Creators Guild: A Wizard's Beginning

CREATORS GUILD:

BOOK 1

A WIZARD’S BEGINNING

R.W. WESTON

Copyright © 2013 R.W. Weston

All rights reserved.

ISBN:1482535610

ISBN-13:
978-1482535617

DEDICATION

Those who believed in me and those who didn’t, you kn
ow who you are, I love you all.

CONTENTS

Prologue

              The battles had raged on for cycles, neither side gaining much of a victory. The Sovereign Order of wizards had let their powers out in full force, pulling the Legion down; wizards of the Legion who were caught were immediately executed, shown no mercy.

             
The royal regime had finally pushed the Crioltians back beyond the Marian mountains and into the rouge lands. They were now working to restore order back into the realm.  The treaty between the other human realms was still strong, with only a few minor boarder battles and land disputes remaining.  Many of the other races had long since left and gone back to their own realms.  They left the humans to deal with their own violent ways.

             
“Gwenlyn, how are the soldiers holding up?” asked Terinor; head of the regime from Nevel.

             
“They are recovering; there are many of the battalion chiefs that were severely wounded. I know a few will not make it no matter how much magic I use. Their wounds were too severe,” she stated, sadness and exhaustion in her voice.

             
Gwenlyn was one of the most powerful healers that the Order had; she had worked tirelessly over the last several months healing and helping wherever she was needed.  She met Joran, a battle commander who had used his skills and unique leadership to lead the battle that finally won the war.  In the effort he was severely wounded from the poisoned tipped arrows and putrid blades of the enemy.

             
The Crioltians were a savage people, born and raised into battle. Most of their lives were spent battling amongst the clans for land.  This war was a rare occasion that had brought all the clans together in an attempt to secure the lands on the other side of the mountains.

             
Their battles were ferocious, unlike the blades and weapons that were made by human hands. Theirs were forged to shred the skin, causing irreparable damage to their opponents.  They were a strong and brutal race, one without mercy or compassion as they believed only the strong survived.

             
Without the aid of the wizard’s council the war would have certainly ended differently. With the wizards of the Legion fighting with the Crioltians the Order was needed to both outmatch them in skill and numbers.  As time passed so did the memories of the war amongst the common folk. Many had only heard rumors which were now passed on as myth.

             
As Gwenlyn was caring for the wounded she started to fall in love with Joran. She had fought long and hard to keep him alive, some for selfish reasons of her own.  As he slowly recovered he felt the growing love he had for her as well.  He was one of the last to recover so when he did they were married.  They decided together that they wanted to disappear and forget the war. They traveled throughout the realm, searching for the perfect place to live and start a family.

             
When they came into the small village of Kirchwin they knew this was where they would live. It was secluded, buried and forgotten at the base of the Marion Mountains. They went up into the mountains where they built a humble home where they stayed to themselves as much as possible. They wanted to keep people from finding out that she was a sorceress and he had been in the regime.

             
Joran was a carpenter by trade before the war, he soon became known throughout the region for his skill and fair dealings.  A few cycles after their arrival she gave birth to a son they named Roland.  Two cycles later Gwenlyn got sick, days passed with high fevers and restless sleep. Everell the town healer applied all that she knew to help her but to no avail, one day she never woke up.

             
Joran was heartbroken, isolating himself even more in the hills. Teaching and training Roland all he could while protecting and sheltering him from the world.  When Roland reached six cycles he started to take him back into town. Many of the townsfolk were happy to see them again and Roland quickly made new friends. His father understood how important it was for him to make friends, so they started visiting the village more often.

             
Joran again became a popular person within the small community. The elders of the village listened to all he had to offer.  Some even wanted him to become a delegate with the realm but he quickly and politely declined, knowing what that could lead to.  They continued to live simple lives, at ten cycles Roland started to train under his father to learn the skill and carpentry trade.

Chapter 1

Into Kirchwin

             
     he mountain wind was slightly blowing through the hemlock trees, giving a peaceful whisper that seemed to sing to the landscape of evergreens and open fields.  Giving a sense of life and vitality to the land making the early morning seem all the more crisp to Roland.

             
Having grown up in the Marian Mountains with his father, Roland seemed to be at peace with the calming winds. His father Joran was a solitary man since the passing of his wife, was well known throughout the small village that lay at the base of the vast mountain range. His excellence in carpentry, as well as his honest and loyal dealings with the people had made him highly thought of and respected.

             
Roland had started early in life working with his father who was a master carpenter. He was now considered an advanced apprentice, soon to become a master himself.  Today Roland and his father were on their way into Kirchwin to sell their wares at the Festival of Marcon, the end of summer.

             
At times like this when traveling the mountain trails Roland thought he could hear the wind speak to him, whispering the secrets of the world. His father thought they were just the vain imaginations of a young boy.  He had learned the way of the mountains from his father who had taught him how to read the signs of nature, to predict the weather and the coming of the seasons. All the signs told him this would be a light winter.

             
Over the last few weeks Joran had been worried that his son might not make it to the festival this cycle. He had been bed ridden for the last few days with a high fever and waking dreams. These things bothered him because it was the first signs that his wife had shown before her sudden death.  He was afraid his son would face the same fate.  A few days before the journey was to begin he started showing signs of improvement and was quickly regaining his strength.

             
"Roland how are you feeling today?" asked his father.  His concern had grown into fear and despair; he couldn’t fathom what would happen if his son passed away like his wife had.

             
"I'm feeling a little weak but I’ll be able to manage," he replied, “besides I think the walk and fresh air will do me some good."

             
"Alright, but if you get feeling too weak you can ride in the cart."

             
As long as Roland could remember his father had been a man of little words, and he never really understood why.  His father would become especially quiet whenever he would ask him about his mother who had died when he was still a small child. He could not remember much about his mother, only that she was beautiful and everybody seemed to like being around her.

             
The trip into town was usually a day and a half journey, so they had left before sunrise to make as much of the journey as possible during the first day out.  The sun was now beginning to rise over the crest of the mountains, giving off a beautiful array of reds and oranges onto the ever-decreasing black sky. He could now see the colors of the day. The many shades of greens from the pines and mountain grasses, to the oranges, yellows and browns from the leaves on the trees. He loved the changing of the seasons, there was such a feeling of renewal.

             
Once they reached the mountain road it was easier traveling. The road was named after Elmen der Bronwe who was a great traveler in the third age. This road being the only pass through the mountains was always in good condition because of its use by so many travelers.

As the day continued both he and his father walked in virtual silence with only the creak of the old wagon, and the songs of nature all around.

              "Dad, I had another one of those dreams last night. The one where everything is black and it feels like somebody is watching me."

             
"Son, you’re probably just tired from all the work that we have been doing these last few weeks.  With the fevers it may take a few days of rest before they are gone. I'm sure the festival will take your mind off them. Then again are you nervous about going to the festival this cycle.  You know this is the first cycle that Bethamine is eligible to be in the courtship dance," chuckled his father.

             
"No, I'm not nervous about the festival, seriously though, this nightmare is beginning to bother me more than it used to.  It feels as if whoever is looking for me or at me now knows where I am," he said. He was upset at the joke his father was trying to make while he was being serious. "Besides I am not ready to join in the dance yet, I am still working with you to become a master, which will take a few more cycles at least."

             
The rest of the day they traveled in silence. Roland kept thinking of his awful nightmare and watching his father as he surveyed the landscape, keeping an eye out for any danger that might present itself.  As the sun began to crest at midday, his father pulled out the bread, cheese, and dried meats they brought for their lunch, passing a portion of the food to him as they continued on their journey.

             
The wind began to pick up a little, ruffling the bottoms of their cloaks and blowing up some of the dead leafs that had already fallen to the ground.

             
"Do you think we will see a storm tonight?" he asked his father, growing tired of the quiet.

             
"No, the wind is coming from the wrong direction, besides there seem to be too few clouds," he said looking at the sky. He caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a hawk soaring high overhead. "Did you see that?"

             
"See what?"

             
"That hawk, I haven't seen one in a few weeks, I thought for sure they would be starting their migration to the warmer climates by the sea."

             
"No, maybe you're the one who should be riding in the cart now," laughed Roland.

             
The rest of the day passed quietly, his thoughts carried back to his repeating nightmare. As they continued to walk he wondered who could be watching him, or better yet who would want to. He only knew the people that he had grown up with in Kirchwin.

             
All his life he lived in the small stone cottage on the crest of the mountain with his father. They came into town once a month or so for more provisions as needed. They would stay a night or two, so his father could visit with his friends.  He would talk about news that came in from the peddlers and travelers that happened to stay at the local inn.

             
They found a small little clearing to make a camp for the night. While he went out to find scraps of wood to make a small fire, his father set about checking the items they had brought to sell at the festival.  For dinner his father prepared a small stew from the dried meats and a few vegetables that he brought.

             
Eating in silence they quickly finished their dinner and began to prepare for bed. They needed to leave early in the morning to make it into town before mid afternoon. Because the day had been so nice they decided to sleep under the wagon, so they unrolled their wraps to lie down for the night.

             
His father went to sleep quickly, his deep base of a snore blending in with the other sounds of the night. He could hear the howl of a wolf calling to the moon and the hoot of an owl waking to prepare for the nightly hunt for food. Sleep didn’t come easy for him, knowing that the nightmare was bound to return. Yet the day's travels eventually led to sleep, as the darkness crept in and sleep overtook him, the nightmare began.

             
"Hello, Hello, Is anybody there?" he shouted, "is anybody there. I'm tired of this, who are you? What do you want with me?”

             
There was no response as usual just that unnerving feeling as though he was being watched.  He then saw something new.  Maybe it had been there the whole time but he just never noticed it before.

             
On the ground lay a symbol. It looked like a full moon but with what appeared to be eyes in the middle of it, "Maybe that is what I feel is looking at me," he thought to himself.

             
It appeared to be the shape of the moon, a light iridescent glow emanating from it, the diagram seemingly split into four quarters. Each one held another smaller circle inside of it with some type of symbol. One looked to be a flame, another had a winding cloud the third had the appearance rain, the last he recognized as the mountains.  In the center was a circle split in two, one side as black as a moonless night.  It almost felt as though it was sucking the light from all around it, in bright contrast the other half was whiter than new fallen snow.              "What does this all mean? Am I supposed to understand this symbol?" he yelled out.

             
As he began to bend over to get a closer look at the object, he heard something behind him.  He quickly turned around but found nothing. He thought that he could hear voices in the distance, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying or where they were coming from. He started to feel a familiar sense of panic, not knowing where he was, or what was around him.

             
Out of sheer desperation he began to run, faster than he could ever remember running in his life. Shouting for whoever was beyond the veil of darkness to show themselves.

             
"Roland, Roland, wake up, wake up now!" shouted his father as he was trying to shake him awake. "What is going on, you were kicking and rolling like crazy, are you okay?" he asked, a great deal of concern coming through in the sound of his voice. "You still have that fever, here put this on your head and calm down a little," he said, handing him a rag that had been soaked in cold water.

             
"No, I'm fine, thanks anyway," he answered as he was wiping the sleep from his eyes and the sweat that had formed on his brow. "I’ll just sit here for a while; I'm not really tired anymore anyway. I think I’ll get things ready to go."

             
The rest of the night passed quietly as he sat listening to the sounds of the night. He wanted to stay awake out of fear of having the nightmare again. His father fell back to sleep for a while. He decided to start packing things up, checking the equipment before collecting firewood for breakfast.

             
The morning dew was beginning to collect on the flowers and grass making the ground a little damp. As he was walking through the woods he was testing his tracking skills. Following the signs left in the damp soil from the animals that ventured out during the night.

             
On his search for wood he saw many tracks that he recognized deer, mice, he even found some wolf tracks. He assumed they were from the one he heard last night calling to the moon.  That’s when he saw something strange.

             
There was what appeared to be a pair of fresh boot prints; however they didn’t seem to come from anywhere, or go anywhere. It was as if whoever made them simply fell out of a tree and landed, then took off again. He looked around for a little while to see if he could find where they came from without any luck. So he decided to continue looking for wood deciding he was just a little spooked from his dream as well as the lack of sleep.

             
After making a small fire to heat up the meat and the little bit of stew that was left from the night before. He sat and watched the stars as they seemed to twinkle and speak to him. Many times growing up he would sit outside and look up at the stars pretending they were his mothers eyes shining down on him, giving him a little comfort.

             
"How great is the masters’ hand that created all the stars above," he thought as he sat in the quiet waiting for his father to awaken. After an hour or so his father woke up wiping the sleep from his face with a moist cloth.

             
"How are you feeling now?"

             
"Better, the morning air has helped a little, although I could use some sleep. But we don't have time for that now I guess," he answered, "perhaps when we get into town we can visit the healer and see if there is something I can take to help me sleep."