started building in her. The spell! The man was casting a spell. Frightfully she started to heave herself upward, away from them, but fate wasn't with her. A rock from the ceiling hit her behind the head hard, and brought her down. Her mind became muddled, and she barely had the time to register the three men were looking at her in surprise before a white light enveloped her.
Then consciousness fled. Darkness took over. And her thoughts became those of the void.
* * * * * * * * * *
The corridor had caved in, tons of rock crashing down, forever putting the lower chambers out of man's reach. Walls carved by elves long ago, walked by elves and later man, were no longer. Only a pile of stones remained, a testament to the destruction a sorcerer's thoughtless reaction had done.
Then the stones glowed red and burst open, revealing bruised adventurers, three men and three women, all of them wearing frantic expressions as they ran out of that section, the three with sorcerous power holding on to a magical barrier until they were in a stable part of the catacombs.
They ran long, until they couldn't help but sit, too tired to do anything else.
"That was too close. Too close." gasped a black-haired man in armour, clutching a green-haired woman who seemed as equally frightened and stunned as he. "Those bastards nearly buried us alive!"
"But we survived." another of the men, one with red hair, replied with frown "The problem is that they did as well. I saw them - phasing out just before I got to busy holding the shield."
One of the women looked up from where she was sitting. "Damn it anyway! We got trashed back there. We can't take those three together again."
"Yet we must stop them!" the biggest and youngest of the males intoned in a deep voice. "We can't let them have that power! If we do..."
"Where's Berwen?" the muscular woman asked, looking around. That stopped the conversation cold as the small team realized one of theirs was missing. Shocked faces looked at each other, horror and confusion on their faces...
.... and far away, on a plane of existence unreachable by mortals, an entity looked down and smiled to itself.
Events were set. History was ready to unfold.
________________________________________________________
-Loerik Gabriev, commenting on the Chimeric War, 997 AR
Chapter Six
They had crashed to the floor, spent beyond their strength. Pride couldn't hold them up, and rather than falling into a deadly trap unprepared, they had unanimously decided to rest for a while. Fezra Inverse, a young, brown haired and - let the world never forget! - extremely powerful sorcerous beauty that she was, never gave one ounce of protest, as everything on her seemed bruised despite the healing.
From where she sat, she could spot some of the others. Zasthla, lounging near the only door leading out of the room they had chosen to rest. She was busy sharpening her sword with a rock, yet Fezra had no doubts that nothing escaped her eyes and ears. If danger came calling, it would find a very much ready swordswoman ready to pounce.
There was the big prince to the side, sitting on the collapsed remains of what had probably been a statue of some kind, his muscular frame menacing even at rest. Fezra shook her head. If appearances deceived, Phil's simply HID. Taller than even the tall Loerik by an head, with brawns enough to intimidate by presence alone, a roaring voice and a face which simply WASN'T handsome, one would immediately mistake the man for some sort of bandit lord. However, that was the appearance. Underneath it, underneath the speeches and the roar and the intimidating physique, they had all glimpsed the future king of Sailune, and a man of honest character.
And then there were THOSE two. Namely Loerik and Hallia. They were sitting on the floor, the master swordsman's legendary blade next to him, ready to be drawn in the space of a heartbeat. The green haired priestess was busy examining Loerik's arm, looking it over as the two talked in low whispers. The glow given by the magical light illuminating the room couldn't quite define their faces, but the sorceress was more than smart enough to guess. Bemused expressions, mingled with hope, uncertainty, longing. They had already started the gimmick while escaping Lumeria, but the infatuation was taking root, and the dancing which always preceded romance was beginning. It was something both amusing and frustrating to look forward to!
"Watching the lovebirds, Fez?"
The sorceress smirked as Berwen, her childhood friend and fellow sorceress, sat beside her. She looked strange, her eyes not as vital as she remembered, but that could be a trick of the light. "No way! I've got better things to do than stare at these two!" she whispered in mock indignation. This prompted a soft giggle from beside her, and it caused her to look at her friend again. That giggle...it had sounded strange. Not really humour, but rather...bitter resignation?
"I'm sure. I think I can tell what could be attracting your interest then."
She blinked, then flushed - she understood where this was going. "Now look here Berwen, you've got it all wrong..." she said, but her friend wouldn't be denied, continuing relentlessly.
"I think that your main interest is of average height, dressed in a sorcerer's outfit, with red hair and good physique. Bright, dedicated almost to the point of obsession, adventurous..." she trailed off. With a sigh? Had it been a sigh. Then Berwen gave a teasing look, and the impression vanished. "Don't try to lie to me, fuzzy Fez! I can tell you're starting to feel things for this guy!"
She flushed at that. "I wasn't even looking at him!"
"Right. Your were looking at everyone BUT at him." she hesitated, and something flickered in her eyes before the mischief came again. "That's even worse coming from you! The boys you liked the best were always those you affected to ignore. You've got it bad. I think Loerik and Hallia are on their way to a relationship. Not you and Marcus Jaderam. But you want to. Admit it!"
She couldn't fight back on that point, and it bothered her more than anyone could imagine. Marcus Jaderam. Proud, extremely confident and arrogant. Brilliant mind always bent on some new problem. She could relate him on many points, although he was more bookish and less inclined to spur-of-the-moment decisions, which made treasure hunting so fun. He wasn't someone she would have looked down upon no matter what day or year. Yet, she'd set her eyes on other men before, some of them sorcerers. What set him apart? What made him somehow more important than the others?
It was rather simple in the end: the magic.
Of all the guys she had ever met, there had been many winners and losers, each with their strange quirks, qualities and faults. But none of them would ever have been able to fight her to a draw, something the redhead had somehow managed to do. What a fight it had been! Fireballs and lightning bolts, wind barriers and ray wings, mano bolts and burst rondos! She had found herself fighting as hard as she'd ever had in her life, giving it all she had, and yet he held on, giving as good as he got! She had felt the adrenaline, the thrill and fear of meeting a peer, an equal.
And at one point during the fight, she had almost wanted...almost, with her mind running high on the ecstasy of channelling huge amounts of magic...she had wanted...she had wanted to...
She shut off the thought before it staggered to its conclusion. She wasn't ready for that, not yet. Instead she looked at her friend.
"Yeah, well, we'll see. It'll take more than good looks and bein' a good mage to settle ME down! This guy's in for some major reviewing."
"Well, you'll be able to start pretty soon. The 'guy' is coming to see you right now."
Fezra looked and saw that, indeed, Marcus had risen from his seat against a stone wall and was shuffling to them with a confident air. Fezra stiffened at the emotions that rolled through her for a moment, and Berwen shot her a look, which, for one fraction of a moment, appeared full of something...dark? But before she could look more into it, the look was replaced a smiling face, a mask hiding something else. She couldn't delve into it before her friend was off to the other side of the room, carefully keeping herself away from Marcus' path. It didn't escape the male spellcaster, and he shot the retreating back a bemused look before continuing towards her.
"Hey, Fezra." he said with confidence and yet with a sort of unease. Good. She wasn't the only one feeling uneasy. "I was poking around this text I brought about ancient traps," at that he showed her a weathered, leather-bound book "and I'd like your help on trying to find out where the First Knights laid the rest of them. I noticed you were pretty good in finding those."
That sort of comment from a powerful sorcerer was rarely given, and she knew it counted for more than praise. Her ego inflated, and she was nearly puffing her chest when she replied. "You betcha I am! Better than all of you put together, that's what I am!" then her temper turned more curious. "But weren't you discussing it with that weird guy...Xellos, I think?"
He shook his head with a bitter chuckle. "Didn't you notice? The guy left us a little while back. Told me he had other business to clear out and just went off with a wink and a grin!" he sounded a little upset at being brushed off like that, and she could entirely relate.
Xellos. Garbed in a sort of priestly outfit, the strange man had come along suddenly, tagging along and offering little else besides cryptic sentences and an annoying habit to say 'That is a secret!' when one of them pressed. In the end she had preferred to zone him out completely, lest she start fireballing the guy out of existence. She was surprised he was gone so suddenly, especially after going out and telling them how to enter the place. But she wasn't feeling bad about him being gone. Not one bit. Behind the grin, there was something...well...creepy about him.
"What a no-good, purple-haired, effeminate little slacker..." she muttered nonetheless, then looked up at her fellow sorcerer. "I guess I'll have no choice then. Gimme that book and lets start puzzling out this place before it gets us!"
"Right on, Inverse!" he grinned, handing it to her before settling in closer than she imagined she would let him "With minds such as ours, there's no way this team could ever fail!"
She liked that. She really did. Most of all she believed it. She knew she was way brighter than the norm, always puzzling out codes, spells and problems before anyone else, and she could easily admit that Marcus' knowledge base was wide. He was as bright as she is, perhaps more focused and scientific. Definitely not a mental loser. She found herself deciding that working with someone like that was definitely more funny than making all the decisions. Berwen always bowed to her. Him, she felt, would never bow, only bend. And even then with difficulty.
She was looking for the challenge. She was looking to find something in this sorcerer. And it was only later, as they talked and she realized he had no real need for her expertise that she wondered if he hadn't come to talk to her as an excuse. To know her better. To look for something.
Oh blissful, blissful uncertainty!
* * * * * * * * * *
The battlefield.
More than any other place in the world, it was when an intense melee was churning all around him, that his sword was wet with fresh blood, that the swordsman named Kalarus felt truly alive. More than gambling, more than sparring, heck, more than having a woman even! It was what gave him direction and purpose. When he was in the battlefield, he felt complete.
At least, that was what he used to think.
Dressed in his customized armour, a suit of mail and interlocking metal plates, with larger shoulder guards engraved with the shape of a running unicorn, his hair waving as he moved, his eyes wide and filled with a terrifying glee, he was a sight to behold. Drenched in the blood of his enemies, spurning the need for shields, he was running towards any enemy soldier he could find.
Three men charged him, two armed with swords, one with an axe. Leapt towards them with a raucous laugh, deftly deflecting one of the swords and sidestepping the axe all in one single action. The axe struck the ground, wedging itself in the trampled, muddied ground. Without missing a beat, grinning widely, Kalarus pressed his boot upon it and slashed the man holding it away, cutting off the nose and plucking out an eyes in the process. The man let go of the handle, screaming in pure agony, and the third swordsman hesitated.
That was a mistake, as the swordsman batted the nearby soldier's sword with his own, pushing him away, then griping the handle and heaving with all off his might, forcibly tearing the axe off. Hefting it one-handed, he proceeded to tear into his opponent, ignoring the other for the moment. He gave a terrific slash, which the man blocked, but it left his left side open, and the axe bit into flesh in one, bloody swipe. The men staggered back, and were beheaded an instant later.
The third swordsman decided that the battle wasn't going well, and started running off. Kalarus would have none of that - a fight should always end with one on the floor - and he took the bloody axe, hefted it, and launched it, catching the fellow in the back. With a scream and gurgle, the soldier fell flat on his face, contorted, and then didn't move. Not far away, the axe man was convulsing in his death throes, the trauma too much for him.
Eighteen dead today. Eighteen he had killed with his own hands, proving his skills as the scourge he was. No one came at him anymore. No one dared to. He was too dangerous in their eyes.
It had once pleased him. Now it didn't matter. They were ordinary armsmen, with little knowledge of the true way of battle. Little things to be run over by people such as he. They were easy vermin. They weren't swordsman. They weren't Gabriev.
Gabriev. Despicable man. Gabriev, the proud swordsman who'd never looked at a battlefield as he should have, instead always returning from victory disgusted. Gabriev, who should never have been so skilled with a blade. Gabriev, who had bested him when they had fought blade for blade.
"UNFAIR FIGHT IT WAS, GABRIEV, I TELL YA!" he screamed, uncaring if anyone heard him in the press and melee around him. "UNFAIR FIGHT!!"
Yet that didn't change the outcome, did it? Fair or not, the damnable man had beaten him, the first to EVER have managed since...since SHE had. Unacceptable. Impossible. At least she had been a warrior renowned when she had defeated him that one time, one of many battles and of hardened battle skills. Gabriev hadn't been on the battlefield for three years! How could he have gained that much strength, that much skill with a blade?!?
He could remember the night as clearly as if he'd just lived it. He was having fun with a new woman, a pretty little brown-haired trollop, when a crazy girl with green hair had burst into the tent, and had attempted to attack him. Physically at that! He had fought her off, and had eventually beaten her outside, taking his blade to finish her off. And that's when that bloody damn Gabriev had come strutting with that insufferable, naive chivalry! It had irked him, and he'd challenged the black-haired man to a full-blown swordfight.
He hadn't expected it to be easy; he had known the fellow was good. But Gabriev was more than good. His form was quick and precise, his blade darting with cool swiftness. Again and again their blades met, and more than one time the blows had almost gone in, until finally one had, smashing his shoulder, rendering the world fuzzy. Rage had taken over, rage and shock. But before he had attacked the insolent pup, the man had summoned a blade of magical light, and struck him down as if he was...as if he was...
...Hardly worth the effort. After all, Gabriev hadn't killed him.
Damn him! Damn him!
How could he have lost that badly? How?
The thought kept burning him no matter what he did to sate it. Once, it seemed long ago, forcing a woman to submit gave him a sort of sweet pleasure, a feeling of true dominance. No more. Now he didn't care about women. The only woman he felt he'd like to bend to him would be that green-haired witch, but that paled before the need he had to slaughter Gabriev limb by limb for his insolence!
"I can't take it anymore, Gabriev! I can't take it, you dog!! DO YOU HEAR ME?? I'LL REND YOUR WITH MY HERE BLADE, I TELL YA, GABRIEV!"
He would. He was certain of that. He was certain!
Was he?
The battle ended too soon for his taste. Only eighteen dead today. Amateurs, bloody sword-wielding peasants who didn't know the first thing about the artistry of the blade. Not one true swordsman in the bunch. He was feeling almost nauseating by the ease with which the battles were being won by the Elmekian forces now. He'd heard that it was because the King of Lumeria was pulling up all of his asset near the capital, perhaps to launch a last defiant attack, perhaps to defend Lumeria's last standing strongholds. Kalarus hoped it would be the former, yet knew that it would be the latter.
It didn't matter for the present. The battle was over, and his raging shame still burned in his soul. He could see his relationship with the man who had unfairly bested him unfold.
Loerik, young, hungry and desperate, enlisting in the mercenary band. Already he had been much better than many of the others.
Loerik, rising in skill and prowess, until Kalarus heard talks that the black-haired swordsman might be able to beat the older mercenary. He had dismissed these talks as folly, even as stupidity. Yes, the kid was good, he'd had to give him that. But equal him? Get real here! Kalarus had years over Gabriev in swinging a sword. No one could outpace him in three short years.
Yet, no matter how he looked at it, no matter how he rationalized, the fact remained that it had happened. The young man had stood his ground and won, humiliating the former number one of their band. It burned him. No one else knew but them, yet it burned. Because Gabriev was a swordsman, and would always have the right to look down at him. And that insufferable kid would! He would! He would! He knew he'd come back to gloat! In a year? Two? Three? Probably when he'd refined his techniques even more. Kalarus would be crushed, his dignity stripped away, all of that by a kid his younger by nearly a decade!!
"Won't happen. Won't happen. Won't happen. WON'T HAPPEN!!" he howled, his frayed mind unable to fully take the stress. Other mercenaries looked at him fearfully and with pity as he walked out of the field of corpses. To damnation with them! What could they know?! His strength had been put under question, the thing that made him better than others. He no longer seemed invincible even to his own self. That was what Gabriev had done. That was it that was it that was it that was that was it. BASTARD.
He couldn't and wouldn't live that down. Not until he had Gabriev beaten. Crushed! Reduced to nothingness! DEAD! DEAD AND BURIED!!! No more doubts after that. He would be unchallenged once more. He would have the respect he deserved, from himself if no one else.
"Yup, Gabriev, yup!" he chuckled a bit shrilly, seeing everyone was avoiding him. Good. They feared his skill. Good. "You're gonna die, I tell ya! Soon, I tell ya! I'll make sure o' that, I tell ya!"
And with this maddened beginning of a guffaw, Kalarus returned to his camp, dreaming his own private dream.
* * * * * * * * * *
"FIREBALL!"
The projectile was launched expertly, a powerful ball of fiery magical energy swirled in the space between Mellinius and the towering guardian of the doors. It smashed with enough force to shake the walls, the power of its heat a testament of the strength of those who mastered Black Magic.
But when the fumes cleared, the immense iron golem, four times the height of a man and crafted to resemble a fully armoured elf. Jomekin grimaced as it swung its slender blade and smashed into the sorcerer's hastily erected wind barrier. It held, but wavered. The flows of magic wobbling as the mental strain began to take its toll. The childlike spellcaster thought quickly as the situation unfolded dramatically.
They had made it - or nearly enough - thanks to Dallomir's instructions. Past traps and dead-ends, past false trails and deadly hopes, they had come to what was undoubtedly the central vault. It was an enormous chamber, as immense as a small temple all by itself, carved into the rock itself with finesse and a style that decidedly placed it as Elven. It was a very old place - Mellinius had supposed it might have been just under five thousand years, a relic from a time when magic was a new thing even for the elves.
On the centre of the immense chamber was a dome of marble, which had its only opening in the form of a silver gate crafted to make it look as if birds and fairies were dancing about as leaves flowed among them. A work of art to be admired. Even the two guardians on each side of the door had looked marvellous in their detail, probably being made to the image of ancient elven warriors legendary when the War of Resurrection wasn't even on its way.
Of course, the awe they had shared, the hopeful glee, all that had faded to blunt fear as the two guardians had activated, and had transformed into nearly full-blown panic as they resisted the magical attacks. Definitely meddling from the First Knights. They had crafted these things to make sure no one could ever enter the dome. A last-ditch effort if one managed to bypass or survive all the traps. Magic resistant, of course, and strong as the Abyss.
Still...still, there must be some way to defeat them. The First Knights must have imputed a failsafe somewhere - a good idea when dealing with magical constructs. But then, wouldn't they have taken such means with them. Perhaps it truly was hopeless...
That was when he noticed the orbs embedded on each side of the door - one blue, one red, the same as the one on each of the golem's chest. That was it! That just had to be it! Jomekin nearly jumped for joy, and it was only when a sword and its severed forearm crashed just behind him, forcing him down painfully, that he refrained from the need. Panting, he grimly looked over his shoulder.
Dallomir had squared off against one of the guardians by himself, and had hurt it, ripping much of an arm off the thing. But the giant still walked about, ready to give its share of punishment, while the older man was visibly tiring. This couldn't go on.
Without caring about Mellinius' situation, he called his senior to him, and Dallomir launched a powerful Burst Rondo at the steel construct, actually making it stumble, before coming running over. The older mage's clothes were almost wet with sweat, and it was clear from the slight tremble that Jomekin detected that the man had depleted much of his great powers in the battle. Having aided the fool who was still desperately fighting, his own reserves were low. But if his idea worked...
"These constructs." he said hurriedly, they didn't have more than a few moments. "They are shielded against us."
"Hard not to notice. Golem animation of that magnitude...it needs two high-level spellcasters, one in Shamanism, one in Black Magic...and more than that, such a construct would need..."
"A constant power source!" Jomekin finished, seeing the Golem had stabilized and was turning towards them. He flung his arm towards the dome and the great orbs on its surface. "Like these! I sense a faint radiance. Could these be it?"
"We can only hope they are!" was the hurried response as the golem began shambling towards them once more. "Run!"
And they ran. With his smaller body, his childlike physical features, it wasn't a wonder that he was outdistanced quickly. Curse his frame, curse it! Still he managed to stay ahead of the golem, as the construct was slow and not build for very fast movements. Still, it was a near thing, and he prayed to all the gods that his hunch had been correct. He didn't want to die here! He couldn't!
Dallomir had already reached the orb, obviously sensing them, while Jomekin was still running like mad. He pointed to the one the childlike man was heading towards. "Prepare a spell! Hit the red sphere with a shamanist attack!! Shamanist, nothing else!"
Jomekin barely had the time to register the shouted order before he stumbled. Whether a snag or his fatigue had managed to land him in this predicament meant nothing. He crashed face first to the floor, breaking his nose, breath cut off. Fear shot through him, fear that reached paroxysm of panic when he heard the golem right behind him, ready to crush him. His composed mind nearly fled, yet something held within the strange man. Something at his core forced him to heave upward, channelling all of his magic at the risk of burning his own body out. The rumble was close.
"NOW, JOMEKIN!" Dallomir shouted, as he worked a spell, creating a force made of shadows. The golem was just behind him, and Jomekin screamed what might well be his last spell.
"BRAM GUSH!!" he shouted, immediately followed by Dallomir's "DARK CLAW!"
A spell of shamanism hit the red orb at the moment one of black magic hit the blue one. Energy crackled within both, an inner light shone brightly, then went still just as suddenly. Jomekin held his breath, closing his eyes, waiting for the end.
The Golem's steps could no longer be heard. Tentatively, he raised his head, twisted his body to the side, and looked behind him. The golem had stopped barely three steps from stepping on him, and the other one was standing just as still, facing a spent and dazed Mellinius. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, chuckling to relieve the fear he had felt, the childlike sorcerer pushed himself to his feet while Dallomir, just ahead, was whooping.
"Just as I thought!" the man was shouting. "We inverted the energies, forcing the constructs into a dormant state until the energies level back for the spells to work..."
"What happened? Did we do it?" Mellinius breathed, wobbling near them. His composure regained, Jomekin only gave him a sneering look before responding.
"I think that's plain. For now at least. And no thanks to your superb brand of help." he wasn't fazed by Mellinius' angry flush. Why was this one here, anyway?
"Let us go. Our power awaits us!" Dallomir announced in triumph. Without adding anything further, he walked to the entrance, and started murmuring words while holding what appeared to be a key made of glass. Within a few moments, it began to glow, until it shone like a piece of the sun.
"Spirit of all that protects, allow me to enter this sacred hall, for my need is great and my time passing." the older mage said slowly and clearly, holding the shining key aloft in front of the carved door. "I ask for thy help, for thy opening. By the Brand of Oerlus, I beseech you, open your doors and help me in my need!"
The key flashed once, then again, then again. More quickly, until it flashed so much it hurt Jomekin's eyes. And then, like drops of stars released from a cosmic jar, it burst into many pieces, striking the door, engulfing it, until it shone in a surreal gold. And opened, silently, upon magical hinges. At once, the feel of magic intensified, becoming a true gale. He couldn't believe it. His senses were overwhelmed. It almost seemed to be a living thing.
"This power. All of this is brimming with ancient magics..." Mellinius whispered in awe, and for once, the man-child had nothing to say, merely nodding his head in total bewilderment. Even their leader seemed fazed by what he felt. Before he broke into a grin of anticipation, of unadulterated pleasure.
"We have found them. The Hidden Lores. Some of them anyway. What the First Knights sealed away so carefully, is now ours for the taking! Let us go, gentlemen, and take all we can so we can save Lumeria!"
"And other things besides..." Jomekin muttered, but he followed the others as eagerly as a puppy presented with a really, really, juicy bone.
* * * * * * * * * *
Fedoniel Parrel Di Sailune, Protector of the Light, Lord of the City of White Magic, Priest Emeritus of the Order of Ceipheed and the forty-six kings following the noble steps first traced by Sai Lune the Blessed, was a patient man. Ever since his youth, and the tumultuous marriage, which he suffered through in many ways, he had kept a solid grip on situations, and had rarely let his temper get the better of his judgement.
However, today he was having difficulty restraining himself, for his eldest son, Philionel, had not returned from yet another foolish quest. Another political blunder to add to his wayward heir. And not a small one, this time! He could understand forays when no pressing matters of state were stirring. He couldn't endorse them, but at least he could understand - Phillionel had always been too adventurous for his own good.
But to be absent the day one's promised wife - the niece of another nation's leader no less! - was absolutely inexcusable.
His eyes drifted from the nobles and well-dressed courtiers waiting to either side of the throne room's wide halls, sliding over the ranks of knights holding position, in polished armour, an honour guard waiting for the person to honour. He barely saw the red carpet of rich Lizeillian Duvet, a thick, gold-embroided line from the wooden doors to the steps leading to the king's throne. He didn't care for any of this. Instead his gaze fell on the boy of fourteen who was holding himself like a young lord already. His youngest son, and the one who resembled him the most.
"Christopher. You say Philionel gave you no indication of the time he would return. What did he say?"
The young man stiffened slightly. "As I have told you, Father, Philionel only told me of his intent to venture into some of our lands to investigate."
"Investigate." the King scoffed, glad they were keeping the conversation too low for the people to overhear. "His 'investigations' have often nearly cost him his life!"
"But if I may, Father. They may have endangered him, but the risks he willingly took are paying off in the end. Already the people loved him." his youngest told him, his tone meticulously polite, yet ever so slightly defensive. "I am certain Phil...ionel has a good reason for not making this event."
He had never been able to understand it. Philionel took his personality almost squarely from his departed wife - a woman of intelligence but of burning idealism, while Christopher had inherited Fedoniel's pragmatism more than anything else, as had his second son Randy, who was busy even now learning on how to be a priest. Yet it was as if the sibling between them didn't exist. From the first days, Christopher had trotted behind Philionel instead of Randy. They had done everything together, and a solid bond had formed between them, heightened and tempered by their mother's death, only four years past.
He could admit his heir had done well then. If he had grieved, it had been privately. Instead he had focused his efforts on helping Randy and Christopher pull through. While Randy had rejected the help, Christopher had clung to his oldest brother for support. Ever since then, the young one had always taken the heir's part in all things, rarely ever disagreeing.
Children. They were even worse of a headache than the one, which had been faintly pummelling at the back of his head. He was glad he hadn't taken part in their upbringing; it would have driven him mad.
Suddenly the doors opened to admit the royal crier, who uttered in stentorian voice. "Her Royal Ladyship Valmatia Della Sar Elmekun, and her entourage!" At that he bowed, and stepped to the side. That was the signal. The Knights, already at attention, stiffened so that they looked liked statues, half of the nobility and wealth of the realm hooked their eyes towards the opened door, and trumpets sounded clear, triumphant notes in perfect symphony.
Two knights entered first, dressed in the armour and colours of Elmekia. They bowed swiftly and precisely, and stepped to the edge of the red carpet. Then she came. Valmatia, the emperor's niece. Dressed in an intricate sky blue gown embroided with gold and silver, a belt of cream-coloured silk around her abdomen, she wore her dark hair perfectly combed and straight, cascading down her shoulders, yet never hiding the circlet of gold gifted with a ruby, a sign of her royal blood. She stepped ahead of the knights, followed by they and four maids. Her step was graceful yet firm, her beauty ripe despite her age, and her face showed a dignity befitting a queen, as well as a sparkle of wit and cunning.
The king congratulated himself. She was perfect. Yes. Perfect. She would be the ideal consort for his fool of an heir to have. Perhaps she could bring some sense into the lad. He certainly had never managed to.
The small cohort passed bowing and curtsying nobility, and stopped near the marble stairs leading to the White Throne. Both knights went to one knee and the maids curtsied in reverence. Valmatia, for herself, bowed her head in respectful acknowledgement.
Pushing his runaway thoughts aside, still congratulating himself despite it, the King nodded his head gently. "Honoured Lady Valmatia, I give you welcome to the capital of Sailune. I dare hope your journey has been without incident?"
She raised her head, and her youthful face looked the king calmly in the eye. Yes, indeed, this one was born to be a queen. "You do me much honour, Your Majesty. And I am touched by your graceful concern. Indeed, my way has been freed of harm, and no danger ever muddied the tranquility of my travelling."
King Fedoniel sincerely hoped so, especially with the four hundred Sailune armsmen he had sent as an escort. But he liked the tone she had taken. Respectful, but not too much. Firm, not arrogant. He fancied himself a good judge of character, and he saw no fault yet in this one that could impede his goals. Magnificent.
"I am pleased to hear this. Think of this castle - no, this whole Kingdom - as your own. For from now on you will have the same powers as any of the royals, save for myself and my heir, Crown Prince Philionel."
Again she bowed her delicate head for a moment. "Your kindness flatters my, Your Majesty." then a slight squint took over her eyes. "If I may ask, however: where may the Crown Prince be located. I did not see him in this assembly. I see only Prince Christopher. But I hope I am not too forward. If so, please forgive me, my King."
He had known she would ask the question, had been ready and prepared for it, yet those simple words managed to put him slightly ill at ease. Was it the slight inflection in her voice, was it the very subtle change in her posture. Whatever it was, it spoke of her disapproval at her chosen husband not being present. He couldn't fault her for the thought, and that made him draw upon his many years of diplomacy to cover his eldest son's unforgivable faux pas.
"Yes, I was certain you would notice." he answered smoothly, his face perfectly serene. "The Crown Prince was sent on my orders in a routine survey to look on southern lands. It is important for him to know the land he will one day rule." he privately hoped he'd be quite dead when it happened - he didn't want to cede the throne to the boy, his whims would probably destroy the powerful country so many generations of House Sailune had worked to build.
It was a lie. She could feel it in him, he knew. She had had training like most royals had, and the people of Elmekia, living in a land where intrigue could be so dangerous, were especially good at rooting out untruths. Yet she didn't say anything on the matter, only raised an eyebrow for a single moment, indicating she didn't believe a word of what he'd just said, before bowing one more time.
"Wise words, Your Majesty. I acknowledge and accept them."
At that, Fedoniel rose from his throne, all eyes fixed on him. He descended the stairs regally, until he faced his future daughter. He asked her to turn around, which she did, facing the assembly of nobles.
"Noble of Sailune, faithful friends," he called. "I present you Crown Princess Valmatia Della, your future Queen!"
At once the nobles started to cheer, shouting things like "Long live Sailune!" and "Bless the Crown Princess!" They were all quite taken by her beauty and her noble bearing, he saw. She had, in a few minutes of presence, done what had taken his eldest son years - she had gained the admiration of the nobility. She would be perfect to keep the bumbling Philionel from doing too much damage to the country when the idealistic fool's time came.
Yes, overall he had done the best thing for his beloved Kingdom!
* * * * * * * * * *
There was a quality to loneliness. A deep quality, actually, in that you were absolutely free to rummage through your thoughts and your feelings without anyone saying a word on it. It WAS Something she had excelled at, when she had been just a young girl in a backwater village in Zefielia. Although she had grown a bit rusty after joining her Guild, training to become a sorceress and then following Fezra around, mostly keeping her out of trouble. She had not had many instances of loneliness then.
But for the past few weeks, she had had increasing amounts of practice and had gotten back in shape.
She didn't understand how it had happened, really. It had initially only been a whim on Fezra's part, to help prisoners escape. Just another escapade, like so many before then. But it had been different that time. The swordsman and the two priestesses - one of whom had been severely traumatized - went on a journey to reach Sailune, dodging both Elmekian and Sailunean patrols. Fezra and she had stuck to them. Just another whim. Except Fezra had taken a liking to stable priestess named Hallia, a sort of respect for Loerik Gabriev and sympathy for poor, hurt Narie. Things had changed, but the loneliness hadn't yet cloaked her. Although less present, Fezra still talked to her about anything pertaining to Black Magic.
And then he had come. Marcus Jaderam. A young mage, red haired, arrogant and powerful, wise and straightforward, he had taken the stage and pushed Berwen outside completely. For although Berwen was a skilled sorceress, her powers paled next to his. He was Fezra's equal, a fact he had proven when he had fought her to a draw. Her old friend had been frustrated when she's found out she hadn't actually won the fight, and yet completely taken.
It had sparked something between the two. And now she looked back to see Loerik and Hallia walking side by side, making every effort to look casual and yet each giving the other looks of longing. Fezra and Marcus were just behind them, muttering excitedly about something, making extravagant gestures. Even Philionel and Zashtla, although not being romantic towards each other, were in a friendly conversation. Everyone had a bond to each other in some ways. Except for her. Perhaps it was fate?
"Interesting. Other travellers." a voice cackled "Are you seeking the Hidden Lores? If so, you come too late."
Berwen couldn't believe it. One moment the corridor they were travelling through was empty of everything but mold and dust. The next, three men stood there - although one looked like a child with old, mature eyes. She had felt no presence, no shift of power, and they were standing what, fifteen feet in front of her? How could she have missed it? Had her mind wandered off that far?
She pushed that thought for later, instead taking in the expressions of those who had arrived by unknown means. They had a tired look, all three of them. Bruised beyond what healing could do in the field, their sorcerer outfits in tatters, and yet they had eyes that spoke of triumph, of a mission well accomplished. And for the oldest and tallest, the elegant man who had surely spoken, there was something more. A light in them that filled her with fear.
She put her hands together, summoning the power of black magic. It came, tingling around her skin, drawing on her fear and loneliness. More powerful. Was her loneliness the strength of her magic, as Fezra's temper was? Behind her, she heard movements, and a flash of bright light following the uttered 'Light Come Forth!' words. In her state of semi-trance, she vaguely heard the other stepping closer behind her.
"Are you the ones who are after the Hidden Lores?" Marcus' voice rang out coldly. This seemed to amuse the tallest of the trio.
"Yes, you are right. But not after them, mind you..." his smile became even more triumphant. "Because we have the Lores we sought."
"What?!?" Zashtla growled.
"Fiends! Don't you know the dangers of that knowledge? It was sealed for a reason!"
"A reason..." the child with adult eyes muttered. "They were sealed by idealistic fools who only saw the dangers and none of the benefits, a tired band who wanted to make sure no one ever came close to their powers."
"That's twisting history to your own advantage. The First Knights only wished for humans not to use such dangerous spells and concepts! The scriptures tell of the devastation these things wrought in the War of Resurrection!" Hallia shouted in indignation. The tall sorcerer sighed.
"Believe what you will, if it pleases you. The fact is that I have what I want, and I wish to depart. So if you will excuse us, we will take our leave."
"Ohhh, I DON'T think so, buddy!" Fezra growled, and Berwen felt magical energies being gathered for a spell. "We just can't let you walk off with those things! BURST RONDO!!"
Spheres of energy streaked past Berwen, aiming for the man standing before her. The three seemed unperturbed by the power coming their way, although one of them, the one who looked and felt most normal held a pined expression, as if the confrontation itself left a bad taste in his mouth. The one in front, however, only flung one of his arms, which she saw sported a strange armband, green and red and gold, with filaments of blues connecting each section. The effect was immediate. The Burst Rondo dissipated like snow in a strong wind.
"If that is your wish...then by all means." the man said. And at that pandemonium was joined.
Marcus fired a fireball, which was deflected as well, as the two sorcerers on both sides of the tall one fired Flare Arrows. Berwen erected a Wind Barrier, but was knocked to her knees when they impacted. The power of those spells was obviously increased somehow. Loerik sped past her with Zashtla, slashing at the two, as Marcus appeared next to her and let loose with an Elmekia Lance. The walls shook as powers met, but Zasthla's blade was deflected by the man-child's magical barrier, to be immediately knocked back by a magical gust of wind. A fireball formed in his hands, streaking towards the stunned swordswoman.
"MOS VARIM!" Came Hallia's voice in the nick of time, as a ball of magical energy absorbed the fireball. Hallia appeared on Zasthla's side, and both women faced the man-child with determined mien.
On the other side, Loerik and Philionel were squaring off against the least frightening of the three, who was nonetheless giving them quite a workout. A Flare Arrow burst towards Phil, who slapped his hands in a strange fashion, shouting. The Flare arrow burst on him, yet he emerged only slightly singed. Loerik rushed forward at that, bringing his magical blade squarely against his enemy's shield. The man staggered, but sent a pulse of magical strength, which pushed the swordsman away. Both men, however, were barely getting started, and carefully closed in upon their enemy.
It left Fezra Marcus and she to take care of the one with the frightening eyes, who stood calmly to withstand their assault. The armband he wore shrugged off conventional spells. His own attacks impacted over Berwen's Windy shield in response, sending her to her knees. Hearing her groan, he gave off an amused, superior chuckle.
"Fools. With this armband I can't be hurt by magical attacks! You efforts are useless."
Beside her, Marcus smirked. "Wouldn't be so sure of that. VICE FLARE!!" he shouted, and the huge gout of fiery energy impacted the ground near the sorcerer, knocking him off his feet. Both Marcus and Fezra rushed the man as he lay down, but he was up with surprising speed. He had his hand up and shouted the last thing one should shout in an underground corridor.
"DUG HAUT!"
Berwen barely had the time to stand before the effect of the spell worked its deadly magic. The walls cracked like thunder, splitting, pieces falling everywhere, as the place they were could shook crazily. She stumbled, and before she knew it, she had fallen next to the strange man. Events blurred in her eyes - the manic sorcerer pulling a scroll as the other two staggered to him in panic, Loerik looking upward in terror, Marcus, Fezra and Hallia with their hands towards each other.
Energy started building in her. The spell! The man was casting a spell. Frightfully she started to heave herself upward, away from them, but fate wasn't with her. A rock from the ceiling hit her behind the head hard, and brought her down. Her mind became muddled, and she barely had the time to register the three men were looking at her in surprise before a white light enveloped her.
Then consciousness fled. Darkness took over. And her thoughts became those of the void.
* * * * * * * * * *
The corridor had caved in, tons of rock crashing down, forever putting the lower chambers out of man's reach. Walls carved by elves long ago, walked by elves and later man, were no longer. Only a pile of stones remained, a testament to the destruction a sorcerer's thoughtless reaction had done.
Then the stones glowed red and burst open, revealing bruised adventurers, three men and three women, all of them wearing frantic expressions as they ran out of that section, the three with sorcerous power holding on to a magical barrier until they were in a stable part of the catacombs.
They ran long, until they couldn't help but sit, too tired to do anything else.
"That was too close. Too close." gasped a black-haired man in armour, clutching a green-haired woman who seemed as equally frightened and stunned as he. "Those bastards nearly buried us alive!"
"But we survived." another of the men, one with red hair, replied with frown "The problem is that they did as well. I saw them - phasing out just before I got to busy holding the shield."
One of the women looked up from where she was sitting. "Damn it anyway! We got trashed back there. We can't take those three together again."
"Yet we must stop them!" the biggest and youngest of the males intoned in a deep voice. "We can't let them have that power! If we do..."
"Where's Berwen?" the muscular woman asked, looking around. That stopped the conversation cold as the small team realized one of theirs was missing. Shocked faces looked at each other, horror and confusion on their faces...
.... and far away, on a plane of existence unreachable by mortals, an entity looked down and smiled to itself.
Events were set. History was ready to unfold.
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