A Wizard's Tears (8 page)

Keldoran stood at the top of a volcano, peering down into the chasm of molten red lava which belched and hissed as it churned and bubbled below him.

He was dreaming – he
had
to be dreaming. He had no recollection of how he could possibly be here. Yet this dream felt so alive! He could feel the incredible heat searing his flesh. He could smell the foul reek of sulphur. He could taste the dry, hot ash that blew into his mouth.

He could sense his excitement – his unparalleled exhilaration and adrenaline rush. His blood pumped with power; with
magick
. His whole life had led him to this moment. The magick flowed through him; was a part of him. The volcano below seethed with power, as did his entire being. He felt at one with this fiery mountain. He felt at home.

His body urged him to leap from his precipice and join the fierce dance of lava. He would be one with the flow of the earth, the molten core of the land. Without a moment to consider his safety, or his certain death, Keldoran fell, his face grinning as the magick flowed through him, rushing to meet the boiling world.

He hit the rushing sea of lava head first. His body sank into the flaming miasma of death, embracing it. His skin burned and dissolved. His muscles and ligaments oozed through cracks in his skeleton. Soon, as he descended further, only bone was left – this too started to crumble and turn to ash. His skull lingered his grin as it shattered into nothingness.

All that remained was a soul, embedded in a glow of magick, and somehow, consciousness.
Euphoria caressed his mind. The further he travelled, passing through lava and metamorphic stone, the heightened his pleasure became. His soul was dancing, seeking out the heat of the molten landscape and revelling in its power. Bobbing and weaving in the red ocean, the magick guided his soul to the very core of the planet – the very source of Elrohen.
He felt the land’s pain, the soul of the world mingling with his, and others drawn to it just as he had done. He detected other auras of magick, other souls, and other
beings
of even greater magnitude. Then he was speeding away again, flowing on through the red ocean, heading upwards once more.
In a surge, his soul erupted from the scorching abyss to soar back to the top of the volcano. Once there, the magick that was part of him flared as bright as the nearest star.
Bone formed from the air, spinning inexorably in a macabre dance. Tendons and joints were added, then a thin covering of skin. With a silent scream, he bonded once more to his body, reborn, and fuelled with the energies that were the essence of stars.

All eyes turned towards Keldoran as his eyelids fluttered open. Fresh beads of sweat lined his face. With a low moan, he struggled to sit up in the carriage. He felt as though he had been battered like a lump of metal between anvil and hammer. He smiled weakly at Relb.

Keldoran gulped slowly. His throat was dry and hurting. “Is there any water?” he asked, his breath ragged.
Corg nodded to Relb, who quickly lifted a cup of cold water and gave it to Keldoran, who sipped it slowly at first, testing his throat, then guzzled the whole cup. “I’m so…hot…” he groaned.
“You have a fever. I’m sorry, but I think it’s going to continue for some time.” Corg eyed him up and down sympathetically.
“Have I caught a disease or something?”
“Uh...not exactly, no.” The normally loud juggler seemed very subdued.
Keldoran suddenly remembered Corg’s last statement to him before he had passed out. “You said it had to do – with me being a mage?” His tone was incredulous.
Corg sat down beside him, and told the tale of the land he had told the others. Keldoran listened, eyes growing wider with each revelation. “S-so,” he stammered, his mouth struggling to form words, “the land is in trouble?”
The juggler motioned for him to look outside of the carriage.
Keldoran looked. There was no mistaking what his eyes had told him earlier – the trees were swaying. It was as if a monstrous wind tore at them, yet he could not hear any sound of a gale. He heard small snapping sound, and watched in horror as the odd branch here and there split and fell on the road’s edge.
“What is happening?” he breathed in awe, staring at the others in fright.
“We think the strange mage the Norfel saw is doing this,” answered Corg. “He is not of this land. It is rejecting his presence.”
“W-who is he?” asked Keldoran, saying aloud what they were all thinking. “Where has he come from?” The sound of the trees cracking outside was his only answer.
Falling back into his seat, Keldoran closed his eyes. His head pounded. His mind scattered, tumbled thoughts and images came to him. So he was a mage of the land, naturally born? His mother had been a witch – perhaps she had been born with her magicks. Keldoran had assumed she had been taught her skills: those amazing spells of protection and healing she had done. Could they be a natural ability? Is that why the magick called to him, had urged him to take this trip? Had he finally uncovered the truth about himself?
He knew none of the answers. Worse, he had succumbed to this strange fever that made him exhausted and burned his body.
Burned.
Keldoran’s eyes opened in shock as memories flowed back to him. A volcano – he remembered standing on top of a volcano. It had to have been a dream. He shuddered in fear, gazing at his sweaty skin, remembering strongly the feeling of when his skin and bone had disintegrated in lava. “Impossible,” he muttered to himself. “A dream, just a mad, frightening dream-“.
A hand touched him on the shoulder. He looked up to see the juggler. “Rest, Keldoran,” he said. “I know this is a lot to take in. Just rest. Your answers are only a day away. We will reach Malana soon. Then the mages will take care of you.”
Keldoran nodded dumbly. All he could think about was his dream. He stared at Corg, but inwardly looked beyond him. Then a name came to him, bubbling up to the forefront of his mind. He knew who he thought about, although he knew not how. He had touched another soul, in his dream. His magick had mingled with another at the core of the planet. “Vo’loth”.
“What was that?” said Corg.
“Vo’loth,” repeated Keldoran. “I had a strange dream. I encountered a spirit in the dream. Its name was Vo’loth.”
“I have no memory of that name,” said Corg. “Rest, Keldoran. Maybe the mages in Malana will know of what you speak.”
Keldoran needed no further prompting. He was asleep before his eyes had fully closed.

Vergail stood atop the highest spire in the great cathedral, staring at the bustling city below. She could sense a gathering storm, one that would quell the calm sunshine of the day in spectacular fashion.

What Suralubus had told her in the gardens gave her great concern. Now, herself steeped in Untaba’s raw magick, she could feel the unease in the ground.
Tremors,
Suralubus had said. The wizard had returned to the guild of magick, to gather his brethren for a ritual at the stone circle. The result would determine the source of the land’s discomfort. She would also be present to offer Untaba’s guidance.

Vergail rolled up her robe sleeves, exposing her pale white arms to the morning’s sunlight, luxuriating in its warmth. Closing her eyes, she mumbled thanks to Untaba for providing her with the golden glow of the sun. With this power and heat from the heavens, all worries drained from her.

Her eyes closed. Vergail’s mind wandered. The warm sun on her face made her smile in ecstasy – its powers imbuing her with strength and passion.

It is the passion I seek.
Vergail’s eyes snapped open in fright. She had heard a voice. Spinning round, she glanced behind her at the spire. No-one stood there. Had she imagined this voice? No, it had been too clear, too
powerful
in her mind. What sorcery was this?
So much for the sun draining all worry from her. She felt suddenly chilled, and wrapped her arms about her, looking out at the city nervously.

Night descended on the continent of Emorthos. The three moons of Elrohen appeared in the night sky, all as bright as each other, giving the night its energising, mystical glow.

Keldoran looked out of the carriage, enjoying the view of the moons. He remembered when he had stood at the bottom of his home in Demorbaln, his father’s farmland, and stared at the glow of the moons. He had always felt part of something vast and beautiful, whenever he had looked at them. Now, in light of the day’s events, he felt even more part of the cosmos.
He was part of the land itself.

He had woken a few hours ago, his fever subsiding. It was as if his body had moulded itself to embrace the fever as one of its organs – necessary for his own survival. There was much he did not understand about his magicks, he realised. Nobody else in the carriage could help him, either. He prayed that the high mages in Malana could. Still, for now, he no longer sweat, and he felt more himself. He was glad, for he would need all his strength when they reached the city.

Apparently they were close. The mage had stopped the carriage for a moment to inspect his companions, in particular Keldoran. Satisfied, he had declared them an hour or so away from Malana. Now, as the minutes ticked by, Keldoran and the others looked impatiently out of the carriage, ready to shout as soon as they saw the lights of the city walls.

In his haste to arrive at the city on this night, the mage had left the road, bypassing the village of Roth by heading through a mud track that joined the main road further up. This had been a bumpy, jolting ride for all. Yvanna had fumed and uttered loud profanities each time she had been thrown from her seat. Keldoran smiled at the memory – never had he imagined he would hear such cursing from a young woman’s lips.

He glanced over at her. She stared out at the moonlight, her face pale, her eyes tired. Her hair tumbled in a mass of tangles everywhere, giving her a bedraggled appearance. Despite his fever and pain, Keldoran thought she had endured the trip to the city the worst.

She noticed he was staring at her, and smiled at him weakly. Involuntarily, she attempted to brush back her hair, but it was all over the place. “I must look terrible,” she said to him, her voice soft and miserable.

Keldoran leaned forward to whisper to her. “You would never look terrible,” he said honestly. To his eyes, she was a small, blonde woman, with an impish, almost child-like face. Her piercing blue eyes held cunning and mischievousness. To him, she was unlike anyone he had ever seen before. She was truly a wonder to behold.

She blushed slightly at his compliment, and mumbled her gratitude. She could not meet his gaze. The silence in the carriage seemed as loud as a blown trumpet. She stared at her feet, shuffling them slightly. Seeming to acknowledge her discomfort, Keldoran turned away from her to look at the moons. It had been a tough day, he decided. He would not make it any worse.

The carriage rolled round a bend in the road, and instantly all spotted the fierce glow of lights ahead.
“Malana!” Relb exploded, leaping from his seat to get a better view.
Arriving to the great city at night was no less impressive than if they had arrived with the sun shining. Keldoran’s initial impression was of size: the city was huge. He strained to see the lights outside, which stretched upwards before their puny carriage, almost like miniature suns themselves. They were heading towards one of the four walls that marked the boundary of the city. The wall stretched at least hundred feet high, by Keldoran’s estimates, and even in the glow of night, he could see it was made of pure white, polished stone. Embedded atop the wall were the lights they had seen, circular round jewels that had been polished and refracted to glint off the moonshine; a rich, emerald green glow that gave hope to their hearts.
The road led right to the main gate. Nestled in two small outposts were guards – men employed by the mages to question anyone approaching the city. No-one came here unannounced or without the mages’ knowledge. They were dressed in polished armour, and each carried a long spear. Seeing the mage approach and recognising him, the guards bowed before him. Turning, two of them began pulling on a huge lever. A rumble came from the main metal portcullis in front of them, which rose slowly from the guards’ efforts.
“It’s like a castle!” said Relb in excitement, to nobody in particular.
The mage nodded to the guards in thanks, and urged his mount forward. The carriage trundled through and into the city. Sights, sounds and smells assaulted their senses.
Keldoran’s mouth fell open in awe at the spectacle before him. They had entered a courtyard that stretched as far as he could see. Lining the cobbled paving of the courtyard were tall, marbled buildings, the gold inlaid into them glimmering softly in the moonlight and from various lanterns nestled in alcoves. Built into the courtyard at regular intervals were stone pillars, towering around twenty feet high or so, with bright yellow orbs at their apex – magickal light which guided them across the cobbles. Interspersed among these pillars were trees, huge oaks that shone with red leaves in the fiery glow of the orbs; fountains could also be seen bubbling forth rockets of water, announcing their arrival to the city.
People mingled in the courtyard, some praying before the trees, others selling food and oils from various stalls scattered about. Keldoran could hear wind chimes and smell incense. The smell and sounds reminded him of his mother, who had often burned incense and decorated their home with chimes and wood pipes. Yet the hubbub and noise of the people were sounds he had never experienced; the tumult of many people, the business of the city.
The mage rode through and beyond the main courtyard, and turned down a wide and opulent street. Shops adorned the sides: jewellers, bakers, arts and crafts, but Keldoran only briefly glimpsed at these. His gaze was riveted on the structure at the end of the long street, gargantuan amongst the other buildings and shops.
“The guild of the high mages,” said Corg, naming the structure.
As they came closer, Keldoran could make out five tall, connected towers issuing from the main width of the building. It almost looked like a huge, slender hand reaching for the sky.
“Our new home,” said Relb. Of all the people in the carriage, the young man was definitely the most excited, thought Keldoran. Yvanna looked thoughtful, but had stayed quiet. Corg seemed to recognise where he was. Nagoth kept himself to himself, his eyes clouded with worry for his village. Only Relb had leapt out of his seat and gasped as he looked round the place. Even he, although awed and thrilled to have arrived, was tentative. The past day had worn its effects onto him. He needed answers, and these thoughts shrouded the majestic beauty of the city in clouds for the time being.
Keldoran looked to the guild with hope, praying the questions concerning the land and his fever would be answered here.
The mage pulled his mount to a stop before the main entrance to the guild. As if this was a signal, the main wooden doors to the front of the building swung open noiselessly. Three men emerged, walking down a marbled path towards them. Two of the men wore the grey robes identical to that of the mage they had travelled with, and were hooded. The third wore a bright, white robe, and had his hood cast aside, holding his head tall and proud, his handsome chiselled features thrust forward in authority.
“Suralubus.” Their mage nodded to the white robed man in greeting.
“Mandorl Kesar,” replied Suralubus, naming their travelling companion for the first time. “You have returned with our new recruits, I see, a day earlier than expected.”
Mandorl nodded. “I have dark tidings that made me hasten back. Your immediate counsel is required.”
“Come, then,” replied Suralubus. “Tabus will see to your mount, and Robyn will take your recruits to their quarters.” The wizard gestured to the other two mages, who nodded to Mandorl in greeting.
Mandorl dismounted, giving the rein to Tabus. He opened the carriage door, and motioned for those inside to vacate. The mage ushered Corg, Yvanna and Relb towards the mage called Robyn.
“This young man,” Mandorl pointed out Keldoran to Suralubus, “and the Norfel require your help, Suralubus. They should both come with us.”
“Then follow me,” said Suralubus, acknowledging Keldoran and Nagoth with a nod, curiosity clearly showing on his handsome features.
Keldoran smiled weakly in farewell to the others. Corg beamed at him. “We’ll see you after,” he said. Keldoran was glad for the juggler’s support. He opened his mouth to reply but the mage Robyn took away their attention, welcoming them to the guild and leading them away down the marbled path towards the main entrance.
Sighing, Keldoran turned and followed the white robed wizard, who was now striding down a side path towards the rear of the large building. The Norfel, agitated and nervous, rushed to Suralubus’ side, as if the high mage could protect him from this strange city. Mandorl kept in step with Keldoran, making sure he was fit to walk.
Keldoran felt fine. Odd, but his fever had almost vanished as quickly as it had begun. Another question for the high mage, it seemed.
All questions were momentarily forgotten as they turned the corner to march down the side street by the guild. Keldoran stared upward at the incredible architecture of the building. He spotted large, gold gargoyles hanging from the building, their eyes shimmering in the soft lights of the city. Huge, arched windows towered above him, the glass seeming to shine with a speckled gold all of their own.
The young farmer’s son gaped in wonder at the majesty and workmanship he saw. He remembered his own words to Corg earlier, asking about the beauty of the city. He could only agree with the juggler’s response. Truly, Malana was one of the wonders of Elrohen.
Suralubus led them to some marbled steps that wound there way up the side of the guild, heading towards one of the tall spires.
“A bit of a climb, I’m afraid,” he murmured, almost apologetically. Keldoran was surprised at the demeanour of the high mage – certainly not the arrogant, aloof mages that his father spoke of.
Nagoth appeared irritated. “Can’t you teleport us up to your tower?” he said tersely to Suralubus. “You are high mage, are you not?”
Suralubus smiled at the Norfel. “We only use our magicks when absolutely necessary. Besides, the climb
is
good exercise. Rest easy, Norfel, I can see the urgency in your eyes. The climb will only take a few moments, I assure you, then we can sit and talk.”
Nagoth frowned, but kept quiet. He needed the mage’s co-operation.
Suralubus spoke true. Although the steps seemed to go on forever, it was only a matter of minutes before they all stood at the polished gold door of the tower. The high mage simply touched the closed door with his palm, and it swung inward. They followed Suralubus into the tower. They found themselves in a passageway that carried on around the tower’s walls in a circular pattern. Immediately opposite them was another door. The mage opened this door. “This leads to my personal chamber,” he announced. “We will not be disturbed or overheard.”
Suralubus’ chamber was surprisingly small, devoid of any opulence. A simple wooden table stood in the centre of the oval shaped room, laden with books and glass potions of some kind. Shelves adorned the walls, covered with dusty scrolls and documents. The high mage gestured to the side, where a fire had been lit, its flames dancing over wooden logs merrily in its alcove. Before the fire, covering over the stone floor, a soft, blue rug lay. He nodded to it. “Please sit and warm yourselves.”
As his guests sat, the wizard wandered over to a side room. He came back with a tray laden with bread, cheese, fruit and what looked like red wine in a decanter. “Eat, please, and drink. You have all been on the road for a good while.”
Keldoran accepted the meal gratefully, suddenly ravenous. The liquid turned out to be berry juice; it quenched his thirst with amazing potency.
Suralubus came and sat with them, cross-legged. “Now, Norfel, please tell me your name and why you have come to see me.”
Nagoth told the high mage all about the mysterious sorcerer, the death of his people, and the worry he had on his village’s safety. Mandorl then explained what the Norfel had witnessed: the sorcerer affecting and charring the land he trod upon. He then told of Keldoran’s fever and pain, in response to the tremors in the land – making him a naturally born mage. As Keldoran listened in on the story, his own mind had trouble believing it all. It just seemed so ridiculous! Yet his own heart knew it to be true, and as he looked at Suralubus’ reaction, one of serious contemplation, all doubts banished from his mind.
He was a mage!
“Thank you for seeking out the counsel of Malana’s mages,” said Suralubus to the Norfel. “I know it isn’t easy for one of your race to journey into the cities of men.”
Nagoth nodded. “We are despised and feared by most.”
“Fortunately, not all men bear this ignorance,” smiled the wizard. “I will help you, Nagoth. First, let me tell you my plans, as I already suspected much that your words have provided substance.”
He told them of the tremors he had sensed from the great stone in the gardens of Malana.
“I am preparing for a ritual tonight at the stone circle,” he explained. “This will cast a spell delving into the heart of the land. We will be able to trace the land’s tremors back to their source, which we suspect is this sorcerer. Once we determine the sorcerer’s whereabouts, we will discern the fate of your village, Nagoth.”
The Norfel grunted his approval.
Suralubus looked at Keldoran then. His gaze held much knowledge and understanding, and to Keldoran, the mage’s power shone through him like a beacon of hope. “A mage of the land,” breathed Suralubus in awe. “None has appeared for over a century. Not since the Ice Lords left the lands of men for the snowy plains of the north. You are truly a hope for this world.”
“A hope?” mumbled Keldoran, not understanding. “Indeed!” Suralubus was trembling with suppressed excitement, the first real emotion from the mage Keldoran had seen. “Your coming has been foretold.
One of natural magicks will rise to unite the lands of Elrohen into a new age of peace and prosperity.”
Keldoran just sat there, stunned, mouth open, unable to answer.
Suralubus explained further. “Around a century ago, there was a war in Elrohen. The Slardinian race, coming from the lands of Tegul to the south, invaded Emorthos in an attempt to rule and conquer. Many died. One of the worst battles was at Twerne, one of the major sea ports on the south coast. The town, then, was populated heavily with Bu’kep. The Slardinians slaughtered most of them. A few retreated, entering one of the Norfel forests to seek shelter, several miles to the north.”
Nagoth nodded, remembering the history. “Yes. That is why the Bu’kep hates our race. The Norfel elders at the time refused the Bu’kep sanctuary to their sacred forest, and, with nowhere to shelter, the Slardinians killed every last one of them.”
Keldoran was shocked. He had no knowledge of Elrohen’s past.
Suralubus continued. “The Slardinians were a fierce, fighting army. None stood in their path. They controlled much of Emorthos. Pockets of resistance came from the other races, the Norfel, the Bu’kep, humans and mages, but none could change the tide of battle and force the Slardinians into retreat. None that is, save for the Ice Lords.”
“Ice Lords?” Keldoran had never heard of them. “Tall, blue skinned humanoids from Isoch, the icy wasteland across the oceans to the north. A mere handful of Ice Lords had travelled to Emorthos peacefully, aiding the mages in their magicks. At the time, they were revered. They possessed incredible powers, but based on natural sources. They were born to their powers, unlike the mages.”
“Until now,” stated Mandorl, his eyes on Keldoran thoughtfully. Keldoran jumped at the sound of the mage’s voice – he had forgotten the mage was there, having said so little.
Suralubus smiled. “Keldoran, you are not the first natural born mage, but you are the first in over a century…” his voice drifted, his mind elsewhere, pondering. After a moment he continued his story. “As I was saying, the Ice Lords used their powerful magicks to stop the Slardinian army: thousands of armoured Slardinian warriors, fierce in blood rage and lust, thwarted by a small group of Ice Lords, five or six if my memory is intact.” “H-how?” exclaimed Keldoran. “How did they beat so many?”
Suralubus shrugged. “The history texts are incomplete at that point. All I can tell you is they used powers nobody had ever seen, and nobody has ever seen since. After defeating the Slardinians, the Ice Lords built the Wall of Tegul, an amazing structure seemingly made of solid ice, yet the burning sun of Tegul cannot melt it. They effectively kept the Slardinians chained to their own land, lest they decided to try and conquer again. Then the Ice Lords left, heading north, back to Isoch, or so we assumed. None have been seen again. The last one to leave, the leader, claimed there would be need of natural magicks again, once a new century dawned.
One of natural magicks will rise to unite the lands of Elrohen into a new age of peace and prosperity.
Those were his last words.”
Keldoran sat, bewildered, the story sinking into his mind like a boulder thrown into a calm lake.
Suralubus noticed the young man’s chagrin. “Be at ease, Keldoran. We will talk further, you and I. There is certainly no cause for alarm. I will explain more about land magicks and what you will find out about yourself. You have a very rare and wondrous gift. For now, rest – you have had a traumatic few days.”