Wielder of the Flame (5 page)

Omech stood as Sklan approached.

“It is my hope that your short intermission reinvigorated
you, your eminence,” Omech said quietly to Sklan as he gave a short bow.

Sklan returned the bow, but not as low, and motioned for the
young man to return to his seat. Sklan himself did not yet sit down, as he was
interested to see what they were arguing about now.

“I told you before and I will keep telling you, I will
not
send you more troops if you cannot reimburse with resources and goods of equal
investment!” Guag was practically shouting.

“And I am trying to get it into your thick hard trugish
skull that you
will
be compensated after we take control of the arid
hills!”

Sklan had heard enough.

He slammed his fist down on the table.

“ENOUGH!”

Silence filled the room.

“Nuib! You cannot begin an attack there, even if the perfect
time to strike appeared at your doorstep. That is coming too close to Duwarr’s
territory! And besides that, the Overlord has already given us orders we are
not to begin battle yet, or anything that could lead to war. And that would
include raids such as the ones you would be doing there. The secret of this
valley is our greatest strength!”

“WAS our greatest strength!” Nuib interrupted, “When I was
just a fledgling, it was wisdom to stay hidden, but that is many cycles passed.
We have might now to rival anything the Syrovians or Dartiao could send against
us.”

Sklan glared at the goblin Chieftain, “I will gladly watch
you and your kind squabble over the mere crumbs of territories here, while I
lead my people to greatness in the West Lands, as we follow The Great One’s
instructions. You’re ambitions mirror your stature. Do not forget who has given
you all that you have. If not for the Overlord you would all still be battling
against each other, weak and vulnerable. But we have become the startings of a
great empire now, because of him, because he united us! You all show your
weakness when you cannot abide by his decree! The Overlord does not reward
weakness, he destroys it. Luminaries! Remember that title, remember what it
means to be one, remember your loyalty!”

Duwarr and his appointee had come back to the room.

“Who are you to preach to us?” Kalkra interrupted, “My
sources say that your people discovered underwater tunnels leading as far
westward as Syrova. You already have plans on conquering the capital and using
its resources although the Great One has already promised the land there to us!”

Sklan was furious at the affront.

“You fool,” he replied angrily, “Your sources are corrupt,
there are no such tunnels and if there were, they would be kept secret enough
to remove the capital’s entire stock of resources before you found out.”

Sklan turned, completely fed up.

“Omech, we are finished with Council for today.”

“The Council is not over!” Duwarr retorted.

“By all means, continue in my absence!”

The two grahks left. Sklan slammed the doors behind them.

The loud noise brought Banild out of his stupor.

“Oh good, Council is over then? I do have so much to do
before day’s end.”

The old gnome hopped from his chair and waddled out of the
room.

No one said anything as he left.

***

Sklan spoke with Omech as they
walked through the halls back to the Emperor's personal chambers.

“I want you to find out who discovered our tunnel system and
report back to me. I place my suspicions on Nuib. He is most likely trying to
find favor with Kalkra by feeding him crucial information that he has gathered
about us in return for favors. Guag refuses to supply him with more troops so
he is probably trying to get military support from Kalkra. I assume he has not
tried to do the same with us because he wishes to attack the Dartiao border and
he knows our troops would be utterly useless in the hot sands heat. So start
with that information, and report back to me as soon as you come up with
something.”

Omech nodded without saying a word and turned down a
different hall.

The black staff in Sklan’s hand tapped the floor quickly,
matching the emperor’s long strides. He did not walk the halls alone. All
different sorts of the masses were busy going about their own duties. There
were goblin tribe leaders dressed in their fancy clothes accompanied by goblin
advisors and slaves, trug warlords suited in their shiny armor followed by
clan-brothers, gnome alchemists and inventors carrying their strange creations
and potions, macji officials and guards, with their many different varieties of
fur colors. Grahk fighters and workmen also appeared amongst the crowds. There
were sorcerers, mages, wizards, shamans, druids, soothsayers, necromancers, and
all sorts of users of the dark arts, arrayed in their matching robes, hoods,
beads, cloaks, mantles and other vestments. Sklan passed open feasting halls,
dueling rooms, meditation chambers, training courts, and countless other rooms
all filled with occupants engrossed in various activities.

Finally, after passing some corridors of sleeping quarters
he reached his personal chambers. Sklan slowly unlocked the inlaid gold double
doors to his chambers and stepped in. It was an expensive suite taking up a
whole wing of the building, overlooking luxurious gardens, baths, and in the
distance, battle training grounds, and beyond that the large outer court wall
of the fortress, and yet even after that, the dark looming cliffs of the Black
Peaks on the far western horizon. His fancy and rich abundance of collectible
rare artifacts that arrayed the decorated shelves and walls of the room, shined
down at him.

He went to his table and prepared a poultice for the ache he
had in his head from the long day. He added just the right sweet mixture to
take the bitterness down a notch from its usual potency without losing its
effects. He knew Omech would not have anything to report for at least a day or
so. After a long time of sipping and staring out his giant study windows he
decided that he could do with a visit to the gnome’s workshop and to see the
Crystal. It was always a source of strength whenever he spent time near it. He
closed his chambers, locked them up and headed towards the giant dome at the
center of the stronghold.

A large courtyard separated the dome from the main
stronghold. Statues of The Great One stood in increments around the dome. Two
massive stone doors stood open, showing the Crystal in all its glory. The doors
were only shut when the Overlord wished to be alone with the Summoning Stone.

Sklan made his way through the courtyard, up the carefully
pebbled pathway to the entrance of the dome.

The Crystal was large, the size of four or five men tall and
half as wide around. It stood upon a gargantuan pedestal constructed to hold
the weight of the precious stone. Hundreds of hanging walkways, ladders, and
all sorts of decorated metal scaffolding arrayed the crystal on all sides. Its
surface was black as night, but still shined and glittered with its own aura,
reflecting its surroundings very clearly. It had hundreds of thousands of
facets, each about as long and wide as an open hand.

The greatest of the Overlord's gnome alchemists had their
elaborate laboratories, gadgets and contraptions set up around the vicinity of
the pedestal and Crystal. Unless ordered otherwise, they were at all times
working on understanding the powers of the Crystal. More than a dozen gnomes,
all in workshop and laborer uniforms, were engrossed in their various tasks.

Sklan saw Banild up by the pedestal with an instrument in
his hands. The device was whirring and clicking, gently massaging the surface
of the Crystal. Sklan watched, fascinated, and approached the gnome.

Suddenly the device in the gnome’s hand gave a high pitched
sound and exploded, small gears flying everywhere. Banild fell back from the
force, landing with a solid thud on the stone floor.

The Grahk Emperor moved his arms from where he had been
shielding his face and looked down at the gnome.

“It is quite an amazing thing, is it not, Sklan?”

Sklan reached his hand down and Banild took it and stood.

“Your life just nearly ended, and you can only express your
awe at the power of the Crystal?”

Banild nodded, “Who cannot be awed by such a thing?”

Sklan said nothing at first, but agreed. The aura permeating
from the crystal was greater than that of any other thing or creature animate
or inanimate as far as his magic could sense. The crystal was ancient. It was
said to have existed even before the beginning of all things. Legend described
the crystal as the heart and source of all magic.

And their Master possessed it, and was willing to share the
fruits of it with them.

“Indeed,” Sklan finally stated.

If only Tremos would return soon so that he could guide them
further.

Creak.

Thump.

Creak.

Marc became aware of his surroundings in layers. He was
lying down on something hard and uncomfortable. His muscles ached and his body
felt heavier than normal. Before he even opened his eyes he could smell an
overwhelming aroma of spices so thick he could taste it on his lips.

Is that cinnamon?
He thought.

As his eyelids fluttered open he could make out open sky. The
light above him suggested early dusk. The air felt warm and reminded him of
summer. Lying on his back, his view was dominated mostly by a large wooden
crate just at his right, and a tall stack of heavy burlap sacks to his left. Something
was bothering him.

After a moment he realized what it was. Besides the light of
the afternoon sun there were two other planets he could see in the sky, one
larger than the other. The large planet was white the other smaller one was a
pale blue.

There should’ve been only one planet there above him, and it
should’ve been the moon.

He turned his attention away from the sky. Over the top of
the corner of the crate, he could make out the head and shoulders of a boy. The
boy he saw was staring at something in the distance, his shoulders pointed
towards Marc but his head faced away, giving Marc a perfect profile view of the
stranger. The boy looked to be in his late teens, with rugged black hair that
came down past his ears and bangs that obscured much of his face.

What stood out as strange was his attire, which seemed to be
something right out of a Renaissance exposition.
Am I dreaming?

Without moving or getting up, Marc quickly scanned his
surroundings again, taking everything in with the hope that by doing so the
strange things would disappear and he would wake up.

But they did not.

He realized something heavy was around his waist, and he
looked down. The light caught the metal of the sword at his side and he stared
at it curiously. It was sheathed and attached to the belt around him.

The sword from the grove.

It all came rushing back to him; his flight from Victor, the
cat, which had led him to the sword, and then there was the fire, and the light
that had entered into him, and now he was here. Marc blinked dazedly.

But where is
here
?
He thought.

After a few moments of creaking and jostling around had
passed, he shook his head, he couldn’t just lay there. He needed to do
something.

He decided to try and sit up. Immediately his head swam and
he flopped back down.

At Marc’s movements the boy with black hair turned to face
him quickly, eyes slightly wide, body somewhat tense, but he quickly recovered
and spoke to someone Marc couldn’t see.

Marc didn’t know if he was still in a daze, but what the boy
said, seemed distorted. It was indistinct and incomprehensible, certainly not
the English language.

There was another voice, deeper, responding to the boy, but
it too, was unclear.

The boy looked over at Marc and extended a hand.

After a moment’s hesitation Marc took it. The boy helped him
up.

Sitting up greatly expanded Marc’s previously limited view
and it took him a couple more seconds to take in his new surroundings.

He was in a fair sized wagon made of wood with four very
large wooden wheels filled with supplies. Besides him and the black haired boy,
another boy sat at the rear of the cart and a man sat at the front. The man in
front was facing away from the interior of the wagon, a set of leather reins in
his hands was guiding a pair of large animals which were neither horses nor
oxen, but more like a strange mix of small bison and oversized lizards, which
in turn were pulling the cart.

The man said something that sounded like gibberish to Marc.

“What?” Marc asked, not understanding.

A funny feeling passed through his mind, almost like
lukewarm water being poured over his head.

The man repeated what he said.

 “Do you speak the common tongue?” He asked.

“Where am I?” Marc voiced his previous thought aloud. Both
answering the man’s question and asking one of his own.

The man nodded with a look that said
good, he speaks the
common tongue at least
.

“Road of Amber Elms,” the man replied.

Marc did not say anything, he didn’t know what
to
say.

The man must have understood the confusion on his face, so
he tried, “Lyrridia, Itherin to be exact.”

“Luth—what?

“They were right, you know nothing of this place,” He said
mostly to himself.

The man continued to look him up and down for a few long
moments.

Then he nodded.

“Zildjin, give him a seat.”

The boy with black hair rolled over a barrel and set it down
next to Marc.

“There is something about you, boy. Ancient magic has led
you here. And you have appeared in Sesuadra’s dreams,” The man gestured to the
other boy.

Marc didn’t know how he should respond.

 “I am Soren, Morest of Briv,” the man said.

He extended his arm to Marc, his fingers open.

Marc took the man’s hand in a handshake. Soren pulled his
hand back quickly, looking at Marc strangely. Then he gripped Marc’s forearm
and placed his other hand firmly on Marc’s shoulder for only a brief moment,
then released both grips.

“Marcus,” Marc replied, “or Marc.” He shrugged.

 “This is Zildjin and Sesuadra,” Soren introduced the other
two.

They each extended their hands separately and Marc followed
Soren’s example, rather than just shaking their hand.

It seemed to be the right thing to do because there was no
awkwardness.

“They seemed to say you might have a few questions,” Soren
said.

“Who is ‘they’?” Marc replied.

“The magic-ones who brought you here.”

Soren described Marc’s appearance to
them in detail, answering any questions the boy had.

 Marc didn’t know if he could believe it until Soren
described the cat. Then Marc knew he wasn’t dreaming.

“So they left me with you this morning and I slept the whole
day?”

“Yes,” Soren replied.

Marc nodded.

This was really happening. He was in a strange new world
with two moons, where magic was real, people dressed in medieval period clothes
and were also armed with swords. The thought made him think of his own sword,
the grove, and the power that had enveloped him.

“I was brought here by a friend I didn’t know I had, to
escape enemies who threatened me,” he began.

Marc told them of his journey and of
the magic.

“I can feel it, even now, emanating from the sword. Then,
after the light faded, everything went black, and I awoke here, with you.”

There was silence.

Zildjin was the first to speak, “But you do not remember the
other large creature, or anything?”

“No,” Marc replied.

“You speak of ancient legends from before the War of Power,”
Soren said.

Marc didn’t understand, and it must have shown on his face.

“For those who still believe in the legends, it is not a
thing to be taken lightly,” He continued, “It is best we keep these things to
ourselves. Do not discuss any of it with anyone else.”

Marc nodded.

“Is that the sword? May I see it?” Soren asked.

Marc withdrew the blade. Upon touching the hilt he felt a
surge of power course through his arm and a subtle golden glow briefly
surrounded the sword.

They all moved in surprise at the magical aura.

“It is truly a thing of magic,” Zildjin said.

Soren nodded his head in agreement as he took the sword.

“It seems to be in poor condition,” The man stated as he
inspected the weapon, “This is how it was in the stone?”

Marc nodded.

Soren returned the blade, “Keep it well.”

“I will.”

He paused and his stomach grumbled.

“I’m starving.”

“Zildjin,” The man said, “give him something to eat. Truth
be told, I am with hunger also.”

“Will we not stop for the night?” Zildjin commented as he
opened a nearby crate and rifled through its contents.

Soren shook his head, “I think it is best we arrive at
Kolima as soon as we can, even if that means pushing on through the night the
next two days. Food for everyone then, actually,” He concluded.

Zildjin soon passed out some dried meat, bread, and some
sharply smelling berry-like fruit. Marc watched as the others crushed the fruit
over the bread and ate it together with the meat. The taste was strange, but
overall, not too bad. Zildjin gave Marc a canteen of water to finish the meal.

Marc felt himself perspiring under the heat of his long
sleeve shirt. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt up and felt slightly better.

Finally, after everyone had eaten, Marc asked, “What is
Koh-lee-mah?”

Soren glanced over his shoulder from the driver’s seat of
the wagon.

“Ah yes, questions,” The man nodded, “Can you read?”

“Yes,” Marc answered simply.

“Sesuadra, you have something useful for this I assume?”
Soren looked at the boy in the back.

Sesuadra nodded in the affirmative. 

The boy turned to a box nearby him and opened it up. He
spent a moment or two rummaging through the things inside the box. He finally
seemed to find what he was looking for. He pulled out an oil lamp also at the
back and made his way over. There was not much room in the already full cart,
but Sesuadra picked a large box for a make-shift table, and laid out a large
roll of canvas over the box, then placed the lamp on that and lit the wick to
illuminate the canvas. He gestured his hand at the canvas, motioned for Marc to
take a closer look, then sat down next to his display.

It was a map.

Marc stared at it but saw mostly a jumble of
incomprehensible symbols.

After a moment or two, however the symbols began to
transform in his mind’s eye and he was able to understand them. The symbols
appeared as words. The largest was written across the top of the canvas in bold
and elegant large letters. LYRRIDIA it read. Marc was amazed at the attention to detail put into
the making of the map. There was one large mass of land that took up most of
the right portion of the canvas and a large body of water to the left. There
were small cities, important landmarks, rivers, lakes, and territories marked
off with names of places labeled neatly underneath each and in the same
graceful calligraphy as the title of the map.

The map had been sectioned off in large areas and was
labeled, with names strange to Marc, in bold letters. Alborcium, Terragur,
Itherin, Biarlin, and Wildlands were the largest.

“What are these?” Marc asked.

Sesuadra bowed his head and returned to the box again.

He sorted through a few more things before returning with a
book in his hand. LYRRIDIA: A HISTORY was embedded on the leather cover in large gold letters.

Sesuadra opened the book to a spot, scanned a few pages,
handed it over to Marc, then handed the light to him.

“We are headed to Kolima, it is here on the map,” Zildjin
offered, showing the place on the canvas.

The two boys then returned to their spots and huddled back
into their cloaks. Soren glanced back every now and then, but mostly focused on
the road ahead.

Marc settled down as comfortably as he could in his seat to
read the book. He glanced at the map occasionally for reference. The book read:

After the War of Power, in the wake
of the devastation and destruction, the only hope everyone had for survival was
to come together as one. Terragur, a very powerful and influential man rose up
and united all under one banner, one hope, one King, and so The Noble Kingdom
was founded. Terragur, the first King, ruled in an equal balance of justice and
mercy, he was benevolent, yet strong, he had the leadership the people needed
after so many cycles of war and so much destruction. The people named the
kingdom after him, and it came to be known as Terragur, The Noble Kingdom. Only
working together could everyone survive. After the cycles passed and the lands
became full of life and prosperous again, others took his place and mercy was
cast aside. Justice became corrupted and The Noble Kingdom turned into a cruel
place to live. To this day their rule is harsh and yet they continue to refer
to themselves as noble. Because of this, after many cycles of oppression a part
of the people rebelled. Much war broke out once again, but the rebels, under
the direction of Itherin Shadowhand, prevailed and separated, founding the
Freelands which came to be known as Itherin in honor of his name. After a time,
some of the Freelanders longed to return to a similar, more firm rule, in their
cities, like Terragur they were once long ago a part of, but did not wish to
return entirely to their unpleasant roots. They broke away from Itherin and
moved into the Wildlands, boldly clearing space to build their new homes. They
founded their own territories and claimed Independence from the Freelands.
Biarlin was the principal advocate for the separation and they named the
dominion after him.

Terragur, The Noble Kingdom.
Itherin, the Freelands, and Biarlin, the Independent Dominion. Everything East
of these realms is subject to that of the wandering magiks. The further East,
the more wild the magic, the more untamed the state of the wilderness. Farthest
East lie the Black Peaks, an impassable wall of towering stone. Those brave
adventurers daring enough to attempt to cross them have never returned.

Marc struggled to keep his eyes open, but he was finally
feeling tired, his mind was overloaded with too many new things and it was
shutting down. He needed to sleep and slowly found it in the rhythm of the
moving wagon.