Enderal:Tales of the Wanderer
On my travels through Vyn I have had a lot of interesting encounters, some with a pleasant ending, others less so.
I met beings who could change their face like a woman does her clothing. Walking corpses. Lost Ones. Ghosts. Monsters that tried to tear me apart with their tusks and claws. The world's finest warriors and mages - even if they boasted titles and deeds later revealed as lies. I witnessed the madness and greed of two monstrosities, which might not appear to fit this list of tales at first glance, but does illustrate what can become of humans when under terrible duress...
Well, I could certainly tell a thing or two about my experiences and entertain a lively crowd for multiple evenings. But I'm neither a minstrel nor a vagabond, whoring and drinking my way from tavern to tavern. "The Wanderer" - that is my name and title.
The purpose of my never-ending journey is to track down the most fabled warriors of Vyn and learn of their legendary fighting methods to share them with a broader audience. So adventurers - whether aspiring or experienced -, read my tales so you might learn something useful.
One day I was making my way through the steppes and rocky caves of the sandy mountains of Arazeal in search of one such legendary figure. It was said that there, in that barren wasteland, the most dreaded marksman from beyond the Spice Canal lived.
I had gained some information about this warrior from a pockmarked drunk in a shabby pub located in the harbor of the great city of Al-Rashim, on the coast of Qyra. "Old Man," he had called me. He had reeked of seaweed, fish and saltwater, and was clearly a sailor who had seen much of the world. "Take off your hood. I want to see who I'm talking to. Oh, what a fine scar you have there. Got it from a fight, eh? Guess you ducked a little late there, Gramps. Hmm, your right eye doesn't look too healthy either - those colors aren't normal. You might want to get that looked at. But you asked me something, didn't you? Let me think. Did you hear the latest rumor from Arazeal?" he had asked with a thick Endralean accent.
I had looked sharply at the poor devil and shaken my head, even though I knew very well about the one who had reduced the number of bandits in the Sandy Mountains to a mere handful in a short period of time. "They call him the "Avenger of the Desert Dust"," the drunkard had continued. "By the gods, some fiend he is! Inhuman and tremendously powerful. They say that he kills without his victims even noticing - not until it's too late, anyway. One moment you are alive, the next you are dead. Best not get in the way of someone like that." He had leaned forward and added in a hushed, conspiratorial voice: "I heard he can bend time itself to his will."
After continuing my research for a while longer I eventually set out to see the "Avenger of the Desert Dust" with my own eyes. I traveled through the barren mountains and asked around the settlements of nomads, but no one knew the identity of the mysterious marksman or where I might find him. Several weeks passed before I finally came across a promising opportunity. At midday, under the sun's blistering glare, I climbed a tall ridge and suddenly heard sounds of battle. My heart leapt with excitement. This was what I had been searching for.
I followed the noise and hid behind some rocks for cover. It could hardly be called a battle anymore by the time I got to witness it. It was such a short encounter that even "scuffle" would have been a generous term... It was five against one: a peddler, slim and of tall stature - probably Arazealean - was being threatened by a group of bandits. They had knocked over his cart and killed the Steppe Beast pulling it. A dark red puddle pooled from under the massive carcass. The man pleaded for his life while the bandits tormented and harassed him. It was the perfect bait for the "Avenger of the Powder Desert". He did not even make them wait for long.
A peculiar sensation came over me. I recognized it immediately as the feeling of magic at work - over the years I had developed a sixth sense for it. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a hooded figure carefully creeping towards the bandits, with movements as dexterous as a cat's. Once he had gotten close enough, the figure raised a hand; the next moment lightning and fire rained down on the clueless bandits. The mysterious presence jumped up, revealing a bow in the other hand, and nocked an arrow - and that's when mere skill in magic turned extraordinary.
Silence at first, followed by a strange whirring. The world changed before my eyes; everything suddenly looked like it had been engulfed by a drab, gray sludge, devoid of color and slightly blurry. Each blink of an eye took an eternity. Everything was trapped in the spell cast by the stranger, including me. I knew what he had done, sensed how he dragged another reality from the Sea of Eventualities into life and how it became the new reality. Fractions and tiny splinters of time itself were forced apart, slowing the flow nearly to the point of completely freezing. For the stranger, the river of time was unchanged. He moved as if he were standing in the eye of a roaring cyclone, unaffected by what was swept up outside that space of calm. I swiftly freed myself from his power with the help of a warding spell so I could continue to observe without warped perception.
My second, special eye caught sight of the arrows which whizzed through the air, each followed quickly by a spectral counterpart. Once the spell subsided, the bandits lay at the peddler's feet - dead, their vitals pierced by multiple projectiles. I could not believe what I was seeing. The archer walked towards the peddler, made sure he was unharmed, and shoved a purse with coin into his hand to compensate for the broken cart and the pack animal. He did so in complete silence, never uttering as much as a single word.
The hooded figure disappeared in a cloud of dust, though not before casting a glance at my hiding spot. He knew I was there. I rose. The marksman was of slight stature. He had piercing green eyes the color of poison, with long lashes and a red strand of hair coiling from under the scarf which covered his head and most of his face. Not a marksman, I realized, but a markswoman. After she left, I accompanied the peddler to the nearest settlement.
I never met the warrior again, but what I had seen was sufficient to convince me of her talents.
Based on the combination of conventional mental and elemental magic she used to preemptively strike down the bandits, coupled with her bow skills and stealthiness, I decided to name her fighting technique the "Arcane Archer". If you take her most powerful talent of slowing down time into consideration as well, this set of abilities makes for one of the deadliest ranged fighters in the world. The only question I still ask myself is where she got the riches to compensate the trader, since she lived in a poor region and the nomads surely did not have enough to pay her for her deeds. There used to circulate rumors around Arazeal about a magically gifted noble's daughter - well-known by the people as a cheeky brat of quick and rebellious temper - who ran away from her home in one of the civilized coastal cities for no apparent reason. They say she took part of the family treasure from the Vol Tis, probably as a form of revenge against her overly-strict father. Physical features characteristic of this noble family were green eyes and red hair...
"Blademaster" is what many call themselves, despite barely knowing the proper way to hold a sword. What is most amusing is that the majority stops being daring and loud-mouthed as soon as an opponent gets close to finishing them off. Then they beg and grovel. For their lives. For mercy. Vow on Malphas and the world to better their ways, abide the Path. A real blademaster does not beg. If he kneels down, then only to receive the final, lethal sword stroke. Merely a few of these unyielding warriors exist. This story revolves around the fate of such a man, whom I encountered on my journeys. A man, for whom nothing was more sweet than death itself.
"You must be kidding," I huffed disgruntled. "That much? For one loaf? Where are we here? In some Qyranian noble house of pleasure?"
"That is the price for strangers, no more, no less," the trader persisted.
"It brings you joy to squeeze people out for their last coin, doesn't it? Let me tell you something: this often gets back at someone eventually." I handed the man the demanded sum and grabbed my bread.
"Have a nice day, Mysir," he said with a malicious smile on his face.
"Burn in the sunfire," I grunted back.
The streets of the city were bustling with activity. Around midday this was usually the case; it was the hour of large deals for the traders and bargaining and haggling turned into competitions. I was only passing through but had to replenish my supplies: a week long walk to the Frostcliff Mountains was ahead of me. Believe it or not, this trader had still offered me the best deal out of them all. Prices were currently at a horrendous level, especially for travelers. Yes, travelers were the preferred target if it came to leaving somebody's coin pouch flat. I sighed and took a look in my sachet. There was not much left.
Soon I would have to come up with a creative solution, if my luck would continue to reside on the end of bad. Back then I was not as experienced; it was one of my first great travels across Enderal. There was a lot that I had yet to learn on the hard and rough streets, a lot that my extensive training with the masters could not have prepared me for. It is like with a child: You can offer them a hand, but in the end they have to learn to walk themselves.
Somehow the people were restless, I had observed, even without the use of my special eye and enhanced senses. It was in the air. If I had asked around more, I would have known earlier what was going on. So I just came to know now, when loud screaming resounded somewhere ahead of me. I raised myself on tiptoes and craned my neck to look over the crowd. A young fellow came running down the street.
"Today is the day! The time has come! The scoundrel is being dragged to the scaffold! Everybody come and see, the time has come, they'll string him up! Down at the market!" Simultaneously loud bell-ringing echoed over the city's rooftops. The people turned their heads. Windows and doors were opened. Little by little the citizens made their way towards the market square. Flustered whispering could be heard everywhere in the crowd.
When the noisy brat passed me by, I reached out and caught him. His legs swung forward; I quickly prevented him from falling. "What's happening here?" I asked.
He stared at me with a scared expression. My cowl must seem frightening. "Uh… uh... th-the scoundrel, he is going to be hanged, Mysir," stuttered the lad.
"Who is this "scoundrel" supposed to be?" I demanded to know.
"The bleeding blade, the cutthroat who slaughtered a dozen members of the Order three moons ago."
I let him go. He cast suspicious looks at me while slowly continuing on his way.
I had not heard of a twelve-fold murder in the area. And I had a good overview of every man who would be capable of committing such an act of violence. There was obviously something wrong with this case. I headed towards the market to take a closer look at this affair.
A vast crowd of people had gathered in the square. The entire city was on its feet. In the center of the square stood a scaffold with three gallows erected on top of it. The freshly bound ropes on them were a sinister omen. I pushed farther towards the front through the mass of people. It was not long before murmuring started around the eastern side of the square. The source of noise moved further and further until it reached the platform. Then I saw the guard squad. Five Keepers, armed to the teeth, escorted a man in their middle. He had long, straggly hair which hung in front of his face in unkempt strands. His body looked maltreated. They had probably kept him in the "Hole", the most inhumane cell of the dungeon, not even wide enough to turn while lying down. Because of this even his last reserves of strength must have been depleted. At the front of the troop walked the executioner, identifiable by the black and red hood on his head.
The captive was led on the scaffold, on which a luxuriously dressed town crier, with a brooch of the Order on his chest, had already taken position. The Keepers struck the captive on the back so hard that he fell to his knees. Nevertheless he kept his gaze on the ground, did not make any move to resist his rough treatment or impending execution. This man was broken, he had accepted his fate. A stone flew from the crowd and hit his head. He grunted, bared his teeth without looking up and shook off the blow as if nothing had happened. Blood trickled down from under his hairline. It dripped on the wooden planks of the platform.
"This man!" the town crier pointed an accusatory index finger at the captive and spat on the ground. "This man, whose name is not even worth mentioning, killed twelve - I repeat - twelve of our best warriors, honorable and brave men, in cold blood." The crowd seethed. Shouts of defamation echoed over the square. "On the night of the twenty-seventh Fundament, he assaulted them during their innocent sleep. Half of them were dead before even awaking." A dramatic pause of the town crier followed. "The only acceptable punishment for this is death. But, dear people, it would be presumptuous if that was to be the extent of his sentence. Before he dies, he has to suffer the same agonies as those he left with their throats cut, this scabbed bastard son of a fisherman's whore!" the speaker screamed while the crowd roared in consent. "Bring the rack!"
Two sturdy Keepers wheeled the instrument of torture over a ramp on the scaffold. The captive did not show any reaction to what awaited him.
"He still has not confessed his murderous acts in the face of Malphas. Until this has not happened, this Pathless one will not receive any mercy!"
Frenetic cries of joy accompanied the words of the speaker. The captive was hauled up and tied to the rack. The straps were buckled up. With a nod the town crier signaled the executioner to begin his work. The arms and legs of the captive strained while the executioner turned the crank. Not a single sound left his throat. He stayed completely calm. The speaker gave another sign and the executioner continued to operate the mechanism stretching the prisoner's limbs. The same procedure was repeated several times, but the captive maintained a stony silence. Anxious mumblings spread amongst the bystanders. The town crier started to become nervous and hastily whispered something to the executioner. I suspected that there was something amiss here. No normal man could ever endure such agonizing, cruel torture without showing a hint of pain. Apart from strong drugs or other medicines, only one technique existed which allowed for the complete dismissal of any pain. The Iron Cloak, only used by the highest of the blademasters, the Tyrangalar, a very famous ancient federation of which many legends are told.
"Release him," the town crier sneered. "We will chop off his fingers one by one."
The captured blademaster was dragged to the decapitation block. He did not fight back, his limbs flaccid. His spirit was elsewhere, his mind focused on something other than the impending mutilation. A Keeper chucked one of the captive's arms on the block. The executioner sharpened his knife, which was as long as his forearm. He set the whetstone aside, positioned himself in front of the captive, raised his hand and brought it down in a fell swoop.
But the knife never reached its target. I felt the shockwave of magical energy thunder across the square from the center, not perceptible for common people. The Iron Cloak had been released. In the next moment the captive was on his feet. The iron shackle burst as if it were made of ailing wood. He grabbed the hand in which the stunned executioner still held the knife and broke the wrist with a skillful move. Then he took the blade and drove it into the man's neck. The executioner was dead before his killer, bloodied knife in hand, let him collapse beneath his own gallows.
The marketplace went into uproar. The people fled from the scaffold in blazing fear, pushing each other in their haste to get away. I, on the other hand, forced my way towards the gallows. The five Keepers of the Order drew their weapons. The town crier tried to make himself scarce but did not make it far. The blademaster threw the executioner's knife after the fleeing man. It struck him in the back of his head. Face-forward he fell to the ground, still twitching for a little while longer in his death throes. Two men dead in two blinks of an eye.
This man was a death machine. You can probably imagine how he dealt with the Keepers, but I will not withhold the details. The first to approach him: a kick in the privates, an uppercut to the jaw, and the Keeper was disarmed. The man barely had the time to realize he had lost his blade before it was briefly returned to him, plunged in the unprotected neck right above the edge of his armor. Dead. Now the blademaster found himself in possession of his favorite weapon.
The second warrior of the Order: a severed arm, then a stab through the heart, the lethal strikes preceded by several matchless feints. The blademaster dodged a blow with a somersault, piercing the right knee of the third attacker upon landing. As the warrior's leg buckled, the blademaster's sword nailed his foot to the wooden board. His scream was loud enough to pierce my ears, despite the ruckus surrounding us.
The fourth Keeper hew at the escaped prisoner, likely thinking he stood a good chance now the target had just relinquished his weapon to incapacitate an opponent. He was easily evaded and in return the blademaster boxed him onto both ears, disarmed him as well and used the blade to kill the third man, withdrew the sword from his foot and ran it through the fourth's throat. A double death.
Meanwhile the fifth Keeper had already made a quick getaway, like everyone who could reasonably be considered to be in their right mind. The torture and time spent in the cell had not harmed the blademaster in the slightest. I was not surprised. These fighters could put themselves into artificial sleep for days and buried themselves in chambers deep under the earth to put their abilities to the test.
The blademaster jumped from the platform. I was the only one still standing in the market square. Just a few steps separated us. He stormed in my direction. My muscles tensed, but I was too slow. Already it had become impossible for me to dodge in time. He was fast as lightning. My breath seized in my throat. For a fraction of a moment our eyes locked as he passed me. I simply stood there, rooted to the ground. My shirt had been ripped at my right shoulder, revealing a cut so thin that I barely felt it. My heart started beating again.
I turned around and saw the blademaster make his way up the street, pursued by a troop of Keepers. It took me far too long to start moving again and follow them. His combat style was extraordinary, unlike anything I had witnessed before. Under no circumstances did I want to miss the end of his dramatic escape.
A swath of destruction had been carved through the street. I saw the trader who had sold me the exorbitantly expensive bread, dead under the debris of his market stall. Apparently he had hastily tried to rescue his property amidst the chaos. Several innocents lay sprawled in their own blood, the ones who had not managed to get out of the way quickly enough. Finally, in front of the city gates, the Keepers cut the fleeing blademaster off and surrounded him. He saw himself closed in by an overwhelming number of enemies. I came to a halt as close to the scene as I could, gasping for air and leaning with one arm against a building for support.
The Keepers closed ranks, their halberds pointed at the blademaster. One man emerged from the human barrier, stepping into the circle. My eyes widened. When I had woken up this morning in my hard, uncomfortable bed under blackberry bushes and thorns, I could never have imagined that I would experience such a spectacular situation. The Keeper who had come forward was Ragis Starseeker, currently the very best swordsman of the Order and former student of the legendary Loram Waterblade. He had long, black flowing hair and was a downright handsome fellow. Yet his sharp cheekbones and flawless complexion merely created the deceptive illusion of a gentle soul. His blade was the most lethal weapon in all of Enderal.
Ragis strode toward the blademaster with determined steps, stopping at a respectful distance. Silence, like before an approaching storm. Even the wind appeared to hold its breath. Suddenly the sword rushed out of Ragis' scabbard and swept forward. Simultaneously the blademaster brought his weapon up. The swords connected with a loud clang which rang clear in the silent street. Both opponents held still, their blades crossed. "Name?" Ragis asked in a calm voice.
"Eremir. Fifth of the Chiming Shadows," the blademaster replied. His voice reminded me of a gnarled, old wooden plank, floating in a river.
"A Chiming Shadow..." Ragis' brow rose. "Well, that is interesting. I would like to offer you a fair deal: Surrender, and you will live, Eremir. I do not wish to kill you, it would be a terrible waste, a loss for the whole world. Whatever the issue, we can discuss the subject in peace, without crossing blades. Choose the path of reason."
"Do not act so innocent now. You knew exactly who I am, and I have already experienced what a "fair deal" with the Order really means," Eremir spat. "You did not treat me fairly, you did not offer me any justice. I did not murder these people. They attacked me, I presume on your command, Ragis. You are human scum. A deceitful snake without honor, determined to exterminate people such as me. You want to get rid of the Chiming Shadows and the Tyrangalar. You consider them a threat to your reputation, your cause. It's very shrewd how you have managed to spin it all so the blame lands on me. If you do not let me pass, I will fight you and your men."
Ragis' mouth changed from a relaxed grin into a straight, soulless wrinkle.
"Believe me, you will die as well," Eremir warned.
Ragis took a step back and let his red cloak of the Order drop to the ground. "You asked for it."
He loosened the cuffs and collar of his jerkin. His reinforced leather armor glimmered with golden ornaments. Then he extended his arm, pointing his sword at his foe. With a grim expression on his face, Eremir emulated the movement.
The two opponents circled each other, watching the other intently for the slightest opportunity, their movements careful and graceful as feline predators. Ragis was the first to disrupt the waiting and gauging; abruptly his sword thrust at its target with the swiftness of a striking viper. Eremir parried the attempt without struggle, followed by an attack of his own. The blades danced and sparked in a swirling storm of silver. The endurance and speed of the fighters was unrivaled. The smallest mistake would decide the duel's outcome. I followed the clash, mesmerized by the dance of swords.
After a series of fierce, acrobatic maneuvers, Ragis found himself at the advantage. Smiling insidiously, he dove under Eremir's incoming blade and struck him in the abdomen. It was a relatively small cut, though with serious consequences. Eremir stumbled backwards and pressed his hand to the wound, blood staining his fingers. Immediately Ragis tried to follow up on his success but his tackle was averted and he was driven back.
"You are hiding behind your armor, coward!" Eremir snapped.
Ragis' grin turned dreadful. He signaled two Keepers to approach and remove his leather armor. "Now we are equal", he said.
His black hair was sticking to his forehead. He took a delicate silk cloth and dabbed the sweat away, then assumed his fighting position again. Eremir was facing him, clad only in his rags of indiscernible color.
The storm started anew. Whirling, dancing, the search for a weakness in the defense of the opponent. Eremir's movements painted a trail of blood spatters on the cobblestones. The longer the fight would last, the more this wound would take its toll on him. I doubted that he would have enough strength left to perform the Iron Cloak a second time.
In a flurry the two swords collided. They glided along each other, screeching, in the face of their wielders. Unexpectedly Ragis grabbed Eremir's sword-arm with his free hand, who no longer had the energy to prevent the move. An awful crunching resounded. Slowly the blade pierced his chest, until the red tip protruded from his back. Ragis twisted his weapon, then released it. Eremir spat blood, the sword stuck in his body.
Ragis smiled a satisfied smile while the blood of his enemy stained his jerkin. "The Chiming Shadows are not what they used to be. You quickly gav-"
He abruptly fell silent. Bewildered and unbelieving his eyes stared down at Eremir's blade, which had found its way into his stomach. The older blademaster drove it in with all his power, burying it up to the hilt. Ragis let out a rattling breath; through his clenched teeth flowed blood. The look of smug satisfaction dissolved, along with all the color in his face.
"A fight is not over until you have assured that your opponent is dead. This was a lethal mistake. Waterblade taught you well, but it seems he left out the most important lesson," Eremir coughed, a bittersweet smile on his lips. "I warned you that you would die as well."
They both spat blood, collapsing to their knees. The Keepers around them watched the spectacle motionless and in silence, either too numb or too much in awe to act.
Ragis' expression twisted into a hateful grimace, but before he could offer a final response his body slumped to the ground.
Eremir tilted his head back, face to the sky. "Ah." That single word was filled with such relief that it sounded as if he was finally free now, as if a heavy burden had been taken from him. "Death, sweet death, rip my heart from my chest!" His shout echoed between the surrounding houses. "Now I will finally see you again, my dear Iona."
Then he fell silent too, dropping on his side. The entire city - no - the entire world seemed to lapse into silence. Somewhere, high atop a tree, a robin started chirping.
Magic is a double-edged sword. While the gleaming side of the blade aids man - curing our illnesses, closing our wounds and easing our daily lives - it is its darker twin which holds the most temptation for weak souls, though it carries a steep price. Invariably, the shadowy side of the mighty sword extracts its payment from the lives of those who would entrust themselves to it, twisting and using them to further its goals. Sinistra, the school which teaches this treacherous magic, is understandably ostracized on civilized continents. It concerns itself with powers that should not be toyed with: the manipulation of one's innermost thoughts and life and death itself. As the saying goes: "What is dead should remain dead."
During my travels I have encountered cases of Sinistra use; not just once, and certainly not because I practice it myself - no, I would not dare take even a single step on that treacherous path and my experiences have only served to solidify that stance. But every continent has its secret retreats where such magic is practiced, dark gorges absent solid ground and hope. Since my duty as a wanderer compels me to frequently enter the worlds of eclipse and beyond, I can give account of a warrior with arcane talents who achieved mastery of the art of fighting with forbidden magic. Our encounter was more by chance than intent...
The sky cracked and thundered. Lightning cast the parlor in its garish, ghostly glare and made the candles and fireplace flicker. Rain pounded against the windows and on the roof. Outside, the wind shook the walls, howling and screaming between every clap of thunder. I had a steaming bowl of cabbage soup in front of me. Its sour stench tickled my nostrils while I took a spoonful, blew on it, and ate. The soup was awful, but it was the only fare on offer, aside from a particularly stale chunk of bread. All the same, I had eaten worse. The shabby inn had seen better days; it was beginning to come apart at the seams, one might say. It rained an awful lot in that region - almost every day in the period between winter's bite and summer's burn - and it did not do the wood any favors. The inn and the village it belonged to were nestled in the Dark Valley; the area couldn't have been more aptly named.
In one corner of the inn, soldiers from the Order were busy carousing, singing and brawling and pulling the young serving wenches onto their laps. Most of the other patrons were peasants and farmers.
"How's it suit you?" the buxom hostess with red cheeks and patterned apron asked me. Her husband owned the tavern. She was cleaning the neighboring table, where an old swashbuckler snored away the evening.
I twisted my mouth in response.
"Well, you better be thankful we've still got cabbage. Snails robbed us of all the rest. Out of nowhere, they started multiplying and wouldn't stop, until we finally found a way to get rid of them."
"Did you hire a mage to take a look at your fields?"
"Aye, we had one of them around here. Do you have the second sight, or do you simply know more than others, foreigner?"
"Because of my gray hair and wrinkles, you mean? Don't let yourself be fooled, my dear - there's more youth in me yet than you might think. I can taste his novice spell in the soup," I replied with a tired grin.
The hostess laughed heartily. "Who are you, anyway? Folks with any decent jokes don't usually end up here."
"I'm a wanderer."
"One with a name?"
"I have none and there's no need for one."
'Oh-ho the mysterious type, ain't we? Have it your way. What do you want in our town, wanderer?"
I sipped on my stale beer. Outside, it thundered again, even louder than before. "Just passing through on my way to the Frostcliff Mountains."
"Well, you didn't choose the best time to make your journey. It's gotten mighty dangerous since the rebels set up camp in the valley," she said, glancing at the drunken Order soldiers.
"Is that why all these soldiers are in the village?"
She nodded. "These rebels are criminals, the whole lot of them. They should all be hanged! They tore in here last spring, expecting we'd be willing to give up our land so they could hide from the authorities. "Oh yes," they thought, "let's draw the peasants into our schemes!" But there they were mistaken. I'm not about to be punished as some sneak-thief's accomplice! It's not been easy for us, that much is true, but instead of risking death I'd rather things stay the way they are. I just can't understand why so many southerners support them; they're causing nothing but trouble everywhere they go..."
I ignored the hostess while she chattered to herself and turned my attention outside. Something was happening there, though clearly no one else had noticed. But I heard it through the crack of the door: the heavy, iron-shod boots splashing in the puddles on the street, horses snorting in the wet cold. Someone was coming. Instinctively my hand clutched the hilt of the blade I carried concealed under my cloak.
The soldiers' cries of laughter were interrupted by thunder, but now the deafening sound was not caused by the storm. The front door burst open, nearly tearing off its hinges with the force. A flash of lightning illuminated the silhouette of a man in heavy, black armor towering in the door frame, a tapered helmet hiding his countenance. Everything about the mysterious figure seemed deadly and sharp, as if one could cut their eyes by simply gazing upon his armor. He bore an enormous sword on his belt, glistening dangerously in the storm. Most dangerous of all, though, was the crest painted on his shield: the red-on-black hammer which formed the sigil of Kilana Hammerschlag.
For a moment the inn collectively held its breath. Then the high-pitched shriek of a woman terrified out of her wits cut through the silence. The half-drunk Order soldiers clumsily stumbled to their feet as the terrible man ducked through the doorway. He was followed by two lackeys - less tall and not as well-armored - bearing the same rebel sigil.
"Begone, rebel! You ain't welcome here," one of the soldiers slurred.
The warrior in black advanced wordlessly.
"Take to your heels before we cut your legs off!" another added, sounding less than confident in the face of the giant.
"You stink of snake, little one - and of piss-beer," the rebel said, voice dark as tar and murderously low. The blade had moved from its position on his belt into his hands.
"Get lost, you whoreson-" The soldier choked on the insult. With an ugly sound the large rebel's sword cleaved him in two. The remaining men of the Order raised their weapons, but none dared to attack the giant.
"No harm will come to you if you don't interfere," the rebel announced to the patrons, who cowered under the tables. A few immediately seized the offered opportunity and fled the establishment. "I'm afraid the same can't be said for you, however." He pointed to the soldiers.
An icy feeling of terror settled over the inn while the warrior murmured an incantation. I heard the words clearly - like an echo, they reverberated, although he made no noise. I rose, both my hands tightly clutched around my weapon.
"Sorcery! A wild mage! Run or he'll steal your souls!" one of the patrons shouted in panic while he ran to the door.
I had never seen a mage of the forbidden arts in the rebels' ranks. Either dear Kilana had changed her recruitment criteria or something here was rotten. I suspected the latter. One of the soldier's eyes rolled upward, leaving only the white of the eyeballs visible. Suddenly he lurched as if out of his mind and wheeled around with his sword held high, away from foe to face friend.
"Eltin, what in blazes are you doing?! Why are you attacking me?!" his neighbor exclaimed while fending him off.
Utter chaos ensued. More mumbled incantations from the rebel. When he finished one, a soldier collapsed, the next spell sent another man to attack his comrades. Jugs burst into pieces, tables got knocked over, panicked shrieks, explosions coming from who-knew-where, the soldiers' blood splattering on the wooden floorboards and walls, soldiers who were killing each other. They did not stand the ghost of a chance.
The warrior laughed madly while observing the massacre. Relaxed as if he was attending a theater play, he watched with relish how his puppets danced until no living foes remained. "Behold what happens to those sticking with the Order - ah!" He cut himself off with a surprised shout.
One of the common folk had grabbed a pitchfork and stabbed him through the shoulder, right under the shoulder plate.
"You vile peasant!" He pulled the pitchfork free and used it to impale the peasant against the wall. The poor man choked, hacking up blood for a few last heartbeats - then his head sank to his chest.
Paralyzed by terror, the bystanders watched how the giant examined the blood pouring out from under his armor plates. Then he walked toward the corpses and stretched out a hand above them. My right eye, the one with the special vision, gave it away: He was absorbing their energy, healing his wounds with the powers of the dead.
Dark magics completed, the warrior shuddered. "That was a mistake. I wanted to spare you - well, it's a real shame with your pretty tavern. Go on ahead, I'll be there in - let's say two moments," he told his companions, sending them outside.
He sat himself at the counter and downed the contents of another man's cup under his visor. I anticipated what he intended to do. A wizard with such powers would be able to raze the inn and the surrounding fields to the ground - the people included. I could not allow that to happen.
"You will never lay a finger on these people again." I had positioned myself behind the warrior, prepared to do what was necessary.
Slowly he turned around, eyeing me suspiciously. A muffled laugh rattled under the helmet. "Bold. But I doubt you can so much as hold a sword with your hunch, old man." He calmly rose to his feet. "Don't waste the last years of your life. Attacking me is pointless. I am immortal."
He wanted to take a step toward me, but I raised the hand I had concealed under my cloak. The counterspells had already been cast, all precautions taken. Suddenly, the warrior paused mid-stride, as if petrified. "What... what are you doing?" he asked angrily, trying to move without success.
"You seem to believe your dark magic will protect you from everything. You were mistaken."
"Leave me be!" he screamed.
Now I closed in on him. Raised my voice in a shout until the walls were shaking, grabbed the man by his helmet and, with iron will, forced him to his knees. "Nothing remains for you to be done here. You’ve caused enough suffering. I know that you do not belong with the rebels. You pursue your own goals, in the name of what you might call justice. But mark my words, whoever you are and whatever evil dwells inside you: With your dark powers you bring harm to innocents and punish them for deeds committed by their masters. Someday, it will backfire on you and your foul magic will consume your heart. For now, you will go, without protest. And when I learn that you and your men returned to attack these villagers, I will find and kill you. Have you understood?"
He nodded under fearful whimpering. As soon as I released him and let the spell preventing him to move dissolve, he got to his feet and hurried out the door. Shortly after, a rataplan of hooves resounded from the street - the men rode out of the village at a gallop.
I lowered my sword and sheathed it, so I could lean on my cane and take some of the weight off my feet - weakness washed over me in a crushing wave. The ordeal had cost a lot of my strength. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead and temples. My sight had turned hazy, with colorful lights sparkling around the fringes of my field of vision. Slowly, the villagers approached me.
"Sir Wanderer, are you hurt?"
"No," I said. "I am fine. It is high time to leave this region. I've already stayed here too long."
"But you need to rest, please. You saved us, we owe you our thanks."
I brushed past the people crowding me and limped to the door, braced on my cane. On the threshold I turned. "Burn the corpses. Bodies defiled by forbidden magic seldom stay dead for long. Then leave this place."
I stepped outside, into the raging storm, and pulled my hood far over my head. The voices of the hostess, her husband and the other villagers were swallowed by the clattering rain.
In the following years I heard many tales of this arcane warrior in black armor, whose dark magic and cold-bloodedness spread terror on battlefields and within the ranks of the Order. Presumably he led an independent splinter group of rebels, who had broken away from Kilana Hammerschlag. I cannot say from whence he came originally, but I doubt he ever set foot in that village again. Back then, I probed into the darkest caverns of his consciousness to awaken his deepest fears and forever bind them to the village. That certainly did not protect the inhabitants from other dangers, and neither they nor the other settlements in the Dark Valley were spared the devastation of the conflict. I never found out the exact reason for the dark warrior's antipathy toward the Order, but delving into his mind revealed a hatred so intense that it had to be personal. For this, I have decided to call the combat style of that warrior in his heavy, dark plate armor, who knew the arts of Sinistra, the "Dark Keeper".
I'm sitting here, old and gray. My feet once carried me through all times and countries. Yet I've slowly come to realize that my body and magical senses are growing weak. My peregrination is nearing its end. I'm sitting here, gazing into the flickering fire by which I warm my hands in this cold and naked parlor of an inn, the likes of which I have visited hundreds of times. Eventually they appear as similar as two peas in a pod. My quill scrapes across the parchment while a storm approaches outside. I have sensed it coming for a long time now, noticed the dark clouds looming. Everything is about to change, you see. The flow of this world is turning. Perhaps this is also the reason why my time is almost past. I have a few final tales left to tell. This legend about extraordinary fighters was once passed on to me by a wise man. It reminds us that no matter how dark the night might seem, a new dawn is always awaiting.
A long time ago there lived a man, a Keeper of the Order, an ambassador of Malphas. For this man the worst thing to experience was to witness sorrow, be it in humans or animals. This trait stemmed from his childhood, of which he never spoke, not with a single soul. Despite his kind nature, this man - whom I will refer to as "Seraph" from hereon - could count few people among his trusted circle. In fact, he was actually a very lonely and sad person. Nearly every being forms a protective layer around their heart over the course of their lifetime to shield it from anguish, to prevent it from breaking too easily. The Seraph, however, left his heart open and unprotected. He gave everything he was able to give to others.
In his numerous battles for the Order he never killed an enemy. As a Keeper, trained in fighting one-on-one, this is most extraordinary. He focused on leading his comrades out of battle unharmed, providing them with additional strength through spells and using Mentalism to create magic wards which could intercept volleys of arrows. When needed, he shielded the injured with his own body. The light of his magic healed their wounds, no matter how terrible they were, and if they were too grave, he cradled them into their death, remaining by their side till the last breath. With his heavy plating he stood firm as a rock, a ray of light in the midst of battle. Friends and foes alike thanked him for it and bowed before his mercy.
In times of peace he provided the beggars and orphaned children of the Undercity with food acquired in secret from the pantries of the Order. He treated the injuries of the prostitutes abused by their brutal masters. If they attempted to express their gratitude for his service afterwards he withdrew. He would never accept a reward. Everything he did, he did in order to make the world a better place. For he saw what pain could cause, how cities were set ablaze when hopelessness reigned, spreading even more suffering in an ever-deepening spiral. He saw all the anguish, let it pierce his heart over and over again. He wished no one else would have to endure the same grief as he.
However, his generous deeds were not welcomed by everyone. His actions were disliked by several high-ranking members of the Order. Their malicious tongues spoke ill of him, claimed that he did not stand behind their holy cause if he could not destroy the enemies of Malphas and opted to keep them alive instead. They convinced the Grandmaster of posing an ultimatum to the Seraph: either he executed a prisoner of war or his title as a Keeper would be revoked and he had to leave the Order.
This devious plan finally broke the Seraph. At the sight of the pleading man at his feet he was overcome with pity. The sword slipped from his fingers and fell clattering to the ground. In that moment the Seraph decided to turn his back on the Order. He fought the ineffable misery which filled him after that the way he was used to: with light. All his belongings he gave to the poor, even his home, until he had nothing left but the clothing on his back. A tremendous sacrifice, though it did not cause him the slightest bit of trouble.
Before long the severe winter came. He had no shelter, no warm clothes to protect him from the cold. One night the weather became so bitterly cold that he, huddled against the exterior wall of a house, could already feel the comforting embrace of death around his shoulders. One of the children he had given food in the past saw him sitting there. Swiftly he ran off and brought his friends. The word spread like wildfire. Soon they gathered around the Seraph, those he had helped make their life easier. The orphans, the elderly, the beggars, the prostitutes. They surrounded and hugged the Seraph, warmed him like a large blanket until the sun rose above the rooftops of the city once more.
The guiding principle of eternal wandering is both a blessing and a curse: No one sees the world the way I do - in its rawest and most primal form, behind the countless veils covering her, with a gaze unobscured by hatred or gullibility. It can be as marvelous as it can be chilling. My fate as a wanderer began the moment I left my mother's womb; perhaps it had already been decided even before that point. The training which turned me into what I am now required the suppression of all feelings. It was harsh and exhausting, demanding complete concentration on a single task. And ever since I completed my education at the Masters' monastery I have been on the road in search of fighters worth chronicling. I am sure you are wondering what could be the point of collecting and compiling information on this world's combat styles. If only you knew... no one, not even I, can comprehend it. I am only certain that it serves a higher purpose. It is a life's work, one consisting of numerous adventurous stories. This is one of them, one of the first.
There was something unusual about that day. The ravens perched on the gables announced it with their coarse voices. The air pressed on my shoulders, heavy as a chain forged of solid steel. The sun had not yet risen; last night's frost was still coating everything in a cold shimmer. Wafts of mist drifted into Ark's harbor from the sea, slithering through the alleys as snake-like ghosts. The breaths of the bystanders rose up into the gloomy sky in small puffs of steam. They were gathered round the spot where it had happened. Most were dockers, one a beggar. No one else had appeared yet, though it would not take much longer for the alley to fill.
"Poor buggers. That's got to be the fifth murder this month. I'm beginning to take fright now. Just look at all that blood, and this one's skull - smashed like a ripe tomato! It's the work of a madman, I tell you," one of the dockers said.
"This one even had his personal guard with him... still didn't do him any good. It's got to be a damn strong madman, killing people like that," his comrade remarked. "My money's on the Rhâlata. Pathless vermin must've finally decided to try to crawl out of the sewers and take over the streets." He spat on the cobblestones to illustrate his disdain. "Just look at those scribblings on the walls."
I pulled back my hood. There was not much time left. Guards would appear soon, and I highly doubted that they would be inclined to let anyone near the dead. I could not let this opportunity slip past. I moved through the small group into the alleyway. There were three corpses in total. Bits and pieces of one still stuck to the wall his murderers had smashed him against, the twisted remainder lying below. The other two were spread farther along the alley. Bizarre symbols had been painted on the walls in white, likely as some form of deterrent. People were supposed to assume this was the work of some obscure secret society.
I crouched down by one of the dead. He lay sprawled on his back. The time of death was difficult to determine, the cold making an accurate estimate impossible. My eyes drifted over the body in search of anything of interest. The man was well-fed. The front of his fine garments was coated in blood, as was the amulet around his neck. With difficulty I managed to discern the symbol engraved in the medallion: a sickle cutting two stalks of grain. A rich merchant, member of the Golden Sickle. His throat had been cut clean through, leaving no doubt about the fate he had met. The killer must have come at the victim from behind and slit his throat with a very, very sharp blade. The cut was smooth, smoother than cuts from a razor blade, without any frayed or jagged edges. And yet the merchant's personal guards had died under the impact of enormous physical force. The circumstances of these deaths were vastly different from one another - too different. There was something suspicious about the situation. I angled the corpse's head toward me, pulled up the corner of his mouth and sniffed.
"What do you think you're doing, lad? He's dead, nothing will change that."
I gave no answer, staring puzzled at the dead merchant. The odor coming from the corpse's mouth... In the Third Chamber of Senses, back at the monastery, they had made me smell it over and over again, day after day, so I would always be able to recognize it. It was hardly noticeable anymore, not much longer and it would have completely dissipated: A foul mixture of rotten eggs and soot. I rose.
The laborers were muttering among themselves already. "Who is that?"
"What does he want here?"
"Maybe he is involved in the whole affair. You know, sometimes those freaks come back to look at their bloody deed."
"Wasn't that one here last week as well, nosing around?"
"I'm going to get the guards..." One of them bolted away.
Time to go. Quietly I slipped around a corner while the remaining group watched their comrade hurry away in search of a patrol. I had already disappeared into the streets when they turned back around. Once I was safely back in my attic room in the inn I laid out my findings in the journal I kept: Five murders. Five high-ranking merchants of the Golden Sickle. This had ceased to be coincidental a long time ago. There was a reason the last one had taken guards with him. Someone was out for the blood of merchants. The possibility of a personal feud could not be dismissed - successful merchants made a lot of enemies throughout their lives. But such a mundane - if crude - conflict would simply mean a regular case for the city guard. What made it of interest to me, however, was this one clue I had come across: Magic. The suspicious odor. A clear indicator of the use of Entropy - the forbidden school of magic - encountered in all three cases I personally had had the chance to investigate since the series of murders began.
My old friend Belius Braungrind, an Apothecarius who worked for the Order, had contacted me immediately when the first victims appeared on his examination table. Although the entire city guard was on high alert, the murderer had been able to continue his gruesome crimes, utilizing new tricks every time. Still, I feared he would inevitably end up making a mistake and be captured. Before that happened and his head was sent to the chopping block, I had to witness this incomparably powerful killer in action. If my observation about the list of targets held, there was only one person who could be next: the Guildmaster of the Golden Sickle - Evan Dal'Volar.
~
I became Dal'Volar's shadow the following days. If one travels as much as I do, the arts of subterfuge and how to observe and follow the unsuspecting quickly become familiar. The Guildmaster was obviously aware of the danger he was in and did not take a single step without being accompanied by a band of heavily armed mercenaries. Even during the night they were posted around his residence to keep watch. Should the murderer appear - and he would, considering how recklessly he had behaved hitherto - his drive to eliminate every Golden Sickle member had to be strong indeed.
It was a cold and misty night. The mercenaries played cards and drank mulled wine to distract themselves from the chill in the air. Through a large, double-sided window on the first floor I could see Evan finish donning his nightdress and join his lover - a prostitute who appeared to favor rich customers. Everything exactly the same as on the previous evenings. Everything, except for a lone shadow darting across the rooftops. I noticed it, of course. After all, this was what - who - I had been waiting for. The black silhouette halted every now and then, remaining crouched in the cover of a chimney or an obscured edge of a roof for perhaps a second or so. He appeared to be scouting the area. The promise of murder was whispered by the crackling flames of the fire the card-playing sell-swords were sitting next to; the sweet smell of death lurking in the smoke.
The killer was on the ground now. He danced in the shadows of night, avoiding the moonlit areas. I could barely keep track of him when he moved. An extraordinary feat, as my eyes were excellently trained for such things. The mercenaries guarding the front door might as well not have been there at all, so quickly they were dispatched. Their throats had opened into gaping wounds and their life's blood was flowing from them in streams before they could so much as utter a word or reach for their blades. I had to be careful. One wrong step and I would end up like those pitiful men. With swift movements the assassin scaled the estate until he had hauled himself up to the first floor. As soon as he disappeared in the dark, I rushed forward, opening the lock with a spell scroll - there was no time for honest thieves' work.
It was deathly quiet in the hall. No sound of footsteps on the floor above, no voices, no struggle. Nothing. I hoped that I was not already too late. While I sneaked ahead, I suddenly felt a cold draft brush my cheek. The back door was ajar. But why...? I was not given the chance to complete the question in my own mind. Nor did I need to. From the darkness the answer already emerged: a huge creature was coming straight at me. I caught sight of two glowing yellow dots - eyes - before I had to throw myself to the side to get out of its path, landing hard on the staircase leading up to the first floor. I could hear rattling and slurping breaths, saw a mercenary's corpse getting dragged along across the deal boards as the enormous… thing passed me. It could not be human. But what was it then?
A shrill shriek, followed by hollow rattling disrupted my shock-induced paralysis. I scrambled to my feet and stormed up the stairs, fervently hoping that whatever was down there and had killed the mercenary would at least have some difficulty ascending the steps. One of the doors on the landing was open, several lifeless mercenaries in front of it. All of them gruesomely disfigured. The end of the corridor looked like a bath tub's worth of blood had been emptied there. This door had to be the one giving access to the master bed chamber. I rushed through, my feet slipping on the bloody floor.
My breath caught in my throat at the scene I encountered: a huge creature, definitely larger than two grown men combined, had lifted Dal'Volar by his ankles. The Guildmaster of the Golden Sickle was floundering helplessly, his head down, arms mowing in the air. The creature holding him was truly monstrous. Abominable, hideous, deformed were all words that came to mind to describe it. It only distantly resembled a human. Its skin - a combination of ailing blue and violet - was covered with purulent red blisters, warts and tumors from which bones and distorted limbs grew. Its actual functioning limbs were deformed as well, with both arms as long as its entire body and thicker than its - by comparison - rather feeble legs. Only severe magically-induced mutations, only the Blue Death could bring forth such an abomination. I had seen such a thing just once before in my lifetime. The assassin, his face concealed under black garments, was standing next to the monstrosity. The contrast made him appear almost thin and malnourished, though he was small even without his horrific companion towering over him. The merchant's prostitute lay on her back on the bed, rivers of red meandering through the sheets.
"Please, I'll give you any gold you ask of me. Just let me live, please," Dal'Volar shrieked, attempting to free himself in vain.
The creature gripped him harder. A loud crack, and the merchant howled in pain. His leg must have been broken.
"Do you remember my face, Mysir Dal'Volar?" the assassin asked. He removed his hood, revealing the good-looking face of a young, blond man. The candles' flickering light danced on the long scar running from his right brow, across his eye, all the way down his cheek.
Evan choked. "No, and why would I?! I have never seen you before in my life! Whoever you are, let me go, I beg you."
"A shame," the assassin replied with a voice cold as ice. "I was still very small when you took everything I had. My father's name was Jorlinn. Jorlinn Drosselstein. Ever heard of him?" He made a throwaway gesture. "You've probably forgotten him as well, though you once called him "friend". Until you had him expelled from the Golden Sickle and ruined his business. Why, you ask? Because my father was a better merchant than you. He surpassed you in his success. He might even have become Guildmaster of the Sickle in your stead. So you betrayed him, disgraced him, and broke him. And my father was hardly the only one. Everyone who is in your way to success you deal the same fate. With the aid of your pack of corrupt followers you exterminate them all. But now," he hissed as he pulled a dagger from its sheath on his hip, "you will finally face justice for all you’ve done. My father took his own life after you ruined him. My mother followed shortly after. You made me an urchin, my dear Master Dal'Volar. The friends who helped you back then have already paid their due. Now it's your turn. For once your debt cannot be offset by gold. The only acceptable price..."
The assassin placed his dagger on the merchant's neck. "... is your death."
With a wild, hateful stroke the sharp blade cut through Dal'Volar's throat. Blood gushed from the wound, streaming down the man's face while that of the assassin shone with joy. Mouth curled into a smile, he wiped the blade clean on his cloak.
"Well done, Silvi," he told the creature still holding Dal'Volar's now lifeless body. She gave no response. "Now we can finally start the next phase of our plan. I've heard of a certain captain of the city guard, supposedly entangled in our story..." He fell silent mid-sentence.
I was still standing in the doorway, having observed everything unnoticed. Until now. Initially the assassin raised his dagger and looked like he was about to attack me. However, he then lowered the weapon again, stayed where he was. He did not attempt to flee either.
Taking his inaction as encouragement, I took a step forward. "You resurrected someone, am I right?" I asked, nodding towards his creature. "I can sense the dark magic you used. I found traces of it next to your victims. Its smell surrounded their bodies and it is undeniable right here in this room. It follows you wherever you go - because you are connected to this creature."
The assassin regarded me, a calculating expression on his face.
"Judging from the strength of the connection between you and this mutated mage," I continued, "you must have been very close. Good friends? Lovers...?"
"Brother and sister," he supplied with a sullen stare.
There was a tense silence, which the assassin eventually broke. "Who are you? Are you after the bounty?"
"I am merely an interested observer. As for the judiciary - I am not affiliated with them, nor do I usually involve myself in such affairs." I regarded the creature from a safe distance.
"Why should I trust you?"
"Why should I stand by and watch you commit a murder if I were your foe? Considering what is known about you, I would be naïve to attempt an arrest," I pointed out.
Silence once more. Cautiously I moved to a small, ornately carved table and matching two chairs in a corner of the bedroom, where I sat and poured two cups of the Guildmaster's wine. Although I am not proud of it, I have to admit that I did not feel certain in that moment. Fear twisted inside me and I struggled to suppress the emotion quickly. The man before me was unpredictable. There was no telling how my gamble would pay off. "Sit. I would like to speak with you. I don't think we need to worry about time. You killed all the guards without waking so much as a single soul."
The assassin stared at me, visibly taken aback. It seemed I had sparked his interest with my bold gesture since - believe it or not - thus it was that I ended up at a table with a cold-blooded serial killer and his mutated deadly beast. We shared a long conversation on his method of killing, as well as other things.
~
"So that's the secret of this Oorbâya. You control what it - forgive me - what she does. Her soul is trapped inside her and therefore she does not realize what happens around her. She has no control over her own body either. I have never heard of such a case of resurrection or soul absorption. How did it happen?"
"She could not cope with the deaths of our parents. In her striving for arcane power to exact vengeance, she overreached. First came the fever, then the madness. I had to kill her before she would kill me. My resurrection spell binds her to the form she was left with after her mutation, but in this state she can't even speak. I am searching for the power that would allow me to transform her back to her old self, or at least return the ability to feel to her." Despite the subject of his sister's tragic fate, the assassin spoke so utterly without emotion he made me feel uneasy just listening to him.
The creature called Silvi grunted as if she were half asleep. With empty eyes she stared at the wall.
"You are very young, almost a child still," I said. "Yet you kill with a determination and audacity one would be hard-pressed to find in others of similar age. I am sorry for your sister, though I do not need to tell you that. You have disavowed all feeling long ago. I see the iron mantle around your heart."
"I live only for revenge. And for Silvi. People like you cannot understand it," the assassin replied in his cold voice.
"You err. I do understand. Though you and I may not have much in common, one thing unites us: Without our task, our existence would be meaningless. It would be of no more worth than a pebble stone by the road. Stripped of our cause, our death would be inevitable."
"Be careful whom you compare yourself with, Wanderer. In my case, comparisons bring you closer to the darkness than you might like."
"I no longer fear the darkness you speak of. I know it well enough."
"Then you never encountered true darkness. Believe me."
"I have. It sits before me, in human shape," I replied.
We sipped our wine. After a while the assassin spoke again. "Jasper."
I gave him a questioning look.
"In case you have to use a name in your notes. That makes the story more personal, don't you think? History should not remember me as a nameless murderer. Call me Jasper. Somehow I always liked that name."
I laughed and glanced through the window. Morning was about to arrive at last.
The assassin emptied his cup and straightened. "Night will be over soon. This place will be crawling with soldiers, come dawn. You should leave before they hang you for my crimes."
I nodded.
"I have a better name for you than Jasper," I called after him as he crossed the doorstep.
Silvi clumsily stomped ahead and looked no less monstrous with a little more distance between us.
"Jasper" paused and turned his head to the side, waiting. Once again the flickering candlelight highlighted the scar on his face.
"The shadow dancer."
He grinned mischievously. But to my eyes it was the forced grin of a small boy who had lost his entire family. "Poetic, in a way. I could get used to it."
Then he disappeared; by all accounts no living soul ever saw him again.
I cannot claim to have attended many parties in my life. Neither have I ever loved like normal people do. And concerning women, well I... do not know what it means to share a bed with them. Soft, mellow kisses and tenderness play no part in my destiny. The harsh wind of the tides which slowly carry me off, the surging waves of the salty sea, harsh mountaintops and the shadow of old trees, a sparkling starry sky above my head, these are what make me feel at home. I have visited many places, seen much evil. These are my priceless memories, which will remain with me until death. A lone wanderer, eternally cursed to stride ahead towards a brightly shining sun on the horizon. On the mild evening near summer's end when this tale took place, none of that mattered. Every so often I wished that time could stand still, the world stay as it was with me still sitting on that wooden bench in the cheerfully decorated village square, with the seductive whispers of that young woman in my ear...
The festivities had been in full swing since noon and were still going strong well into the evening. Cause for celebration was not only this year's bountiful harvest but the marriage of the village chief's daughter to a sturdy, good-looking boy from a neighboring village as well. The party had elevated the entire village to an exceptional state. Ropes with colorful lampoons hung between houses and trees and tinted the tall oaks and poplars in cheerful red, green, blue and yellow. The villagers danced, ate and drank to their hearts' content. Streets and alleys were filled with the sounds of cheery drunken voices singing to the tune of lutes, flutes, drums and whatever other instruments the local musicians happened to own. Elderly people shared their fables with children, while on a stage in the village square all kinds of performers practiced their craft throughout the day, from jugglers to animal tamers.
Ah, I could fill a great many pages describing the splendid atmosphere! I enjoyed it tremendously, even though one could hardly tell when looking at me. In the middle of all the hustle and bustle I cautiously sipped from my mug of beer. Despite my inner joy at taking part in the festivities, my presence here was not by chance. There was something I had to do in this town. Somebody to meet.
While I watched the villagers dance, a finger tenderly tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and found myself looking at the face of a young woman. Her hair spilled down her shoulders in little walnut brown curls and framed her flushed face, a red tinge to her cheeks from the alcohol. Her gaze was sweet and happy but held something more as well, an immeasurable depth beneath the sparkling blue surface of her eyes. Still waters run deep, as the saying goes…
"Mysir, may I have this dance of you?" she asked me. "You look so gloomy, it is simply not allowed on such a beautiful, festive day."
I gave her a half-smile. "Am I not a bit too old for you?" I was still in my prime, but anyone could see that I had more than a few winters on the girl and that she could have decided on every other young man around here instead of me.
"Luckily that is not for you to decide." She held her hand out to me.
For several moments I was at war with myself, but ultimately desire conquered my reservations and I accepted the invitation of her outstretched hand. She led me into the crowd of dancing people. I must admit that I had never been much of a dancer, but it did not take long before she had so thoroughly ensnared me that I was twirling her around and performing dance steps I had never even dreamt of. To say that I enjoyed myself would be an understatement. Very rarely can I permit myself to forget everything around me, forget about my task, my duty, about collecting clues and following their trail. That evening, looking at the woman's beautiful face while we danced and danced until our feet were sore, I was allowed to do just that.
Exhausted we finally sat on a bench for a rest and started talking. My partner - Lari, it turned out her name was - was a charming conversationalist and time flew by just as much as it had while we danced. We discussed all manner of subjects common folk usually talk about. I could not resist telling her that I fancied her. If my obligations had allowed it, I would likely have spent several days with her. Perhaps even longer. Who knows, we might have become a cute couple, with children and calm evenings filled with chittering crickets and coziness. Thinking back on that possibility, that sudden chance at a different life, still causes a twinge of heartache, but I've always known of the sacrifices I would have to make.
Night was falling. Slowly it got darker and one by one the performers left the stage. The village chief staggered onto the stage in their stead, visibly drunk. After setting his mug down beside him he clapped his hands. Silence spread across the village square. Meanwhile a joke of mine made Lari laugh so hard she nearly fell off the bench.
"You still haven't told me your name, funny stranger," she said, leaning so close that her scent filled my nose. She had bathed a short while ago, perhaps even just before the party had started. The minty smell of her soap was delightful.
I knew I owed Lari my name, although I could not give her one. I have no name... would have been a nobody in her eyes. I was about to answer when the village chief decided people were paying sufficient attention and announced with a loud, slurred voice: "Mydames and Mysirs! I believe you have all been properly warmed up by now; it's time for the real show to begin! Because no price is too high for my dear daughter and her groom, I have arranged an extraordinary surprise as the highlight of the evening. Our main act for tonight has traveled to us from faraway lands. He has already astonished neighboring villages with his incredible skills and now he has arrived here. Let us welcome the legendary, fearless fire-breather. I present you Dragobar, the Flame of Nehrim!"
I pricked my ears. Silence filled the air as the crowd held their collective breath in anticipation. A scrawny fellow entered the stage and bowed to the audience. He wore long, loose-fitting trousers which he had stuffed into his boots. From the waist up he was naked, leaving multiple burn scars on his chest on display. On the right side of his head a patch of hair was missing - probably also a victim of a failed scorch at some point - the rest protruded from his head in a gray-white thicket. The fire-breather took a deep gulp from the bottle he had brought on stage before putting it down and raising his torch. A blinding flash of fire shot from the torch into the air. With his free hand Dragobar took a phial from his belt and removed the cork. Above the flames he turned the phial upside down and moved it back and forth with an elegant motion of his wrist. The fire followed the movements and created a long, swirling, shimmering snake. He made the snake whirl above the stage and describe several complex patterns in the air while he himself spun and jumped acrobatically across the wooden boards to complement the fiery figures.
The entire audience was in awe of Dragobar's performance; the snake was only the beginning of the show. It was followed by artistic interludes with bow and arrow and tricks in which he combined self-made constructions with his flame arts. The Flame of Nehrim lived up to his name. Eventually - Dragobar was currently letting two spiraling columns of fire intertwine - I spotted movement amidst the rear rows of spectators. People were roughly being forced aside. Three guards were pushing their way through to get to the stage. I had anticipated this turn of events; things were about to get truly interesting.
The guards - clearly men of Chancellor Barateon, who had recently seized control of Nehrim's Middlerealm - climbed onto the stage under vehement protests of the village chief. One soldier tore the torch from the fire-breather's hands, threw it on the ground and stomped it out.
Lari inched closer to me on the bench in fear.
"Are you the one called the "Flame of Nehrim"?" the commander of the small group asked gruffly.
"Who wants to know?" Dragobar asked in return.
"Don't go acting smart. You're in trouble, friend. You're using the forbidden arts: magic. No use denying it either, we've seen enough of your trickery just now. Chancellor Barateon doesn't tolerate your kind anymore. We have orders to take you with us."
"And whereto do the sirs intend to take me?"
"The dark cell where you belong."
Dragobar sighed. "Alright. Let me collect my stuff first, then I'll come with you."
I frowned to myself. That was too easy. Surely he would never surrender just like that.
The fire-breather went to the back of the stage and rummaged through his belongings. "I never liked Barateon one bit, even before he came to power," he said, his back turned to the soldiers. "I always thought that his breath smelled awful. You could smell the stench in the entire town every time he held a speech."
Weapons clanked at the insult, but before the soldiers could deal out some punishment for his insolence, Dragobar spun around and threw a metal object between the three of them - something with eight mechanical legs.
The soldiers let out shouts of surprise. "What the blazes is this?!"
A loud noise resounded, upon which the thing promptly exploded. Thick, greenish smoke engulfed the soldiers. I could barely see them anymore, but it looked like they had broken down into violent coughs and were staggering around aimlessly.
The village square descended into chaos. I broke away from a baffled Lari without a word of goodbye and forced my way through the crowd. My merry moments of bliss were over; it was time to leave. Time to abandon the fantasy I had allowed myself to slip into for a short while and resume my mission.
I spotted Dragobar only after I had made it out of the crowd. He left the village at a brisk pace. Quietly I followed him through the dark night into the forest. Eventually he stopped in front of an old burial chamber situated in the fangs of a slope, the entrance overgrown by two tall trees. The iron gate, which would once have barred said entrance, was bent so severely that one could easily pass through.
If I continued to sneak after him there was the risk of scaring him off if he noticed me, so I decided to place everything on one card. "So this is where you hide."
Dragobar flinched like a skittish animal at the sound of my voice, but then he disappeared into the tomb.
I slid down the slope and halted a few steps from the broken gate so I could see the Flame of Nehrim again. "A good hiding place," I noted conversationally. "The soldiers definitely won't search for you here."
"If nobody tells them about it, then no," he replied, turning around and facing me. The hint of a threat in his tone was unmistakable.
"You have nothing to fear from me."
Silence descended between us, until the cry of a tawny owl in the forest pierced the silence like a sharp blade.
"There are stories about a wanderer in this area," Dragobar finally said. "They're about you."
"What makes you-"
"I can tell by your scent. You do not smell like this part of the world - more like a combination of many different smells from all over the continent."
"You must have an excellent nose."
He stepped close to me and sniffed in such an exaggerated manner that I could see his nostrils move in the light of the moon. "No, just an excellently trained one. I often interact with animals, such as squirrels. Clever little fellows. They've taught me how to truly use one's nose."
"I see." I regarded him with irritation. It was known that Dragobar was a bit of a lunatic. But it was also said that he had not always been this way, that there was a time before the madness had caught up to him. Even so, regardless of the state of his sanity, there clearly was plenty of intelligence left in him; his inventions for the stage performance as well as the way he moved testified to that. His every move was thoughtful, calculated. "If you know that I'm a wanderer, then perhaps you also know why I am here."
Dragobar scoffed. "Of course I do. I am no fool. You want to write a story about me, as your kind is wont to do. You're not the first person of the craft I've met. No ordinary wanderers, but collectors. Poking and nosing around for shiny bloody stories. The question is: why? Why collect tales of warrior skills? For war? Are you building an army in secret, molding it with your discoveries? Or is there a much bigger mystery behind the quest?" He peered at me from under his bushy brows, still standing uncomfortably close. "I will only tell you my story if you answer me."
I met his mad stare unyielding and resolute, my own gaze steadier than an old stone. "I cannot answer your questions. If you really are familiar with my "craft", you should understand that."
"Well, then you may take your leave right now, Mysir. I won't tell you a single thing about me, no matter what you may have heard." He started walking backwards, a few steps removed from disappearing into the darkness of the burial chamber.
"I have heard many stories about you, in fact. Such as that Dragobar, the Flame of Nehrim, has learned fire-breathing from dragons. That he himself is a dragon disguised in human form. And..." I paused for a moment to deepen the impact of what I was about to say, "that he is the sole survivor of the Sunfire."
Dragobar froze mid-step, his face still as ice in the last sliver of moonlight that reached him. Only his eyes betrayed the long-forgotten memory creeping back into his mind.
"I've investigated the rumors about you for a long time before I finally managed to track you here. It certainly wasn't easy. You hide yourself damned well."
Dragobar remained silent.
I continued: "I've discovered a great deal about you - what claim to chronicling the greatest fighters of this age would I have if I allowed a genius like you to slip through my fingers? You were present when Dal'Marak created the Sunwheel and destroyed Thalgard with his greed. No - that wouldn't be giving you enough credit, would it? Not only were you present, you acted as his assistant, did you not?" The fire-breather's far-away look regained focus, returning to me. "You were one of the most famous arcane inventors and strategists of your time: Torus, the "Arcane One". Or Torus Tasselsrock, if you prefer your given name to the drivel poets imposed on your person. Or perhaps you've already forgotten your real name? After all, this all happened more than 2000 years and many, many lifetimes ago. I'd just like you to enlighten me about one thing that continues to elude me: How did you survive this long?"
For quite a long time Dragobar simply stared at me, aghast. Then he burst out laughing. "That's a marvelous story you've fabricated there. A word of advice: you should ease on the Glimmercapdust, Mysir. I fear the excess may have addled your mind somewhat. I am merely a humble fire-breather from Enderal. Although I feel honored that you see such a famous character in me, I regretfully have to disappoint you and disprove your fantastic theory." He bowed mockingly in farewell, obviously hoping I would slink off in defeat and leave him be.
Of course I was not about to be driven off so easily. "Cut the act," I bit. "Your mask fell long ago. You know very well that you cannot trick someone like me. Let's just get straight to the point."
Torus' expression of silly feigned kindness chilled quickly. In an even colder voice, he asked: "Does anybody else know?"
I sighed. "Are you in earnest? Do you truly wish to threaten me? That would very much go against your legacy." I could hear him grind his teeth. That he was conflicted was my clue that I had struck a nerve. "Your survival has to be one of the most enthralling discoveries of our era. The way I see it, you have two choices. One: you kill me and hope that by doing so you finally bury your secret for all eternity. Or: you hear me out and give a genuine conversation with me a chance. I do not wish to fight you, but should you consider to do so, I would like to remind you that the abilities one acquires for my line of work make me my enemies' worst nightmare. So I do advise you to choose the second option."
Torus said nothing, likely weighing his options. Suddenly he came at me. I twitched barely noticeably but he walked past me, to a large rock on the other side of the gate and sat down. "What is it that you want to know?" he asked me.
"Tell me what happened when the Sunwheel was activated."
"Would if I could... The last thing I remember is an enormous, ear-piercing explosion, which took both my hearing and sight. Before activating it Dal'Marak and I had tried to decipher the artifact. Obviously we failed - that's common knowledge, I suppose. When I awoke after the explosion I was in an entirely different place, in the middle of Qyra's desert, far from civilization. I was fortunate that a passing merchant caravan found me and took me in. And just like that, my new life began..."
He told me about what had happened from that moment on, about his travels across the continents, about his search for a new meaning of life. About how he had let Torus die and taken the name Dragobar and many more. In a way, his current existence resembled mine. He too wandered all the time, home- and nameless. He had become nobody.
"You changed after the explosion, didn't you?” I asked when he had finished his tale. “Something has been different since then."
Torus nodded. "I lost all my magical abilities. I am no longer able to even light a small fire anymore... how disgraceful for a former master of the arcane! On the other hand, I gained eternal life. Age cannot kill me anymore. As long as nobody pierces me with a spear, I will live until Vyn turns to ashes."
"Immortality, eternal life... I thought such a thing was only possible for the Lost Ones, and in a much more macabre way."
"Then I think it's clear that you were wrong, isn't it? Though I'm not living the dream most would imagine immortality to be. My body may last another eternity, but my mind will not. Truth is: the longer I live, the more insane I become. Madness is slowly taking over my mind; I live by the day. There's no fighting it. I can do nothing to prevent it."
So there was a price after all. My suspicion was confirmed at last. I decided to ask a final question, satisfy one more lingering curiosity: "Why do you perform as a fire-breather, and why in Nehrim?"
"Fire-breathing has always been an enjoyable pastime in between the battles and research. This identity as Dragobar gave me support when I had none. As for why Nehrim?" Torus shrugged. "Well, until this new Chancellor came into power it was a decent enough place to live. I traveled through the settlements from north to south, always had something to eat and a roof over my head. Most of the people here hold true talent in high esteem."
Neither of us spoke for a long while after that. I knew it was time for the second - and most important - part of my twofold mission tonight. I took a deep breath, gathering myself, and said: "I am not only here to write about you. Every so often my quest requires offering aid to souls which do not belong in this world any longer. The magical power of the Sunwheel had a different effect on you than on your master and companions. Somehow it spared you and brought you to a different place. Perhaps because you still had a mission to accomplish in life. The explosion left a mark on you and granted you a supernatural lifespan. This magical trace is also why I knew I had to find you. You do not belong here anymore, Torus. I can see into the innermost depths of your being. Your time is long up. The mission which bound you to life has already been accomplished."
He lowered his gaze. "Will you kill me?"
"No," I replied, "killing is against my creed. However, there is something else I can do for you. It will only work if you've made peace with yourself and are ready to move on and walk the Eternal Paths. I realize that after such a long time it must be hard to let go."
"Tell me, what is it?" Both hope and fear quivered in Torus' voice.
I reached into my satchel and revealed a small, flat stone, roughly the size of a fingertip. It shimmered weakly in the moonlight, in all the colors of the rainbow. "This is a shifter." I placed it on a tree stump. "If you swallow it, you will be able to leave this world without any pain."
"You won't force me to swallow it?"
"Judging over life and death is not my task. I wish to help you, but the decision is yours to make. I can merely offer you a choice. If there ever comes a time when immortality and madness become too much for you to handle, take it. It will set you free." I pulled my cloak more tightly around me and walked past him. The foliage of last autumn on the ground rustled beneath my boots.
"Thank you, Wanderer."
I paused in my steps, glanced over my shoulder and gave a nod. Then I left the forest.
~
Whether he still lives or made use of my help, I cannot say. Dragobar, Torus, the Arcane One, the Flame of Nehrim - the man has had many names, many of which we do not even know. I want to add one more: Torus Tasselsrock - the "Swashbuckler".
