A Game Of Chess: The Tale of the Five Rings

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Falcon2001

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(11/7/01 6:28:18 pm)

Reply A Game Of Chess: The Tale of the Five Rings (Beware, LONG)

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Here it is, the masterpiece of my collection...a 56-page story. Disregard the beginning, it doesn't really apply to the story anymore...

 

A GAME OF CHESS:

 

A Game of Chess:

A Novella by William Jones

 

 

Prologue

 

In the middle of the Hall of Kings, lying among countless bodies of the Rulers lay a golden room. The walls of gold are patterned in many intricate forms, which are all designed for the sole purpose of enhancing the power and skill of the warlock who controlled the sacred chamber, each individual loop and whorl serving to intensify the Warlock’s differing needs, whether it be knowledge or power.

By enhancing and heightening the wizard’s power, it also lessened the power of those that would try to extinguish his flame of power by challenging him. As different as the myriad snowflakes are the different forms that magic may take, separating the masters from the blunderers.

The current master of the hall was Warren Starsight, one of the few warlocks that were able to use the golden room to his advantage almost as well as the current user. With the element of air presiding and the planet Mercury as his protectorate, he was able to overthrow the old master and take his place to further his dreams of power. Knowing full well that power and conquest will be one day forgotten, he sat in his hall of gold and carried out his plan.

Using a blade imbued with magical powers; he carved hundreds of figurines out of giant magical trees transported from the mystic realms. Each individual figurine represented a different warrior, wizard, or any of the myriad other mystical creatures that exist in the realm of the mind; and each unit took the properties of the tree it was cast from.

From the swamps of Zenobia came the mighty Ironwood tree, strong as steel and as unbending as the sun. Warriors, beastmen, and the mighty giants were shaped from this tree, forming the premium fighting force of a battle. These mighty forces were the backbone of an army, and were the instruments of sheer force and mayhem.

Transported from the high mountains of Valeria came the many-splendored White Oak, the bark, leaves, and flesh all the same glistening ivory hue. From here came the gentle clerics, the devout monks, the noble paladins, and the holy seraphim. These units are the dedicated protectors of truth and justice, dealing out divine punishment on the battlefield.

Hailing from the mighty forests of Ergoth, the proud and noble Vallenwood is a favorite of builders. All of the aristocratic units were carved from this, including the mighty Lord, the honorable knight, the benign Eaglemen, and the fiercely proud Samurai. Leaders of the armies, liberators of justice, they are nonetheless not the driving force behind an army…

Thorned leaves hanging from tough and twisted branches, the Blackwood Tree is the epitome of evil, each one sprouting from a fallen warrior. The armies of darkness come from such roots, including the fierce Evil Ones, learned Doll Mages, malevolent Warlocks, and cunning Ninja. These armies are the true force behind almost any army, whether or not a leader chooses to agree.

The four trees form the four corners of the land, each offset by one of the four elements: Wind, Water, Fire, and Earth. Rising above all of the other elemental trees is the Avendesora, or Chora tree. The trefoil leaves of this magnificent tree are the mark of the gods, and as such, no living Chora can be cut down under any circumstance, and they die very rarely. How Warren found a recently dead Avendesora is forever a mystery, but he worked it with a fervor and passion that was unequaled by any of his other carvings. Springing from the wood itself, only two types were carved from this most precious of all trees. The fiercest warriors, and guardians of the gods, the Aiel are the most powerful fighters in the entire known world, able to kill with the bare hands or a weapon with equal deadliness. No Aiel Will touch a sword Willingly, and would rather die than wield one.

The last form of unit is all and none, the beginning and the end, the alpha and the omega, for he is the breaker of bonds, the forger of chains, he who Will shatter the world with his coming as he has, time and time before. He is the Dragon, above all rules and laws, and therefore is feared above all else. Many long days did Warren spend over his finest piece of work, carving with tools so thin and delicate, the tiniest vibration would seem to shatter them into millions of pieces. Discarding one after another, he one day finished his work, and enchanted the final spell. According to the legends of the nearby people, the very earth shook and a white pillar of light was seen reaching into the heavens from his golden hall, giving it the name of “The day the earth danced”.

 

 

Chapter 1:

The beginning

 

And his coming shall be as the end of time, for he is the sole cause of man’s destruction and death. The breaker of chains, the forger of bonds, he is the maker of futures, the unshaper of destiny. The master of the lightnings, rider on the storm, the king with a crown of swords, he who thinks he may turn the cycle of life may learn the truth too late.

- Warren Starsight, during a vision

 

Entering the room, the two commanders filled the room with a sense of meaning and importance. The apparent antithesis of each other, looks were as deceiving as the smile on the face of one, or the apparent relaxed state of the other.

Bishop Varna was clad in robes of argent white, giving the impression of a kindly old priest, which one of the few things he was never accused of being. A cruel sadistic old man, he had spent lives as though they were so much fodder for the swords, taking the glory and honor for himself. The only thing that disturbed his not-quite-perfect façade was the bloodstone that hung around his neck on a white gold chain, a stone that was given to followers of the goddess Ishtalle, keeper of shackles and enforcer of law. A cruel and demanding goddess, Ishtalle demanded complete obedience from her subjects. A crooked smile stretching across his face like a jagged scar, he lifted his hand in a mockery of a salute.

His adversary returned the salute with an air of finality. Guildas Paendrag was the last of the Paendrag line, inheriting the title of Pendragon from his father’s dying lips. Clothed in glittering ebony armor, his gray eyes were ashen pools of pure hatred for the dark cleric that stood in front of him. His father was the leader of the once mighty kingdom of Zenobia, now a slum and center for all the trash the world had to offer. His father had met with Bishop Varna and had offered many partnerships and the like. The Bishop’s sword had pierced his chest and protruded out his back, leaving him there to rot in his own throne room. That night, all of his father’s closest friends and family had mysteriously died, and their decapitated heads delivered to the Bishop, who set them up for public display in the town center. Guildas was barely a boy at the time, 14 years of age. Finding his father dying in the throne room, the youth rushed blindly at the bishop, leaving a jagged scar with his knife that never healed. The bishop had left, leaving him to mourn the passing of his father. The Penatant sword was Varna’s personal weapon, and he accidentally left it in the Pendragon’s body. When he returned for it, he faced an angry youth that grabbed the sword and began to force the evil priest back until he was up against a wall. Through a cheap trick, Varna escaped to leave the boy to recover his forces and eventually form the elite fighting force known only as the Iron Fist. Patting the sword that hung at his waist, Guildas remembered his vow to one day kill the cardinal with his own vaunted weapon, and found strength in that oath. The Soulstone hanging on a cord around his neck showed that he was a follower of Asmodee, the god of freedom and lord of chaos. A kinder, gentler god, Asmodee wanted freedom for the weak and support for the poor, which put him at constant odds with Ishtalle. Patting the sword, he smiled wickedly at Varna, who paled noticeably at the sight of his lost blade.

“Your personal vendettas have caused enough trouble, enough to cause me to undertake such a draining task. You shall have to put them aside for the remainder of the games, or I Will end this myself.” A proud figure clad in robes of deepest azure, the color of the summer sky, walked forward and threw back the hood to reveal his face.

Warren Starsight was five centuries old, and had held the Hall for four and a half, the longest of any wizard to date. Tall and proud, his face reflected infinite wisdom and patience that belied a power that surpassed almost all others save that of the gods. According to an ancient folk-tale, “Green eyes for the poet, Blue for the wanderer, Silver for the mage, Red eyes for the demon”, a prophecy that Warren quite fulfills with his eyes, being like liquid pools of quicksilver. Celestial designs decorated his sapphire robes in whirling silver designs, as they did his staff.

“Seven years have I worked, one year for each of the lands of the known world. In those years, you two have ravaged the lands, emptied the seas, and clouded the skies. Here, in this room, shall the final decision be made! The true leader of men shall conquer, and the unworthy Will step down, never to rebel again. If either of you do not agree, leave this world, lest my anger smite you where you stand. Do you agree?”

Guildas shifted slightly, nodding. “I agree, and pledge this on my father’s sword.”

Varna looked around coolly then nodded also. “On my honor as a priest, this I do swear.”

Smiling ironically, the mage made a small gesture and a large chessboard sprang up from the floor in the middle of the room. As if controlled by a being other than themselves, the two mortal enemies walked mechanically over to the chessboard, and seated themselves. Placing their hands on the imprints in front of them, they seemed strangely at peace with the world, almost like two friends sitting down for a friendly game of chess. Warren explained the games in a long speech that lasted for an hour and a half. Finally, he raised both his hands, then brought them down with a single word.

“Begin.”

 

Chapter 2:

Thrust and Parry

January 30th, 435 AC

 

With a swishing sound, the blade cut through the air around the fighter in a complicated salute. “That’s how you do a real salute, sir,” the fighter said, talking to the armored training general standing in front of him. As he bowed, his lips twitched in a hidden smile that went unnoticed by all. He stood and saluted the general with his hand this time, the mockery in his eyes a constant thing.

“Good, it seems that your skills have improved in the year that I have been working your sorry ass, how nice to know. Even though you may be the biggest smartass this world has ever seen, I feel that it is time for you to be raised to lance leader, Vyse.”

The young soldiers face lit up and he bowed while uttering a startled “T-Thank you, sir!”

Cutting him off in mid-sentence, the grizzled general began to remove the brown cloak worn by all generals in The Chaos Army. “It’s not that easy son. By the law of sir Guildas himself, Leader of the Chaos Knights, when a recruit is raised to become a leader of his own unit, he has to pass a test ordained by the general presiding over his current division.”

“Your test, my boy, is you have to beat me in battle.”

Vyse’s eyes went wide with astonishment and shock.

“Me, beat you? I, I’m not sure I can, sir… you’re a general and I am still a recruit…” he trailed off, then seemed to harden. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s what I like to hear, boy. James, get him his sword and shield,” the general said while hefting his hand-and-a-half sword and the shield which had given him his nickname of Ironback.

A youth came running up with the Vyse’s sword and shield, but he only took the sword, shunning the shield. Reaching into his belt he took a long knife out and held it backwards in his other hand, turning it so he could parry and slash with it as easily as with a shield. Turning back to the slightly amused general, he raised the parrying knife and flipped it in an intricate pattern that ended in a salute. Recruit and general, follower and leader, they faced each other, then charged, each yelling his warcry.

“Freedom!”

“For Honor!”

Their swords met in a shower of sparks, the steel blades sliding off one another then swinging around to meet yet again in a dance of blades too deadly to be ignored. The general had fought countless battles and had experience and skill on his side, but Vyse was much younger and fought with a style that had never been seen before by the bearded commander. Left, right, up, down, their swords met again and again, not once finding a weakness or hole in the other’s defenses. Thrust and parry, parry and thrust, the two circled each other endlessly, looking for an opening. The general slashed upwards with his sword as Vyse slammed his downwards crossed with his parrying dagger. The three swords pressed against one another as the two combatants struggled to win out over his rival. Eventually the general started to inch forward and victory shone in his eyes, when suddenly something happened.

As the two stood there, sword to sword, right as Vyse was about to step down, he lifted his foot and slammed it into the ground with tremendous force. Slamming himself toward the general with renewed might, he crushed the general’s defenses and knocked him back. Kicking his fallen opponent’s sword out of his hand, he caught it deftly in midair and brought it to his superior’s throat.

“Check and mate, sir.”

The general looked on in amazement as the youth held his sword out for the general to retrieve then thanked him for the sparring match. Turning to the gathered crowd, he then began to call people over to his side one by one.

“Kilik, Thom, Mat, Dalamarn, Anya, Rose, Cioden, Ramirez, get over here!”

Out of the crowd came the eight people he had called, some striding proudly forward, some shuffling through the crowd awkwardly. A strange group comprised of two humans, an elf, a hawkman, a Felix, two silvites, and one unidentifiable. Vyse turned to the general and said, “The standard for a lance group is nine, being a trinity of trinities, and these are my eight companions.” His superior looked sardonically at the gathered troops and laughed.

Kilik was a young hunter and tracker, and was damn good at it, but he had some slight problems that kept him from joining the ranks of the official army as a tracker or forester. First of all, he was scared of the dark, which kept him from finishing the night tracking class, a prerequisite of joining the army. During the daytime, he was as brave as any other man but at night he stayed within torchlight unless threatened repeatedly, and then would only go out very cautiously. Because of this little disability, he had become a close friend of Vyse. A superstitious man, he didn’t trust his own eyes sometimes.

The sunlight glistening on his golden wings, Thom the hawkman was a sight of majesty. Carrying a long steel spear in one hand and a longbow slung over his shoulder, he was very good at dealing damage to enemies without putting himself in much danger. After joining the Army of Chaos because of the chance to see the world, he had bonded with Vyse and became one of his most trusted friends.

Mathos, or Mat, was a young dragoner temporarily marching with the Army of Chaos until such time as he felt it neccesary to leave. A mercenary in the wartime age, he had as much honor as the next man, but he didn’t waste it on those who didn’t deserve it. His father forged his sword before he died, a great dragonmaster who imbued the blade with mystical powers, allowing it to cut the hide of a dragon as easily as a hot blade through warm butter. Carrying both his sword and shield proved to cumbersome for Mat, so he discarded his shield and studied the fighting styles of the Zweihander elite soldiers in the upper ranks of the army. His history is almost completely unknown, as are the reasons that Vyse chose him.

Dalamarn was a Dark Elf, cast out of his homeland for following the path of Chaos and forsaking Ishtalle. Skilled with the bow and rapier, he carried a small shield bearing his family crest, two ebon dragons wrapped around a silver staff. His robes concealed a full set of mail that was envied by almost all of the commanders, not to mention the soldiers.

Her ears and tail betraying her true identity, Anya was a Felix, one of the cat-humans that were indispensable as stealth units. Armed with a staff or a bow, they were powerful, loyal fighters capable of fully accounting for themselves on the battlefield. Katt had joined up at the same time as Vyse, making them inseparable. Katt could distract any male by just walking by, as her clothing was not always…adequate. Lately, she and Thom had become very close friends…

A flower among thorns, Rose seemed too delicate to be in an army full of thugs and brigands, but she was surprisingly tough, if one looked deep enough. Her silver eyes and hair showing that she was a silvite, she had a face that was beautiful enough to be a dancer or the wife of a commander, but she was instead a instrument of war. At the start of the War of Ages, a score of elite fighters had escaped from the overtly controlling Silver Civilization and had joined the Chaos Army after Commander Guildas had saved them from an ambush. Fighting against their brethren had proved too much for many of the warriors, who laid down their weapons and became healers or the like, choosing the path of enlightenment to the darker path. When that band of rogues broke off of the silver civilization, one of the women was with child, twins. Rescued from her dying arms by Guildas himself, those two joined the fight against the evil bishop after being raised by a rough old sea captain named Drachma. One of the twins, Rose fought against Varna with her whip and knowledge of the Silver magic, which proved devastating against the forces of Order.

Coldly handsome with his argent eyes and pale skin, Ramirez was a fighter born and bred, protecting his sister from the army of Order. The other twin, he had a vow to personally account for the general who had killed his mother with his own hand. At the age of seven, he had a sword forged for him by a dying blacksmith, one of the silvites who would not fight against their kindred. A master of weapons, this was his dying work, instilling the sword with the power of the silver civilization and making it the most powerful weapon he had ever created. As light and cold as a winter gale, yet as strong as a team of oxen, this sword could never be dulled or worn away. The sight of him indifferently lopping off the heads of practice dummies always sent a chill down Vyse’s spine.

Cloaked entirely in black robes, William was a young mage with a vendetta. At the age of fourteen he had taken the arduous journey to the Istarian Tower of sorcery and magic hoping to pass the tests needed to become a mage of Ishtalle. After he had taken the hateful tests, and passed, they explained to him that he was not able to become a mage because of certain specifications. First of all, he was unsuited to the scholarly life, preferring the freedom of the outdoors. Also, his natural alignment was chaotic, rendering him useless to the lawful mages of Istar. Upon hearing the dread news, he reportedly went into a rage, blasting a hole in the side of the tower before they were able to contain him. Even as he was dragged, chained and beaten, to the prisons, he swore that he would bring down the temple of Ishtalle herself, with naught but his chaotic magic and his bare hands. Thus said, they dragged him to the torture chamber while he laughed maniacally the entire way. Joining the Army of Chaos upon his escape, he quickly identified Vyse as a key part to the downfall of Istar and became acquaintances; if not friends.

His lance assembled, Vyse turned to his former commander and nodded his head, extending his hand. The general took his hand and shook it, an air of finality seeming to hang over this event. “You are a good soldier, Vyse. Where do you think you are going to lead your little army however? The front lines are hell on earth, and it’s the same elsewhere.” Turning to his assembled troops, Vyse took a big breath, then began to speak with an authoritative tone.

“At sunrise, we move out for Khalkist.”

Everyone in his group blanched visibly at the name of the cursed mountains, and a few made the ancient sign against evil. Pale-faced and worried, Kilik walked up to Vyse and tried to explain the facts to him.

“But Vyse, no-one has escaped from those accursed mountains since Lord Guildas led an expedition into the heart five years ago. No messages came or went from his party until a bedraggled soldier drug himself to the gates of Fidach, the nearest town to those damned mountains. After being cared for by the innkeeper for a month, it turned out to be Guildas himself! Following his recovery, he stationed fifty more troops at Fidach and returned to leading the army, refusing to speak of his experience to anyone. Sir, it is a place of demons!” He looked at Vyse with true fear in his eyes, pleading.

“Nonsense…”

Turning with anger, Kilik rounded on the voice only to be cut short when he saw who was talking. Chuckling quietly to himself, Cioden stood and faced Vyse, throwing back his hood. His features appeared to have been carved from ivory, a face that was too pale for emotion. Wearing a ceaselessly mocking expression that was just slight enough to avoid serious offense, just sarcastic enough to throw whomever he was speaking to off guard, he was constantly belittling anyone that tried to engage him in conversation.

“Your petty ideas are slightly outdated, my dear tracker. My former order eradicated the demonic presence many years ago, judging them too chaotic for the good of Istar. The only survivors went insane and fled into the hills, crossbreeding with other species and eventually diluting their bloodline to the point where they are almost completely harmless but for one exception.” At this point, Cioden took on a more somber tone, as if reciting a lesson or a spell.

“One of the devils to escape the genocide was the Archdemon Kell. Finding himself without a mate, he started to slip into insanity, wandering the region in search of his companion. After rambling through most of the mountain range, he came upon a strange castle. Entering the castle, he found a young witch of Asmodee, who took pity upon him and allowed him to stay with her in the castle. As the year went on, her feelings blossomed into love for Kell, and they became as husband and wife, going on to produce many children. Far from being horrible half-breeds, their children seemed to take the best parts of both species and combine them. Taking their mother’s beauty, intelligence, charm, and magical prowess, plus their father’s strength, ability to converse with ghosts, and demonic gifts, they became what are now known as the Sirens. Taking it upon themselves to prevent the holocaust that had devastated the demons, they decided to protect the mountains from outsiders. From reports of those close to Lord Guildas, he seems to remember that none of our mages could cast spells, which concurs with the fact that Asmodee would not appreciate his Champion killing off the last survivors of the devastation of the demons. The name of Sirens is misleading in that six of them are female, and six are male, though the name tends to create images of mermedian women beckoning to sailors.”

Seeming to break from his reverie, Cioden looked at Vyse and continued in his normal tone. “It should be quite easy to get through if we openly announce our allegiance to Asmodee, which I can do with a simple magic spell that is used by mages to identify themselves.”

Rushing forward, Kilik continued to plead his case. “Devils, Vyse! Horrible gnashing evil baneful corrupt immoral, uh, evil…” he trailed off, trying to find a suitable word to express his feelings. “DEVILS! BAD! VERY VERY BAD VYSE! UNDERSTAND? BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD!”

Removing Kilik’s hand from his sleeve, Vyse stood and slapped him across the face, knocking the babbling hunter on his feet. “Get a hold of yourself, man! You are my soldier now, and as a member of my lance you had better get a grip; your behavior is hardly becoming for an essential element of a group that Cioden make history!” Turning to Cioden, he drew the mage aside, leaving Kilik to recover. As Kilik tried to stand, a shadow fell across him, and he almost fell again until he recognized the figure of Thom standing over him, offering his hand.

“You shouldn’t have fallen apart like that,” Thom said as he helped the young tracker to his feet, “right now Vyse thinks that you are a blathering superstitious fool, and Cioden probably won’t forget about that for a long time.” Suddenly serious, the hawkman added, “It takes a long time to get Cioden to leave you alone, and I think you may have ruined all chances. Anyway, if he says the Khalkists are safe, then I believe him. He may be an arrogant bookmonger, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders, and you can trust him,” He smiled grimly, “About as far as you can throw him.”

Kilik dusted himself off, looking at Thom with a mix of respect and gratitude. “Thank you for the advice, but I still don’t trust that spellcasting bastard at all, something about him gives me the chills.” Shaking out of his reverie, he bowed stiffly to Thom, then did an about face and promptly ran into Mathos, who was carrying a pair of dice and looking for his next victim. Seizing Kilik’s arm, he dragged him off to some corner to play, with the end result probably being Kilik needing to borrow a shirt.

Laughing inwardly at the bemused look on the young tracker’s face, Thom turned toward his tent, obviously intent on retiring for the night, when he got… distracted. To be more precise, he completely forgot about sleeping. As he turned his head to find which direction his tent lay, he happened to catch a glimpse of Amys leaning over, which due to the tighter clothing she preferred, gave him a glimpse of something. Well, actually two somethings.

Shaking his head to clear it, he walked over to where she was leaning over the cookpot, adding vegetables and meat to the soup. At a nearby fire, William sat over his own separate cookpot, adding who-knows-what from a number of pouches hanging on his waist; he only ate what he himself prepared. As he walked closer, she looked up and saw him, and a look of feline delight came over her face. “Thom! Get over here, I need someone to taste this for me.”

Walking closer, Thom made out the various cooking implements scattered around her like a tornado, mostly due to the fact that she did not really believe in organization. To her, if she could reach it, it was fine, and woe be to anyone who disturbed her special arrangement! Holding out a ladlefull of the soup, she offered it to him with an expectant look on her face. “Here, try some, it’s pretty good.” As he set the spoon to his lips, someone shouted his name.

“Thom, get over here quickly, I need you for something!”

Turning from the proffered ladle, he quickly demurred and headed over to the voice, wondering what could be so damn important as to interrupt Anya. “Come back later and try some, okay Thom?” Anya called after him, and he nodded as he ran, his legs pumping against the hardpacked ground.

Coming up to the source of the voice, he found a blackened man in what used to be an apron, covered completely in soot. Sighing inwardly, he could think of only word that could describe how he felt.

Ryan.

Three weeks ago, he had hobbled up to the army and asked to join the engineers corps, but was declined for a couple of reasons. First off, he had a habit of forgetting important information, such as whether to push the all-important steam release valve. Second, he had an interesting limp in his right leg. It was interesting in that it only acted up in situations where he needed complete concentration. Thirdly, all of the other engineers threatened to quit if he was allowed to join, with one committing suicide at the very news. Cheerily accepting his fate, he instead built a portable workshop on the outskirts of the army.

His teeth staring out of a soot-coated face in an amiable smile, Ryan walked up to Thom, tripping occasionally over the remains of his work apron. “Hey Thom, caught you just in time, my friend! That soup of hers is pretty potent stuff, considering that she cleaned out my supply of hotroot to make it. I tried using it as a fuel source and the damn stuff nearly killed me! That stuff’s as fiery as she is, damn straight!”

Looking over at Thom with a sly slant to his eyes, he went on in a quieter voice, barely a whisper. “Seems to have taking a liking to you, if you know what I mean. Huh? Know what I m- AWK!” He cut off as Thom swung a heavily muscled arm over and grabbed the artisan by the throat.

“That isn’t exactly a fair statement, now is it?”

“N-no, nope! Didn’t mean a thing, not a th-thing Thom!”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Setting the little scientist down, Thom stood and brushed off the soot that had fallen from the diminutive worker. Flexing his powerful wings to relieve his tired muscles, the hawkman looked down at Ryan with an expectant look. “Well, what do you want with me, anyway?”

Gulping loudly, Ryan gestured for the hawkman to follow him. Turning around, the ash-covered artisan took off at a dead run, obviously heading for some unknown destination. Grumbling loudly to himself Thom took off after him, trying to keep up with the little machinist, who tended to blend in with the twilight shadows. Winding his way through most of the camp, the hawkman eventually found himself at his destination, letting out a groan as he rounded the corner.

Sitting there in the middle of a clearing was a burning hulk that supposedly marked the source of all the excitement. Flames flickered merrily in the twilight, fighting a half-hearted battle with a group of men hauling buckets of water to try and fight the fire. Apparently Ryan had set fire to his laboratory… again.

“We could always use another hand…”

Sighing, Thom banished all fantasies of possibly getting any sleep tonight, and took the proffered bucket. This was going to be a long night.

Chapter 3:

Andaria

February 3rd, 435 AC

 

The party moved through the forest silently, their passage noted only by a few harmless forest animals. Treading softly on magically charmed shoes, they left almost no prints and disturbed none of the sleeping beasts that lived in the surrounding woodlands. Heading due north towards the Khalkists, the group had to pass through the magical Silver Forest, a place of great mystical powers and the home of the druids.

Gliding ahead of the others, blending into the shadows and making sure their progress was unimpeded, Cioden acted as scout for the group when Kilik was resting. Seeing a movement behind a tree, Cioden flicked his wrist, and a silent green arrow of magic cleaved the air, slamming into the target at high velocity. Walking over to the fallen foe, he saw that it was merely a swallow that had flown too near. Too bad.

Reflecting on the fact that cautious people were living people, the young mage slid along the ground, keeping a look out for any problems. As he was passing a trail that cut through the underbrush, he heard a girl cry out, and felt strong magic being used. Mentally signaling for Thom and Kilik, he walked along the path, following the source of the magical emanations.

Suddenly coming across a clearing in the forest, Cioden hid behind a tree and peeked out, seeing what was going on. A women in white robes with golden trim was using a magic shield to block the swords of four goblins, who had her surrounded. Panic flicked across her features, and Cioden knew that she could not keep up the shield much longer; She needed help, which was not his area of expertise. But… she was a fellow mage, and quite stunning at that… fine, he thought. I’ll save her hide.

Reaching into his voluminous robes, he grabbed something and threw, the glint of steel leaving his hand attracting her attention. Three of the goblins went down with a knife in their throats, gurgling and trying vainly to pull it free. The fourth goblin saw him and raised his arm to charge, which promptly was impaled with another dagger. Holding its injured arm, he looked up in time to see a glowing fist smash into its vision.

The woman sat on the ground, exhausted from the ordeal of holding the shield. Her breath caught in her throat as a shadow passed over her, then a hand was extended down to her, grabbing hers and pulling her gently to her feet. She found herself looking into eyes the color of slate, serious with a slightly dangerous look to them.

“Your name…?”

She jumped at the voice, low and melodious, the voice of a mage.

“A-andaria…Andaria Cabot. What is your name, if I may inquire, sir mage?”

Turning those strange eyes on her again, he stared at her for a second, then turned and walked into the trees, obviously wanting her to follow. She hesitated for a second, then hurried to catch up, shrugging at this wild turn of events. Catching up to him seconds later, she fell in to place beside him.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s right.”

Slightly taken aback by his response, she tried again.

“Would you please tell me?”

“The name is Cioden.”

“Just Cioden?”

Hardly slowing, he muttered a response.

“Cioden Azores.”

“You’re the Trai-“ she cut off, mortified.

Turning scornful eyes on her, he smiled a cold smile that dripped mockery.

“The Traitor Son.”

Looking at him with a mixture of surprise and a little bit of horror, she tried to keep up with his quick footsteps.

“Then I’m on your side, I guess… I am a member of the Band of the White Hand, the castaway clerics of Istar. Are you traveling alone?”

Silence.

She stopped trying to get a response out of him, and resigned herself to following him wherever he was going. It would have to be better than lost in the forest alone.

 

* * *

 

“Would you like another drink, Andaria?”

Jerking up her head, she saw Cioden leaning over her with a cup of wine in his hand. Nodding assent, she took the cup gratefully and drank, inhaling the deep aroma of the wine. Looking around at the group that had gathered around the fire for the evening festivities, she felt… happy.

Cioden arranged his robes and sat next to her on one of the logs that surrounded the firepit, bringing out an object from under his arm that glittered in the firelight. Fire seemed to dance on the handle of the lyre as he tested and tuned it, plucking each string with a strangely soothing sound. Seeing her gaze on the instrument, he smiled a little and held it up to the fire, letting her admire the design. A dragon was etched into the wood in silver, curling around the lyre and ending with a ruby eye on the handle that danced in the flickering light.

“Hey Cioden, why don’t you play a song, huh?”

Thom had called over to them from the opposite side of the fire, calling out for a song from the fabulously detailed instrument.

Seeing Cioden’s eyes blaze with cold fury, Andaria laid a hand on his arm, causing him to look at her in surprise.

“I would be honored to sing to such a beautiful instrument, if you would play a song.”

He looked at her with a strangely curious look, then nodded. Taking her hand, he led her to the center of the circle, pausing to tune again. Looking at her again, he told her the song to sing, and she paused. She didn’t know that one! But it was too late, as he had already started plucking at the strings in a soft, slow melody, looking at her with strange eyes; suddenly, she knew the words of the song and lifted her voice to meet that of the harp.

 

Rider of the lightnings, Caller of the storm

Master of the power of fate

Reaver of the oceans, Ender of the earth

No debt will go unpaid

For the Dragon is near

The Lord of the morning

Darker than the night,

Brighter than the day

For the Dragon is here

The Breaker of promises

Harder than the stone

Vicious as the sea

Deacon of the churches, First of the return

Hear the ravens cry and caw

He who is the Chosen, He who is the last

Sharper than the tiger’s claw

The Dragon is near

The Lord of the Morning

Farther than the hope

Closer than the end

Yes the Dragon is here,

The Breaker of Promises

More cutting than the winds

Sharper than the storm

 

Andaria ended the song on a single mournful note, leaving it to hang in the air like a prophecy. Cioden let the Lyre’s strings go calm, the silence adding to the effect, and watched the singer with eyes that held an unusual emotion. High above the group, a raven cawed, jolting everyone to their feet and dispelling the druidic power of the song. Spinning around, Cioden sent a blue ball sailing into the air after the noise. A second later, there was a blue flash, a thump, and then little black feathers were floating down from the trees in an unnatural shower. Thom shot him an angry look, shaking his fist.

“Why the hell did you do that, Idiot? See the big wings, nimrod? I’m a bird too, damnit!”

Cioden sat there, his tone oozing sarcasm. “I really am sorry if I killed your second cousin or some other equally important relative, but that raven may have been a spy for one of the Animages of Istar, fool!”

The two stared across the fire, their faces spectral in the underglow of the burning logs. Looking uneasily around, Andaria touched Cioden on the shoulder, causing him to whirl on her with an infuriated look on his normally placid face. “What is it?”

“Cioden, let it go, he didn’t know…” she trailed off with a pleading expression on her benign face. He nearly struck her, but then he lowered his hand and relaxed, his face reverting to its normal poise. Nodding his head, he sighed tiredly.

“You are right, Andaria. I should not have let myself get angered like that. It’s only that this lyre is all that I have to remind me of my mother, and I would die before I let a bawdy tune touch the strings of this instrument. The raven just happened to speak at the wrong time.” He smiled slightly, transforming his face to an almost warm appearance. “Most likely he was singing praise for your performance. I have not had the chance to hear that song for many, many years.” Turning away from the flattered cleric, he faced Thom and bowed apologetically.

“My apologies, hawkman. I let my rage control me, which is something I must learn not to do, as I have a tendency toward lashing out when frustrated. We should all sleep soon, I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a big day for us all.” Thus said, he turned and left the firelight, heading toward his tent.

Thom looked at those gathered, and shrugged his shoulders expansively, indicating naiveté. “Don’t look at me, I have no idea what he’s doing. I’m just a soldier, and I personally could give a rat’s bottom what he does as long as he gets us through those damn mountains in one piece.”

“I agree,” said Ramirez, looking up from a hurried consultation with his sister, “That mage has got some tricks up his sleeve, but I don’t think we are the ones in danger; but I really feel sorry for whoever it is, that mage has eyes that make even me pause sometimes.”

Changing the subject, Anya turned to Vyse and asked about tomorrow’s plan, averting everyone’s attention from the strange actions of Cioden. His eyes lighting up at the chance to explain his plan to everyone, he began to explain in a slightly energetic tone about all the differing paths, allowing a certain cleric to leave the circle unannounced. Leaving the chatter of the circle behind her, she walked toward her tent with uncertain steps. How could he have known what that song was, the song that had convinced the Band of the White Hand to leave Istar to search for the legendary Dragon, defying Ishtalle’s teachings of her as absolute ruler and god. Stopping at her tent, her mind whirling with the thoughts, she did not notice Cioden slipping away from her tent towards his own, cloaked in his robes and lost in the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Cioden wandered through a forest that was not a forest, in a land that was real and a façade. Laying his hand upon the bark of a tree, letting the rough feel of the Vallenwood tree’s bark evoke memories of his childhood, the young mage let out a sigh, half happiness and half dread. Walking among the trees of his youth, breathing in the clean air of the autumn season, he flung his hood back to stand in the forest with his face bared to the clean, pure feeling he had not known since that fateful day. The memories’ intensity increased, making his head spin with the whirling images, sounds and feelings, each flashing past him at breakneck speed.

FLASH

Him, leaving home a year later than all of the other apprentices because of his inability to work the magic of law, his father standing on the walkway with a cold look on his hard face.

FLASH

Him, being thrown out of the Istarian Academy for practicing chaotic magic, his father’s gaze boring holes in him.

FLASH

Him, being thrown into the torture chambers after going into a magical rage and boring a hole in the side of the tower. His father standing there directing the torturer’s hands with cold, loveless eyes.

The memories assaulted him with relentless fury, his three betrayals flung at him in a constant barrage of emotion, sending him reeling through the forest with his head clenched between his hands. Stumbling around the phantom forest of his youth, he eventually lost all of his fight, and sank to the earth, still clutching his head between his hands. Suddenly he realized that the voices had stopped their constant fusillade on his brain, and he looked up cautiously, making sure that they would not come back harder. As he took in his surroundings, a chill crept into his marrow.

He was standing in a clearing in the phantom forest, a clearing that was ringed in with twelve Deadoak trees, signaling a tomb. Square in the middle of the clearing, an onyx block of stone stood partially covered with black leaves from the trees. Realization creeping into his mind, he whirled from his spot and flung himself at the leaves, scattering them to the winds in his unbridled need to know what the tomb said. Clawing at the pile of leaves covering the stone, bleeding from innumerable cuts from the thorns on the leaves, he used his magic to burn them all to ash, covering himself in the hot flames of hell; The tomb, now uncovered, lay open like a scar.

His vision was still weak from the lights of the flames, but the ornate lettering of the tomb bored his way into his skull, imprinting it’s message on the very last corners of his being.

 

Here lies Cioden Azunost

The Seventh Son

The Traitor Son

Thrice Betrayer

He is dead to us now

 

“F-father, how could you do this? FATHER!”

“I despise you, you arrogant worm.”

Whirling in time to see a figure clad in silver robes, Cioden was caught by pangs of guilt mixed with anger and a deeper rage that smoldered within.

“Father! H-how could-“ Cioden was cut off by a shake of the man’s head.

“I had a son once. A son that brought shame on our family by his chaotic ways. A son that turned his back on his heritage to pursue his selfish interests, leaving his mother and father to die.”

“You killed my wife.”

The pure hatred contained within that sentence sent Cioden’s mind reeling. Him, kill mother? The mother that cared for him, the mother that he loved? The sheer idea sent spasms of guilt wracking through his body.

“After my son left, she started to waste away, and three weeks later, she died of a broken heart. All because of you, you pile of dung, you self-centered worm!”

The man raised his hand, and Cioden felt the magic build up within his father, the magic that would sear his only son to the bone.

“Goodbye, Traitor Son.”

“FATHER!!!!”

Cioden woke up in a cold sweat, his perspiration forming droplets on his arms and back. He shook off the vision with an effort, rising to his feet and dressing. Shivering in the early morning air, he drew the robes of magic around him, taking comfort in their warmth and feeling of security. Breathing in the calm morning air, he drew the tentflap aside and stepped out into the morning air. Casting a minor spell that heated his robes, he turned and headed out toward the nearby stream to fetch water for his soup, wondering what the dream really meant.

* * *

The sun rode high in the sky as Mat walked ahead of the traveling group, acting as guide in Cioden and Kilik’s place. Relishing the sound of the forest swirling around him, he released his grip on his sword, relaxing his body and enjoying himself. Seconds later, an arrow whizzed out from behind a tree, impaling itself in a branch directly next to his head and sending him rolling to the ground with his visor down and sword at the ready. Looking around him, he saw five soldiers heading toward him through the woods, the silver cross on their breastplates showing that they were Istarian soldiers, probably on a routine search. The troopers drew their swords and formed a circle around him, the archer having obviously left for other targets.

Smiling slightly, Mat brought his sword up in a salute, which the leader of the soldiers returned with grave civility, knowing that this one was of high birth, and wished to die in battle. Unfortunately for them, dying wasn’t too high on his to-do list. Biting down on his tongue, a thin trickle of blood ran into his mouth, raising his fury to fever pitch. No, he was not going to die today!

His eyes red behind the visor of his helmet, his mouth frothing with blood, Mathos was falling deeper and deeper into the berserker rage, a feat where the fighter would go into a battle trance at the taste of blood. Few were able to survive the rage, killing until they were killed themselves, but Mat was different, as he could control his rage. His vision blurring red at the corners, he raised Wyrmbane and flung himself at the nearest solder, his body agile and lithe despite the heavy armor he wore. A hawk among sparrows, his body thrilled with the sensations of battle and he was filled with the song of the sword, slamming into the soldier like a thunderbolt. The last conscious action he remembered before he sank completely into the rage was screaming his family’s warcry, the bloodcurdling scream chilling the soul of all those who heard his grim call.

“Dragonsbane, Yaaaa!!!”

* * *

Vyse barely had enough time to draw his blade out of one soldier before having to turn to the next, blocking and slashing, cutting and slicing, the battle raging on all around him. His scimitar cleaved its way through the surrounding soldiers like a scythe of death, it’s edge never dulling. Through the reddish glow that seemed to cover everything, he could barely make out Ramirez and Rose back to back, a whirling dance of blade and whip which cut it’s way slowly to the leader. In another corner, Cioden and Andaria were holding off the attackers by having Andaria shield the two of them while Cioden sent fireballs hurtling into the soldiers’ midst, burning them where they stood. Anya and Thom were raining death into the midst of the soldiers with their longbows, which they fired with deadly accuracy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kilik and Dalamarn fighting their way towards him, back to back in a deadly whirl of staff and blade. Reaching him, they joined silently, hacking their way toward the others in a desperate attempt to escape.

Suddenly, the general appeared, slashing downward in a deadly arc toward Kilik’s unprotected side. Seeing this, Dalamarn shoved the boy out of the way, catching the blade on his sword and sending it sliding along the edge with a slithering sound. Kilik caught himself, then tried to help Dalamarn, but Vyse stopped him with a free hand. Whirling on him with blazing eyes, Kilik opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a negating look from his leader.

“A man just gave up his life for you, boy! Don’t throw it away. Run, run from here and tell Guildas about this. Tell Guildas!” But the boy was already running, his long legs a blur as he sped away. Turning back to the battle in time to see Dalamarn impaled on the general’s blade, he knew what he must do.

Locking his swords together at the hilt, he flung himself at the surprised general, slashing and hacking madly, looking for an opening. The general quickly got over his surprise and began to block, his sword a blur to match Vyse’s two. Over, under, side, side, the three swords met and retreated, only to charge again, sending blue sparks skittering through the air to announce each meeting. Finally Vyse slipped, giving the general an opening. The commander’s sword burst through Vyse with a surge of pain, which was strangely subdued and far away. Dropping the scimitar, he fell forward onto the sword that held him, hugging the general in a death grip. Too late did the soldier feel the blade stab into his stomach, twisting and cutting out his entrails. The two leaders of each army stood there in that horrible embrace, then they fell, dead, to the ground.

* * *

Dropping their bows, Anya and Thom took up their weapons and, nodding to each other, launched into the fray. Anya immediately took down three soldiers with quick blows to the head, but Thom was not far behind, his spear a mere blur as it whirled through one enemy to gut another. Suddenly, the battle seemed to shift, and they threw themselves at the fight with renewed vigor. Her staff slamming into opponent after opponent, Anya the very figure of feline fury, with Thom seeming the incarnation of one of the long-gone demons. His spear never slowed, moving from one foe to the next with fiendish accuracy. Looking over, he saw Rose and Ramirez being hauled away by soldiers in white tabards. All of a sudden, the battle stopped and all the soldiers ran, heading northwest. With a startling quickness, the battlefield was completely empty, save for the startled defenders.

“Well, that was over quickly.” Cioden said, staggering a bit as he tried to make his feet move in the right direction, then he collapsed in a heap. Obviously he had drained a lot of his energy in that last battle, and he struggled to pull himself to his feet with the aid of his staff. Andaria released the shield and fell to her knees, emptying the contents of her stomach next to a fallen log.

“T-they all…they’re all dead, aren’t they?” she asked with a shaky voice. Turning her head from the slaughter, she sat there with her bloody robes hugged close to her shaking figure. Cioden walked among the fallen, stabbing the wounded with a long dagger that was poisoned or magical.

Finishing his dirty business, he cleaned the dirk on his cloak and put it away in one of the many pockets that lined the inside of his robe. Seeing Andaria in such pain, he quickly lit a fire under the kettle, preparing a tea from the contents of the aforementioned pockets.

Thom and Anya had escaped most of the damage, coming into the fight as late as they did and having polearms that put some distance between them and the enemy; still, Thom had an arrowhead stuck in his arm. Looking over the wound with expert eyes, Anya poked at it, causing him to yelp in pain.

“Hey, watch it! That smarts!”

“Fine then. Hey Thom, look here!” She leaned forward, exposing a very distracting figure.

“Hey, what th- OW!”

As he was in the process of being distracted by the view, she had whipped her hand out and snatched the arrowhead, giving it a quick yank and pulling it loose. As Thom hopped about in pain, clutching his arm and gritting his teeth so as not to scream, she went about preparing a poultice for the wound. When he finally settled down, she wrapped the poultice around the wound and secured it with a strip of cloth, pulling it tight with her teeth. Smiling at him innocently, she kissed him on the cheek and ran off to go pack up. Staring at her with a bemused look, Thom headed off to his own tent, fully intent on getting the hell out of here.

Suddenly a noise in the bushes brought everyone to attention, bearing their weapons on the noise, nerves strung tight. Out of the bushes came a man coated in bloody armor, with a two-handed sword held loosely in his left hand. Smiling to those of the party, Mat fell forward with a dull clang that resounded in the still air, and began to drag himself to his tent.

Sipping her tea, Andaria looked down at her bloodstained robes and smiled wickedly at some inner thought. The white material was stained almost black by the dried blood, which for some reason sent her into a flurry of laughter.

* * *

Red-hot irons were pressed against Cioden’s arms, filling the air with the stench of burning flesh and the sound of his screams.

“Repent, my son. When you repent, all will be good and pure as Ishtalle wishes it. This pain doesn’t have to be here. Swear fealty to Ishtalle and I will lift the pain!” His father’s words burned into him with the power of hate, a hate that Cioden stoked and fed with each pass of the whip, each touch of the irons. Yes, a hate that would one day be given voice.

Spitting at his father’s face, Cioden hung limp on the chains, praying to Asmodee for salvation from this torment. Ishtalle had long ago stopped listening to him. Deep within him, he knew this was a dream, but the pain still bit him as deeply as it had that day. Struggling to awake, he strained and strained… and woke.

“Wake up, Cioden!”

Suddenly he was aware of a figure crouched over him in white robes. Thinking it was his father, he reached for his knife, almost impaling the mysterious visitor. Abruptly, the figure coalesced into the visage of Andaria leaning over him with strange eyes, eyes that seemed to glow green in the night.

“What in the name of Asmodee are you doing? Do you realize that I almost just killed you, cleric? Did you realize that all sorcerers are trained to react first, think later? Did you?” He glared at her with eyes that glittered lethally in the moonlight.

“I need your help, that’s all that matters now. Get up, I need you to come with me.” Gathering her robes about herself, Andaria hurried out of the tent, walking quickly toward an unknown destination. Cursing quietly to himself, Cioden pulled his robes around him and hurried after her, a shadow among shadows.

He drew up alongside her, and they walked in silence for a while. Abruptly, the forest ended and a clearing popped up, seemingly from no-where. In the middle of the clearing, strangely reminding Cioden of his vision, an altar stood, made entirely of onyx that glittered in the moonlight.

Andaria walked up to the altar slowly, seeming a queen walking to her throne. When she reached the altar, she turned and spoke, her voice filled with a strange need, a yearning.

“Cioden, I need to become a black mage.”

Taken aback slightly, Cioden looked at her with incredulous eyes, then opened his mouth to speak. Then closed it. Eventually he nodded approval, then stepped forward.

“I take it that you know of the cost that becoming a mage Cioden incur, and the ceremony?”

“I know the ceremony, and I give my life to Asmodee, for him to meld as he wishes.”

“Then let us begin.”

Due to the intimate nature of the ceremony, only females transformed females, and males only males, but they had no time to find a witch Willing to take the responsibility. Andaria removed the silver robes from her body and laid them on the altar, leaving her naked except for a silver necklace that hung around her neck. Ignoring the marvelous figure in front of him, Cioden began to invoke the powers of chaos, drawing circles in the air and muttering magic incantations. Above them, the full moon turned darker and darker as the magic took hold.

“Chaotica, Hantis, Chaltis, Necrotia, Garda.”

The words burned in the air like salamanders with wings. In the sky, the moon continued it’s inexorable shadowing, now shining with a dark glow.

“Galura, Falonis, Yenom, Rotrean, Bolaris.”

The moon was now pitch black, but it still emitted a soft glow. Speaking the next words with perfect pronouncement, he finished the spell.

“Necropos, Chaos, Asmodee!”

As soon as he finished, a blinding black beam of light shot from the moon, engulfing Andaria’s figure in waves of mystic light. The beam continued for long seconds, seconds that seemed like hours, then as suddenly as it appeared the beam vanished, leaving Andaria a changed person. Clad in robes of deepest black, her hair had gone from it’s previous golden to being as sleek and black as a raven’s wing. Green eyes stared out from her face, two glittering emeralds in an overly pale setting, one of the prices of magic.

Looking down at her new clothing, Andaria smiled enigmatically then folded her hand into a fist that burst into black flame. Turning to her folded robes, she slammed her fist into the silver garments, incinerating them in a flash of light, leaving only white ashes that drifted away on the wind. Throwing her head back, she laughed, full of the power of chaos. A faint smile crossed Cioden’s glacial features and he walked forward, muttering another incantation.

Two balls of shadow appeared, hanging in the air in between the two mages. One of them elongated, becoming an ebon staff while the other turned into a jet-black pendant hanging on a silver chain.

“These are the symbols of your office, amulet and staff. Use them wisely, and they shall serve you to your death. Use them foolishly, and they will show you to your death.”

Taking the necklace from the air, Cioden slipped it around her neck, marveling at how soft and supple her skin was. Giving her a ceremonial kiss on the forehead, he motioned for her to rise and the two of them walked back to the camp, leaving behind the altar for their god, the Lord of Chaos.

 

Chapter 4:

Elemental Paths

June 6, 435 AC

A spike of magical ice impaled the last enemy, sticking the goblin raider to the tree. Andaria smiled wickedly at the Istarian cleric that had been commanding them, who now was caught in a corner by the former white mage. “Had you left those villagers alone, we wouldn’t have had to do this, but you leave me no choice. You Will die at the hands of Andaria Cabot today.” Raising her hands, she gestured and a spike of rock thrust up from the ground, spearing the hapless cleric through the chest, sticking out of his back.

“H-help me…Ishtalle…”

Leaning close to the trapped cleric, Andaria smiled yet again, cold and hard as a glacier.

“Ishtalle Will not help you now, dear associate. Only in darkness is there freedom, a freedom that I have. Rest now, and let the darkness claim you.” Kneeling before the snared cleric, she touched two fingers to the figure’s forehead, which went limp, hanging on the jutting stone like a rag doll.

Standing up straight and gathering her robes about her, a queen of ice in her robes of dark, she looked toward Cioden and smiled one of her real smiles.

“Yet another mage of the light, now safely in the darkness, Betrayer.”

Will didn’t flinch at the name, it was now yet another name for him. He most likely viewed it as a compliment. Smiling back at her with a slightly sardonic look, he replied, “One more for the herd, Deceiver.”

Putting on a look of mock surprise, she tried her best to look mortified, but she succeeded only in laughing heartily. She had no sympathy for those who had once been her brethren in Istar, seeking only to kill all those connected to that dread city. Her hatred was matched only by Cioden’s, a cold flame that burned within each of them, driving them on through odds that seemed impossible only to emerge tempered by the flames of hardship. Traitor Son and Betrayer Soul, they were legendary in Istar, wanted for a list of crimes against Ishtalle so long that it could not be listed on a single wanted poster. Staying in the area around Fidach, they had kept the invading forces busy along with Anya, Thom and Mat. The famed Band of Five was a constant thorn in Istar’s side, a fact that they were very proud of. Over the months, Andaria had become a very powerful black mage, level with Will, who was renowned for his mystical prowess.

Walking up to her, he bowed and cast the spell that would open a door to their destination. Gateways were hard to cast and took energy, but were a lot less gut wrenching than teleporting, which tended to give one a hangover. Looking through the doorway for any signs of danger, he stepped to the side and let Andaria through, stepping through after her to close it. As soon as they stepped through, Thom looked up with slightly tired eyes, eyes that carried much more wisdom and experience than he had six months ago when they started this quest. Laying down the arrow he was making, he rose to greet them.

“Hello, Will; Andaria. There have been reports of a large force of troops in the area, so I took the liberty of packing for you. We Will be leaving first thing in the morning, so get some sleep.” Months ago, Cioden would have tried killing anyone who so much as touched his equipment, but long times had dulled his sharper edge toward the Band’s members. Anya stood over a fire, chopping carrots into a pot. A while ago she had taken to wearing pants and shirts in favor of the tighter clothes she had worn before. Looking up with sparkling eyes, she grinned to the newcomers and continued chopping carrots. Sitting near the firelight polishing the blade of his sword, Mat was pretty oblivious to the world, not noticing Cioden until the mage walked right by him.

Resting on a log, Cioden reached into a pocket, taking out the day’s spoils, consisting of a crystal comb, a few gold pieces, some assorted coins, and a gold pendant. Cioden sighed, the setting sun turning his face coppery in the twilight. Andaria sat across from him, smiling that enigmatic smile she always used when she was with Cioden. Since the transformation the two of them had grown close, partly because he was teaching her and partly because they were kindred spirits in a way that no one else could understand. It wasn’t like Thom and Anya, who were such close friends that nothing could have broken them, instead, their relationship was balanced on a hair that constantly shifted under their feet, obviously keeping both on their toes. Her dark hair framing a face that was incredibly pale in comparison, she was coldly beautiful, a woman that no man could ever hope to touch. Her emerald eyes were too knowing, her gaze too mocking, the way she did everything pronounced her different and above.

[Archive]

Cioden, on the other hand, was hardly the essence of beauty. His face could have been handsome except for the stone-like setting of it. Eyes the color of slate held secrets that no-one would ever know, and he was constantly reminding everyone of that. His attitude was as arrogant as ever, only softening when he spoke to the weak or the needy, or Andaria of course. Determined to get revenge against the council and his father, he raced forward towards his goal with a fervent need that was matched only by Andaria’s anger and purpose.

A quick glance around confirmed that everyone was getting ready to eat, so Cioden set about making a meal for he and Andaria. Mages need differing substances than fighters, and normal fare is not good enough for two tired magi. Heating the water in the pot to boiling with a word, he added two handfuls of powder from one pocket, and cut up a root into it from another. The root was called Windpod, owing to the fact that it only grew in high, desolate places around and in the Khalkists. The water bubbled and boiled; quickly coalescing into a brown broth that smelled good and made his mouth water.

“You planning to eat all of that, or am I going to get any?”

Looking up into two verdant orbs that stayed right above her slightly smiling mouth, he nodded slightly to Andaria and handed her a bowl of the soup along with a spoon. Dishing himself up a bowl of the broth he ate silently, staring at the not-so-distant peaks of the Khalkist Mountains. A feeling of need rose in him, filling the part of him that was mostly used when he was fighting with a strange longing to move from here and continue on their journey. Fate was beckoning with its irresistible call, and the mortals were flung along on the rapids of time and space.

“All right guys, let get some sleep. We’re moving out early tomorrow.” Thom wished them all goodnight, then retreated to his tent, pulling the flap down after him. Anya washed out the pots and went to her own tent near Thom’s, leaving the three remaining to watch the fire and meditate.

Mathos polished his armor with a tender hand, buffing it with the old rag he had until the steel glowed in the firelight. His sword lay nearby, it’s long blade stretching out for almost four and a half feet. Ancient runic designs were engraved on the blade, giving it special dragon-slaying properties and lightening it until Anya could have easily swung the blade around, but the technique was all Mat’s. It took a special kind of fighter to create tactics with a sword that was sometimes as long as the enemy, but Mat was damn smart, and his Zweihander fighting style mimicked him; Quick, brave, and lethal.

“Something’s been on your mind, hasn’t it Cioden?” Most people would have jumped at the seemingly mystical guess but Cioden merely looked up from his tea sharply, his eyes searching and seeking. Finally, he relaxed, slipping into a tired posture.

“Yes, something has been bugging me lately. Around here we can help the people of Fidach and the outlying villages, but we still aren’t eliminating it at the source. Vyse died trying to reach the Khalkists, and here we are, right at the feet of those haunted hills; but still we do nothing.” His eyes took on a light that hadn’t been there for months and he stood, his arms outstretched, his finger pointing north.

“At sunrise, we move out for Khalkist!”

 

* * *

Thom grumbled continuously as the path winded up the mountainside.

“Stupid lets-follow-in-our-dead-leader’s-footsteps and all. Doesn’t matter if I’m freezing my feathers off trying to reach the top of another blasted hill. No! I just have to follow that bloody mage up another bloody mountain so I can see the other bloody side!” Seeing the path flatten out, he sighed happily and shifted his pack to his other shoulder. Flexing his tired wings, he jumped into the air, experiencing the wonderfully free feeling that he always got when he took to the air on his golden wings.

Landing on a plateau, he found it to be big enough to hold all of their tents, a good thing because it was almost sunset. He set his pack to the ground and took out a silver ball that Cioden had designed for a teleportation beacon, setting it in the middle of the clearing and stepping back a few feet.

Suddenly a dark ball appeared a few feet in the air above the beacon, bobbing up and down like a cork in water. It flashed, then coalesced into a doorway, through which the rest of the party walked through. They were careful not to touch the doorway, as they all knew that it was razor-sharp and capable of slicing through rocks like butter.

“About time that you made it here, we were almost preparing a funeral for you, that or the cookpot.” As usual, Cioden’s sarcastic comments were doing nothing to help Thom’s sore back and wings. Whirling on the arrogant mage, Thom was about to give him a piece of his mind when Anya walked up and deposited a bundle in his hands, almost causing him to fall over from the sheer weight.

“What do you have in here? Armor? A griffin? Maybe a full-grown cow?” Thom inquired, shifting the packet so he could hold on to it.

“Well, while you were gone a tinker passed by and I picked up a new set of cooking equipment; it was only fifty steel…”

“FIFTY STEEL?” Thom’s eyes nearly bugged out. That was almost all that money they had! Anya nodded, grinning happily. She deposited a few coins in his pocket, then strolled over to the supplies and began to set up her tent. Pondering on women and the age-old motto of “Can’t live with em, can’t live without em”, he lowered the bundle to the ground and walked off to set up his own tent.

Smiling slightly, Andaria snapped her fingers, causing her tent to unfold and set itself up automatically. Catching Cioden’s irate glare, she managed to look sheepish. He always said that menial magic did not need a gesture to go along with it, and he stressed this especially with his student/peer. His gaze still locked with Andaria’s, she was able to see his tent silently prop itself up without even a flicker from Cioden. Smiling slightly, he turned and went over to the pile of sticks and lit a fire, leaving her to glower at his back.

She glared at him for a second, then turned on her heel, heading off toward a lake nearby. She needed to cool off, and a nice bath was in order. Stepping lightly, she divined the lake with her magic and headed toward it at a brisk pace. Sparkling red in the dying sunlight, the water was stained blood red, causing her mouth to quirk into an almost-smile. Blood begets blood, as the old saying goes.

As she knelt to test the water, she sensed movement on the other side of the pool. Looking up from the still water she saw a figure clad in silver armor on the far side of the lake, his sword and shield glistening red in the setting sun. Springing to her feet, she brought her staff to bear on the mysterious image, shouting out for identity.

“Who are you, knight, and why did you come to this pool?”

Instead of answering, the knight began to walk around the lake, slowly and methodically. An argent cross gleamed on his shield and armor, causing Andaria to fall into a fighting stance while she readied a few magic spells for quick use. Stopping mere feet from her, the cryptic knight saluted and raised his visor, causing her to stare in amazement at the face before her. Straight blonde hair framed a face that was highborn, with green eyes.

“I-is that really you? Your hair, your skin… but it is you.” Those green eyes burned with realization, and the knight’s gaze suddenly blurred with barely held tears.

“My sister!” Staring in astonishment at her twin brother, Andaria nearly dropped the staff.

“Darius! What are you doing here? And why are you wearing that ridiculous armor? Oh, if our mother could see you, she’d turn you over her knee!” He managed to look sheepish for a few seconds, then he sobered up, fingering the hilt of his sword.

“I’ve been sent to capture you. If you resist, I am to kill you without delay.” His eyes pleaded with her. “Please come quietly.”

Drawing herself up to her full height, Andaria glared at him with angry eyes. “I Will not go back to die! I have too much riding on this to turn back now. Istar Will feel my wrath, as Will all those that stand between me and my goal!” She was flaming anger and icy calm, refusing her brother’s command.

Darius leveled his sword at her, his eyes as pitiless as emeralds.

“Then, you Will die.”

Charging toward her with sword slashing down, he hoped to catch her off guard. Seconds before the sword touched her Andaria muttered a few words, and an azure shield sprung up in front of her. When the sword touched the shield blue sparks jumped, lighting up the proceedings in an intense glow.

“You Will never take me alive!” Andaria struck out with a magical blade that glowed a brilliant green in the twilight, hitting her brother’s shield and sending another round of magical sparks flying.

Staggering backwards under the fury of his sister’s magical assault, Darius grabbed a whistle from around his neck and blew a high keening note. Instantly a dozen soldiers jumped out from the bushes, heading for her with nets and swords, obviously intent on capture. Andaria started to back up slowly, swinging her blade at all those who got too close. Desperation filled her, along with a sickening feeling that she would lose and be captured, forced to face her father on bended knee.

Suddenly a black-hilted knife appeared in the neck of the nearest soldier, causing him to grab at the wound futilely. Whirling, Andaria saw Cioden standing there with two more knives, one in each hand. Behind him, Thom and Anya stood with longbows drawn, their black-fletched arrows searching for a victim. Abruptly sound of panic came from her left, and she looked to see Mat, his eyes as red as his sword, bringing swift death to all those close to him. A soldier made a grab for her, only to come up short with two arrows quivering in his chest.

“I guess the rumors are true then…you are a member of the Band of Five. I admit defeat this time, but I Will be back. You cannot escape me, sister.” As Darius spoke the last word, a white cloud drifted over him and he began to dissipate into the fog.

“Remember the oath…” His last words faded away along with him. All of the surviving soldiers turned and ran into the woods to eventually die or be eaten by animals. Andaria turned to the other four members and bowed her head in failure, knowing that she had made a mistake that could have killed the others, jeopardizing the entire mission.

“O ye of little faith… never mind. The important thing is that you are alive and that we have identified another threat to the Band.” Cioden spoke these words with his typical emotionless tone, but there was a warmer streak behind it all. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he looked at her with eyes that were filled with concern and a deeper feeling that was gone in an instant. Straightening up, his face resumed the carefully formed mask of arrogance.

“Besides, we cannot allow the weakness of one to weigh the others down. Strength is all we can afford now, so work for it.”

Turning on his heel, he followed the others back to the tents, leaving Andaria to herself to contemplate her actions and thoughts. She sat on the hard ground and poured over the day’s events, sorting through her mind and imbuing herself with a feeling of peace and oneness. The feeling suffused her, and she became as one with the ground and nature, feeling the life force of the nearby forest animals as little dots on the edge of her awareness. Melding with nature so perfectly that she ceased to exist as simply Andaria the mage, but was now another facet of the great jewel of life.

She let out a sigh as the feeling began to slip away; letting go was no easy task. Getting to her feet, Andaria began to walk toward the encampment, heading back to her home.

Halfway there she passed Anya going the opposite direction, obviously intent on washing the day’s dirt and grime from herself. Slipping by as quietly as a shadow, she left Anya with a slightly bemused look as she tried to see what she could only feel, the presence of chaos.

 

* * *

 

Thom stumbled through the underbrush, making about as much noise as a bull let loose in an apothecary shop. Slashing at the prevailing weeds with his short sword, he continued toward the lake, hoping to find a quiet spot to wash up after falling down the mountain earlier today. All of today had been spent either setting up for the night or foraging for food, and all he wanted to do was take a nice long swim and forget about his troubles for a while.

Spying the lake up ahead, he blundered through the bushes and stood on the side of the lake, flexing his sore arms and legs. Removing the leather tabard he usually wore, Thom jumped into the lake quietly with nary a sound. After he had held his breath for as long as he could, he came up to the top with a quiet splash, shaking his head from side to side and flinging droplets of water.

Suddenly he spied another figure on the opposite side of the lake, hard to make out in the moonlight. Diving under again, he swam to a nearby group of rushes, squinting to see the figure. When he realized who it was, he inhaled sharply. It was Anya!

She stood with her back to him, torso-deep in the water. Her long red hair glistened wetly in the moonlit night, and her features were even more beautiful than he realized. She started at some unknown sound, then lowered slowly, reaching for something. As Thom leaned forward to see what she was getting at, she turned and hurled something at him. Seeing only a black spot that grew in his vision until it collided with a sickening thud and a sharp pain, he fell on the spot, drifting into unconsciousness.

“Oh, damn, I did it again!” she pouted, standing over the now comatose body of the hawkman. Shrugging her shoulders, she dragged him up on the bank and covered him with a towel, leaving him for the night. Sleeping under the stars was good for a hangover, and this was going to hurt a hell of a lot more than a hangover.

 

* * *

 

“Whoa, WHOA!”

A trip, a fall, and suddenly Thom was at the bottom of the path faster than the rest of them. Looking up to see what he hit his head on, he bit back wonder and awe as his annoyance dissolved suddenly. Directly in front of him was a large column with runic designs carved into its dark surface in crimson script. Calling for the others to join him, they were soon all gathered around the object, pondering it’s meaning. It was about five feet wide and pure black, looking like a strange sort of monolith.

“Looks like a tombstone,” Said Anya, causing Cioden to flinch strangely.

“Most likely a doorway.” Said Cioden.

“Possibly a magic focus.” Andaria had been looking for one of those.

“Maybe a snack bar?” As usual, Thom was the first one to remember the basics. Scouting around the column with his large hands, he traced designs randomly, searching for a switch of some sort. He placed his hand on an etching of five interwoven rings and an audible click was heard, causing him to jump back abruptly.

Shimmering like air on a hot day, the obelisk began to fade into the air, revealing a long set of stairs that wound their way down into the darkness. Thom poked his spear into the opening with no ill effect, then took a careful step on one of the stairs. It creaked slightly, but held his weight with no ill effects. Looking up at those gathered, he smiled brightly.

“See, it’s fin- WOAH!”

Suddenly he slipped and tumbled down the stairs in a tight ball. Anya flung herself at the opening, but was held back by Cioden’s hand, bringing her up short. Brandishing her staff at the mage, she growled deep in her throat.

“Let me go! You may be the Betrayer, but I Will not play Thom false and refuse to help him as he would help me!” Jerking her hand out of his grip, she fled down into the darkness with her staff at the ready. Sighing heavily, Cioden looked at Andaria, and the two of them followed the felix down the stairs side by side, watching each other’s backs for danger. Mat was the last to go, his great sword strapped to his back and a torch in his hand.

At the bottom of the stairs they found Anya bent over a shaken Thom, fussing over a few minuscule wounds that had been inflicted during the fall. Spying the rest approaching, Anya glared at them with feminine scorn.

“See, if I had been any later-“

“Oh, cut it out! It was just a scratch! A SCRATCH, For the love of god!” Thom cut in irritatedly, standing up and stretching his bruised arms and wings. Looking at them irately, he pointed down the hall a little, holding his head with the other hand. “There’s something down the hall a ways, thought you might want to check it out.”

Cioden regarded the battered birdman with cold eyes.

“If you are capable of surviving here, I Will go check it out with Andaria and Mat. Stay here unless I call for you or you feel up to moving.” Turning on his heel, he left down the corridor with Andaria right next to him, the two of them mere shadows in the gloom.

Shaking his head ruefully, Thom let himself be poked and prodded by Anya, realizing that fighting would probably prolong the pain. And anyway, who knows what the hell was down that hallway…

 

* * *

 

They stepped out into a square chamber, stopping to check their surroundings. Pulling out a ball from his pocket, Cioden flung it into the middle of the chamber where it burst into bright light, illuminating the room. Runic designs decorated the walls of the chamber, coating it from top to bottom in differing colors. Running his hand across the designs, Cioden saw that all of the walls were decorated with a differing color and a circle in the center. Idly tracing patterns in a deep blue with his hand, Cioden pondered the meaning.

“Hmm… five colors, five symbols… where have I seen this before?”

“Hey Cioden, have you ever heard of the Five Rings?”

Suddenly it all fit together with an audible click. This was the ancient Shrine of the Five elements: Wind, Water, Fire, Earth and Void! Giddy with barely concealed excitement, he looked across the room to where Andaria was standing on the Earth circle, which glowed faintly as she stood there.

“Quick, Thom, Anya, Mat! Get in here!” The others ran in, looking slightly bemused at the sudden summoning.

“Anya, go over to the wall and touch the panel in the center. Yes, the one with the flame on it.” As Anya put her hand to the panel, it flared bright crimson. Expanding outwards, soon the fiery light glowed forth from all the runes on her wall, illuminating the party in a scarlet glow.

“Mat, you touch the one on the wall across from her, the one with the waterdrop on it.” Mat put his hand on the panel, causing it to blaze with azure brightness. Covering the whole wall within seconds, it seemed to fight with the red glow for dominance.

“Thom, fly up there and touch the panel with the tornado on it.” Flexing his wings, Thom sped up and slammed his hand onto the tile of air, making it shine with a golden light that, as usual, spread outward until it had suffused the wall with a golden tint.

Not needing any signal, Andaria crouched down and put her palm on the earth panel, causing it to glow with a verdant light. As soon as the entire wall was alight with a verdant green, a strange thing happened.

All of the walls suddenly shot a beam of colorful light toward the middle, meeting and swirling in a strange cyclone.

Nodding as if he understood the goings on, Cioden solemnly put his hand on the final, blank, panel. Instead of lighting, the panel grew darker and darker, seeming to suck light from the surroundings. Pretty soon the entire wall was as black as midnight. Out of the morass shot a beam of purest black that slammed into the magical cyclone with the force of a hurricane, bending and twisting around.

Each of the panels suddenly flared up then died, leaving the room murky and the entire group with spots in their vision. When Andaria flung a light-ball into the middle of the air it hung there, lighting up the area with a greenish light. Apparently all of the panels had been replaced with a doorway during the transformation, stone doorways that were the same color as the elemental panels they used to be. Cioden sucked in a breath, gazing at the doorway before him, enraptured by the sight.

“The five doorways…The source of ultimate power. This is where the five elementals lie in wait for the next Shiri’kar, Guardians of the elements. The five sources of magic lie dormant, waiting for the touch of a Guardian. If we can pass the five tests, we may be able to overthrow even the might of Ishtalle!” His eyes burned with a maniacal light, the green glow from the light-ball sent strange shadows flitting across his face. Looking up from deep thought, Andaria spoke up.

“The only tests that we know of are the test of Earth, Air and Fire. The trial of Earth allows you to only use physical strength, cutting you off from all magic. A physical trial, the Earth test can be deadly if we can not find the exit. The test of Air is the opposite, requiring you to solve three riddles. Finally, the test of Fire is all-out warfare. The test of water has something to do with illusion, but that is all we know. As for the test of the Void…” She trailed off, shrugging her shoulders. Cioden cut in with a sarcastic tone.

“No one has ever survived the test of Void, isn’t that right? Technically one man did survive the test of Void, but he only lived for a short time thereafter. The Archmage Habrim survived the test and went insane shortly afterwards, leaving behind only rantings about fighting ghosts and the like.” Smiling sardonically, Cioden left the party to mull that over.

Rubbing his shoulder painfully Thom spoke in an annoyed tone. “I think we should try the test of Air first… Riddles sound like fun right now.”

“Did I mention that you get torn apart if you answer incorrectly, Thom?” Cioden smiled sweetly at the hawkman, who looked slightly nauseated. “If you want to try Air, then go open it, featherbrain. You’re the Air element here.”

Glaring at the mage, Thom spread his wings and flew up to the roof, placing his hand yet again on the panel. As before, it lit up, but this time there was a blinding golden light and a feeling like your stomach being turned inside out. When the light dissipated, they were standing on a cloud, the fluffy white surface holding their weight despite being weightless. Out of the cloud came a figure, causing them to all ready their weapons. Laughter like the ringing of a small bell was all that responded, then the figure stepped forward into the bright sunlight.

The mysterious person was actually a strikingly beautiful woman clad in robes the color of wheat with hair the same bright blonde color. Her eyes were humorous and deep, yellow eyes like those of the wolf. Lifting a finger, she pointed at Thom and burst in to gales of laughter, as light and airy as the summer breeze. Growing indignant at the ridicule, Thom square his shoulders and brought his staff to bear.

“Now see here, what’s all this business of laughing at me, huh?” She dabbed at her eyes daintily with a golden handkerchief that materialized in her hand magically, disappearing with a flourish.

“I’m sorry my dear hawkman, but ‘tis a strange sight, that lump on your face. Also, it’s been a while since I had the pleasure of riddling a group of five, so I’m very merry. My name is Vahallin, the Elemental of Air and the Goddess of Wind.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at the assembled group, coming to rest on Cioden with a slightly surprised look. “A Void sorcerer! And one of Istarian birth, too! Strange times these be, eh?”

Suddenly the twinkle was gone, and she was all business, looking at them with a gaze akin to that of a snake looking over a group of mice. “Right then, first riddle. Round as a platter, flat as a board, Altar to the wolfen lord. What am I?” She gazed triumphantly at the blank faces, only to be cut short by a reply from Anya.

“It’s the moon, silly! The goddess of knowledge and you can’t even think up a better riddle than that old one? Sheesh!”

Vahallin glared at her with a look that was aimed to kill, but it slid right off Anya’s countenance.

“Fine then miss smarts, try this one on for size! Hands, but no fingers. Feet, but no toes. Face, but no eyes. What am I?” The riddle had hardly passed her lips when Cioden called out in a mocking tone.

“Why, it’s a clock, naturally. Hands, face, feet and above all, more intelligence than you!”

Vahallin growled, seemingly crouching to strike.

“Fine. You want tough, here’s tough! At sunrise he crawls on four legs, at noon two, and at sunset he hobbles along on three. What is it?”

Andaria pondered for a few minutes, then her face lit up with a sudden realization, causing Vahallin’s demeanor to fall a few notches.

“In the morning, or birth, humans crawl on all fours as a baby. When they grow up, they walk on two feet as an adult. At the setting of life, they hobble along with the help of a cane.

“The answer is man.”

With those words Vahallin seemed to explode, blasting into a million pieces with a blinding flash of light that left them all with spots in their vision. When the spots cleared, there was naught but a small golden ring lying where she had been with a sunstone in it. When Thom picked it up, there was another blinding flare and that gut-wrenching feeling.

When the spots cleared once again, they were standing in the chamber of Rings where they had been before the transportation.

“Fairly simple,” said Cioden disdainfully, “If they are all this easy there should be hundreds of Guardians wandering around.” Sneering at the now unlit doorway on the ceiling, he looked about to start into another tirade, but apparently decided against it.

“How about the earth trial? That sounds fairly challenging for us mages.” Andaria was gazing longingly at the green tile on the floor of the room. She started to reach for it but was restrained by Thom’s outstretched arm. “Before we go anywhere I want someone to look at this blasted ring. I keep trying to pull it off and it’s stuck!” Everyone clustered around the hapless hawkman, each trying to get a look at the ring.

“Stand back!” Cioden swung his arms around, causing everyone to back up in confusion. “Let me take a closer look at that… Ah!” Grabbing Thom’s hand with an unyielding fist, he brought it closer to his eye so he could see it.

“Hmm… Highest quality Sunstone… magical properties…” Finishing his intense scrutiny, he looked up at Thom with the closest to awe that anyone ever saw on his eyes. “This ring controls immeasurable amounts of Wind magic, enough to cloak the continent in storms or blow away Istar with a single word!” Thom looked at the ring with newfound respect, gently poking at it with his free hand.

“Well, it doesn’t look like much, but if you say so…”

“Keep the ring with you at all times! Never give it to anyone, not me, not Anya, nobody! Do you completely understand what I am trying to say?” Grabbing his hand back from Cioden’s fevered grip, Thom glared at the mage.

“Yeah, sure; I’ll keep it safe. Don’t worry, it’s safe in my hands.”

“That’s what I am afraid of.” His face regaining it’s normal composure, Cioden turned to Andaria and signaled with his hand. Seeing the signal, she knelt and put her hand against the panel, murmuring a prayer to Asmodee. Blinding green light enveloped the room and they were suddenly moving with a sickening jerk.

 

 

Chapter 5:

Gaea

 

As suddenly as it started, the feeling of motion stopped, depositing them in a bright forest. Birds twittered and sang, insects chirped, giving the jungle a feeling of peacefulness. Looking around them, they found themselves in sort of ruins, a few piles of stone being the only indication thereof. Leaning up against the stones were five sets of armor and weapons, apparently for the five adventurers. They walked up to the armor, and when it didn’t bite, began to equip it.

Thom got a set of golden half-plate that fit him like a second skin, among other things. His weapons were two golden gauntlets and a long steel halberd that handled like he was meant for it. Topping it all off was a golden helmet in the shape of an eagle’s head that glittered in the sunlight.

Mat’s armor was a set of full-plate armor that was a deep blue, the color of the summer seas. His weapon was a huge Zweihander sword with a blue dragon engraved on its blade, azure flames shooting from his opened mouth. His helm, the skull of a small dragon, bleached white by the sun and then dyed blue.

Anya wore a set of chain mail worked with crimson thread, allowing for maximum movement and flexibility along with more than adequate protection. A short stabbing spear the color of blood served as her weapon, and a bracelet adorned her wrist with a ruby the size of her thumb.

A brilliant verdant breastplate along with leg and arm bracers served as armor for Andaria, the color of her eyes reflected in the shining plates of her armor. A wicked looking battle-scythe was her implement of war, it’s green blade perfectly balanced and sharp. Her helm was made of an unknown material that shone emerald as she set it on her head.

As black and deep as the pits of doom, Cioden’s armor was made of black strips of leather lashed together like scales, giving him a serpentine look as donned the mail. His weapon was a long sword the color of charcoal, as light and deadly as a viper. Emblazoned on the dark blade was a crimson dragon worked in what appeared to be liquid ruby. Having no helmet, he instead had two black gauntlets that glowed with power as he drew them on.

“Neat gear, eh?” Thom looked down at his new equipment with pride. “Kinda makes me feel like a real hero, like Claudus the Brave, or Gilthas the Strong, or-“

“How about Thomas the crummy loghead?” Anya said, looking at him with amusement twinkling in her eyes. Still smiling, she went into a passable impression of a defensive Thom. “Wait a tic, that’s not quite fair! I am not a crummy loghead! Really, I’m not!” Thom started up indignantly at her mockery but was cut off by a curt gesture from Mat.

“We’re not alone…something or someone is out there.” Mat said quietly, dropping into an attack stance with his huge sword at the ready. Quickly everyone formed into a circle with their weapons creating something of a five-pointed star with deadly tips. Cioden called out to the rest of the group as his eyes continued to flit from tree to tree.

“There’s about six, no seven of them…they’re circling and waiting to spring, most likely getting us from all sides at once. Whatever happens, make sure someone has your back. Me and Andaria are at a slight disadvantage because we usually get our magic, but in the Earth trial muscle counts for all.” Suddenly there was a rustling from the underbrush and seven humanoid figures rushed at them with axes and spears. Each of them was about seven feet tall, marking them as ogres or small giants.

“Give em blood and vinegar, charge!” Thom yelled, throwing himself into the fray with a fury, Anya at his side. Mat was next, followed by Andaria and Cioden, their warcries echoing in the humid air.

“Chaos!”

“Dragonsbane, Yaaa!”

The group hit the attackers like a thunderbolt, splintering the ogre’s loose charge and smashing them to a few scattered remnants. Another group charged from behind, bigger than the first, and the party was forced to give some ground before taking the offensive. Ogres came at them from all sides, hemming the party in and outnumbering them ten to one.

“Falon!” Thom cried, his halberd a mere golden blur as it slammed into the side of an ogre only to come out the other side. Next to him, Anya’s spear was doing almost as much damage, the entire length of her spear coated in glistening red blood. Spinning around, she slammed her weapon into another target and laughed as the spray of blood dyed her skin red, the bloodlust upon her. They may be fighting against impossible odds, but they were going to go down fighting if they went down at all.

Close by, Mat was already in the berserker rage, his armor colored a dull purple from the deep crimson blotches on the cerulean armor. Slicing through two ogres with a single sideways blow, he spun on his heel and delivered another slice to the closest target, cleaving it from shoulder to thigh.

Andaria and Cioden fought back to back in a deadly dance of swords, whirling and slicing as if to some imaginary ballad. Cioden’s expertise with the sword came from years of practice with his brother, swearing it off only after his kinsman’s death in battle. Boar Rushing the Mountain turned into Heron in the Rushes, his form constantly twisting and stabbing in time to the unearthly song. At his back, Andaria fought like a demon, her scythe as deadly as the weapon of the grim reaper. Slashing through enemies with effortless skill and agility, she somehow stayed in time to Cioden’s actions, creating the impression of two bodies with one mind.

Cioden stabbed his sword through yet another ogre, and stumbled forward as his target disappeared in a puff of smoke. Looking around him warily, he saw everyone else staring at the battlefield with the same strange expression on their faces. Thom slipped his visor up and wiped a hand across his forehead, a baffled look on his face.

“Where the bloody ‘ell did the buggers go?” He asked, still looking around him with a perplexed look. “One minute I was jus’ stabbing some ogre, then suddenly poof! They’re all bloody well gone, along with all the blood, thank god.” As if to illustrate his point, he patted his now-gleaming armor with a clean hand.

“Most likely they were naught but a group of constructs designed as a trial for the less battle-trained. One cannot be a good Guardian if one does not prepare in body as well as mind.” Andaria mused, thinking over the implications.

“Well thought out my dear mage, it does my heart good to see one of my element so intelligent.” A mysterious voice said behind them, sounding of trees and earth. Whirling around, they saw what appeared to be a woman clad in nothing but leaves and vines. She looked to be about thirty years of age, but for an elemental, age was meaningless.

“So you are the challengers for the job of guardian, hmm? I must admit, you don’t look like much, but then neither did Gilthas or Kildas, both of which were two of the greatest Guardians of earth ever.” She crossed her arms under a prodigious bosom that threatened to escape from its leafy cage at any second.

“Looks count for nothing, actions for all, dear Gaea.” Cioden countered, throwing her a glance that would have stopped a charging ogre.

“True, true,” she admitted, looking thoughtful, “and I do see that you have already defeated my sister and rival Vahallin, but that is still a minor test, designed to weed out those without any common sense. To me falls the responsibility of rooting out anyone who cannot stand the physical realm, keeping weak-kneed mages from ruling the world.” Suddenly her gaze turned sere, and she suddenly seemed dangerous rather than friendly.

“Since you seem so compelled to best my challenge, I won’t disappoint you. If you can reach my shrine up ahead, I will admit defeat and hand over the Ring of Earth. If you cannot, then you will die a horrible, painful death.” She shrugged her shoulders as if just commenting on the weather. “It’s really up to you. In the meantime, I must be going, along with the shrine. Goodbye!”

Suddenly the very ground around her erupted upwards, sending her rocketing into the clouds on a rapidly rising column of earth. Upwards and upwards the giant platform flung itself, the top soon out of the sight of the adventurers. Thom slammed his fist into his palm, cursing under his breath.

“That no-good bloody elemental! This isn’t going to be very fun, damnit! First stupid riddles, now chasing a clod of earth into the sky, what a vacation this is rounding out to be!” As usual, Anya was the only one who could calm him down, a process that she began immediately.

“It’s fine Thom, just another task to finish. Anyway, it won’t be hard for you, anyway. You have wings so that you can fly up there! See, simple.” Anya smiled encouragingly, causing Thom to relax a little. At that very moment, Cioden decided to interject smugly.

“How nice to find out that those big clunking wings will finally be useful for something, but unfortunately, my winged friend, Andaria has to be there when the trial ends. You were there at the air test and she has to be there when Gaea loses or we Will either not be able to become guardians…”

“What else, Cioden?” Cioden turned a sharp eye on Thom, looking at him with an expression that was carefully unreadable.

“We’ll never be able to escape.”

Everyone started a little at the news, but then Cioden shrugged. “Of course, this is only a maybe, but I would still like to eliminate all of the maybes and go with the certainties. People have died because of maybes, and I’m in the business of saving my own skin.”

Thom sighed, looking up at the floating island with regret etched into his features. “Then how the ‘ell are we gonna get Andaria up there? I can’t carry her by myself, my bloody wings would break from the added weight. You guys can’t use your magic, so we can’t damn well levitate her up there. Got any suggestions?”

No one seemed to have a suggestion, then Mat looked up from his hands and asked Andaria a question.

“How long do we have to pass the test?”

“Well, according to the histories, some trials could take days, why?”

“I have an idea. Everyone, get over here and listen to me.”

Soon everyone was grouped around a rough sketch that Mat had drawn in some sandy dirt with a stick. After a hurried consultation, they split up into two groups and headed off into the forest, looking for something.

 

* * *

 

Under the guidance of Mat’s plans and patient helping, all of them helped in constructing a large wooden device that would enable them to take Andaria to the floating island. The bottom of the contrivance was a large square built of wood with logs for wheels so it could be moved around easily. Seemingly lying on top of the base was what appeared to be a giant spoon, the rounded end tied to the base tightly. As they were finishing the last touches, Andaria walked out of her tent and screamed.

“What the hell is that?” she asked, her voice shrill in the morning air. Mat looked up from where he was hollowing out the bowl with a dagger borrowed from Cioden. Walking over to her, he put a hand on her shoulder and gestured at the strange contraption.

“Isn’t it wonderful? This is the machine that Will send you to the floating island, my dear. Aren’t you as excited as the rest of us?”

“Count me out of “us”, Mat. I don’t approve of the idea of the current most precious member of the group being flung through the air like a ball in a game of catch!” Cioden said, looking up from where he sat on the device polishing his black sword. Holding the sword up to the light, he squinted at the blade, then resumed buffing it with the cloth he held in his hand. “ I still think that we could use it to fling ropes up there, then climb up the ropes ourselves instead of flinging the future earth guardian!”

“Me too! I am not going to let myself be flung through the air with a damned CATAPULT FOR THE LOVE OF ASMODEE! What could have possessed you to think of such a crazy, nutbrained, insane idea? Have you been listening to Thom or something, you maniac?” As she was bawling out the sheepish knight, the aforementioned hawkman walked within hearing distance, stopping in his tracks at the barely registered insult.

“Now see here-“ Andaria turned on him, eyes blazing like twin emeralds. “So you decided to show yourself, you featherbrain! Why the hell did you even think of allowing them to build this, this…” she trailed off, trying to find a word that could describe the monstrosity that stood before her. “Why, it probably wouldn’t even make a good bonfire!”

“Wait a second, that’s not true. This would most likely make a great bonfire…wait a tick, that’s beside the point!” he looked at her with a pleading gaze, his eyes begging her. "Please, just try it… we worked so hard on the blasted thing it would be a shame to waste it.”

Andaria’s anger blazed even hotter, causing her to grab for the nearest sharp object- her scythe. “I’ll show you what this damn thing’s good for!” And with that, she flung herself at the catapult, obviously intent on dismembering it herself.

“Die, you stupid machine!” she yelled, springing on to the base and hacking away with her weapon. Luckily her scythe was a tad unwieldy, being more suited to harvesting grass or slicing through foes; chopping at a wooden catapult was beyond it’s ability. Cioden was the closest and therefore first to react, jumping at her and trying to grab her flailing arm, succeeding only in having her turn on him with a glint in her eyes and a blade in her hands. Quick dodging saved him, but he was still unable to stop her from vaulting up to the arm and renewing her futile whacking anew.

“Wait a second, watch out for the ropes!” Thom called out, but alas, it went unheeded by the obviously insane woman on the catapult. Suddenly the blade cleaved through something it could very well cut- a rope. To be precise, the rope that held the catapult’s arm to the base. With a glint and a scream, she was flinging through the air in a giant arc toward the floating island.

“No!” screamed Cioden, staring at the rapidly disappearing dot with horror playing across his pale face. Gazing around with a confused look in his eyes, he latched onto the nearest person- Thom. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he grabbed Thom’s arm and spun him around to face him.

“YOU BLASTED MORON! TO THINK I ACTUALLY LET YOU GET AWAY WITH YOUR STUPID PLAN TO LAUNCH HER TO THAT STUPID ISLAND!” He continued screaming until Mat came up behind him and grabbed his arms, pulling him off of the now slightly scared hawkman. Even after that, he still struggled at his bonds until Anya splashed a bucket of cold water in his face. Sputtering and coughing, he turned blazing eyes on the two people in front of him.

“You bloody (cough) morons! (cough) why the (cough) hell did you let her do that (cough, cough)?” he trailed off into a flurry of hacking and coughing, getting all of the water out of his throat. When he was done, he still threw in a weak, “You didn’t have to splash me with the water anyway…”

Thom started to talk but Anya cut him off, shaking a large spoon at Cioden in a threatening manner. “How dare we? You’re the stupid mage, you out of all of us should have seen this coming, not us.” Cioden hung his head in shame, realizing the truth of her words. When he finally looked up, his eyes were as hard and emotionless as twin diamonds.

“Tonight, I head up there after her.” He said, cutting off everyone’s startled retorts with a curt movement. “I know it’s risky, but it is kind of my fault that she’s up there. I must go and succeed where I have failed before.” Once again he ignored all of the outbursts from those gathered and grabbed a spare rope, set on his task. Thom stopped him, belaying all further comments with a steady gaze. “If you be set on this fool task, there’s obviously no stopping you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Obviously ‘tis best to just help you out. Count on us, we’ll help you with restringing the catapult.” Not waiting for thanks because he knew none would be forthcoming, Thom took the rope from Cioden and started toward the machine.

 

* * *

 

Andaria woke up with a splitting headache in a strange place, trying to remember where she was. Looking around at her surroundings with a wary glance, she saw that she was lying in a hole in a pile of boulders. Shaking her head to clear away that fuzzy feeling, she tried to recall how she happened to get to be lying in a pile of rocks in unfamiliar territory. When she caught sight of her scythe lying intact nearby, it all came flooding back to her in a rush.

Groaning inwardly at her own stupidity, she laid back down, deflated. How were the others going to find her if she broke the catapult? Better yet, what if they all died from some ogre raid or something? Above all, how the hell was she going to survive up here? Steeling herself, she grabbed the scythe and walked out of her shelter, looking around watchfully.

She had landed in a clearing somewhere on the floating island. A trail of upturned dirt marked her progress across the ground in now-painful memories, causing her to wince and rub her tender back. A small pool lay nearby, and fruit trees dotted the perimeter. All in all, a peaceful grove; still Andaria distrusted the calm, a lesson learned from Cioden.

“The only reason it is ever quiet is because something is wrong; noise is the greatest sign of life.” She remembered his words like they were yesterday, heeding the warning contained within. Deciding to circle the perimeter to flush out any threats, she cautiously headed toward the nearest bush with hesitance clear on her fine features.

Stabbing at the shrubbery with her scythe, she made it completely around the grove without finding any strange surprises; yet an alarm bell still rang in her head, something not right. She found a comfortable-looking boulder and sat in it warily, still searching the perimeter for potential surprises from Gaea. Soon tiredness and exhaustion set in, and she fell into a peaceful slumber. Myriad eyes watched from the bushes, smiling in a reptilian way.

 

* * *

“Are you sure you’re going to go through with this, Cioden? I could just fly-“ for the nth time that day, Cioden waved aside Thom’s statement with a shake of his head. “My problem, my solution. This is just something I don’t need or want your help on. I should have been watching closer, seen the signs…” he trailed off into silence, holding his head in his pale hands and staring into the sunset. Unsure how to deal with a guilty mage, Thom patted him on the back gingerly and walked off to oversee how Mat was fixing the giant flinger.

“No, no, no! Don’t-Wait-Hold- LET ME DO THAT DAMNIT!” Mat roared, flinging up his hands in exasperation. Anya stuck her lower lip out, trying to pout, but Mat wasn’t going to fall for the old don’t-mind-me-I’m-innocent look. “For the love of all things holy! No wonder all the great engineers have been men; single ones at that!” Snatching the hammer and wrench Anya had been wielding, he pushed past her and started to tinker with the catapult, tightening this and hammering that.

Spying Thom approaching, Anya lit up like a christmas tree. “Thom!” she yelled, practically throwing herself at him. Almost falling under the added weight, he managed to get up and set her on her feet. “I did it Thom, really! I made the catapult work!” she would have continued but for the roaring laughter that issued from under the aforementioned catapult near where Mat was working. Kicking him in the shins, she prepared to launch into a detailed expose of her fixing, but was cut off by a certain black-robed mage.

“Are all the preparations ready, Thom?” he asked, fixing his gaze on the bemused eagleman. Now that he looked, Thom realized that Cioden’s eyes had a depth about them that seemed endless, a broad gray expanse… “Well, are they?” Startled, he looked away from those strange eyes and managed to remember the answer.

“The repairs Will be ready in approximately twenty minutes; the supplies are already packed.”

“I Will need no supplies for this.”

“Too bad, the weight factor is already accounted for, they have to go.”

Will sighed, shaking his head as if to clear away a night’s sleep. “Fine then, I Cioden take the supplies. Thom, I want you to check in two days from now to see if Andaria and me are still alive. If by that time we have not returned, try to escape from this reality with your ring. I’m not certain how it works, but I know that there has to be some other way to escape.” He shrugged calmly his face again placid and calm. “For me, failure is just not an option, but accidents tend to happen. ‘Whatever can go wrong, Will go wrong, at the wrong time’. Murpha’s law or something like that…” he trailed off, trying to remember the name.

“It’s finished!” Mat called out from under the ballista, his voice slightly muffled by the wood. “See, I told you I fixed it!” Anya said triumphantly, drawing exasperated groans from Thom and Mat. Cioden, however, wasted no time in grabbing his sword and drawing his armor on, preparing for the launch. A few minutes later he was sitting in the bowl of the catapult’s arm, serenely waiting for the countdown.

“Five!”

Thom got out his belt knife, preparing to cut through the rope.

“Four!”

Anya and Mat stood expectantly, both of them secretly enjoying the sight of that arrogant mage being shot off in a catapult.

“Three!”

“Two!”

The final second was nigh, the anticipation so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“One, Fire!”

Thom’s blade dropped, slashing the taut rope. With an audible twang, the arm flung forward, sending Cioden hurtling through the air at terminal velocity. Soon nothing more than a rapidly disappearing dot in the distance, the last thing they heard was his yell of exhilaration at he flew toward the distant isle.

“Chaos!!!”

* * *

 

On the floating continent, Andaria woke up to find herself surrounded by green reptilian eyes. The eyes were not the part that scared her; it was the owners of the aforementioned eyes that made her want to go screaming from her bed. On every side, glistening, scaly snakes surrounded her, blocking her escape.

Good, you have woken.

She started at the voice, surprised at hearing a disembodied voice, then she realized that one of the snakes had spoken. “W-who said that?” she called in a voice that trembled slightly, but she had overridden her fear complex.

She can understand us, that is good.

Out of the mass of snakes that surrounded her, a large white snake reared up, looking at her with eyes that seemed too…intelligent. “You- you’re the leader? The one that spoke to me?”

That is correct, it thought, her brain picking up the animal’s transmissions and changing them to words. I am the eldest of the snakes, having seen the last guardian that passed through here many years ago. Andaria did some quick calculations, then gasped. “Why, you must be over five hundred years old!” Unfortunately, I feel every second of it. the snake replied, smiling. At least, she thought it smiled…

“Anyway, how can I understand you? I mean, this is definitely the first time I have ever talked to a snake.” Snakes can talk to anyone, they just choose not to, mostly. Your close affiliation to the serpent mage has garnered our attention and also our protection. Something seemed eerily familiar about that title…”Who is the serpent mage, and how do I know him?” The master of the vipers is known to the world as the traitor of his nation, a failure and a recluse, striving greedily for power. We believe that the name is Cioden Azunost.

This sudden information hit her like a slap, sending her mind reeling. How could Cioden have some sort of mythical status with snakes in a trial? It just doesn’t make any sense! The snake noted her confusion and paused, seemingly alarmed at her abnormal behavior. Are you well, madam? There are herbs- she cut him off and gathered her wits together.

“So what am I, the scorpion master?” she asked shakily, though by now she was starting to feel more annoyed than awed. How dare he pull all the snake-god stuff for himself? It was an outrage! No, you hold a title far more useful than being commander of those accursed spider-crabs. You are known in the legends as ‘Fulfillment of the Vow’ or the sister to the wolves. For her credit, Andaria did not do anything outwardly alarming at the news, but in her head she was laughing hysterically. This is pure nonsense, she thought. I am going to blink, then I Will wake up.

She blinked. She didn’t move.

Panicking slightly, she blinked again, this time harder.

Nothing.

By now she had worked herself into a tizzy, blinking as fast as she could and hopping around. What is the matter, sister? Have you the sun madness? We can help you. “Get out of my head!” she yelled, causing all the snakes to fall away from her. Spinning and blinking while yelling at the top of her lungs, she did not notice a small blue snake creep forward and bite her on the leg. “What the…getting…tired…” she trailed off, falling into a crumpled heap. Good work Dreamfang, we should get this girl some herbs… what? Suddenly the elder straightened up, staring intently into the air at some image withheld from the rest of the group. The master approaches, I must hurry! Dreamfang, you and your brothers must guard the human; be ever vigilant, for trouble brews. Gathering himself up, he sped from the room with the rest of the snakes following him, leaving Dreamfang’s clan to protect Andaria during her rest. He hoped fervently it was enough.

 

* * *

 

Cioden flew through the air at breakneck speed, screaming his defiance at the air and the rapidly approaching island. Tucking his arms closer to his sides to streamline himself and speed up, he fingered the hilt of his ebon blade with anticipation. Looking forward at the floating isle, he was able to see a green shrine in the very center. He smiled, the sight of his target causing his rage to flare anew. Directly in front of him lay his landing spot, a grassy field chosen by Thom a few days ago.

Suddenly his mind slammed a few facts together at reckless speed. Fact one: he was hurtling through the air at high speeds. Fact two: he was hurtling toward the ground at high speeds. Him plus ground would most likely equal extreme pain. Panicking in mid-air, he twisted around while trying to think of the least painful way to fall. Finally deciding to land on his left arm because he could at least fight one-handed, he twisted around so he was falling shoulder-first. Seeing the ground keep getting bigger and bigger, he braced himself and clung to the first thought that came through his mind.

‘It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s merely the sudden stop’

Not surprisingly, this did not exactly bolster his confidence.

He hit the ground… and bounced off some sort springy grass that covered the entire area. After bouncing several times, he rolled to a halt at the foot of some strange sort of tree. Picking himself up, he looked up at the strange tree, which appeared to be covered in different vines that swayed in the wind. Staring at the intricate designs that covered the entire tree, he suddenly realized that there was no wind for the vines to be swaying in. Out of the vines, a white head popped out to look at him with strange eyes. Good morning master, was your trip comfortable?

Cioden flipped backwards, drawing his sword in midair and pointing it at the snake that slithered downwards from the tree. Pulling together what remained of his tattered dignity, he held his sword and kept his expression cold. “Who are you to call me master, and do you know what has become of the last human to land on this accursed isle?” Eyeing the snake with a careful glance, he kept his sword in an attack stance.

I am Quicksilver, the elder of the snakes. You are Cioden Azunost, known to us as the Serpent Mage. Now that introductions have been made I trust that you Will sheath your weapon so we can talk like civilized animals. Cioden let his sword hang at his side, but he did not sheathe his blade. “Why do you call me Serpent mage, a title that I have not ever heard before?” If you Will sheath your blade, we Will show you to a cave where we Will try to explain what is going on. Also we can show you where your friend is, the one you call Andaria. Cioden froze at the name of his companion, and he brought the sword up as if to attack the elder who would dare speak her name. The elder did not move, but instead stared at him with two eyes that were a dull gray, the same shapeless gray as belonged to the sword’s owner. Cioden shuddered with an unknown emotion, then slid his blade into the ornate scabbard at his waist.

“I Will follow and listen, but if this is a trick, none of you Will escape my wrath. Lead the way to her.” He bowed his head and relaxed, those eyes of stone softening slightly. The elder turned and slithered away towards a break in the surrounding shrubbery, obviously expecting Cioden to follow him.

For about five minutes the snake wound his way through the dense underbrush, following some innate sixth sense of where he was going. Cioden followed closely behind, brushing aside any bushes that got in his way. Eventually they came upon a cave created by a pile of boulders situated perfectly upon one another, the rounded edges framing a doorway. Here the snake paused, looking at Cioden with an expression that seemed almost nervous.

The woman lies within the cave. Follow me.

With that, the elder slithered away into the cave. Cioden followed confidently, inwardly wondering why he was following a snake into a cave, a scenario that smelled of a trap. Consciously watching for all movement, he forgot everything when he saw Andaria lying on a rough mat of woven grass, oblivious to the world. Running to her, he laid a hand on her head to check for any signs of illness. He looked at her with worry in his eyes, then rage flared anew within the gray recesses.

Worry not, master. She is safe. One of my snakes put her to sleep because she was having some sort of a fit. Does she have a history of illness? Cioden almost laughed out loud at the suggestion. Andaria, a medical case? Short-tempered more likely.

Struggling slightly to keep his face straight, he turned to the elder and professed a small annoyance that had been bothering him. “Would you please quit calling me master? The term tends to lend itself to delusions of grandeur, and in this world, I’m not much more than a swordsman. Call me Cioden or mage or something other than master, okay?” He shrugged, his shoulders still slightly tense from worry. “I’m just the sort of guy to take any sort of obeisance way too far and embarrass myself. Just call me Cioden and we’ll get along fine.” He smiled ruefully. “Anyway, Andaria would kill me if she heard me answering to that title.”

Yes ma- Cioden. You seem more down-to-earth than the legends say; if this is true, I am glad. There are some other problems that need dealing with, and I would appreciate it if you would meet with my leaders. The elder’s tone was one of a man expecting more, getting less, and being relieved. It was probably easier to deal with a mere mage than to deal with a legend.

“Lead the way, friend. Also, how long is she going to be out?” Cioden asked, his tone once again slightly worried.

She Will wake in time for the noontime sun. Cioden looked up, estimated that to be about two and a half hours. In the meantime him and Quicksilver had some planning to do.

 

* * *

 

“NO I AM NOT GIVING YOU MY PORTION OF DINNER!” yelled Mat for at least the third time, bringing his wooden spoon to bear on Anya’s reaching fingers. She yelped and jumped back, looking at him with a bruised look. “But, I’m hungry…”

“Too bad, you should have grabbed some food while we were out foraging. ‘Taint my fault you were too worried about dirt to help pick roots.” Mat replied, leaning over his bowl of soup with a defensive gesture. They had eaten the last of their trail food a long time ago and had taken to foraging for the better part of each day. Luckily, most fruits didn’t cause any harm beyond a slight stomachache when eaten; even then you had to eat a lot to get any harmful effects. “Why don’t you ask Thom for some food? You and him are pretty close.”

“He’s all out. He eats like it’s some sort of bloody race!” Anya replied sullenly, her tail twitching slightly with annoyance. “He could have at least saved a little bit of salad for me.”

“Well, why don’t you go find him? He’s probably over there in the distance doing something irrelevant. You two don’t talk much these last two days.” Mat stretched out on his pallet near the fire, drawing the blankets closer to him. Anya cocked her head slightly, then sighed. He wasn’t going to provide much more entertainment; better find Thom. She picked up a torch and went off into the darkness in search of the hawkman.

As she walked through the inky night, she kept looking up at the green moon, a disturbing sight no matter how many times she saw it. The jungle around her seemed as a living thing as she followed the path to the hill where Thom spent so much of his time lately. Her feet made almost no sound as she padded slowly down the path, breathing in the deep forest air. At least when Andaria was around she would talk to her instead of wandering off somewhere like Cioden or Thom. Men!

Suddenly she came upon the base of the hill and looked up, trying to tell if Thom was up there or not. She could not make out his shadow, so she starting walking up the spiraling path that led to the top. Each step was tenser than the last, as she didn’t hear any movement up there like Thom would make, and she still didn’t trust the forest they were stuck in.

Once she neared the end, she crouched down and crept forward on all fours, her heightened senses taking in all of the sounds of the night. Peeking over the final rock, she breathed a sigh of relief. Thom was sitting cross-legged on a rock with something cradled in his hands. Creeping ever closer, Anya could see it was an old lute, well worn and cared for, the wood smoothed by many years of careful use. As she came within a few feet of him, he started to pluck out a gentle melody, full of sorrow and longing. The notes quickly took on a mystical air, floating away on the wind. After a few bars he began to sing; at first so soft she could barely hear him, then expanding to a deep tenor.

 

The rolling hills of my home are calling

The wind that whistles o’er the sea

I long for the sweet fresh air of my homeland

That’s the place my heart Will always be

 

A burning fire by which to warm my bones

Four walls and a roof, to call my home

The simple life’s the only life for me

 

I cannot help but shed a tear

When I see the land I hold dear

Yes, the rolling hills of my home are calling

Those gentle fields are where I wish to be

 

Presently the song drifted away, leaving him sitting there alone with tears running down his proud face. Quietly Anya walked u

[Archive]

“Why didn’t you tell me that you missed your home so much?” Anya asked, her expression saddened. “You’re not the only one who came a long way, you know. My tribe lives on the other side of these bloody mountains, long way off in the plains.” She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed, remembering her easy childhood before she even heard of Ishtalle and Asmodee. “I still dream about those times. Dreams where nothing matters but the hunt and the tribe and just worrying about what to wear or what to cook, not having to watch your back every second. Dreams without mages or gods or problems or anything.” She sighed, the memories coming back to her. “I wonder if that’s what’s wrong with Cioden.”

“What, he never sings?”

“No, you loghead! That he doesn’t really have any memories of what it’s like… peace, I mean.”

Thom’s face took on a thoughtful look in the moonlight. “Could be. From what I’ve heard of his past- not much- he left home at an early age, and his father doesn’t seem like a very pleasant person. Also, the entire magic problem with the Istarian Council couldn’t have helped.”

Anya shivered slightly and snuggled up closer to him. “That would be kind of scary, not having any past to look back on, no support. Then again, maybe he likes it that way.” When Thom looked at her with a questioning look, she struggled to explain. “It’s like this. Whatever happens, as long as is doesn’t kill you, it’s just going to make you stronger and better. Every once in a while people have to go through an oven, it’s just part of life. By oven, I mean some sort of test or trial. Some people can’t stand the heat and just give up, while others fight for survival. We make it through our tests because we have our past to back us up; maybe he makes it because he doesn’t.” She frowned, her tail batting from side to side. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what I think.” She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder again, and he put his arm around her. For a long time they just sat there, staring at the moon and reminiscing about better times.

 

* * *

 

Up above them on the floating isle, Cioden was spending his time locked in close debate with the snakes. He stalked around the small room, the gathered reptiles watching him without any hint of annoyance or impatience. As he paced, he mulled over the facts in his head.

“So, let me get this straight. All we have to do is reach the temple and then say whatever we learned while here? That sounds too simple.” A large green viper with milky eyes answered his question patiently. The purpose of the earth test is to enact a change in whoever goes through it. It is the longest of the trials for that exact reason. So you don’t just say what you learned, you have to explain what has changed in you. Cioden thought this over, seeing the merits and disadvantages of it. “So the trial of wind tests our intelligence; earth, our ability to adapt and learn. I see…” he trailed off into an easy silence. Suddenly a scream and a thump from the next room interrupted his thought processes. Sighing loudly, he went to go see what was the matter.

As he walked around the bend, he was stopped in his tracks. In the room ahead, Andaria was standing there wrapped in a towel and pointing an accusatory finger at a small innocent blue snake. “T-That thing was spying on me while I was bathing!” she yelled, getting ready to hurl another rock. Rolling his eyes upward, Cioden assessed the situation rapidly, taking in the whole picture. First off, the snake was unhurt, but pretty scared. Second off he walked over and got between Andaria and the snake, cutting off any chance of a hit. “Andaria, calm down. Now, what happened?” he asked, putting a hand on her bare shoulder. She jerked away from his slightly clammy hands, then walked over to the wall and leaned against it, still pointing an reprehending finger at the snake.

“I was sitting there bathing and that thing started swimming around in the lake!” she said, slightly calmer now. “I was there first, and he should have known it. I Will not have your beloved snakes spying on me when I need my privacy.” Cioden looked at the snake, establishing a mind-link. “Did you purposefully spy on her?” he asked.

No, master; I merely wanted to swim. Us snakes are slightly curious about your idea of ‘privacy’. Snakes hide nothing from one another, and we don’t wear clothing. The young snake looked at him and his feelings of sorrow and curiosity coursed over the link. I didn’t want to hurt lady Andaria, really I didn’t.

“Okay, then. Just promise me that you won’t bother her when she is unclothed, fine?” The snake nodded his head vigorously. Satisfied, Cioden turned to Andaria, whose regretful expression said that she had heard at least part of the conversation. “Oh, I’m sorry, snake. I didn’t mean to throw those rocks at you… really. I’m sorry.” She walked over and stroked the little snake’s blunt head, causing it to writhe happily. Cioden, content that the problem had been worked out to the best of everyone, turned to leave but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. When he turned, Andaria was standing there, blushing slightly. “Cioden…I’m sorry that I didn’t think about it before I reacted… I let my emotions control me, and that’s not right. I apologize.” Thus said, she smiled a little and left toward the lake, obviously intent on finishing her bath.

Cioden smiled one of his rare smiles and walked back to the other room only to find that someone had unrolled his sleeping pallet near the flickering fire. Most likely one of the snakes thought he needed some sleep. Stretching luxuriously, he smoothed out the blanket and pulled out his spellbook. As he flipped through the pages he experienced anew that strange feeling caused by the anti-magic barrier around this world. Normally when he read his coveted magic tome he felt the magical knowledge flowing through him in delicious waves. Now all he felt was the normal slightly satisfied feel that reading gave. Slamming the book shut angrily, he replaced it in his pack and stared moodily into the fire with an enigmatic look on his pale face. Might as well try it one last time he thought, looking at the fire with a longing that cut through him like a knife.

Positioning himself in front of the blaze cross-legged, he slipped into the meditative trance that he used when he wanted to concentrate on something important. Slowly, bit by bit, he drifted into the dark sea of unconsciousness, his entire being focused on the fire. After a few minutes he was fully in the grip of the trance, the fire the only thing that he saw. As he watched it crackle and pop, he gradually became aware of another presence all around him. Thankfully the psychic probes that were used in this state were not considered magic. Carefully dulling the ecstatic feelings, he extended a tentative probe to the presence, testing it for any weak spots. When his psyche touched it, a very familiar feeling coursed through him, almost breaking the trance. Magic! He had found his magic! Oh, gods, his magic was back within his grasp! He reveled in the feeling for a few more seconds, then tried to find how to release it.

For many long minutes he sent probe after psychic probe, trying the shell of the jail. After about half of an hour of fruitless searching, he stumbled upon a seam, a flaw in the perfect shell surrounding his magic. Tentatively feeling out the length and width of the anti-magic seam, he finally reached out with a whipcord of mental thought, lashing the seam where the two sides joined. The flaw stretched under the pressure, but still it held. Sweating slightly, he broke out of the trance and lay down on the bed, reviewing the problem at hand.

First off, he had found his magic, and most likely Andaria’s also. Second, he couldn’t seem to break the seal on it. Suddenly a thought came to him unbidden, like something out of a dream. Why not ask Andaria’s help? A perfect idea, if he ever had one! Jumping out of his bed, he ran down the hall toward her room, hoping she was done with her bath.

As he neared her room, his fears were allayed by the sound of her humming slightly. Knocking on the stone wall next to the doorway, he was soon greeted by her face poking around the corner. When she saw him her expression brightened, and she invited him in. “Oh, Cioden! Please, come in.”

“Sorry, but I can’t stay. I need you to come out to the main fire, I have something to show you.” Cioden said, grabbing her hand and hauling her down the hall toward the shimmering firelight. She protested slightly, but he kept hurrying down the corridor until he reached the campfire. When they stopped, he turned to face her, a smile playing across his features. “Andaria, I found our magic!” He said, looking at her triumphantly.

“W-What?” She asked, her face lighting up with a hope he hadn’t seen on her for days. “You found it? Where, how?”

“Calm down, I haven’t recovered it yet. It’s hidden all around us, but it’s protected by some sort of shield that I can’t penetrate alone. I need your help for this, okay.” She nodded vigorously, the thought of her magic making her slightly dizzy. “Anything, anything. Just name it.”

“It’s pretty simple; you know how to do a Cambrian trance, right?”

“Yeah, what else?”

“All we need to do is hit the seam with a probe at the same time. Pretty simple stuff.”

“Okay, let’s go.” She settled into a cross-legged position on the floor across the fire from Cioden, looking up at him with an expectant look. He sank to the floor, entering the hypnotic state with relative ease. As she proceeded to follow him into unconsciousness, he sent out a simple probe, exploring the surrounding area and locating her mind. So far, so good He said, establishing a rapport with her mind and directing her to where the seam was. See how the edges are slightly rough here? This is the spot we need to hit.

Okay, let me feel this out for a second, okay? She replied, reaching out with her mind and exploring the area. After a few seconds she withdrew from the flaw and struck out tentatively with a psychic slap. When nothing bad happened, she struck harder, this time delivering a stinging blow that would have knocked a man down, had this been the physical realm. The seam bulged slightly, but still held fast. Here, synchronize with me and I’ll try again she said, reaching out slightly with a probe.

On the count of three, okay? One…Two…Three! They both lashed out at the same time, striking the seam square on. For a few seconds it held, then one of the edges opened a little, letting a thin stream of magic out. Cioden and Andaria absorbed the little stream, feeling themselves grow stronger. Quickly they struck again, this time tearing open the entire seam and causing the magic to spill out of the prison and flow into them in a torrent. Yes! The power, the raw magical energy! She screamed joyfully, feeling herself tossed along on the current of the magic, gorging on the power that she had been denied too long. Beside her, Cioden floated along her in pure bliss, feeling his security and might once more a part of him, full and unbroken once more.

When they finally had absorbed the last of their magic, they broke out of the trance and just sat there next to the fire grinning at one another like fools. “We did it!” she kept saying, for the moment happy. Cioden sobered up quickly, and his grim visage was troubled. “We still have to get past that shrine and the last three tests. And don’t forget for a single moment that we still have to deal with Istar and all it contains and stands for.” A flicker of violent emotion crossed his face but he caged it back up in a moment. “Also, your brother is still looking for us somewhere; don’t underestimate his resolve. He aims to take you back to the white. If this cannot be accomplished, he would sooner kill you than let you serve the black.” At the mention of Darius, she shivered slightly.

“But with our magic back we can stand a chance at least getting out, and we’ll just have to push our way through the rest of the trials. ‘The true mettle of a man is shown under pressure’, or so the saying goes. If so, then I think that it is high time that we showed them exactly how far we are Willing to go. Once we get out of here, we make straight for Palanth, one of the main cities.” Her expression was hopeful.

“In any case, I think that we should all be to bed,” Said Cioden, smiling slightly as if at some private joke. “Tomorrow may be taxing; failure is, as I said, not an option. Get some sleep tonight, okay?” Andaria pouted slightly, but she stood and walked inside, her robes fluttering slightly in a sudden breeze. Before she went inside, however, she turned and looked at the campfire with a strange expression on her face. Cioden muttered something and rolled away from the fire, already getting ready to sleep. “Goodnight, Cioden.” She said, her voice barely a whisper, then walked back to her rooms to sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Damn bush!” Cioden swore, cutting aside another broad-leafed plant with a slash of his blade. Behind him, Andaria was having less difficulty, simply touching the trees she needed out of the way since she was earth elemental. When Cioden glared at her after cutting a bush for the umpteenth time, her expression was stoic. “Stupid bushes,” he muttered, stalking through the jungle irritably. “They seem to enjoy being in my way. I’m sorely tempted to just blaze right through this forest and out the other side.” To illustrate his point, he made a small fireball hover above his palm for a few seconds before he quenched it. Sighing loudly, he continued hacking a path through the underbrush toward where the temple was supposedly located. Every once in a while a bush or bramble would snag on his gray cloak, causing him to whirl on the offending branch with unusual fervor. Eventually he cut aside a low-hanging branch and stumbled into a clearing where he had least expected one.

They wandered out into the field, looking around them warily. The grove was peaceful, serene. Too peaceful. In the midst of the field stood a small altar; coils of ivy covered most of the frame, but it appeared to have something glittering on the surface. Andaria started forward, but was brought up short by a sudden appearance of a cloaked figure from behind the altar. Brandishing her scythe, she called out to the figure. “Who are you, why do you stand near my goal?” she asked, swinging the blade menacingly. The figure walked out to stand between her and the ivy-covered shrine. “You shall not pass.” The thing replied in a monotone, casting aside it’s cloak to the wind. Under the cape was glittering white armor that covered every square inch of the figure’s body. Red eyes glittered out a visor, and when it spoke, the flat voice held a dangerous tone. “You shall not pass.” It repeated, an air of finality hanging in the still field.

“You Will not tell me where I can or cannot go; I am the serpent mage, the master of the vipers. I go where I please and take whomever I please with me. Now move, lest I be forced to destroy you where you stand, sir knight.” Cioden replied with an arrogant air, his hands moving in an arcane spell. As the knight noticed his hex, he waved a white-clad arm in a slow circle, banishing Cioden’s magic once again. “You shall not pass. I am the White sentinel, the protector of the shrine of Gaea. Your evil curse Will not work here, as I am protected by the antimagic of the green goddess. You shall not pass.” It repeated, unsheathing a golden sword and shield, bringing them to a defensive stance. Cioden grunted slightly as the spell rebounded, then cast off his cape with a flourish, revealing his black leather armor underneath. “If you are determined to bar my path, then I Will deal with you on your own ground. Face my blade!” he cried, and there was a slithering sound as his black sword found it’s way out of the scabbard to his hand. Running forward with sword held to the side and his brown hair whipping in the wind, he flung himself at the sentinel.

Feinting downward only to slash from the side, he narrowly missed a killer slash from the white knight, one that would have cleaved him in two neat halves. As he thrust upwards, his blade locked with the knight’s, forcing him to exert all his energy in stopping the deadly downward journey. Bit by slow bit, he was eventually able to stand, still locked blade-to-blade with the enemy. As they stood there, Cioden’s mind flashed back to his training, reviewing tactic after tactic. Step back then slash…too slow; kick out, then press the advantage…too heavily armored. Ah ha! He smiled grimly, hoping the sentinel saw the triumph reflected in his visage. Pushing forward with all he could muster, he pressed the knight back a step, far enough. Jumping backward out of the lock, he quickly thrust forward past the white sentinel’s guard, aiming for the spot between the breastplate and the lower plates. At the last second, the knight recovered and dodged, too quickly for a man in full armor, too one side, and causing Cioden’s blade to glance off his armored side in a mere flesh wound.

Cioden skipped back a step, dodging the silent knight’s furious attack. High, low, left to right; his black sword kept warding off the blows that rained down, but just barely. He was fighting for his life, and he knew it. Suddenly, the knight quickly dropped his shield and slammed his left fist into Cioden’s midsection, sending him reeling backwards. He then tripped over an unfortunately placed rock, falling to the ground just in time to miss a sideways slice that would have disemboweled him. His sword clattered out of a numb hand as he fell, and a gasp of pain escaped him. He reached for the sword only to have it kicked away by a white foot. Looking up, he saw the sentinel towering over him, it’s golden sword raised high above him for the coup. “You shall not pass.” It said for the final time, swinging the blade down in a quick arc.

Instantly a green blur was seen, and suddenly Andaria’s scythe blade was thrust through the front of the knight, going so far that the point was seen sticking out the other side. Andaria stood about thirty feet off from where the two fighters stood. Gods! She threw that thing all this way? Thought Cioden, staring at her with admiration. Above him the knight had halted in midswing, and now his sword clattered from lifeless hands. Cioden rolled out of the way just as his armored opponent fell to the ground with a heavy clank, the earth shaking slightly with the impact. As he lay there recovering from his ordeal and near-death, Andaria ran up, first grabbing the scythe and retrieving it from the corpse. She cleaned the blade on the grass then ran over to where Cioden was lying on the ground, helping him up gently. As she tried to heal him, he pushed her hands away. “I-I’m fine. Just a little bruise…that’s all.” He said, then erupted into a violent coughing fit, which he tried to keep under control by coughing into his hand. When he took his hand away, there were specks of blood there, which he quickly wiped away before she could notice.

Getting to his feet slightly shakily, he gripped his sword for support, leaning on it as on old man would. “Go ahead, take the ring… it’s all yours.” He gestured vaguely toward the shrine, wiping his forehead with a clean hand. His pale skin glistened slightly with perspiration in the harsh light of the blazing sun, and he looked even frailer than usual. She looked at him expectantly for a second, and when he didn’t fall over, shrugged slightly and walked toward the shrine. As she came within reaching distance of the shrine, it shimmered like a road on a hot day, forming into the stunning figure of Gaea.

“Why hello, Andaria. It’s such a nice day out that I decided to come along and witness the giving.” The way she said ‘giving’ gave it a capitol G. “The sentinel was the final barrier between you and victory; be thankful that your friend here was able to distract it. Now that you are here, you must pass the test of the ring.” Her eyes narrowed amusedly. “What have you learned here, Andaria? How has my little world changed you?” Andaria’s look was thoughtful, as she looked back over the short time she had spent there.

“Well, I have changed much in many differing ways; that is normal for any person who goes through a trial, they must emerge different in some way. My experience with the catapult taught me to think things through before jumping to false conclusions or overreacting; me and Cioden’s effort to regain magic taught me hope is still there; the snakes taught me that the outside is not the issue, but instead the inside. I guess that is all I have learned, maybe it is not enough, but it has still affected me profoundly. Please grant me the Ring of Earth, so that I may protect what I may still hold dear with my newfound virtues.” Gaea’s face broke into a wide smile. “Of course you can have the Ring, my dear! You have more than earned it, one of the best trials I have seen in ages, simply marvelous!” She deposited the ring in Andaria’s outstretched hand, then leaned closer to whisper. “By the way, that friend of yours has two cracked ribs and a slightly punctured lung. I advise that you treat him soon or else you might have a serious problem on your hands.” She smiled evilly. “If he won’t cooperate, just whack him upside the head a few times and he should come to his senses.” She drew away from the witch, floating slightly. “Now that the test is over, I shall bid you all a fond farewell. Goodbye, and good luck!” she cried, then the world blew up into a green explosion, along with the accompanying sickening jolt.

 

Chapter Six:

Sear

 

When the world finally ceased it’s frenzied whirling, they were all together again in the chamber of rings, now with two doorways dark. As they all came to their senses, they realized that they all wore the clothes they had on before the trial. “It’s almost like it never happened,” said Anya, her expression wondering as she stared down at her old shirt and breeches. “How strange.”

“It happened, all right.” Replied Cioden, feeling his ribs gingerly. “Oh, how it happened…Andaria, I think I’m going to need some healing…” he trailed off, sinking to his knees on the stone floor. Andaria ran over to where he was kneeling and began to examine the wound gingerly. When she touched the area where the sentinel had hit, Cioden inhaled sharply. “That’s the spot…damn that hurts!” he exclaimed. Quickly they pulled the robes away from the area, exposing an angry purple bruise. Andaria stood up, her face grave. “We’re going to need some hot water, and a bandage of some sort. Thom, you go collect sticks and wood for a fire; Anya, get my pack. There are some herbs in there I need.” Everyone moved off hurriedly, leaving Andaria and Mat to look after the ailing mage.

“Kind of funny…when I was younger I never thought of going out and fighting sentinels or anything. I guess I should have prepared or something…the pain is getting worse. Curse me for a fool! I shouldn’t have been so sure of myself back there!” He went on rambling for quite some time, stopping only when Thom returned with a bundle of sticks from the forest above them. As Thom prepared to light the fire, Cioden stopped him with a weak gesture of his hand. “L-let me do it…my fault…might as well help…” he trailed off, doubling over and coughing violently. When he recovered from his little spasm, he reached out his hand, concentrating on it. After a second or two, a fire flickered to life in his palm, and he set this among the sticks, causing them to blaze up. Lying back with a sigh, he closed his eyes and relaxed slightly, the tension seeping out of him. Next to him, Andaria heated some water up in the pot, adding a few herbs out of a pouch every once in a while.

After a few minutes, she poured the contents of the pot into a cup, giving it to Cioden to drink. He gripped the cup and brought it to his lips, his hands shaking slightly. Draining the tea in a single gulp, he set the cup down and leaned back against his pack. “Isn’t it strange…how dark the room is…I see the light…” he trailed off into slumber, murmuring slightly to himself. As soon as he was completely unconscious, Andaria leaned closer, putting a hand softly against his bruises. She began to emit a green aura as she probed through him with her mind, looking for the puncture wound. After a few seconds, she found it. Taking a deep breath, she started the healing process.

As she focused, the wounds slowly started to knit and grow together, the torn walls of his lungs melding together without a trace. She was the healing, flowing through his veins like liquid fire and molten ice, regenerating from the inside out. When at last the healing was as complete as a black mage could make it, she fell back into reality, slipping into her familiar body with a sigh of relief and pride. Steadying herself slightly, she looked at the wound, still bruised, but that was unfortunately beyond her talent as a black mage. She smiled slightly, still exhausted from the ordeal. “He won’t be running anywhere too quickly anytime soon.” She said, trailing off slightly at the end. Leaning her head back on her clothes pack, she slipped quietly into slumber, warmed by the fire and lulled by the humming of crickets from far above.

 

* * *

 

The next morning they all awoke to sunlight streaming in from the stairway, lighting up the whole room. The full lighting effect was explained by shafts of crystal that rose from the floor to above ground, transferring light and energy from above. In a near alcove lay a pool of water that seemed to be fed by some underground stream, because there was a constant current running through the calm water. Crouched over the pool with a knife is where Thom found Cioden, his pale face slightly furred from days without a shave. As he drew nearer, Thom could see a look of intense concentration on the mage’s face as he brought the blade close for another stroke. “Uh…Cioden?” Thom asked, making the blade jerk slightly. When the irate magician looked up, there was a thin line of blood along his chin. “What do you want, Thom?” Cioden replied in kind, his voice thin and ironic.

Thom drew his hand along his chin, causing Cioden to look down at the reflection. Spying the blood, he wiped it off with a finger, which he then licked. “Umm… actually I’ve been needing to talk to you about the plan after we get out of here. Y’see, me and Anya have been wondering exactly what we’re going to do when it comes to the actual attack.” When Cioden replied, his voice contained that strange edge it always got when he spoke of Istar. “We Will march forth as a wind uninterrupted, and woe be to whoever gets in our way. Istar Will fall, and we shall tread upon the ashes.”

“Yeah…actually it’s the entire ‘we’re-going-to-win’ thing that has me a little concerned. I mean, Istar still has the largest army in the world, bigger than even Lord Guildas’. We may have a few problems with the whole army of Istar facing us, you know.” Thom said, still a little skeptical. Cioden looked up from the pool with a sardonic grimace. “The might of but one of the guardians is enough to severely wound or cripple the army; five of us should be more than enough. If I was feeling lucky, I would leave now, but I don’t trust you on being too useful with your ring.” Laughing slightly at Thom’s hurt look, he rinsed his knife and slid it into a belt sheath with a practiced flair. “If I were you I would spend more time arguing with the rest of them on which trial to take next, Water or Fire.” Cioden called over his shoulder, walking away to where the rest of them were squabbling. Thom scratched his head confusedly, then shrugged and followed him back to the now-dead fire. When he arrived, Mat and Anya were arguing about which trial they should take next, either option belonging to one of them.

“We should go to mine first because it’s got more fighting!” said Anya, her face confident.

“No, we should do mine first because you have to use your brain!” Argued Mathos, his face frustrated.

“Calm down…this isn’t the way we should be resolving this dispute, children,” interjected Cioden, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Now, what is the nature of your little disagreement?” Anya and Mat whirled on him, their eyes glittering sharply.

“She is not being reasonable. I told her that you were injured and a trial of fighting would not be the smartest decision.” Mat said, his tone injured. At the mention of his injury, Cioden’s eyes narrowed. “Do you actually think that I am not capable of defending myself? Maybe you think that I am now weak and helpless?” As he spoke, Cioden seemed to grow larger and larger, until he became nothing more than two gray eyes staring out of a dark shroud. “If I wanted to kill you or anyone here, I would do it –now!” A flaming sword appeared in his hand, and he swept it toward Mathos with a sudden move. Just as Mat jumped back away from the blade, it disappeared with a sharp bark of laughter. “Fortunately, I do not. For now, it serves my ends to help you and give you my aid. See that it does not become otherwise.” With that, Cioden was suddenly a mere magus again, looking haggard and weak and swaying slightly. “J-just remember that…ugh…” With a soft thud, he sank to his knees, then the ground. As he fell a long thin object fell out from under his cloak. As Thom bent to pick it up, he whistled slightly in surprise.

“Hey! This is the sword Cioden got back in the earth trial. How did it end up here?” he asked, a perplexed look on his face. As he ran a finger along the ornate black leather scabbard, lettering appeared. Seeing the letters, he called Andaria over, who scrubbed at the sheath with her sleeve until all of the writing was visible. When all of it was uncovered, the entire scabbard was twined with thin lettering that shone silver in the crystallized sunlight. “This looks like elven script; luckily it’s from a dialect that I understand, elf lettering and grammar are nigh impossible to decipher without training. Hold on for a minute or two while I translate…” she trailed off, totally absorbed on the flowery engraving. In the meantime, Cioden had managed to pull himself into a sitting position against a wall before passing out, Anya sitting next to him trying to wake him up. After a minute or two, Andaria looked up from the scabbard excitedly. “I think I’ve got it! It goes something like this:

 

Falling from above, The morning star shall reign

The dark shall be white, and the white shall be stained

The iron kingdom Will rise the crimson flag

The lost Will be found, in mountain and crag

The two blades shall join, the white and the black

The legend Will unfold, the road that leads back

The five Will be four, and the dead shall rise

The plains Will run sere along with the skies

The son of the dragon, the father of night

Will fall then arise, once more to fight

 

As she finished the reading, everyone suddenly noticed that they had been holding their breath and let it out in a rush. Cioden muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, then rolled over onto his side. “Well, that just beats all, now doesn’t it?” asked Thom irritably, referring to the sword. “First he gets to keep his sword, then it has some bloody prophecy on it! This is just fine and bloody dandy! I suppose that the blade also has a bloody foretelling on it too?”

“No, it just has a short message about long life and good battles, the normal dwarven runes. Wait a minute!” she said, her face taking on a thoughtful expression. “Dwarves and elves didn’t work together! This scabbard isn’t the original for this sword, or my name’s not Andaria!” Thom looked shocked, then thoughtful. “Hmm…That’s right. The dwarves and elves have almost never got along…even their weapons were stored separately at the castle where I grew up. Mithril was the cause of the discontent betwixt the races, it being the thing that they both coveted. Elves created sculptures and jewelry with it that surpassed the greatest silversmith, while dwarves created weapons that could cleave stone, or armor that could turn aside any blow.”

“Well, in any case, let’s take a close look at the writing and make what we can out of it.” Cioden said groggily, rising to his feet and leaning against the wall. “Interests me most of all because I already guessed one part.” He pointed a bony finger at Andaria, his mouth twitching in a half-smile. “There is the ‘White that was stained’ my friends. Andaria went from order to chaos, then from white to black and fulfilling the small part of that prophecy…ugh, my head!” he suddenly clamped both of his hands to his forehead, his face in a grimace of pain. “Feels like an army of orcs are marching through my skull!” Sliding once more to his knees, he

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Archive Note: It did actually stop like that on EZBoard. I checked several times.