A lone shapeless asteroid soared through the interstellar vacuum. Its crystal core suddenly churned and boiled, and hundreds of malformed bubbles rushed to the smooth side of its surface. Breaking through the crust, they shot up into the dark, but instead of catapulting into outer space, they fell back, accelerating, as if attracted by a significant gravitational force. After a few bounces, they lost their momentum and stopped. Then slowly, as if moving along an inclined surface, they rolled toward the common center of mass, merging into a formless essence. The strange new-born creature began to consume millions of ideas stored and collected in each of the essences, from different constellations and galaxies. One such idea concerned a tiny faraway planet, Terram from the Tee-Ezerk galaxy, where the first true Kakhard had once dwelled.
'The Omnigods of Terram are accelerating the local informational strength… Again…'
'Strangely, they have all chosen the same human puppet to pump with it…'
'But maybe it is not as strange as it seems…'
'Maybe it's all a part of the phenomenon we have recently discovered…'
'That's why it is necessary to keep track of the human…'
'And if we are right…'
Chapter 1. Materialized Event Part 1. Isolating MantleThere are no records regarding when the Terramians started calling him the true Kakhard. One thing is for sure – the term 'Kakhard' originates from Wonder Island, in whose language it means 'the event former'.
(I), Izearoth
Archives of Menisqour
'I know I should not say this, but sometimes I wish for nothing more than to be able to see you and Antoniy with my own eyes.'
Konseliy smiled at this confession from Friedmund.
'You've been on my side ever since I ascended the throne as a child, when I was hated by my every subject for what my mad father did to Svalen. I don't even know what would have happened to me if not for you and Antoniy.'
'What we've done was our mere duty, your grace,' Konseliy said submissively.
'Humble as ever,' Friedmund smiled, knowing Konseliy wouldn't see it. 'Sometimes I can't stand wearing it. Not only because of my sight and these terrible headaches, but also because of these strange thoughts that without it I will see something concealed from the others. As if I could use the full sight better than those who actually have it, even though they call me Friеdmund the Blind. Oh, this must sound so stupid…'
'Not at all, your grace. But you must understand that we can't allow you to take—'
'Oh, spare me the tirade.' The king dismissed Konseliy's lecture with a wave of his hand. 'I know you can't let me do this. That's why you included it in my oath. I WILL NEVER PART WITH MY ISOLATING MANTLE!'
And Friedmund never did. The Isolating Mantle was always on his shoulders, protecting him from all external auras and intrusions. It was made of Maeridian leather that suppressed every wave of information and light, and made his body look extremely blurred and much dimmer than the surrounding environment. He was like a ghost among the living, a particle of a dream in the real world. Everything he approached turned similarly blurry, for even the worst-quality Мaeridian leather could spread its translucent veil for many feet around, and his was one of the best.
His councilors took any chance to remind him what had happened to predecessors who had taken the Isolating Mantle off. Adalfarus the First had cast his off while standing at the bow of a ship. He was dragged down into the ocean by hideous sea monsters that had felt his waves of information. Ellanher the Bold threw his Isolating Mantle off when charging against the Meerilandish army – he was blinded by the sun and slain by the enemy's sword. Even his own father Hieldibald the Mad had gone insane after a whole torrent of information had entered his unaccustomed mind when his mantle slipped off of his shoulders during his wedding (maliciously rumored to be due to his twelfth pint of beer).
After ascending to the throne, Friedmund had noticed many more inconveniences the mantle caused him. It was almost impossible to remember and distinguish the blurred faces of all the new people he had to meet, and what was even worse – to understand what they all meant to say. Friedmund hadn't even known the mantle could cause such problems, until his adviser, Claudius, explained that every living creature emitted what he called the waves of information, which unlike conventional sound, conveyed pure ideas, helping mortals understand each other with much greater ease. Unfortunately for Friedmund, all such waves were blocked and scattered by his mantle, which made him the last person capable of understanding others.
'We all have to sacrifice something, Friedmund,' Konseliy said. 'I had to sacrifice my personal life to run the Special League and protect you as a child. And then as a king. But believe me, Antoniy and I would wish nothing more than to see you without this blurring veil.'
Friedmund smiled at the sincerity of his councilor. At such moments, he wished Konseliy could see him.
'It's getting too late,' Konseliy said after a while. 'I am not as strong as I used to be. If you let me, your grace, I will wish you a good night and retreat to my chambers.'
Friedmund inclined his head, then gave his permission aloud. Konseliy bowed to Friedmund – something his other advisers neglected to do – and left the balcony of the throne tower.
Left alone, Friedmund exhaled slowly and cast his glance out to where the Great Abyss of Svalen sprawled amidst of the great Northern Desert. He couldn't see it now in this gloom, but he could always feel the deep hollow that must have emerged long before the kingdom of Svalen was even founded. He often envisioned himself able to fly; springing from the balcony and soaring there with hot air in his face and dazzling light obscuring his sight. At the rim of the abyss, which stuck out from the middle of the hot velvet desert, he would hold his breath and plunge into the hole, shaking off the accumulated heat. He would dive deeper and deeper, his body sparkling with electricity and cold beads of water condensing on his skin, until contented and pacified, he would turn back to the castle. No one would ever see him or learn about his secret trip.
This was what he envisioned during the day. At night, his mental trips had quite a different tone. They were as dark and calm as tonight, a full moon shining brightly upon the starry sky. The sleepy citizens would be locked in their houses, unwilling to peer outside. Friedmund would stand on his balcony, magnetized by the moon, and then he would zip up into the air, spiraling quickly around the throne tower to get lost between the countless sharp-peaked spires and basalt rocks the old castle stood upon. The white lunar light would play gently on his young freckled face, peering out from behind the thick round towers at times. Ravens would scatter in panic, disturbed by the intrusion of a silly mortal who would roam absentmindedly between all the broad bridges, and galleries and towers of the sleeping castle.
A fierce gust of wind broke his thoughts, nearly ripping the Isolating Mantle from his shoulders. Terrified, Friedmund grabbed his arms and cast his blind gaze around, waiting for the wind to subside. But nature had other plans than allowing the Svalenish king to stay on the balcony and have his strange mental trips. Friedmund averted his gaze from the sky and retreated to the throne room, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him.
The hall was weakly illuminated by torches and parasite fairies. He thought of all the petitions, audiences, and pleas he had to listen to. Same as they always were, mundane and repetitive. His thoughts slid to the strange reports he had received from his councilors early this morning. One such report concerned the weeks-long heavy showers that were flooding some of the foothill villages near Hadis. It wasn't the flood itself that had caused the problem, but a group of extremely low clouds that had caused it to rain unceasingly over the same area for almost a month. They never swayed under the wind, nor shrank in size even after a whole day of raining. They weren't induced by convection and no wind had ever drawn them to Svalen. There was also that weird report from the south, Friedmund thought, rubbing his temple with a clenched fist. Some travelers claimed to have witnessed night falling in the middle of the day in the same woods. Two or three similar reports. Could this be some sort of local madness? An optical illusion, or maybe a bad joke? A vague, distant idea loomed in the corner of his consciousness. An unnatural night, falling over the wood. He managed to focus himself again. What could it be? There are some creatures that vaporize light, but none of them could plunge an entire forest into darkness. What else could it be then? Is it—
'Mantle?!' he cried out suddenly, feeling his heart thump madly in his chest. 'What the…'
Once again, he felt a strange, distant idea twinkling on the outskirts of his mind, scattering his thoughts into disarray. This time he could see it more distinctly. The idea was an offer, or rather a plea, urging him to take his Isolating Mantle off and throw it as far as possible.
'What does this all mean?!' he said, spinning around as if expecting someone to give him an answer. In an instant, the idea became impossible to resist, and Friedmund's trembling hands reached towards his mantle of their own accord. The mental attack… he thought in panic. How could it pierce through my Isolating Mantle and castle?! Is there a leak? Both through the isolating leather and the thick basalt walls? No, it's not possible. It's just not!' His teeth gritted.
His last thoughts grew dimly distant, and a very strange vision popped up in his head. He was in a great, shallow sea, stuffed with millions of human and non-human creatures with no visible end to their bodies. The sea turned a cloudy viscous substance, the surface bombarded with fresh waves of information, falling from the sky akin to rain. Dense swirling jets of translucent haze were shooting in the air like geysers – similar to the waves of information that had once fallen from the sky and become outdated. Is this place a purgatory? Friedmund thought, disoriented. Some eerie warped reality… or what?
He didn't like it. He could feel its aura pressing on him, pushing down the bottom of the shallow sea. He needed to get out of here. He needed to escape. Immediately. But there was nowhere to escape to. No shores and no islands. Friedmund was trapped. To his shock and disappointment, no other human seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to the abnormality of this place. They were wallowing idly in this eerie pool with waves of information piercing their brains and their bodies. They were almost merged into this hazy substance, an inseparable part of its chaotic whirl.
But Friedmund wasn't. He was a disharmony to it. A degeneracy. Only now did he notice that the strange viscous substance was scattered all around him as if repelled by an invisible barrier. It took him a moment to figure out his Isolating Mantle stopped the waves of information from coming through. Yet there was still something in the area scattered by his cloth. Translucent and feeble – it was that intrusive idea to take off the mantle that had so unexpectedly materialized in his head. He knew it wasn't part of this ocean. Nor did it fall from the sky. It was something else. Something from without. Or something of his own.
Mesmerized, Friedmund was suddenly pushed back into reality, dark and blurry. Gasping for breath, he pulled his precious Isolating Mantle off, folded it over, and laid it on the table in front of him. He knew nothing had changed, for the effect of the Maeridian leather could spread for many feet around. But unexpectedly, the intrusive idea was gone. His focus snapped back to the anomalous rain cloud and the artificial night. Even the desire to have his little mental trip was back. Everything was back. Except for that distant idea. As if he had never even felt it.
'Gods… that was close,' He exhaled slowly, leaning limp against the table. Warm sweat beaded down his forehead and tapped soundlessly against the table. His fingers were still shaking, but he was slowly taking control back. What sort of madness could that be? he thought, squinting suspiciously at the old, blurred piece of Maeridian leather. Pensive, he picked it up and twirled it in his fingers. It must be that sort of delusion that comes once in a lifetime. It comes out of nowhere or from some parallel universe. When you least expect it. It appears to vanish and never disturb you again.
'Never… ever…' he said as his entire body stiffened.
And then, for a reason Friedmund would never fathom, he threw his Isolating Mantle away.
An immense torrent of light dashed to his side, making his body look sharp and colorful for the first time in his life. His shirt turn bronze-brown, trousers grayish-black, and skin pale pink, soaking up colors from the dim light of the candle. His eyes wide open, Friedmund fidgeted slowly as a long black silhouette escaped from his feet, creeping further up to the top of the wall. A… shadow? he thought perplexedly. He'd never seen one in his life before for in his 'blurred world': all shadows and colors would merge and dissolve into an endless gray. Confused, he glanced back at his hands and fingertips, realizing they were covered with curves and hollows as if carved by a tiny miraculous chisel. Is it only me who has these over my fingers or is it the same for all humans? he thought, feeling awkward and stupid.
He turned back to the candle to see his hands better, and his unaccustomed eyes were dazzled by a flash of white light. Squinting in pain, Friedmund swung around. For the first time in his life, he felt waves of information break into his unprotected consciousness. Dozens of unfamiliar sensations flashed into his head, prickling and tickling his nerves and his cells: happiness and anger, lust and fear, surprise and sickness. The feelings and emotions of the faraway people alternated so quickly his head felt as though it was splitting in two. His hands shook and breath hardened, sticking in his throat. Trembling, Friedmund leant against the table so as not to fall. He'd never felt so weak and exposed before, but at the same time he had no intention of giving up and running after his mantle. Not yet at least. He was far too intrigued by what his inner voice was telling him.
The cacophony of unfamiliar sensations had only slightly mitigated when new visions began to pop up in his head. They were only half shapes and colors in the beginning, stuck somewhere between a real form and amorphous bulk. Friedmund didn't know whether this was a normal thing for a human without a Maeridian mantle to see. He wasn't sure of anything at all anymore.
But then he saw something persistent. A distant glowing silhouette of their planet, shrouded in a cold, lifeless vacuum. It looked as though, at any second, it could tumble down into nothingness, get blown away by a sudden gust of wind or be crushed into pieces by a meteorite. For a split second Friedmund felt infinitely feeble and useless, like an earthworm whose entire life hung by a thread that could snap at any second. They were so exposed on this little planet, bombarded endlessly with the waves of information and light that pierced so easily through a thin layer of atmosphere, washing over mortals like rain. He could see the information waves were growing denser and stronger, turning into thousands of squirming tentacles, probing and prowling their planet, gathering somewhere in the north. Not somewhere in the north, he realized in terror. They are gathering here – in Svalen, right over my capital.
'Gods…' he moaned hoarsely. He gathered his last strength to call for help. 'Guards!'
His cry made dozens of feet run, clink, and tramp, and soon the doors to the throne room burst open. His eldest adviser, Konseliy; Antoniy, the Defender of the Castle; his entire bodyguard, and half of the advisers stood there in the doorway with their mouths and eyes wide open as if they had just seen a ghost.
'My King! Your mantle! Why did you take it off?' they all screamed in terror and reproach, searching for the old Maeridian leather.
Friedmund felt a sudden rage boil inside him. How dare they speak to me as if I'm a child? Don't they know who they are talking to? My father gave them their positions, or have they forgotten?
'Shut up!' he roared, slamming his fist against the table. 'Bring the chief of the Special League to me. Now!'
Part 2. ErnärtIn the middle of the 2nd millennium BGM the true Kakhard established the first known thaumaturge order 'The League of Finders', which collapsed into three smaller orders after his death: Northern Order, the Brotherhood of the Island and Ghost League that belonged to Draugar-Eyan.
(I), Izearoth
Archives of Menisqour
'Clean out the place, Ernärt. And that will do for today,' Heimdallr the blacksmith said, throwing his hammer away.
The blonde-haired apprentice wiped her soot-smeared face clean and glanced at the retreating blacksmith. She loved Heimdallr and watched him with both admiration and compassion. She knew how hard his life had been since his parents had died almost forty years ago. Left alone with his newborn sister at eleven years old, he'd had to sell their old hut outside the city and move to this little forge. Young and inexperienced, Heimdallr consequently lost the regular customers his blacksmith father had acquired. This happened shortly before King Hieldibald's madness reached its peak, causing unrest in all of Svalen. Bandits, smugglers and assassins had invaded the capital, causing food prices to rise. Heimdallr had been forced to watch his little sister starve. Her skin blistered and her beautiful blonde hair dropped out. She stopped sleeping, which made her extremely weak and aggressive. Heimdallr watched the life drain out of her fragile body until she passed away two days before she turned six. Her death greatly affected Heimdallr. He became a hermit who drowned all his pain in endless hours and days of work.
More than thirty years had passed since then. The blacksmith had finally acquired the skills of his father, and now could afford an apprentice: Ernärt. She had worked with him for more than ten years. Unfortunately, Heimdallr's passion and hard work were not enough to restore the reputation and contacts his father had had. Big orders were going to his competitors and neighbors who descended from famous blacksmith dynasties. Ernärt knew her master was no less skilled than any of them, and she also knew age made it difficult for him to work as hard as he had before.
But everything had changed when the new year came. A few days before he turned fifty, their smithy was unexpectedly visited by King Friedmund himself. Although half-blind in his Maeridian Mantle, the king liked the handicrafts of the master, and ordered a sword and a helm for his personal collection. His visit made Heimdallr famous throughout the kingdom and soon large orders came in from the richest citizens of Magnus-Urbe. He worked days and nights without a break to keep up. Ernärt saw how exhausted he was by the end of the day and how difficult it was for him to keep the pace at his age. But she also knew that after all these years he was happy at last. And this was all that mattered to her.
'It's done, master!'
He heard the soft voice of Ernärt and turned around at once. The old wooden floor was clean, instruments back on their shelves, and the old anvil shone as new once again.
'Good, child. Now I think we could fetch some quenching oil from downstairs,' he said, his head jerking toward the basement.
Ernärt nodded and disappeared quickly beneath the trapdoor. As she climbed down the ladder, she thought of the day she had first met Heimdallr. It was a rainy evening almost eleven years ago. The streets of Magus-Urbe were empty, drowning in a great rippling puddle that covered half of the capital. Ernärt was with a group of vagabonds, when a strange twinkling light seeped out of the walls of the nearest smithy and attracted her attention. She had witnessed glowing wisps before and some of her fellow tramps suggested she was seeing waves of information. This made the rest of the group laugh, for it was a well-known fact that only thaumaturges and loonies could see light where there was none.
Ernärt detached herself from the band and moved toward the smithy, peering into a glowing cloud that hid behind the window. She was soaked to the bone. The louvers burst open and the glowing cloud turned into a dour, bulky man who peered at her as if he had seen her before. Ernärt jumped back in shock, stumbling on a stone and toppling into a puddle. It took her a moment to resurface again. (She was so small she could have actually drowned in there.) She prepared to haul herself up, when the tall red-bearded blacksmith materialized over her, cloakless and hunching. Despite his brutal features, his face looked disconcerted and pitiful, as if he had hurt her really, really badly, and was desperately hoping she might find a way to forgive him. They stared at each other silently for almost a minute, until the man reached towards her and Ernärt put her little hand in his…
Ten years had passed since Ernärt became his apprentice and adoptive daughter. She spent every single day with him in the smithy, helping with forging and keeping house. She scarcely left the place, for the smithy had become her true home and sanctuary. She worked twelve hours a day just like her father, but never complained about her harsh life and never wanted more. She was living her father's life, dreaming to make the respected dynasties of Magnus-Urbe pass his handicrafts down through the generations. She knew Heimdallr deserved recognition like no other blacksmith in Svalen, and she was going to help him get it.
Mulling over her life, Ernärt touched the ground, stepping into a puddle of a slimy liquid that must have leaked from the barrels in the opposite corner of the basement. She was wiping it against the floor when the space shook, grumbled and dust crumbled from the ceiling. The trapdoor had just slammed shut. Outstanding, she thought to herself, groping for the ladder in the dark. She stepped into another puddle, then a third, before weak waves of light broke into her shelter. Marveled, Ernärt squeezed her eyes shut, but even through her closed eyelids she saw two glowing wisps floating outside their smithy. A surge of excitement rushed through her spine; she hadn't seen glowing silhouettes for years! She had even begun to think she had imagined them when she was younger. But now, here they were. The ghostly shapes were spinning and bobbing, circling around their smithy like satellites. Ernärt watched their beautiful dance until they stopped at the front door and soared inside. She began to discern the outlines of the room upstairs: anvil, oven, instruments and walls. The glowing shapes stopped overhead, and the next moment she noticed a crimson stream, gushing in the world of lunar-white. Then a second red stream appeared, and a Heimdallr-like figure fell to his knees, clutching at his heart and neck.
Ernärt gasped, the realization of what had happened dawning on her. 'Fa…' she tried to call for Heimdallr, but only hoarse wheeze came out of her mouth.
The figure of her father collapsed into a quickly growing blood puddle. For a few seconds, Ernärt saw nothing but the silhouette of a crimson heart. The pulse was getting slower and slower until it dissolved into the void. Her hands sliding against the wall, Ernärt sank to the concrete floor. The visions looked only slightly more real than a dream. But deep inside, she knew her father was dead.
Ernärt didn't see the glowing silhouettes relocate to the trapdoor, but they smashed against it, and a flash of light washed over her for a moment. Terrified, she crawled back to the opposite corner, casting quick glances sideways. The trapdoor thundered again, but no light came in. Surprised, Ernärt looked back at the ceiling. One of the cloud-figures toppled down unconscious, while the other rolled back to the entrance. Three armed men appeared right above the place where Ernärt hid. The shocked, cloudy figure pulled a sabre off his sheath, slashed the closest man on the face and punched the neck of the second with his long thorny tail. Both wounded men bounced back: one holding his blood-smeared face and the other clutching at his blood-gushing neck. And both fell instantly.
Confidence returned to the creature – it turned decisively to the last standing man with a bold, eerie smile on its face. The room filled with waves of action, which died instantly as if wrapped in a Maeridian mantle. The man used a moment of confusion to throw a flask of hazy liquid into the monster's face. Yelling desperately in pain, the creature toppled over and rolled toward the anvil. The man pulled his sword out and lunged forward to finish it. The room filled with a dazzling white flash, forcing the agent to avert his eyes. When he turned back, he saw nothing but a dissipating white mist.
'I can't believe it. The king was right about the thefts!' Ernärt heard the voices coming from the room upstairs. 'And we thought he'd gone mad after pulling that Maeridian mantle off! How is this even possible?!'
A short pause hung in the room.
'What did they steal?' The second voice came, more reasonable and calm, ignoring the question of his comrade.
'Don't know. There were only instruments in the forge. The only jewelry was on the neck of the apprentice. Some polyhedron figurine made of silver. But she is gone...'
'How could you have known they would attack this exact forge?'
Another short pause.
'A jet of informational waves escaped from this place,' the voice said, sounding rather puzzled. 'I have never seen smithies leak information. So much metal.'
A moan came from somewhere nearby.
'He is dying, O'Dreeaen,' the first agent said, bending over their injured colleague. Blood was gushing from his neck.
'Take him to the nearest tower – I will chase the bandits. The rascals couldn't have gone too far,' O'Dreeaen shouted from outside the smithy.
Left alone, the agent grabbed his wounded comrade and rushed into the night street.
The azure silhouette of the front door resurfaced, revealing fat slanting raindrops pattering the porch of the smithy. It was raining. Just as it had been eleven years ago when Ernärt had first come to Magnus-Urbe.
Part 3. The ThaumaturgeThe Great Tempest broke out in the north of Magnus-Terram in spring of 907 BGM. Local thaumaturges claimed it had an artificial nature, provoked by the first true Kakhard himself who wanted to attract the attention of the legendary undersea civilization of Dzhr-Ashar, whose non-linear wave patterns interested him so much.
(I), Izearoth
Archives of Menisqour
Professor Claudius was on top of the tallest tower of Kakhard-Toon – one of the most prominent and ancient schools for event formers in entire Magnus-Terram. His snow-white mantle fluttered gracefully under a strong northern wind, as did his white goatee. He leaned on his healthy left leg and contemplated the wonderful torrents of information breaking in from beyond the immense blue sky. The torrents were gradually increasing in size, turning into a glow that filled the whole space between the sky and the earth. Wizards called it an informational storm and thought that it came from the sun, together with the waves of light.
But Claudius knew otherwise. Being a thaumaturge, he could see the non-linear part of the storms, along with their artificial nature. The thaumaturges ascribed their creation to the so-called Supremes. Nobody knew who these Supremes were – gods, humans or some sort of aliens. Some said they had come to Terram before the Great Migration, others believed they were here even before the arrival of the first true Kakhard. The informational waves of Supremes were very different to those of mere mortals. The shape was more elegant and sophisticated, with an incomparably large spectral range. They shimmered with a multitude of colors, which invoked a harmony of audio and tactile feelings among mortals throughout the vast territories of the planet. The waves changed the external patterns and inner structure of everything they touched. On the surfaces of the earth, stones, and trees, they left scarcely visible lines, ridges and furrows. Light and information reflected in a very special way at such surfaces, causing the creatures they reached to experience unusual emotions and intentions. Today, as the professor could see, it was excessive curiosity.
A weak perturbation reached Claudius from the courtyard below. He peered down suspiciously, detecting three gray mantles with pitch black ravens depicted on their backs – the symbol of the Special League. Forgetting about the informational storm, Claudius turned away from the sky and hobbled down to meet the guests.
As he came closer, he recognized O'Dreeaen among them – a young brown-haired chief of the Special League and an original wizard. At his right strode the local pathfinder Grey-Hawk, who had a deep, fresh scar across his face. The third agent was unknown to Claudius.
'Welcome to Kakhard-Toon!' he greeted them from afar. 'My name is Claudius, and I am the headmaster of the school. Though, you should know who I am. How can I help you?'
'We have an urgent edict from the king, Professor,' O'Dreeaen said, pulling a scroll of parchment from his inner pocket. 'The four stelas of Svalen are to be unsealed. One of your disciples must come with us and help fulfil the task.'
The professor slowed his pace, peering perplexedly at the agents. He knew this was the fourth order the king had made in the last twenty-four hours and the most senseless among them. 'There must be some misunderstanding, gentlemen. The stelas are nothing but mean pieces of rock where some old things of the first true Kakhard were bricked up. They don't even have historical interest. Someone must have misled the king. I am sure I can persuade him to withdraw the edict, if only I could have some time,' he said, smiling.
'There is no time, Claudius,' O'Dreeaen said dismissively. 'The order is urgent. It must be implemented straight away. Now, lead us to the specialists who can help us with the task.'
Claudius glanced at the expressionless Grey-Hawk and back at O'Dreeaen, who shook the roll of parchment idly in his hand. There was definitely something very wrong going on in the castle. 'Could you please hand me the order, honorable O'Dreeaen?' he spoke at last, reaching out his hand.
O'Dreeaen shrugged and transferred the scroll to Claudius. While the professor read, the agent took a chance to study a small element earring the old thaumaturge had on his right ear. It was made of white gold, though the most important detail was lodged at its bottom – a miniature white hurricane that spun clockwise on a small golden stand, bouncing in place from time to time. The wild element. O'Dreeaen knew all students and professors of Kakhard-Toon wore such earrings. He could also have had one if he'd become a disciple of Kakhard-Toon. He'd rejected it to become an agent of the Special League and serve his young King Friedmund during the most dramatic period in Svalen's history.
'Yes,' the professor said at last, still looking over the parchment. 'So unexpected that the king released the edict without even consulting his thaumaturge adviser. Me.'
He rolled up the parchment and turned back to the agents. 'Will be pleased to help you, gentlemen. Unfortunately, there are not so many event formers at the school today, and what is even worse, only thaumaturges can unseal the stelas. At the moment we have only one. Please follow me,' he said, motioning for the agents to follow his lead.
Stormy weather reigned over Kakhard-Toon with a strong wind tearing through the leaves. The school for event formers was the oldest structure in Svalen, made of artificial-looking white basalt, except for its four towers, which were built of the miraculous element stone that had a very special reaction to the changes in nature. The red fire tower flared each time a natural fire broke out nearby. In the rain, the azure water tower transformed into a huge gurgling fountain, shooting torrents of water hundreds of feet upwards. During strong, impetuous wind, the air tower would become a dense whirlwind like it had today. When earthquakes or sandstorms occurred in Svalen, the surface of the earth tower cracked into a thousand pieces, turning into a great glowing mosaic.
All over the ground, trees and even inside the arbitrarily scattered cauldrons were phosphorescing splashes of every color, a decaying product of the parasite fairies – tiny mold-like creatures that nourished upon the remnants of thaumaturgy. The flowers of the elements grew right on top of such smears. Some flowers had forks of flames for petals, others drops of dew, dripping in trickles and gurgling pleasantly under the burning sun, or half-transparent spheres of air filled with particles of yellow pollen, tree bark and floundering insects. They blossomed when a native element was raging nearby. Today it was the flowers of air.
They soon reached a great green meadow, sprawled on the side of the school. Scattered across it were huge battle polygons. Each polygon was rimmed with a locked chain of hillocks, overgrown with lichen and moss. In one was a small quivering hurricane, shooting pillars of ice and water in every direction. Two younglings danced at its foundation, slipping and flailing, their beautiful parasite-fairy-glowing mantles dripping with slime.
'Legend says that light was the first wave-like substance to come to life after the formation of the universe,' Claudius spoke as they approached the students. 'It could do things that no other particle could: reach the farthest corner in the rapidly-expanding universe, highlight the darkest system and supply the coldest planet with heat. Great was its joy and self-content, but only until the intelligent creatures appeared. Consisting of cells and neurons, they learnt to produce information – something waves of light had never been capable of. Envious of the success of mortals, the particles of light mutated into waves of information, hoping to surpass the creatures. They filled the whole universe with signal, only to realize that their existence made absolutely no sense outside the consciousness of intelligent organisms. Furious at first, the particles of information had no other choice but to comply and let mortals use them in their brains to exchange knowledge. Time passed and the symbiosis of intelligent creatures and half-self-conscious particles produced the third form of wave – waves of action. These are the kind of waves that we in Kakhard-Toon utilize to form events.'
'Here is an example of such event,' Claudius said, pointing at an ice-water hurricane towering over the polygon. He snapped his fingers ostentatiously, making a cone of light shoot from the students toward the sky. 'The waves of action are invisible for the mundane, so I sprayed some light on top of it. You can see how these waves transmit action to the particles of water and oxygen, altering their route and combining them into a vortex. To my deepest disappointment, this event here is mean and unstable. Marina and Anaximan have always been daydreamers. Wishing to become thaumaturges, though they were born as wizards. They missed lectures. They chased non-patterned waves of action they couldn't fully comprehend. It did them no good in the end, for they neither became thaumaturges, nor did they succeed in wizardry.'
'I could never understand the difference between you and the wizards,' O'Dreeaen said, shaking his head. 'Anyway, why are there so few thaumaturges in Svalen? It is only you and the Defender of the Castle who are known to the kingdom.'
'Because both schools for event formers of Svalen release only one thaumaturge every three to four years, in contrast to the hundreds of wizards that graduate from Kakhard-Toon every year, honorable O'Dreeaen,' Claudius said, inclining his head.
'But why do we need them at all?' the agent asked again, rather puzzled. 'I have heard the majority of thaumaturges are not even strong enough to compete with an average-skilled human wizard.'
'Oh, that is true,' the professor agreed. 'But the reason for that is in our educational system, which was designed for wizards and is not quite suitable for thaumaturges. You must understand that the connection to nature is not the same for these two kinds of event formers. And what's even worse, very often thaumaturges need decades, maybe even centuries to explore their very basic capabilities. Some never manage to do so.'
'Which means they are useless. Why do we waste so much time and money on them?'
A pause hung in the air. 'Thaumaturges feel, think and form events in an un-patterned, nonlinear way. Their simple thoughts invoke a whole spectrum of ideas they can't fully comprehend. Their most basic feelings have so many shades and colors that even their own bodies cannot process them. Whereas wizards think, feel and form events in a narrow spectrum line, which is a lot easier to tame and study. The life of a thaumaturge is chaos, especially for younglings, whose thoughts and spontaneous waves jump from one side of an enormous spectrum to the other, unable to settle down and focus. That's why an average wizard is usually much more powerful than a thaumaturge and that's why every young thaumaturge needs an experienced thaumaturge master who will help him exploit his basic skills.'
Claudius finished his lecture, but he could see the agents didn't understand it. Instead, they were staring at the air and water wizards who had finished their training and were now sneezing and coughing in their blue-green glowing polygon.
'Every environment, where a strong trace of wizardry or thaumaturgy was preserved, will very soon be populated by parasite fairies. This is why the mantles of these disciples glow lunar-white-blue, and this is why they are sneezing – the parasite fairies might break into your lungs, if there is enough trace.
'The student we are looking for is right behind this chain of rocks, gentlemen,' Claudius said, pointing at one of the numerous polygons with his finger.
When they got there, the first thing that caught their eye was a red fire element mantle lying on the opposite side of the toroidal chain of rocks. A carpet of molten lava was sprawled at the bottom of the polygon, burnt not more than a few minutes ago. Curtains of dense white smoke were shooting up from below, obscuring the opposite side of the polygon.
Suddenly, a human head appeared from beneath the bubbling lava, followed immediately by a naked torso. The flakes of a dazzling red fire shot into the air, obscuring the slender body of a student until the element mantle zipped from the opposite side of the polygon and wrapped itself around his waist. The molten rocks drifted, creating a narrow passage, and the still-glowing adept strode forward, right to the bewildered agents of the Special League.
They could see his face much better now. He was a young adept of fire, of average height, with alabaster-white skin. His eyes were black, and he had similarly black shoulder-length hair. His mantle was glowing crimson red, and a tiny animated flame was dancing at the bottom of his element earring.
'What the hell was that?!' O'Dreeaen snapped, nodding toward the bubbling lava the young thaumaturge had resurfaced from.
The adept closed the remaining distance silently, placing himself right between the agent and his thaumaturge master. He didn't like the tone of O'Dreeaen. 'Meditation,' he said, looking at the agent with his deep-set eyes.
The head of the adept was shaking from side to side, as if he were insane or had just used some psychedelic. O'Dreeaen also noted his light Meerilandish accent.
'Aneralt is our first thaumaturge magister in four years. He will assist you in your quest,' the professor said and turned to the adept. 'I've never let you leave the school before, but today I am going to make an exception. The gentlemen have an urgent edict from the king, and there is no one but you who can fulfill it.'
O'Dreeaen passed him the order, and Aneralt read it repeatedly, spreading his hands in mild disbelief. The kings had rarely ordered anything of Kakhard-Toon, least of all to touch the stelas of Svalen.
'Yes. I think I can do that. If the king says so,' he murmured at last, his eyes still roaming over the edict.
A bundle of informational waves blew from the western slope of the polygon, where two young adepts resurfaced from behind the chains of rocks. Still coughing, they stared shyly at the agents and professor.
'Marina and Anaximan…' Aneralt said, raising his eyes from the parchment. 'You begged me so much over the last year to show you non-patterned event forming. Asked me to teach you thaumaturgy or show how to weave a real nonlinear wave. Would you like to see it today?' he asked in earnest.
Dumbfounded, the students looked at each other and then back at Aneralt with smug smiles on their childish faces.
Part 4. Field of FearThe first true Kakhard paid the closest attention to the emergence of the so-called hermit settlements. Being in close contact with all of their architects, he kept a whole heap of records on their progress, as well as one separate record of his own thoughts and ideas on how to construct a perfect hermit settlement.
(I), Izearoth
Archives of Menisqour
Five riders trotted through the green sloping meadows of Northern Plains with the sharp-peaked towers of Kakhard-Toon disappearing behind their backs. The grass beneath their horses was wet and slippery, while the gentle birdsong of starlings had given way to a light pattering of rain. The agents pulled their hoods on as the first raindrops streaked down their faces, but the adepts of Kakhard-Toon didn't react. Only the wild raincloud in the earring of Marina had slightly increased in size and displayed a much more thunderous shade.
All the way to the stela, O'Dreeaen studied the spontaneous waves of action emitted by each of the adepts. He could see they were more intense than his own, although still too weak to invoke any significant changes to nature. Only the spontaneous waves of Aneralt would conjure feeble fire sparkles and short-lived water jets, but even they were barely visible and had materialized only once in half an hour. O'Dreeaen knew these spontaneous waves of action emerged randomly in the heads of all event formers, just like spontaneous waves of information emerged in the heads of all mortals, bringing memories of the distant past, regular thoughts, or just some arbitrary ideas and visions.
'Why do you wear these earrings?' he asked at last, looking at the raining wild cloud at the bottom of Marina's earring. The tiny element looked like a miniature copy of a real cloud, fixed rigidly half an inch below her earlobe. Its shape and shade were smoothly changing from transparent white to menacingly dark with bolts of lightning raging all over its surface. It looked rather enchanting, and it was little wonder so many mortals dreamed of acquiring one. 'I've been told they don't possess any special properties. Or do you wear them just to distinguish yourselves from neighboring event formers?'
'It is a tradition,' Aneralt replied, his head still madly shaking, which only reassured O'Dreeaen the adept was a lunatic. 'It distinguishes us from the adepts of Snyorgaard and Meeriland, who wear bracelets and rings with a wild element in their gemstones. I don't know how they manage to lock wild elements inside their stones though. You were misinformed about their properties, agent. Wild elements can be quite helpful to their thaumaturge masters. Mine often gives me flames when I most need them.'
'Claudius told us that you thaumaturges can communicate with the spirits of nature. Could you do it now? Could you hear the spirits of rain – nixies?' Grey-Hawk asked, his voice full of wonder.
'No,' the adept confessed, his pensive look wandering across the dark clouded sky. 'The rain is too weak to invoke any significant number of nixies. But soon we might see some.'
Disappointed, Grey-Hawk didn't ask any more questions, and Aneralt returned to his thoughts. The agents are extremely curious today. I wonder why, he thought, searching for the traces of the last informational storm: patterns left on the surfaces of the earth, stones, and trees that absorbed one set of informational waves and reflected the other, programming humans for particular thoughts and emotions. Unfortunately, they were all buried under thick wet grass. We should have gone for the track, he thought, smiling. Anyway, why did the professor take the edict so seriously, instead of persisting with talking with the king? Nobody had cared about these stelas since their creation in 497 AGM. Claudius and Stromgaard had erected them to hide some of the disclosed Izearoth items, retrieved after his death. Broken jewelry, strange polyhedron figurines, colorful pieces of glass – all unusual items found in the tower of the first true Kakhard were considered sacramental. Generations of thaumaturges had spent half a millennium trying to exploit their properties. But all in vain. The items didn't even emit any waves of information. Izearoth must have left dummies. A greatly mystified hoax for the World of Thaumaturges, so longing for power and knowledge. But… he thought, that must have been a pretty good occupation for this bunch of idiots.
'The professor suggested going through the Field of Fear, which will shorten the road to the stelas,' he said at last, approaching the agents.
'We were told to collect the items as quickly as possible. If the Field of Fear shortens the road, then we'll take it,' O'Dreeaen said indifferently. 'As far as I remember, that field is a small glade – all that remains of the great Grim Wood. I've passed by it many times yet have never felt any aura of dread or panic. Humans like to spread silly fairy tales, thaumaturge, don't they?'
Aneralt knew the agent was being cunning again, as an aura of terror hung over the enchanted field and beyond. 'Sometimes men exaggerate. But this is not the case,' he asserted. 'Humans and some other creatures have been disappearing in those areas. That's why travelers prefer to bypass it.'
'I think with such great wizards as you and your friends, we have very little to worry about.'
'Worrying is never good, O'Dreeaen, as it distracts from concentration,' Aneralt replied, ignoring being called a wizard instead of a thaumaturge.
'We don't need thaumaturges to tell us that,' the agent snapped coldly, jerking his reins away.
They didn't meet any obstacles on their way to the first stela. The only anomaly they encountered was a shallow churning puddle of mud that formed in the middle of the track and ran parallel to the Field of Fear. It foamed and bubbled under the rain as if boiling from inside, while small clots of clay from its bottom rolled all over its surface like an animated element.
A few hours later they had reached the place. The stela was a huge basalt stone that glistened with shades of azure-silver and stretched dozens of feet upwards. It warped and deflected the greater part of the external waves, including the sunlight, which made it look extremely blurred and dim as if it was wrapped in a thick sheet of Maeridian leather. One single word was carved along its height – ՀՈՒՐ ('hur'), meaning 'crude fire' in the language of Wonder Island. The letters were so densely impregnated with fire thaumaturgy that the glowing light of parasite fairies could be seen during the day. The entire field was buried in verdure, while a small circular area around the stela was scattered with slick medium-sized stones. Dozens of small greenish lizards were popping up, running toward the closest stone and unexpectedly disappearing into the gaps between the rocks.
'I shall enter the stela alone,' Aneralt spoke, turning to the agents. 'Outside, there is an isolating barrier that wraps and deflects every sort of wave, which is why you can only unseal it from within.'
'Do your job, Aneralt. We'll wait for you here,' O'Dreeaen said coldly, not looking at the adept. He was studying the blurred glow on the surface of the protruding stone which seemed to be rippling softly at the slightest disturbance.
Aneralt slid from his saddle and moved toward the stela. Up close, it seemed less blurry. Rather excited, he leaned against it, making a narrow entrance open at its foundation. He hurried inside, making the small entrance close behind his back. Aneralt found himself locked in a cold, pitch black chamber. The smooth, polished walls tapered into a circular cone that ended with a small round aperture. Single rays of light broke into the chamber but could barely disperse the darkness reigning inside.
Aneralt felt a strange wave of tranquility sparkling at his feet and rising up to the tips of his hair. Every single thought was washed from his head, and for a fleeting moment he even forgot the reason he had come. He felt as though he were an inseparable part of the chamber, ready to fly away if the slightest wind blew, or turn into a rippling puddle if it rained. The air he inhaled became part of himself, and the ground he stood upon was a continuation of his feet.
Isolation… he thought. The thoughts and the feelings of mortals are nullified here. Their informational waves of joy, fear and hate that circulate over the planet, pattering at our bodies and forcing our own fields and mental barriers to reorganize and counteract are gone. That's why it is so pure. Like in outer space, he thought, breathing deeply, while caressing the walls of the chamber with trembling fingers.
He prepared the unsealing event in his head, ready to retrieve the relic from the depths of the rock. Dead silence gave way to a deafening whistle, and a mighty shock wave rushed through the adept to the top of the cone, shaking the entire complex. The chamber filled with purple fire flakes that shot from the aperture at the top, while similar flakes sparkled from inside his element mantle. The temperature inside rose and the stela began to melt like a candle.
The agents and the adepts of Kakhard-Toon who watched from outside saw a single flame shooting hundreds of feet up from the top of the stela. The whole place began to shimmer, changing in color from dim gray to dazzlingly white. The letters on the stone burned crimson, shooting sparks in every direction. The top of the complex erupted and trickles of lava dripped down on the wet green grass. From far away the stela looked like a blossoming fire element flower, dew pouring over its smooth edges.
The unsealing event was over. The huge flame began to subside, and the strange shimmering disappeared. The place was back to normal, except for the roof of the complex which was completely destroyed. Aneralt glanced at the hole at the top, where an old silver chain was floating. Forming another event, he made it fall into his palm and, held it up to his face. This was it. A relic of Izearoth. One of the very few that had ever been seen by a living mortal. It took Aneralt a moment to realize there was something else hanging on the chain. Barely visible, there was a small oval locket, made of the same wave-repelling alloy as the surface of the stela, only of a much purer compound. He tried to pierce its hazy veil, but the only thing he could make out was the red-gem head of a dragon with its tail curled into a shell.
So weird, he thought. Why make part of the relic blurred? Was it created that way by Izearoth? Or was it added by some other event former that erected the stela centuries later? Anyway. The item is ours. He hurried back to his friends.
'Thaumaturge!' said the astonished voice of O'Dreeaen, who looked at him as if he were a ghost. 'What happened to your clothes?! And to your wild element – it blazes much stronger now!' The two other adepts watched him with pure admiration, spellbound by the scattering non-patterned waves that sent an electrifying prickling sensation across their bodies, so similar to sexual excitement.
The higher magister's hair, mantle, and even eyeballs glowed bright red, making him look like molten glass. 'I've absorbed a dense trace of the fire thaumaturgy that the parasite fairies nourish upon. I can shake it off. And the wild element rages stronger because of the thaumaturgy I've just conjured. It will calm down by itself,' he said. 'The bracelet is ours; we can go back now.'
O'Dreeaen continued to watch the way Aneralt's body gradually lost its glow. He finally answered, 'You are right, we have no more business in here.' He swung his horse toward the capital. Anaximan and Marina glanced at Aneralt, and, after the higher magister nodded to them, they all followed O'Dreeaen.
Two hours later they were back at the Field of Fear, which was different now. The opposite side of the trail had turned into a huge, stinking swamp, while the Field of Fear itself remained dry, as if there was no rain at all. The bubbling puddle of animated lumps of mud they had seen on their way to the stela was now smooth. To the right of it stood a cobalt; a huge ten-foot-tall stone sentinel with a spherical head and cylindrical limbs. In place of eyes, it had two black holes that dripped gray sand. Its head followed the riders as they trotted along the trail.
The wizards slid from their saddles and moved slowly in its direction.
'What is this?!' Anaximan exclaimed. 'The lumps of mud we saw on our way to the stela could have been the result of the powerful aura blowing from the Field of Fear. But what on earth could have animated this?!'
'This can't be a natural spirit,' Marina said. 'The rain spirits are smaller than a human palm. Fire spirits are less than a foot tall, and air spirits and stone spirits are the size of big dwarves. But this is something… unbelievable!'
Both adepts glanced at Aneralt. He ignored them and started to pace around the cobalt, probing its field and informational trace. Nothing. As if it were a lonely soulless rock, carved by a crafty miraculous hand. The cobalt stared blankly at the Field of Fear, sand still dripping from its empty eye sockets. Aneralt jerked the hand of the cobalt a few times, but the creature didn't react.
The royal agent whispered something in O'Dreeaen's ear.
'Grey-hawk says he doesn't see animals anywhere,' O'Dreeaen told the adepts. 'Nor does he think the wind blows naturally from across the trail. What do you say?'
Aneralt was silent, but he didn't feel anything extraordinary. There was a weak background signal coming from the wood, but fields and woods were usually full of auras and waves emitted by dryads, parasite fairies, and satyrs, reflected repeatedly at the trees as an echo. He looked back at the cobalt. 'What the…' he whispered, staring at a huge translucent whirlwind that was beginning to grow just above the stone spirit. For a split second he thought it was a wild element of air. But after turning to his wizard fellows, he realized none of them could see it. It seemed it was only perceivable for thaumaturges. A materialized event?! he guessed, his jaw dropping in disbelief.
A materialized event hadn't been seen for centuries, maybe even millennia. Very long ago, when an important event was anticipated by nature, it could generate the phenomenon as some sort of informational condensation, like water vapors condensed into clouds and clouds condensed into rain. When an event materialized, the information would gather and gather, until finally, just like a cloud growing so heavy it spills rain, the event would collapse, pouring a shower of information over the mortals. The miraculous phenomenon was registered continuously until the end of the second millennium BGM when the Supremes became much more active on the planet. Since then, it was only Them who invoked the most intensive informational storms across the planet, establishing the common informational background. The materialized events could still be created, but their number was rapidly decreasing. The vast majority of events were not natural anymore, but induced and provoked by Supremes, who polluted the space with their external thoughts and emotions. Since the Great Migration, which had started almost eight hundred years ago, there had been no more reports of the phenomenon, and the materialized event was quickly relegated into oblivion.
But today something had gone wrong. Aneralt could see it right in front of him – an unbelievably dense, translucent whirlwind of non-patterned waves, shooting fragments of information in every direction.
'What are you staring at?' O'Dreeaen snapped, glimpsing the mesmerized stare of the adept.
'It's a materialized event. Right above the cobalt,' Aneralt mumbled, pointing into the empty air.
'What?!' Marina and Anaximan exclaimed at the same time.
'No way!' Anaximan said, feeling strange fluctuations propagating through the air. Unlike Aneralt, he couldn't see the non-patterned waves of information with his eyes, nor could he comprehend them as the thaumaturge did.
'I can feel them too,' Marina whispered, her voice almost trembling with excitement. 'These sparkling sensations inside my head! And we were laughed at in class when we said the phenomenon existed!'
'What are you two talking about?' O'Dreeaen seemed disoriented. 'I am a natural wizard like you, but I don't feel a damn thing!'
'Because it's difficult to comprehend, even for a fully-educated wizard!' Anaximan exclaimed. 'We perceive only the linear part of it, but the main information is stored in its nonlinearity. Gods, we have spent a full year trying to generate or detect a non-patterned signal. And Aneralt did it without even sweating!'
They don't realize the seriousness of the situation, Aneralt thought, not sharing their enthusiasm. It didn't materialize to entertain us. It's… He finally felt some useful information emanating from the whirlwind. The silhouette of the relic he clutched in his hand, the Field of Fear they stood upon, and a whole army of strange creatures shimmering all over the field. No.
'Anaximan,' he whispered, handing him the chain he had found in the stela, 'take this necklace and hurry to Magnus-Urbe.'
'What the hell do you think you are doing?' O'Dreeaen snapped.
'Go!' Aneralt shouted at the adepts, ignoring the agent. The disciples didn't need to be told twice. They galloped away.
'Are you mad?!' the agent shouted, moving menacingly toward Aneralt, while sending Grey-Hawk toward the fleeing adepts. 'Why did you give him the damned thing?!'
Aneralt had just opened his mouth to explain, when an enormous wave of perturbation rippled through the air, shuddering the space and prickling their skin with electricity. The center of the field shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, and strange anthropomorphic figures popped up all over the plain.
'Leave,' Aneralt demanded.
The chief of the Special League assessed finally the threat Aneralt had glimpsed in the dissipated materialized event. Gritting his teeth, he nodded, knowing he would never be able to repay him, and rode his horse away. Left alone, Aneralt turned back to the Field of Fear, which was now occupied with strange creatures. He could see they didn't belong to any of the northern kingdoms, as they had neither earrings of element like him, nor bracelets or rings typical of the adepts of Snyorgaard and Meeriland. There was also no human among them, only two-legged bezoars and lizards, whose own fields animated a huge raging wild cloud over the Field of Fear. Ironically, its waters had finally saturated the Field of Fear with moisture.
The first waves of action appeared in the air and an entire bulk of chaotically moving particles rushed toward his friends. The deadly tornado uprooted and ground every trunk and boulder into chunks of formless matter. The power of the event was enormous, but Aneralt had already broken down the primitive linear waves that had conjured it, bringing inevitable drawbacks and flaws. The layers of the storm weren't properly synchronized – they intersected and collided, diluting the mass, creating weak points all over the front.
The event formed in his head almost instantaneously. He changed the phase and speed vector of the tornado's center a split second before it washed over his friends. For a few seconds Aneralt could only see the fragments of uprooted trees and stones, shooting in every direction. Once the tornado swept past, it revealed his friends unscathed as the wave swept right through them.
The adept exhaled and turned back to the enemies, whose monstrous faces were curved in mild surprise. The center of their line parted, and a half-rotted corpse strolled forward, a carpet of decayed vegetation left wherever he passed. His smooth white skull glowed pale green, but in the next second all parasite fairies fell lifeless to the ground...