Fiction
--76,724 words
Copyright ©1996 by
THE WORL
Book I
STORMHOL
By
What has gone before…
Amidst a seemingly endless
sea, rests a fragile isle known as Istica. It drifts in a blanket of enchantment that
has protected its shores from the ravages of the outside worldship
for millennia. In the island’s heart
rests a valley named after its largest city: Candorlith,
the tender reaches of pastureland home to many.
In the heart of the valley stands a massive tower capped stone resting
on the edge of a great lake. The stone, a landmark for all within the region,
drew trade as well as prestige. That
fame, plus the thriving fishing business, made Candorlith,
the wealthiest city in the large valley.
In histories past there were tales of a great
civilization far across the sea. The
legends spoke of fantastic powers, and wondrous machines, however, in all the
fifteen thousand years, no one has ever met a single outsider and never has a
foreign sail approach Istica’s shores.
Throughout this era of isolation, Istica
has gone under tremendous tribulations.
Once, in time dimly remembered, the population reached nearly ten
million. The weight on the ecology more
than the limited resources could bear.
The overuse resulted in famine, plague and a great
and devastating time of war that ended in barbarous cannibalism; the population
preferring the consumption of their own, verses extinction.
Eventually, the duty to protect Istica
fell to the last remaining mages, most of whom were bitter rivals; hopelessly
twisted into a hateful world where politics and deception were lovingly mixed
with murderous magical power. For many,
the thought of setting aside their petty rivalries was almost incomprehensible;
though finally they did yield, when all received a poignant piece of news.
News that the last living tree had been chopped down
by the islands suffering inhabitants-for the construction of a fire no less-the
act rendering all of Istica to a vast grassy
wasteland.
At this point there were twenty-five surviving mages,
ten from the order of the
More expediently than any alive would have believed,
the negotiations were finalized. Though
so completely involved as become a formal set of laws, the meeting had been
arranged. The group, and their
apprentices, uniting in a single place known for its splendor, beauty, and most
importantly, its neutrality: the grand city of
Archingdale was one of the
few settlements that had not fallen to open warfare; for the inhabitants relied
on Shila for construction and other needs. The tough plant, similar in many respects to
a weed, provided the community with both economy and wealth. Known for the high spanning arches, it was
the second largest metropolitan city on the island, second only to mighty Shippingdale.
The day the mages arrived, the city's inhabitants
were out in the streets giving the wizards a welcome they would never
forget. Under the twin suns, the arches
groaned with the weight of the colored bunting.
Brilliant flowers carpeted the path; gracing the afternoon breezes with
the rarest of perfumes. Through the
revelry the sorcerers marched amidst the cheers and cries of welcome. The din
almost enough to cause the breaking of even their knowledge hardened
hearts.
The procession followed the group to the very center
of the city, the excited thrall-a vast wave of living color-parting for the
assemblage with solemn respect. When the
precession reached the main square they faced the great mass of cheering
adoring, hopeful people.
The
colors of their robes were pure and perfect as silken light, as just the barest
touch of a breeze gave them life: the rich velvet red for the Selen, the deep reverent green of the
With
quiet precision the member from the order of Shadow, her blue robe drifting in
a train, stepped from the group and painted the air with neon light. The others of the order fed the brilliance,
their heads enfolded with yellow energy. And with a delicate grace, she opened
a magical porthole; and as one the group stepped from the eyes of man.
For a time, many remained to await their return; camping
beneath the great arch in the square.
But the days wore on into weeks, with the city eventually falling, like
all the others, to the hands of the hungry multitudes.
Safe within their protective sanctuary, the
spellusers ignored the outside world for a time and took shelter in an unknown
realm using their Art to endure until the islands inhabitants succeeded in
reducing Istica’s population to a scant few thousand.
At the dawn of this dark and wretched period, it is
also known that a group of devoted priests called the Ch'uan'fa,
barricaded themselves-as if under siege-within they’re coastal city temple Chenchi.
Then one day, a week after the mages desertion, this
massive temple, with its Tower of Stars, quietly vanished one afternoon; a
signal of the orders withdrawal as well.
Thankfully
history reveals that the ruling family responsible for the overall poor
management of Istica’s resources; fell to the appetites of their servants.
For three centuries after what has been called the Abandoning, history is unrecorded; the
once civilized inhabitants bottoming out as a group of savage tribes barely
surviving in the wasteland, where life was won through the never ending hunt of
each other for food.
Records, beginning at that time, clearly state that
the era spent in self-exile had taught the wizards many things, for they were
ever pushing the limits of their mysterious spells while the world fell around
them.
It
is recorded that upon the day of the re-gardening; a spell was cast by the
druids, asking Istica to come alive once again. The devoted
people sacrificed their lives in this task, leaving only a handful to carry on
their work.
The
great enchantment wove in Earthpower awoke the island’s ravaged surface and caused
the forests to regrow and fill with life overnight:
the magnificent stretches of timber rising with the moons.
It was then said that the remaining inhabitants were gathered
and led by the mages to a fabulous city in which they were to start they’re new
future, the city of
Rebuilt of the finest marble, it more than glistened
in the sunslight, its thin lofty, almost delicate towers were only surpassed by
the glory of her gleaming arches and for a brief period, the land was at peace again
until the disciplines fell to war.
For some reason, which is not fully clear, the guilds
began to feud and the entire assemblage was driven into chaos and eventually,
most regrettably, oblivion.
An inevitable portion of the aftermath was that all
of the Arts faced destruction. The skill
barely surviving in small pockets here and there, the knowledge of the higher
level spell's a thing of legend. And
with the loss of the mages; the new society fell headlong into chaos as if
reeling from a fatal wound to the heart.
It first footsteps tangled on a root of calamity.
The largest communities eventually found some order
and established themselves as city-states.
Great bleak-walled fortresses, armed with warriors who rode forth and enforced
the will of the residing tyrant, president or sometimes merchant.
For thousands of years this new society evolved, and
survived, always aware of the precarious relationship with Istica’s
resources. The lessons of the past
engraved into every tradition as a safeguard against another fall into chaos.
In time the tiny monarchies were swallowed up by the larger, the actions eventually
carving up their island world in a series of general boundaries all constantly
under gentle dispute. With light bloodshed
and minor skirmishes the general course of life.
Through this time the Art was passed on from
generation to generation; crawling by word of mouth from one mind to another,
in an unstoppable attempt at survival. Only
a scant few families ever gained more than three or four spells each and
eventually the knowledge was reduced it to a whisper of its former glory; but
still it endured: like a thing with a will of its own.
Finally when all seemed peaceful enough, the only
true war being with hunger. The entire
Isle was plunged into conflict when an outside menace reared its head. Calling itself the Bonelord
Khishka Illweaver servant
of Bi’reel; God Pain and Suffering, it was powerful beyond compare and capable
of rending entire armies. Its campaign
was swift, using creatures of death and abomination, the Illweaver
swept the entire Isle within a year, the skies black with the smoke of its
burning victims.
For over four thousand years the creature ruled,
until it was destroyed by a mysterious mage of an unknown order; the wizard
reputedly dying in the blast which shattered the city of thunderous monoliths, Stoneburrow.
Constructed of giant carved stone slabs it had been reduced to a jumble
of ruins by a blast that shook all of Istica. It was the cataclysm that heralded the
inhabitant's new freedom, and the modern age of Istica.
There are burdens, far too
pregnant with desire to be ignored…
The
dawn peaked beneath the skirts of night as Teander awoke in ecstasy from the
attentions of his favorite maidservants.
Shrugging off sleep, the mage rose and was refreshed by eating as he
bathed. The scented water steamed in the morning air of the vast bathing
chamber. With their smiles the twin suns
light splashed through the stained glass and poured down onto him; for a moment
all was peace.
Once the morning's rituals were complete, his
maidservants dressed him in his newest white pants a flowing green silk shirt
and well oiled knife belt. He donned a
pair of high leather boots, as if stamping into the heart of the morning; he
left the sleeping chamber, to climb the steep stone steps to his Covent.
Some month's back, the tower belonged to a rival mage
named Ruykabiat. And, as per long
standing tradition, the title slipped to him; once the corrupt Spellord had
fallen by Teander's hand. The task, so
simple; it brought forth an involuntary chuckle whenever he recalled it.
The magnificent tower, located atop the gigantic
stone almost a thousand feet in height-a home for falcons and eagles-was now Teander's. Its original creators, having no small sense
of majesty, built the structure from blackest granite; the incalculable
efficacy of the architecture reflected the towers indomitable strength. On days like this, it dared to balance Shalom
hanging overhead, and in times of bad weather, it often swam amidst the clouds.
At the massive base of the stone, on the boulders
southern side, lie a lake and city bustling with activity and life. A thin road
crashed down the side of the great rock, serving as the only link between the
Tower and the Spellord's new rule, Candorlith.
Smiling, his feet touched the final steps of the
ascent, where the cold stone walls revealed a finely wrought door. While it appeared to be common wood, the
material was actually an intricately woven spell-an enchantment that protected
the entire tower. Stepping up to the
door, Teander pitched forth his voice, in the command of entry.
The
word hung in the air, ringing out and unlocking the ancient spell with a subtle
release of pressure, like a sigh of ancient resolution. Teander grunted his
approval when the door vanished and stepped into his new sacred place. As he entered the burden of command
enshrouded the young man like a robe. Behind him the entryway magically
resealed itself as if insulted by his constant intrusion. And to the Spellord's
infinite surprise, for the first time in many months, he was not alone…
The first thrust carried the weight of the wielder's
passion: as if the strike were to right all of the unfairness weighted down
upon every being who ever lived. And
like all such extremity, it met with dissatisfaction so shocking as to rock the
very foundation of destiny.
Teander
caught sight of the blade as only a fleeting ghost. His body responded with a casual grace and the
strike cleanly missed his heart. The assassin’s
shout of disappointment carried the tone of doom. Teander caught the knife wrist and smashed at
the elbow; the breaking sound as resolute as a thunderclap. And as the Spellord
turned to snatch a look at his assailant, he was surprised to see a rare
healing enchantment enshroud the pain-encased elbow. In a flash the bones were knitted by an enchanted
illumination.
Teander
wove the pattern of Telekinesis without
hesitation. Instantly spell tingled to life on his fingertips with the
practiced ease of a pianist. With a
final flicking gesture the magical force smashed outward. Unfortunately, Teander found his foe
prepared, a deflecting spell shrugging aside the attack. The pause allowed the Spellord to take
measure of his attacker. Teander noted
the features of his assailant were of Ruykabiat's
line with a shock of recognition.
So
the family had finally come to reclaim they're own, mused the mage darkly. He was oddly relieved that the moment was now
at hand. The waiting and worrying had be
a distraction to the sever calm required to practice the Art. For an instant, all was quiet. Teander could hear nothing save the air
sliding in and out of his lungs.
Then
the attacker said flatly, "Nice morning to die, wouldn't you agree?"
his expression was as bitter as acid.
At first Teander almost smiled. "Aye," he
growled, "give Ruykabiat my best."
Teander
released the Sphere of Blindness without
waiting for a response. Instantly, the
corona of absolute white light made the very stone of the enclosure blink. Under cover of the spell, Teander slipped
in…and the man slid off the Spellord's dagger into oblivion.
Later Teander mused about his morning, and new life,
while sipping a glass of the fine Crystalberry
wine. The Spellord looked at the bottle
the sunslight pouring through it like a sanguine lens. The bottle was so inconspicuous in the fact
that it contained a true treasure: taste.
Yet one would never know unless it was opened and indulged in, similar
to the stories of the past, for in studying history the future may be foretold.
As the Spellord went over the
history, he was thankful once more that his family line was one of the few who
preserved the Art, passing it down the generations; the fresh stains on the floor
a convenient reminder of the price of that knowledge.
Teander had been a quick study as a boy, small and
slight, he soon conquered the mental intricacies required to be a truly great
mage. Eventually, his devotion paid off, for he was now in possession of no
less than seven spells along with a staff of power. The spells, once memorized and never forgotten,
surged within his mind; begging to be released, it was a feeling that gave him
no small amount of pride.
Over time, Teander grew out of his frail form,
fleshing out into a sinewy, taunt athletic figure of a man; his muscles, honed
to a reasonable level of fitness, gave him a dangerous type of grace.
Standing almost six feet, Teander sported coal black
hair and a pale skin gained from years spent in study of the Art. Well bred, from a fine healthy longed lived
family, he was average in most ways: with the exception of his pure white
eyes. Not light blue, nor pale gray; but
white as sun bleached salt.
At
first glance most took him for blind, for his pure orbs did not reveal even a
hint of pupil, but in truth Teander felt that he had better sight than most,
for he never suffered from sea glare or night blindness, and considered himself
fortunate, if a little bit freakish. Later in life his appearance often led
others to believe that he was very powerful.
Something that Teander did his best to cultivate.
As a youth growing up in Vellardale,
Teander was allowed to attend public school; it was there that he learned the
lessons of honor and of bullies. Extremely
thin as a child, Teander lacked the physical strength to defend himself, and as
he was known to be a student of the art; he was even further singled out. But all of these things the cruel children
could have over looked- if it hadn’t been for his eyes. At the time wizards were treated as if they were
consorting with evil forces and as a rule, the population generally disliked
the entire sect.
Teander had been forced to move to several schools
throughout his career as a student for this reason. Problems always escalated, often enhanced by
his mother, who, in her anger and protective wrath, occasionally appeared at
school, her magic released to frighten the bullies. The words, complete embarrassment, did not
even cast a shadow on Tarlan's feelings. The saving grace came when Teander met
Ballen.
A
very athletic boy, Ballen was being schooled in the arts of war by his father;
however Ballen held a secret hunger to learn the Art. It was this that drew him to Teander.
Teander fondly remembered the day Ballen stepped up
just as the local bullies decided the new kid needed an initiation. As the crowd closed in, his soon-to-be-friend
just smiled a dashingly devastating expression for a thirteen-year-old and
stepped to Teander’s side.
One of the boys was a large brutish fellow with
tousled red hair that matched his face. At his side stood two of, what we would
now call henchmen, but were then loosely referred to as: friends.
The leader began by stepping up, his big belly- narrowly
covered by his shirt-far more threatening to Teander than anything the boy was
about to say. Anxiously, Teander
stumbled back, and was stopped by Ballen.
In a smooth motion, the smiling boy moved around to face the three, as
if dancing.
The
bully looked surprised. “Hey, what are you doing?”
Ballen stabbed a finger in the large boy's gut, his
voice dangerous. “What are you doing?”
Puffing, and without the intelligence to formulate an
answer, the bully responded the only way he knew how.
Attempting
to push Ballen out of the way he growled, “None a yer
business!”
But
somehow Ballen intercepted the charge and tangled the boy's arms together. With a slight push he tripped the bully
headlong. As with all children, when
they are young, they are bold. Seeing they're so-called-friend down, the other
two boys charged right in.
One boy made a grab at Ballen; he ended that before
it began with a well placed knee to the face.
The other hesitated when he saw his friend's predicament, eyes wild in sudden
fear.
Ballen circled the third frightened boy calmly, smoothly
whirling his fists, and then-in mid rhythm- Ballen bent down and tossed up some
dirt.
Sputtering,
and blinded, the ruffian screamed, “No fair!”
Ballen
just stepped in and hit him several times, grinning viciously.
By this point Teander was too amazed at the fight to
see the bully come up from behind.
Blindsiding him, Teander could still remember the surprise, but the true
fury was not meant for him.
Ballen's eyes grew bright
at the boy's approach. He waited until
the last moment before he dove for the bully's knees, balling himself up; he
trapped the large boy's leg. His
momentum bent the knee at an awkward angle and with an enormous crack; the
bully's reign of terror was over.
The headmaster plowed through the large group of
children that always magically appear when a fight erupts. Ballen, untouched
and unhurt, stood up just in time to meet the eyes of the headmaster.
The headmaster snorted as he moved to assist the
badly injured ruffian after a close look at Ballen and then at the three
groaning boys; in distracted voice he said, hoisting the large boy painfully to
his good leg.
“Seems
you finally got what you deserve, Jimmel. Maybe you’ll
learn a lesson or two from it, while you heal.”
The
headmaster fixed Ballen with a level stare and added, “Young man, you are
suspended from school for three days.”
Turning to the less injured of Jimmel's
accomplices he added, “While you two will be given jobs cleaning the chimneys,
for the next two weeks!”
The
crowd laughed at the losers with the uncaring cruelty that only children
possess.
Ballen walked up to Teander, as the group dispersed,
and smiled happily, "Five days off, counting the week end! I owe you one.”
He said, pumping his fist.
For Teander that had been the first, and the last, of
the bullies. And the first school he remained in for more than a year. Those were happy times. Eventually, when it was time to graduate, and
Ballen was not around; Teander felt the celebration utterly hollow.
Teander completed the schooling from his mother as
well and fortunately that graduation had all the fullness of family and the
love that comes with it.
When he struck out on his own, a horse, clothing and
a small sac of gold, as his companions; Teander soon learned the truth about
the competition of wizards. The harsh
reality landed square on his shoulders sooner that he could have expected. As he left home, Teander imagined he might
eventually find a small community, in which to live and help thrive. What was handed to him was a much larger
chunk of life than he had ever imagined.
The
young mage took lodging in a small settlement at the base of Candorlith pass.
There he provided his services in exchange for room and board. The road that worked its way down the edge of
the valley and into the town was overblown by leaves the fall colors kicked up
every step. There a small settlement was
situated; sheltered by the roots of a mountain.
One clear evening, while the wind was a silken moan
in the loose boards of the inn, he was attacked; with only the squeak of door
hinges and a telltale flash of moons light on a well-oiled blade, as a
warning. The assailant, expecting the
advantage of surprise, was quite unprepared to deal with a wide-awake wizard.
The man was soon persuaded to reveal that the
Spellord Ruykabiat, the ruler of Candorlith, had sent
him; the mage, hungry for Teander's spells, was willing to hire an assassin.
Now that the Spellord knew of his existence, and
wished him ill, he was in great danger: a Spellord had money, and men. Istica was too
small to run forever especially a man with his physical description: he had no
time to waste.
Probably the most important aspect of his early education
at the hands of him mother concerned the convoluted web of intrigue and
politics that would ever surround a mage.
Next to that morass of deception and innuendo, learning the Art was simplistic. Teander's mother often warned him of the
dangers, admitting that it was the reason she had never sought to rule. To the ambitious young man, her fears tasted
like sand. Growing up and watching the world around him, Teander decided that
should the opportunity present itself he would take it.
Teander
lit a long red candle and proceeded to learn all he could from the would-be
killer. While at the grizzly work the young Spellord almost let off during the
painful inquisition; the very real fact of his actions shook the youth
profoundly, this was what it was to rule.
The realization was rich with the taste of destiny, almost too much for
the young man to withstand. Within his
feelings grated against his sensibilities and he had to fight himself to stay
his course. He found no pleasure in it;
not even in the satisfaction that it was a necessary work.
With
the knowledge garnered from the traumatic exercise, Teander then made his way
to the great city of
Soon Teander was very pleasantly surprised to find
the Spellord a most despicable individual.
A bully in his heart-and-soul, the despot ruled the city with an iron,
flesh-tearing fist. Supremely confident
in his superiority, he was foolish, even in matters of defense. Keeping few guards, and little to none in the
way of servants or retainers; he used superstition as a shield. He was also sloppy in that he kept a very
regular routine; the last mistake the most heinous.
Teander
learned-with a little gold-that, every Freeday
evening the old Spellord would get rousing drunk, eat a tremendous meal, and
pass out in his study: bare feet warming by the fire. And every Satyrday
morning, as regular as the cock crows, he would stumble up to his private
sanctorum to relieve himself of his hangover.
Teander quietly slipped into the Tower on the
appropriate morning. Heart pounding into
his throat, he crept up the steps to the Covent and waited for the nearly
incoherent mage to utter the word of entry.
From his hiding spot, Teander contemplated the multitudes of things he
would do when he was Spellord. His mind's eye raced across the future in a
wild rush of desire.
Footsteps
shattered his contemplation. Teander’s heart flew to his throat at the sound of
the Mage coming up the stairs. To be continued…