By J. L. Ficks & J. E. Dugue - Chronicles of Covent Series I Ebook Sample.pdfThe mage had P . THE...

Cover Art by Ben Wootten & Ilich Henriquez

Logo by James Gilks Map by J. L. Ficks & J. E. Dugue

Font Dugue by Hannah M. Erhardt Font Romance Fatal Serif by Juan Casco

By J. L. Ficks & J. E. Dugue

Path of the Magi

The Chronicles of Covent™ Book One of the Adventure Series:

PATH OF THE MAGI

Copyright © 2016 Mirror Images Publishing

Copyright © Chronicles of Covent™ All Rights Reserved

ISBN-13: 978-1468072105

ISBN-10: 1468072102

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of Amer-ica. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of any material or artwork con-tained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Mirror Images Publishing. The Chronicles of Covent™, the Triloriad™ & Homespun Fantasy™ are trademarks of Mirror Images Publishing. All Chronicles of Covent™ charac-ters and their distinctive likenesses are trademarks of Mirror Images Publishing.

Printed in the USA First Printing: May 2014

Mirror Images Publishing

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Come see us on the web at chroniclesofcovent.com

To my son. Everett Sheridan Ficks, my daughter

Emiyln Jeanne Ficks and to my niece, Jayde Alexis

Ficks. Our days pass us by like wind. Take no day

for granted and remember your maker.

~J . L .

To my beautiful wife, Lindsey M. Dugue. You kept

the fire from going out under my dreams and to my

mother and brother who always believed in me.

~J . E .

THE CHRONICLES OF COVENT

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Prologue:

The Parting

hendyrimoth thrust his staff into the sand and all were hushed. The wise old wizard’s glowing white eyes swept over the small crowd of chatty students, the eyes of a god incarnate, or so men believed. He

forced his students to wait and soak in the full meaning of the commemoration, yet that was one of the ways he taught, not always in words, but in significance. They watched as their master’s long white beard rustled against his cheeks and his purple robes flapped wildly in the late summer arctic winds of the Haraglace. Not a word was spoken on the isle for ten straight minutes. The crowd waited, shifting impatiently, under the immense gloomy shadow of Phendyrimoth’s tower—home of the most infamous magic school of all Covent. Finally, Phendyrimoth raised his staff and stepped forward. He smiled and gripped the shoulders of two young, but accomplished mages. “Davril, Edronius, I bid you both a fond farewell,” he said. He brushed his long white locks from his old careworn face and wiped away a single tear. “You have been two of my foremost students. I shall regret losing you.” He looked out over the large gathering of students, each one expectant, eager and a little jealous. “I look forward to hearing of your achievements in the years to come. Make me proud.” “Master Phendyrimoth.” Davril bowed in his customary stoic grace. “It has been a true honor.” He wore his father’s plate armor proudly that he had polished to a mirror shine. The blue steel armor had been laced with white trimming and bore a white lion, the standard of Doljinaar, on his breastplate. He also carried his father’s long centurion sword and a kite shield emblazed with the symbol of a sword speckled with stars. The young warmagi raised his head and fixed his earnest blue eyes on their master. Phendyrimoth stifled a nostalgic chuckle as the young man kept straightening his unkempt hair as it blew helplessly in the wind. “We shall never forget your teaching.” Edronius, the dusty blonde haired mage, bowed next. His ordinarily flashy golden brown eyes regarded his master coolly. He clutched an ornate iron staff capped with a small crystal ball, set into a molded beast claw. The crystal swirled with a wild crackling magic. His robes were the color of the Red Robed Order. Phendyrimoth grinned broadly. He would never meet another pure-caster quite like Edronius. The lad sported a few random pieces of bronze gladiator armor over his robes, but that was just Edronius. The mage had

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grown up near the arenas and always had a streak of rebel in him and yet he somehow managed to wear the odd combination with style and confidence. Phendyrimoth stared at the two for a moment. He pulled his lips tight until they all but disappeared beneath his moustache and beard. “Never forsake magic,” his voice was intense, almost manic, “she is worthy of our lifelong affections and devotion. You must cling to her…serve her, but be careful. The world has changed. Men have forsaken magic, vilified her. They have used her and thrown her out onto the streets like a common whore and as such they no longer tolerate those who remain faithful to her.” “But, Master, where should we go?” asked Davril. “That is entirely up to you now. I am no longer the keeper of your destinies. You can find refuge in Mindrasteral if you wish. You must enter by way of one of the Twelve Gates hidden throughout the land. There you will find the tattered remnants of our order.” “We will, Master,” Edronius nodded. “Be warned,” Phendyrimoth added, “if you choose the way of the gates. The Order has changed. The rift between light and dark robes has widened. You will find naught but the light robes in Mindrasteral. Their prejudice escalates. Many fine magi have they pushed from the Order. The dark robes remain in the Kurn sewers, but beware of their black temperament. Many paths lay open to you. Now go.” Davril and Edronius bowed. The crowd bid them a fond farewell and waved them off, but the two graduates weren’t ready to say their final goodbyes just yet. They turned and walked to their two closest friends standing in front of the crowd. Both students adorned night black robes, the color of the most forbidden of magic orders, the colors that had divided the magic order in two, but they were good friends. The prejudice that had taken root deep in the heart of the order didn’t exist out here, not on Phendyrimoth’s isle. Only here did magic still walk in balance. Gashyra’s long black bangs clung to his hard angular dark features. He was noticeably tall and the air of his presence overshadowed the other black robe, Findrol, who hid behind him. Gashyra’s firm jaw spoke of his unyielding drive and glowing confidence. Davril felt relief when Gashyra smirked at him. The black robe’s dark brown striking human eyes stared back at him. For this, Davril was thankful because Gashyra came from mixed roots. Whenever he grew angry, his pupils dilated to resemble the unnerving gaze of a dragon. Davril had never been fully sure what to make of this unexplainable


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transformation. He had never met a man with the same problem as Gashyra, but he suspected his friend had some inhuman blood in him. His critics claimed a monster lived deep inside him, but Gashyra had won over Davril’s trust, Gashyra had won the trust of all of their friends. Whatever the case, Gashyra was truly gifted and soaked in magic like no mind Davril had ever known. Findrol the short, shy teenager with big mousy ears peered around Gashyra. “Gashyra,” Davril nodded, “take care of yourself.” Edronius gave Gashyra a playful nudge with his elbow. “And don’t hesitate to humiliate those cocky Brothers Anrelon!” Gashyra smirked, “I will miss you two. I wish we were all ascending the final levels of the tower together.” Davril tried to embrace Findrol, but he stepped back in hesitation. Findrol blinked back tears, but tried to remain strong like Gashyra. “I really wish you didn’t have to go,” he said and hung his head. “We all knew this day would come, Findrol,” said Davril. Findrol swallowed hard, “I know.” Edronius broke the awkward silence. “Then let’s not drag this out.” “Farewell friends, when you see me next I’ll succeed the power of even our esteemed master,” Gashyra said half-joking. “Ha!” Davril laughed, “I’m sure you will, Friend.” “Goodbye, Findrol.” Edronius headed to the ferry and waved. “Goodbye Gashyra!” Davril bowed and ran off after Edronius. Terrik, the ferryman, waited at a small sturdy wood sailboat. Davril ducked under the sail and took the far seat. Edronius remained standing. The crowd started waving and shouting them off again. Davril saw his master raise his hand in a final salute as Terrik shoved off. Edronius stumbled and then fell back in his seat. A thick fog drifted in as Terrik paddled away and turned the sail into the wind. “This isn’t goodbye!” Findrol ran along the shore calling to them, “Gashyra and I will see you as soon as we get done with the tower! We promise!” Davril shouted back, “I’m sure you will, Findrol…” The pair watched as the tower slowly faded from view and the fog swallowed it. “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” Davril shook his head, “after seven long years we are finally leaving it behind.” “Seven years?” “We ascended to the Seventh Level, remember? One year for every level,” he reminded him, “so yeah, that’s how long we’ve been there.” Edronius sat back and shook his head, “Funny, I’ve been so caught


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up in studying that I completely forgot about the rest of the world, forgot about Sylvane.” Davril grinned, “And that we once called it home.” He feigned shock. “So you mean to tell me, Davril, that the sky is not made of brick?” The warmagi laughed and leaned back. “Do you think Gashyra and Findrol will make it to the Tenth Level?” “I’m sure they’ll do fine. Those two are like brothers.” “So, what’s next?” Davril hesitated. He had a plan, but he hadn’t filled his friend in on it yet. Edronius would most certainly object. “I don’t know,” he replied, “we’ve been shut up in that tower for so long, now that I’m out, I just don’t know what to do with myself.” Edronius sat up and leaned forward. “Well, I have an idea of something we might do.” Davril sat back up. “Edronius, I thought we talked about this.” “Come on, old buddy,” his friend said and slapped him on the knee, “the new gate is not far from here. It’s on the way no less. In fact, it’s practically begging for a visit.” “I’m not sure I want my first venture outside the tower to mean our deaths,” Davril frowned fiercely, “those gates hold guardians of unparalleled magic, Edronius.” “You mean to tell me, Warmagi, that you’re not even slightly curious whether the guardians will accept us now?” Edronius used Davril’s new title and leaned in as he spoke, “We are graduates of Phendyrimoth’s Tower. The most famous wizard alive exalted us to positions few dare dream. Come on, Davril, Mindrasteral awaits us.” “And for what? You heard our master—a world of politics await us in Mindrasteral.” “Davril, you know I have very little interest in that stuffy old council. What interests me are those gates! Just think what access to those portals would mean for us. We could go anywhere in all of Covent. Open up endless doors of possibilities!” “This is all grounded in the assumption the guardian doesn’t kill us first. The last guardian was a colossus if I remember correctly.” “That gate was made by Master Phendyrimoth himself,” he put in, “I’m sure the council couldn’t match such mastery.” “Perhaps not, but what about the combined casting power of the rest of the council?” “Have a little faith, Davril,” Edronius cocked a smile, “you said


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yourself you don’t know what to do now that we’re out. Either way,” he stood up and made a show of turning his back, “I’m stopping with or without you. I’ll go it alone if I have to. It’s your choice.” Davril bit his tongue. He knew what he wanted to do, but he just didn’t want to argue about it now. Edronius had put him in between a rock and a hard place, banking smartly on the knowledge that Davril’s old fashioned and downright stubborn loyalty would never allow a friend to go it alone. The warmagi sighed. Sometimes a man’s worst enemies were his friends. “Alright, we’ll stop,” he said, “but we walk up to the gate and the moment something goes south we run, got it?” “Hey, it’s me.” Edronius spun around and sprawled back on his seat. “Remember?” ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Davril thought. He said aloud with obvious reluctance, “The Darum Gate, Terrik.” “Now since that’s settled.” The mage leaned back and stretched out across another seat relaxed. Davril shook his head and bit his lip in frustration. He watched as his friend pulled up his hood and settled in for a long nap. Maybe Edronius was right and they had nothing to worry about. Phendyrimoth’s Tower wasn’t a school set up in the traditional sense. Yes, it had ten levels, but the tower was designed to allow each student to ascend as high as his or her own abilities. A student was a full-fledged mage by the fifth level, a Master Robe by the seventh and by the tenth level Phendyrimoth would name only one master pupil. It had become clear from a very early time in the tower that person would be Gashyra. Davril supposed that Edronius and he had nothing to be ashamed about. Few students had ever ascended as high in Phendyrimoth’s Tower as they had. Of the original class consisting of forty-two students, most had failed out at the junior levels, and only four had continued past them to the Eighth Level: Gashyra, Findrol and the Anrelon twins. He felt an overwhelming sense of pride and yet he began to wonder whether staying would have been a far wiser choice in preparing them for the trial he had just unwisely agreed off the cuff. He looked out over the rolling seas for any sight of mainland. The ferryman skillfully sailed the boat through the rocky bluffs of the Duvildarum Waterways, a rock-strewn maze of coastal isles that separated the great continents of Sylvane and Witherglace. Davril could not see past the thick coastal fogs that divided him from his homeland even in mid- summer. Home. It seemed like a foreign country to him now. It had been so long since he had slept in his own bed. He felt a cold sweat creep up under his armor as he realized he might not make it home after all. He felt suddenly and terribly homesick.


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Davril knew what kind of powers guarded these gates. What had he been thinking? He could only pray that they would not be forced to face another colossus like the guardian of the Witherglace gate. How had he let Edronius talk him into such a suicidal idea? He had beheld the living manifestation of magic at the last gate and the memory haunted him still. He glanced back over at his friend who snored loudly. “What have you gotten me into, friend?” Davril leaned over and gently patted Edronius on the knee. “You’re going to get us both killed someday. Let’s just hope it’s not today.”


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Chapter One:

The Gates of

Mindrasteral

avril could not sleep a wink. He sat up in the boat and pulled a red hood out of his travel pack, running his fingers over the flashy gold lining inside the hood. It did not look like much.

Nothing more than two pieces of fine glossed velvet stitched together, but the hood was the mark of his highest achievement. He had been a proud member of the Blade Order since he was a boy. He had been called a Bladecaster, a warrior of both weaponry and magic, but it was this hood that distinguished him from the rest of his order. Only the highest and most powerful of the Blade Order adorned the hood—the Warmagi. He could still recall the first warmagi he had laid eyes on back home. The mere sight of seeing that shining warrior adorning that velvet magician’s hood had caused him to idolize this simple piece of cloth all his life. The shedding of a one’s helmet in favor of the magi hood was symbolic of a warmagi’s rise above a traditional warrior’s need for material protection. And yet, as he stared at the tiny idol in his hands he could not help but wonder why he felt so worried. “I am Warmagi,” he whispered aloud as if to breathe power back into the ancient title, but the words echoed with a hollow resignation. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He was the youngest Warmagi in Covent’s history and yet he could not tap into the same excitement that had stirred in his veins in his youth. He had dreamt of earning the hood his whole life. He had falsely assumed that the title would grant him a sense of empowerment and invincibility. He was wrong. The boat rocked from side to side, waves splashing violently against the side of the hull. Davril grabbed hold of the rails and gritted his teeth. Chills ran up his spine. He had never liked sailing and the Duvildarum Waterways were filled with rocky tidal waves. Countless isles and bluffs surrounded them in every direction and Davril feared they would run aground, but Terrik masterfully guided the craft along. Of course, that didn’t stop the boat from the occasional rough waters. A flock of Haragulls passed overhead, calling down on him as if in heckling laughter. After all, he was a grounded creature and they flew wild and free. An even taller wave crashed against the boat’s side, kicking up a spray of seawater that splashed in his face. The fierce Haraglacial winds blew his well-tended hair beyond any hope of repair. He grimaced and fought against the urge to comb his hair. He always hated it when the

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wind blew his hair out of place. It represented the lack of order in the world and he was a man of order and discipline. The boat quieted, but the effect was done. He felt so belittled by nature’s prevailing breath. Davril slipped the hood over his head and glanced over at Edronius. The mage still lay sprawled comfortably across two seats snoring loudly. Davril’s brow furrowed. ‘How does he do that?’ he thought, ‘Seconds away from the trial of their lives and Edronius sleeps like the day he was born?’ He thought of his friend and all his accomplishments. Master Phendyrimoth had been so impressed with Edronius’ natural gift for Combination Magic he had bestowed upon him the legendary title of High Combine. The old wizard had declared that the mage’s mastery over Combination Magic was so complete he did not even need to take the tower’s Eighth Level. Edronius had jumped at the chance to put his feet back on the road again. After all, they had been cooped up in that stuffy old tower seven years and the red robe had begun to grow restless. Even Davril struggled to wrap his mind around the illusive concept. Combination Magic was a highly controversial idea. It was not a magic realm in the traditional sense. You could not simply open a spellbook and memorize a spell. Rather, Combination Magic was the art of fusing dissimilar and even contrasting magics together into manageable and functional spellcraft. Its practice was both wildly unpredictable and dangerous. Combination Magic had become increasingly frowned upon in the tenured magic community, due to its potential self-destructive nature, but their master disagreed. He believed it taught a valuable lesson in understanding the full spectrum, the balance of magic. Phendyrimoth’s views had been considered increasingly radical since the years he stepped down as council head, but Davril felt that the old mage knew magic better than anyone. It was hard for even the council to argue with Phendyrimoth’s immense knowledge since his blood had been kissed by the gods. The old wizard’s blood had permitted him to live over a thousand years longer than mere normal men, which granted him unprecedented additional years of magic study. Davril eyed his best friend and weighed in on his master’s glowing praise. The warmagi realized he sat in the company of a friend who had burgeoned into a legend and yet he wondered whether even that would be enough? “We’re here,” said Terrik from the front of the boat. Davril exhaled deeply. He looked out across the waters and spotted an isle lined by rocky cliffs. He could not make out anything of importance atop the bluffs, but then again the remote isle that housed Phendyrimoth’s infamous tower didn’t look all that important either. A


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small wood dock stretched from a beach littered with scavenging Haragulls and sea lions sunbathing in the fading summer weather. Yet the isle looked otherwise deserted. The sea lions barked and began a massive exodus back into the ocean. The ferryman brought the boat up to dock and hopped out. Davril turned back to Edronius to rouse him as Terrik moored the boat. He jumped slightly. His friend’s seat was empty. The mage waited for him on the dock. Edronius leaned casually on his staff and his hand was already extended. “You coming?” Davril shook off his surprise. He took his friend’s hand reluctantly and pulled himself up. “I still don’t think this is a good idea, Edronius,” he said, “only Master Phendyrimoth could safely pass through the gates.” “Much to the chagrin of the new ruling council,” Edronius mused, “that’s why we too shall succeed in this endeavor.” “Master Phendyrimoth has studied magic for nearly two thousand years, remember?” he replied, “His veins are blessed with the blood of the gods. We could study our entire lives and not grasp even a wisp of the knowledge he possesses.” “Gashyra used the gates and he’s a Black Robe.” “That’s different, Gashyra is well, Gashyra.” “I think you underestimate our abilities, Friend.” Edronius clapped him on the shoulder. “The last time we tried was years ago and we’ve learned so much since then. I am High Combine and you are Warmagi. Surely, not even the guardians can refuse us now.” “High Combine,” Davril grinned, “I’ve got to get used to calling you that.” “And I have to get used to calling you, Warmagi.” “Perhaps you’re right and we’ll be permitted to pass this time, but we still need to proceed with the utmost caution. Do remember the guardian at the last gate?” “The last gate was the guardian,” Edronius chuckled and winked playfully at Davril, “let’s just hope this one has a lesser guardian.” “You mean let’s just hope it’s not some great and powerful guardian but some silly little magic pimple perhaps?” “Right,” the mage chuckled, a quirky smirk crawling up his lips. Edronius did not waste another minute. He strode down the dock and made his way across the beach startling flocks of Haragulls.

Davril shook his head and started after his friend. He jogged to catch up and the pair headed for a sandy embankment that led up the side of the bluffs. They reached the top of the bluffs and paused as they looked out across a massive plateau of sedimentary rock rich with deposits of broken seashells and fossils. Small tidal pools had formed


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here with coral and fish still trapped from last spring. The fish were small and hid among the rocks from the gulls.

A circle of stone markers inscribed with runes encompassed most of the plateau. A lone sea cave, more a twisted outcropping of sedimentary rock stood at its nucleus. Wind howled through the cave mouth, humming with a most unnatural glow, swirling with a crackling cobalt magic. The sea cave must have been the Darum Gate, a magic portal, one of the twelve Gates of Mindrasteral and the doorway that would grant them access to all Covent. Davril stiffened. He had seen only one of these gates before on the frozen continent of Witherglace. Phendyrimoth had originally created two gates: the prototype in Kurn and the connecting gate in Witherglace south of his tower. This gate had been built years later by the High Mage Council because the Witherglace Gate did not always heed the will of the reigning council. It also had been built far south in a remote location chosen by their old master and had a propensity for getting snowed in. Many credited the great Phendyrimoth with two successful castings of the Greater Powers, but he denied such grand achievements. It had taken the combined power of all the rest of the council to mimic Phendyrimoth’s original design. After Phendyrimoth abandoned the council, the High Mage Council forged another ten gates scattered throughout the world. The fact that Davril’s old master had not created this gate really bothered him. Naturally it didn’t seem to faze Edronius one bit. The students at the tower had used the Witherglace Gate on several occasions with their master, but never this new gate. While at the tower, Phendyrimoth had forbidden any student from using any gate without his supervision or express permission.

Of course, that hadn’t stopped Gashyra. Davril had to remind himself that Phendyrimoth was no longer their master and the old wizard himself had suggested they come this way. Edronius’ robes brushed past his ankles as he stepped over the stone markers without hesitation. The runes on the markers glowed eerily as if suddenly alive, flaring in seething agitation. Davril eyed the cranky enchantment nervously. This gate gave the appearance of being unguarded just like the last one. He did not like this. He did not like this one bit. “Edronius,” he said, “didn’t we agree to be more careful?” The mage ignored him.

The warmagi cursed and stared after his friend. Edronius was halfway to the gate. Magic hummed right through Davril’s armor.

“Edronius, that’s too far.”


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“How do we know we can’t use the gates unless we try and pass through?”

Davril blinked. His friend had a point, but he wished there was some other way. He waited thirty feet back and watched his friend, his hand on his sword.

The mage reached the gate and headed directly for the swirling magical portal. “There you see,” Edronius looked back and grinned, “nothing to it.” The two friends staggered suddenly. The earth quaked violently, cracks spider-webbing through the sedimentary rock. “Edronius!” the warmagi shouted. The red robe’s eyes widened.

‘Oh no,’ Davril thought and rolled his eyes, ‘here we go again.’ Edronius skidded backward in his sandals and jammed his staff

into the ground to catch his feet. Davril stared at the sea cave, waiting for it to break free from the

ground and rise to hundreds of feet above like the other gates. Instead, the earthquake mysteriously stopped. A tiny ball of cobalt light rose from the heaving rock humming like a buzzing insect. It flew in jittery circles around the cave mouth almost playfully and seemed somehow strangely alive. It fluttered up to Edronius and touched his nose.

The red robe laughed. It tickled. “Hey look, Davril,” he joked, “a magic pimple.”

The floating light buzzed loudly as if in anger. The warmagi frowned uneasily. “Who is it that disturbs my rest?” the little light flew up into the

air again and said in a tiny munchkin voice. Davril furrowed his brows in confusion. What? This wasn’t what

he expected at all. Something was wrong. “Hey look, Davril,” Edronius shot him a glance, beaming with

glee, “no monstrous guardian, just a silly little ball of light!” “Careful Edronius,” Davril cautioned. “You are most unwise to rouse the greater magic!” the little ball

of light said angrily. Edronius brushed his knuckles bored. “Ah yes, cheeky little puff

ball, we seek entrance into the Gates of Mindrasteral and an audience with the High Mage Cou—”

“You have violated the sacred circle,” the light warned. “Yes, yes little light,” the red robe said with some impatience,

“hurry up and open the gate. We don’t have all day.” The light growled. “You trespass on forbidden ground.”


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“We are not trespassers. I am a High Combine and this is a Warmagi. We have risen under the tutelage of the great Phen—”

“You two are not known to me and yet you boast of titles long vaunted by the inferior orders of magic tradition,” the light peeped.

Edronius snapped back, “I was telling you if you would just let me finish, you rude little light.”

“Little? I grow tired of you calling me little,” the light flared up angrily, “I am not as small as you suppose, puny human.”

“Puny!” Edronius snarled and raised his staff, “I ought to squash you, you little glow bug!”

“Edronius!” Davril barked. “I’m sorry,” Edronius said, rolling his eyes a bit, “we humbly

request passage through the gates, great and powerful guardian.” “I do not like you two,” the ball of light said, “leave this place or

you shall awaken my anger.” “We’re not leaving here without going through the gate,” the red

robe insisted. “I’m warning you!” the light shook crossly. “I’ve had about enough of this,” Edronius threw up his arms and

stomped past the light toward the gate, “we’re going in with or without your approval, you annoying magic pimple!”

“Edronius no!” The light started shaking, glowing brighter and brighter. “Look at this thing,” Edronius gestured at the orb, “what’s it

going to do, Davril, twinkle at us?” “These things could be like Trites, Edronius!” Davril warned. “You were most unwise,” the ball of light screamed, “most

unwise to test my anger!” The light sunk into the ground, its voice now echoing with a terrifying boom. The earth shook again.

Davril and Edronius fell to their knees. “I think you made it angry!” Davril shouted.

Suddenly, the rocky sea cave burst from the ground revealing an even more enormous mound of coastal limestone. The heaving mass shook violently from side to side, shaking off rubble and loose sediment. The air filled with dust. The extra dirt and grime fell away revealing a colossal skull carved into the limestone. The giant rock-face opened a pair of glowing eyes like the once tiny light—pits of cobalt flames blazing in empty eye sockets. Blue clouds of magical fire spewed from its rocky nostrils and disgorged from gaping stone jaws. Davril gulped, fingers digging into the earth. He trembled in shock and awe. Fools! This guardian too was a colossus!


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“YOU WOULD DARE ROUSE THE GREATER MAGIC!” the giant rock skull roared.

Davril stammered, but his tongue twisted into a knot. The two friends stumbled back to their feet.

The ground heaved even more violently. A huge rock arm tore itself from the sedimentary rock, slamming its giant fist down, pushing up and breaking the gate from the isle.

Davril and Edronius fell backward and tumbled downhill. An even greater mass broke from the ground as if a mountain was

rising to its feet. The earth groaned and crumbled, breaking into massive heaps of rubble. An even greater towering mound wrenched itself free, filling the air with choking clouds of dust. It rose higher and higher into the sky until it seemed it would scrape the very clouds. Large chunks of rock and debris rained down from high above. Davril and Edronius scattered. Boulders and rubble broke and smashed against the ground. The two mages barely escaped injury,

The dust cleared and the towering form of a six-hundred foot colossus loomed over the mages. Its giant body was a seething mass of huge hunks of sedimentary rock, coral growths, seashells and long strands of dangling kelp—all tightly held together by wet packed sand. The gate still swirled with bright cobalt magic high above, but formed part of the rock giant’s massive right shoulder. The colossus hunched over as if the gate was an enormous tumor growing out of its shoulder. This guardian was no less jaw-dropping or terrifying than the ice colossus they had encountered at the other gate all those years ago.

Davril trembled with such wild hysteria his knees wobbled and banged together with such intensity he nearly fell back down.

“YOUR WORDS ARE STAINED WITH ARROGANCE, BUT HOLD A GRAIN OF TRUTH,” the colossus roared, “THE SWEET PERFUME OF MAGIC I SMELL ON YOU, WHICH IS THE ONLY REASON I HAVE NOT CRUSHED YOU ALREADY BUT YOU WOULD DARE TRY MY PATIENCE. MUCH ANGER YOU HAVE STIRRED WITHIN ME!” Davril and Edronius froze.

The colossus raised its gigantic foot. A shadow fell across the mages’ traumatized faces as the stone giant boomed, “SPEAK LEST I CRUSH YOU UNDERFOOT!”

“NO WAIT!” the warmagi threw himself to his knees and pleaded with his hands, “Please forgive us! I beg you!!!”

“SPEAK!!!” “Great and powerful guardian,” Davril groveled before the great

magical being, “we beg your forgiveness! My friend knows not who he


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insults in his arrogance. We humbly beg access to the gates so we may aid in the defense of magic.”

The colossus removed its giant foot and slammed it down in a show of force. The ground shook as its monstrous voice rumbled, “EXPLAIN YOURSELVES!”

Davril rose shouting up at the towering figure, “We just graduated from Phendyrimoth’s tower where we studied under the legendary Phendyrimoth himself. We have been well-trained and are prepared to aid magic in the time of its greatest plight.”

“Phendyrimoth is known to me,” the colossus boomed, “he was once head of the council, but many things have changed since he stepped down. The council no longer trusts him. He turned his back on the order at the time of magic’s greatest need.”

“But why do the gates still grant him passage?” Davril objected. “The gates still grants him passage because his magic is great, but

the council no longer suffers Red Robes or blade-wavers to pass!” the colossus boomed.

“What?” Edronius butt back in, “But why? We are not dark robes! Our robes have not rebelled against the High Mage Order! We fought, bled and died at your side at the Fall of Mithrelmora! We have as much right to Mindrasteral as any of the light robes.”

“You have to ask, Red Robe?” the colossus glared down cobalt eyes ablaze, “You who dabble in both the light and forbidden black magic arts have the nerve to ask why you were so justly banished?” the giant pointed down at Davril, “And him, if he had not shown the wisdom to respect powers greater than himself I wouldn’t even have bothered to address a simple-minded blade-waving dabbler!”

Edronius clenched his fists and shook them at the colossus, “But our magic is great!”

“The scent of magic is strong with you two, yes,” the colossus corrected, “but your magic is not great.”

“What does that mean?” the red robed screamed. “I have lost my patience with you,” the colossus shouted, “NOW

BEGONE OR I SHALL BE FORCED TO DESTROY YOU!!!” The guardian stooped over and pushed its hands deep into the ground. The isle shook again, snapping and splintering. Davril turned to flee, figuring Edronius was right behind him, but his efforts to escape were more like an awkward stumbling over loose stone. The colossus ripped an imposing stone sword from the bedrock and raised it overhead.

“No!” Edronius growled back.


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The warmagi shot an anxious glance back behind him. “It’s over Edronius,” he ran back to his friend, grabbed his arm and tried to drag him away. “let’s go!”

“NO!” Edronius shouted, staring up at the colossus defiant, “WE CANNOT LEAVE! I DEMAND TO SPEAK WITH THE COUNCIL AT ONCE!”

“This is your final warning!” the colossus rumbled. “NOW YOU SHALL DIE!” The giant swung its colossal sword downward. Davril grabbed Edronius and the pair tumbled out of the way. The sword smashed into the ground kicking up a cloud of dust and rubble, but missed them barely. Davril shook his head. It was a dreadful mistake coming here, a dreadful, dreadful mistake. The two friends scrambled back to their feet, gaping upward.

“Run!” Davril shoved Edronius hard and took off running. He glanced back over his shoulder. He exhaled in relief as he saw his friend had enough sense to split and flee in the opposite direction.

The stone sword smashed into the ground and missed them by bare feet. Bedrock buckled and caved in, but somehow they kept moving. The pair made for the boat. The earth trembled under the footsteps of their giant foe as it stalked after them.

Boom, boom, boom! Davril cursed. The sacred markers were still some sixty yards off

and that thing could be on them in two monstrous strides. He stole a glance back over his shoulder. He noticed the colossus walked stooped over with a hunch. The giant lurched forward, slowly and clumsily, as if the gate was nothing but an overgrown handicap.

‘Perhaps they would make it,’ he thought. Edronius suddenly stopped. Davril glanced back. “Edronius! What are you doing?” The mage ignored him, glowered up defiantly at the behemoth and yelled, “NO!” Davril’s eyes widened as the colossus swung its mighty sword crosswise right at his old friend. The mage jumped, but somehow managed to scramble over the sword as it hit the earth and tumble over the blow. He took some nasty scrapes and bruises, but otherwise eluded serious injury. He stood up and glared defiantly at the giant.

The colossus raised its foot stamping down over and over again. Edronius dove and weaved between the colossus massive feet in ways that made Davril’s jaw drop.

The warmagi held his breath. “I said no!” the mage said obstinately.


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Davril shook off his daze. The colossus caught sight of him out of the corner of its eye. The guardian spun around and swung its enormous sword in a sideways arc. He sprawled to the ground as the blustery swing whiffed overhead. The brute paused to inspect the edge of its sword to see whether it had caught its prey. Its cobalt eyes glowered at the warmagi and raised its mighty sword again.

Davril turned and ran. The massive stone sword smashed into the ground behind him.

He staggered from the gyrations sent rippling through the ground. His eyes swept wildly about him as he attempted to regain his balance. An icy realization froze the blood in his veins. Edronius wasn’t with him. He spun around in a panic. “Edronius?” Davril spotted his friend on the far side of the guardian’s gigantic legs. “Edronius, what are you doing?” he asked. His eyes widened as the mage murmured the spidery language of magic. Two crackling balls of magical energy floated in the air above his friend’s palms—one black and one white. “By the gods, Edronius!” he shouted, “you can’t hope to fight this thing! It’s power is too great!”

Davril heard his friend say, “Distract him.” “What?” “Distract him!” “Inertia Magic? Are you crazy?” said Davril. He shook his head. Inertia Magic drew its energy from the forces of life or death and could be summoned in a potent physical form. The energy was so raw and uncontrollable that it often destroyed the caster and Edronius had conjured a materialization of both life and death energy. Davril had no questions about what the mage planned to do. He would fuse the two contrasting energies through the art of Combination Magic. It was a risky gamble, but there was no stopping Edronius now. The process would require Edronius’ complete concentration. Davril knew it could prove fatal to break his friend’s concentration. He had no choice, but to buy Edronius some time and pray to the gods it his friend’s spell would not backfire and blow this isle to bits.

“Hey you!” Davril shouted, “You overgrown rock pile! Over here!” He picked up stones and lobbed them at the colossus. The rocks struck, but plunked off its massive ankles like mere pebbles. Edronius’ magic was building.

The colossus started to turn towards Edronius. Davril drew his sword and pointed it at the guardian. He spoke

the words of magic and a flash of darkness shot from his blade. It struck the colossus in the face.


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The guardian shook its head and turned back to the warmagi, but did not pursue.

Davril frowned. He would have to take more drastic measures. ‘Here goes nothing,’ he thought as he unleashed a bolt of purple chaos lighting from his blade. The bolt struck the giant in the shoulder. Bits of rock exploded and a light pattering of debris rained down, but barely put a dent in their giant foe.

The colossus’ blue gaze burst into a fiery glower, but it remained still as if considering whether the warmagi was anything more than a pesky insect to be trifled with. This guardian was no dummy. He would have to make the behemoth think again.

Davril spread his arms and made a raising gesture. The colossus stumbled and looked down. The bedrock beneath

its feet softened and glowed red. Pockets of magma illumed the earth in veins of glowing lava. The guardian’s right leg sunk into the molten ground and it fell down to one knee. The warmagi was using the spells of the blacker magics in hopes of drawing the colossus’ ire.

The colossus opened a massive hand speaking but one word of magic. The winds of the Haraglace picked up, the giant calling upon the powers of Nature Magic. Sleet and frost swept in from the south on the arctic winds lashing at the hot magma until it cooled and turned into to slags of pumice. The guardian placed its hands upon the ground and pulled its leg from the earth. The colossus rose back up to full height, but regarded the warmagi with an entirely new set of eyes. “YOU!” the colossus roared, its fiery cobalt eyes burning brighter. Davril stepped backward. He had used a spell from every dark robe—from Death, Chaos and the Elemental Magics in an effort to distract the guardian. It had worked.

“YOU!” the colossus said as it stalked after him, “HOW DARE YOU EMPLOY THE WICKED MAGICS IN MY PRESENCE!” Davril stepped backwards. He stole a glance over at Edronius. The black and white balls of magical energy had tripled in size. The twin inertia spheres hissed and lashed at one another exchanging jolts of sizzling life and death energies. The very air around the mage rippled and cracked. Then when the two energies neared the size of boulders, Edronius fused them together. A sound like broken thunder, shrill and howling, shrieked through the air.

The colossus froze and slowly turned back around. The huge magic sphere clashed in a struggle of white and black Inertia. The life and death energies screeched into union. Then the white and black burned away replaced by a gleaming blood red energy. The spell was ready at last. Edronius looked up, a cocky smirk dancing at the corner of his lips. “Hey


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you giant oaf!” he shouted, “Try this on for size!” The mage threw his hands down and the Inertia sphere ripped through the sky.

The colossus brought its huge forearms up to block and caught the Inertia ball in its hands. The force of the magic knocked the guardian back. The ground plowed up behind its huge ankles, but the giant soon skirted to a stop. The colossus wrestled against the contradictory magic, but heaved it to the side. The red Inertia collided with a small neighboring isle. The island exploded and left behind a smoking fissure. The ocean rushed in claiming the rubble for all time. “BLACK WIZARDS!” the colossus roared. “I SHALL SNUFF OUT YOUR MAGICAL FLAMES FOREVER!” The giant erupted into a wild frenzy, beating its huge sword against the ground over and over again. The bedrock broke up into huge slabs of stone scattered and beaten from the earth. Davril and Edronius scrambled for their lives. Luck was all that saved them. They met back up in the middle. The warmagi could see the look of hopelessness in his friend’s eyes. He had thrown his best at the giant nemesis and still he had failed. Edronius sunk to his knees, a look of defeat ghosting across his once smug and intrepid features. Davril could tell. His friend just wanted to give up…to fall over and die.

“Get up!” Davril grabbed Edronius by the arm and shook him. Edronius stared blankly ahead. “GET UP!” he shook him again. “Come on let’s go!” His friend did not move. The light had gone out in his eyes. “BEGONE!” the colossus roared. Davril grabbed Edronius and threw him over his shoulder. He

gritted his teeth as he struggled with the mage’s weight when combined with the bulk of his armor. The colossus’ footsteps shook the earth as it stalked after them. He dashed madly for the sacred markers. He ran until his legs grew weary and his muscles burned in pain. His years of discipline and training were all that permitted him to go on. He felt his friend’s staff banging against the calves of his leggings and tried not to trip up.

The giant stone sword whiffed behind them and crashed into the ground. The earth shook.

Davril stumbled, but regained his footing. He was nearly to the runed markers. He raced out of the circle and prayed the guardian’s pursuit would end. Suddenly, the colossus stopped at the edge of the sacred markers. The colossi were forbidden to leave the runed circle.

Davril breathed out a long sigh of relief. He turned back around only to watch in horror as the colossus raised a ten ton boulder overhead.


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He lurched awkwardly through the sand. He stumbled at the base of the incline and fell face first in the sand.

The boulder sailed overhead. ‘By the kings’ luck,’ he thought to himself. Edronius rolled off his back. The mage grabbed a hold of his

staff. Davril exhaled again in relief. He scrambled to his feet. The giant rock smashed into a cliff and broke to pieces. Another

boulder of even greater volume hit the ground not ten paces from them, rolled and smashed into a slab of bedrock.

Davril grabbed Edronius by the arm and shouted, “Come on!” Edronius stumbled after him, but soon regained his feet. “BEGONE FROM MY PRESSENCE VILE TRESSPASSORS!”

the colossus raged. A huge slab of stone tumbled end over end and landed flatly on the beach. Davril and Edronius ran for their lives. More boulders skipped over the bluff and plunged into the sea. The warmagi feared one had hit the boat, but then he saw the ferry’s mast bobbing bravely on the waters at the dock. Terrik, however, was nowhere in sight. “Terrik!” Davril shouted. “Terrik!” Edronius shouted. They found Terrik taking cover under the dock waist deep in the tide. He looked up at them with wide terror-filled eyes. “What in the name of the high kings is that thing?” “Ready the boat, Terrik!” said Edronius. He grabbed the ferryman by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

Davril dashed down the dock sword in hand. He cut through the first rope.

Terrik and Edronius came clumping down the plank-walk. They hopped in just as Davril cut the second rope and shoved off.

The ferryman regained his senses and tossed each mage a spare oar. The three men paddled madly for their lives. A boulder hit the dock and it exploded into a mass of splinters and driftwood. Huge rocks splashed all around them until they at long last exhausted the full range of the colossus’ mighty arm.


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Chapter Two:

City of Kings

here she is,” Edronius breathed, “mighty Doljinaar…” Davril sat up and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. The sight of mainland brought a tear to his eye. Sylvane! They had last

reached their home continent of Sylvane. The early afternoon sun shone down from the sky as if heaven itself smiled upon the crown jewel of their kingdom. Doljinaar. City of Kings. Doljinaar’s immense three-hundred foot high walls loomed over the now dwarfed bluffs of the Duvildarum Waterways. Its towers and crenels had been built upon the shoulders of enormous monuments of the Ascended Kings which were sculpted into the city walls. Terrik’s small ferry boat felt like a tiny bug on the waters and Davril imagined the mere sight of these walls would be enough to frighten off any pirate fleet or enemy navy. It was said that the capital’s walls were unassailable, too tall and too immense for any siege engine. Proud blue flags bearing the white standard of Doljinaar flapped in the wind. Waves crashed against coastal cliffs burdened by the towering immense walls that shouldered the entire coastline of the capital. Buttress towers had been outfitted with belfries, heavy catapults and supersized ballistae mounted on advanced pivots utilized to ward off dragons. Every single detail of the capital screamed power and Davril counted himself fortunate to be a citizen of so great a nation. Davril couldn’t believe how much the sheer size and scope of the city still stole his breath away. Capital Doljinaar was the size of a small country. An intricate network of curtain walls divided the city into ten massive districts, each a sprawling city in and of itself. Doljinaar was the greatest kingdom of all Sylvane and the capital was one of the foremost wonders of the world. His eyes brimmed with nostalgic emotion. To set his feet on Doljinaar’s flagstone streets, to gaze in renewed admiration at its sprawling stonework, towering statues and vibrant gardens would breathe life back into his weary veins. He smiled as sunlight glistened off the blue plate armor of the soldiers patrolling the walls, a deep sense of pride burning in his chest. His father had once been a city guard. He rummaged through his backpack and retrieved his father’s old helmet. Davril routinely oiled and polished the forty-year-old helmet and it still had not lost its shine. He ran his fingers over the blue-dyed horsehair crest that had marked his father as an officer of the centurion rank. The gallic helmet had been wrought of

“T


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fine steel and had a large spade-shaped opening in the faceguard. His hard eyes welled up with tears. How he missed his father! The warmagi removed his hood and donned his father’s helmet. He felt a slight sting in his chest as he tucked his hood back into his backpack. Here he put on his father’s helmet to conceal his true identity. Bladecasters had been taking the hood in Doljinaar for the last four thousand years. It had once been a great honor bestowed publically in the company of governing officials and even royalty. But that was before the abolishment of magic. He frowned. Before everything changed. He pushed through the grimace and wore the helmet out of a sincere honor for his father’s memory. Terrik guided the ferry in between the seawalls and into the harbor. He sailed skillfully in between massive Doljinn, Haradrian, Vespuvian and Elvish ships. Davril glanced over at Edronius. The mage lounged impatiently in his seat tossing over a small stone in his fingers from the isle of the colossus. The glow of the capital had long since passed and an annoyed expression had settled over his face. The warmagi would have thought Capital Doljinaar would be a far more pleasing sight to his friend since it was his hometown. Edronius’ eyes wandered over to Davril. “Well?” he grumbled, “what in the name of the High King are we going to do now?” “You’re disappointed?” “I didn’t want to taste the freedom of the gates so I could visit home, Davril.” “We weren’t planning on stopping there in the first place.” Edronius didn’t reply. He merely chucked the stone and watched as it disappeared with a plunk into the seawater. He leaned back and said, “Too bad Master Phendyrimoth is no longer council head.” “Yes, his withdrawal from the High Mage Council came as a complete surprise at the time, but now that I know him I think I understand. After he single-handedly saved the remnants of the order at Mithrelmora and established Mindrasteral, he grew tired of their petty bickering and abandoned the council altogether. Personally, I think he’s much happier in that frozen tower far from the distractions of Mindrasteral where he can devote himself wholly to his magic.” “Yeah, but we’re no better off.” “We’re lucky to be alive, Edronius.” “Losing stinks, Davril.” “So what do you want to do?” Edronius hesitated. He frowned and answered, “I think we should seek out a High Robe in the old mage markets of the Arodius District. I want to know why the Red Robes and the Blade Order have been so


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unjustly barred from the order.” “I’m curious about that as well, but I doubt there is anything left of those markets,” Davril replied, “you sure this isn’t really about finding another way into the gates?” “I don’t see any reason to give up.” “The High Mage Council isn’t about to let us use the gates to simply go joyriding about the countryside.” “I don’t think it would hurt to ask around,” he said, “and the Arodius District is a great place to find work. And perhaps we’ll find something else to do, something that has nothing to do with the gates.” He managed a half-smile. Davril thought on the suggestion for a moment. The marketplace would be a good place to catch up on the latest news and they could find out more about the goings-on of the Order even if they uncovered nothing else about the gates. He was tempted to tell his friend about his thoughts on joining the legions, but he didn’t want another argument. “I suppose that’s not such a bad idea. We’re both headed north anyway,” he said and his tight lips loosened into an affable grin, “and at least nothing will be trying to kill us.” “You’ve obviously never met my mother,” Edronius smirked. Davril snickered and the pair settled back for a few more moments. Terrik sailed towards the West Docks of Doljinaar, which all had been constructed on top of a one-hundred foot wide wood platform called the mainstay. The mainstay bobbed on barrels, but was held to the city by a system of chains and pulleys. The docks were designed to rise and fall with the seasonal tides. Sea level was low for late summer, which meant a long climb up the grand staircase into the city. Terrik jumped out and moored the boat. Davril and Edronius grabbed their backpacks and got out. They staggered a little as they adjusted to the balance of the mainstay. The warmagi bowed respectfully to the ferryman. “Take care, boys,” said Terrik, “and good luck.” Edronius gave a sly salute, clapped the wiry ferryman on the shoulder and they were off. The docks bustled with sailors, fishermen, whalers, poachers, sellswords and merchants of all kinds going about their daily affairs. Haragulls circled overhead and swooped down for opportunistic scraps of fish, crabs and shrimp. Men were at work repairing masts, cleaning nets, unloading basketfuls of the latest catch and resupplying for their next voyage. Deckhands, servants and slaves worked tirelessly scrubbing decks and shunting cargo everywhere.


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Edronius’ eccentric garb drew more than one look. Davril worried that someone might finger his friend for a mage, but he could tell by their bewildered expressions that they weren’t sure what to make of the peculiar armor robe combination. The mage always had a rebellious streak in him, a trait that appeared to obscure his true identity at least for now. He wondered how long the guise would last. The pair took the grand staircase to the West Gate that led into an embrace of a city grander than even the mighty colossus.

Karus Forest brimmed with life and beauty, untouched and ignored by civilization at large it grew wild and free, of its own virgin will. Festan La Faun could not imagine a more wondrous place to live. The broad, sprawling arms of Karus Oaks spread their powerful canopies arm in arm over the whole forest, shielding its inhabitants from far more terrible things, Festan had always imagined, like dragons. The forest was alive with the songs of birds and majestic glowing pollens that drifted and danced fancifully on the air. Festan’s hooves skipped across carpet moss and he whistled softly to himself. It was an old Faunish woodland tune, one of the pure tunes before the melodies had gotten tangled up with enchantments and yet it still seemed profoundly magical. Birds followed him overhead and squirrels leapt from tree to tree trying to keep pace. He passed a small trickling brook from which singing bullfrogs spotted him and paused. They hopped out of the brook and joined in merry chase. The Fauns were at peace with their woodland home. He paused to admire wildflowers and orchids that sprouted among the mossy stones. The animals stopped and watched him. He picked a Gelder Rose and sniffed deeply. My how he loved the forest! He was small for a woodlander, his waist barely rising above the hulking roots of the great oak trees. His kind had called Karus Forest home long before the others who had come from the East, even before the race of men had seized control of the western continent. And yet Karus Forest had remained largely untouched even by humans. It was too large, too vast to be tamed like the far off lands and the Faun hoped it would always remain that way. Festan was a Faun and a well traveled Faun at that. He had wandered from one side of the great kingdom of Doljinaar to the other,


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but no place captured his heart quite like his beloved Karus Forest. He picked another flower off the Gelder Rosebush that had already turned into a berry. He smiled warmly and chewed. He relished the taste of the sweet juices. This one had come early. Gelder Berries did not often appear until late summer. The Faun wiped his small cheek as a dribble of red juice dripped off his chin. He stood no more than four feet tall. He wore a long-sleeved green doublet with traditional Faunish ruffled cuffs and collar that some people joked made Fauns resemble circus clowns. He had furry brown goat legs, black hooves and a brown goat tail that ended with a puffy black bush. Two small horns poked out of his short brown hair. A ridiculous number of pouches hung from his bulging backpack tied by many leather strings. Festan found another berry and smiled even more brightly. “This calls for a song!” he announced to no one in particular but himself and Festan always found himself to be good company. He munched on the small treasure and pulled out what appeared to be a slender coily stick. It was wooden, hand carved from a Widdlenut Tree, with intricate forest symbols and small blowholes. It was his trusty Widdlenut pipe, his most prized possession. Instruments became inseparable to all Fauns, as important as a man carrying a sword at his side, only swords made terrible music. Festan put the Widdlepipe to his lips and blew softly. A note rose into the air, fluttering with the purest of melodies, as if the wind itself broke out into glorious song. And the birds in the trees joined in chorus. A Herald Songbird sang in the highest refrain from a nearby branch, matching every note of Festan’s pipe. He paused and looked up at the brightly puffed pink chest of the beautiful yellow songbird. They locked eyes and swapped cords in a whimsical duet. Squirrels chattered at Festan’s feet, trying to join in song. A few frogs leapt excitedly who had wandered in from the brook. They croaked and joined in song and soon the entire forest was alive with music. Butterflies landed on Festan’s shoulder and other animals came merely to listen. The scene was so peaceful and serine until suddenly the wildlife scattered. The birds flew away, the squirrels scampered up the trees and the frogs hopped back to the brook. The Faun looked around. The forest seemed suddenly darker and barer, gloomy even. A mob of tall shadowy forms stared at him with solid dimly glowing yellow eyes, dangerous eyes. He smiled warmly. ‘Ah a merry band of adventurers!’ he thought, ‘It’s about time the forest brought some guests to share in my music!’ The figures towered over him, nearing seven feet in


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height. They were broad with big barreled chests and armed, though that didn’t seem to faze Festan at all. “Well what do we have here?” said a deep mean-sounding voice, “A little scrap for an afternoon snack. Trouble is hardly any meat on the bone, but pickings are slim these days, boys. He’ll have to do.” The figures stepped out of the shadows, their beastly solid yellow eyes glowing menacingly like a pack of hungry beasts. There were twelve in all, a band of Doelm brigands from the looks of them. They clawed impatiently at the hilts of their big nasty weapons with their long black hideously long fingernails. Festan shook his head. He had always thought Doelms looked like big mean gorillas in a dire need of a manicure. Like men they came in multiple skin colors such as blue, green and red, but they were far more muscular. Someone might get hurt with those nails, not to mention those nasty weapons! Ick! Festan put on his best polite face and tried not to cringe too much. He simply hated how Doelms didn’t shave their backs, what with all that filthy matted hair that grew from the shoulders all the way down to the back of their hands. The Doelms also had no fashion sense, wearing ugly assortments of bloodstained leathers, chainmail and plate that had no sense of style or color. It just made them uglier. And then their skin was marred with all kinds of frightening symbols carved into their flesh by self-inflicted claw marks. He shook his head. What kind of sick joy could be had by the infliction of such nasty scars and self-mutilation? Festan watched as the Doelm’s broad chests rose and swelled as they scowled at him, weapons twitching, but Festan showed no concern. Doelms were always so bloodthirsty, so fevered for war, but the Faun wasn’t even worried. He wondered whether they might like to share some of his tobacco or perhaps a few swigs of Faun Spirits. The forest had brought him bad company, but company all the same. ‘My company could simply work on their polite faces,’ he thought irritably. A tall hulking Doelm marched up to him, his smile lost somewhere in his beard. His beard was fuller than the other Doelms which made him look like some kind of pale shaggy lion. His skin was an odd color, green but far lighter, the color of sulfur. He wore brown leathers ripped with even more hideous claw marks and a partial set of bloodstained blue Doljinn military-issued platemail. ‘How rude!’ Festan thought, ‘You’re not even in the army! Where did you get that armor?’ The Faun would definitely have to take it upon himself to lighten the mood. “Oh look! A band of merry Doelm adventurers!” Festan smiled warmly at the brigands, “Welcome, to my forest home!” He took a bow. “Festan La Faun at your service, Merrymaker Extraordinaire and Minstrel at Large! Would you like me to sing you a song? You seem to have scared


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off my audience.” “Dolem!” the Doelm leader growled back. “Yes of course, Mr. Doelm,” Festan winked at him. “DOLEM!” the Doelm barked even louder, “And we’re not interested in your blasted piping! Now fork over those pouches or we’ll pick our teeth with your bones!” He raised his sword over the Faun. “Ah, boss, that’s a Faun!” said another Doelm with hesitation, “We don’t usually mess with Fauns, remember?” “Shut up!” the Doelm leader snapped at his comrade, “It’s about time these pipeblowers learned to fear us like the rest of the forest.” He looked back at Festan with a fiery glower, “Besides, I don’t think they can do what people say. It’s all just a big fat smokescreen dredged up by his weak miserable woodland kin to get us to leave their kind alone. I say we burn the Faun town and their fabled Enchanted Wood the others fear so much, take all the spoils for ourselves.” “Friends, I’m so glad you came to visit me,” Festan said cheerfully, “it is such a beautiful day, isn’t it? The wind is whistling through the leaves. The scent of wildflowers in bloom is strong on the air. I’m just glad I can share it with such a fine group of party guests like you.” “Ha!” the Doelm leader laughed, “Stupid Faun! You must be as blind as a bat! Karus Forest is a dump! You’ve obviously never been over to my neck of the woods, have you?” “I’ve been over every inch of my forest home thank you,” he said still trying to be nice, “which, may I remind you makes you a guest, but it’s still a fanciful place to live, even if you try to make it a little uglier.” “You see the world through rose petals, silly Faun!” the Doelm leader said. He smiled and pointed with his sword, “Take a good long look at the nasty little surprise that lies beside your hoof, right beneath the brush.” Festan hesitated and looked down. He noticed at last flies buzzing around a rock overgrown with ivy. He blinked and observed the color was far too light for stone. It looked like pale half-eaten away flesh. He realized to his horror it was a man’s severed head, crawling with worms and maggots. Disgusting! The death was still fresh. The Faun frowned deeply, his heart flaring up with anger. He still wasn’t scared. ‘These were the rudest party guest ever!’ he thought in his little rage. “What’s the matter Faun?” the Doelm asked, watching in amusement, “Cat got your tongue?” The band of Doelm brigands broke out into cruel laughter. Festan gripped his Widdlepipe and said with an icy calm, “Everything falls back to the woods some day. Eat and make merry for


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tomorrow we die.” The Doelm pointed his sword at Festan right between the eyes. “And today you’ll get a good hard taste of death!” “You’re quite rude for a party guest, you know,” Festan said with a slight pout, “I think I need to teach you a lesson in manners.” The Doelm leader growled and gestured worriedly, “Stop him before he casts a spell on us!” The band of brigands rushed forward, weapons raised in the air. The Doelm leader raised his jagged sword. Festan calmly put the Widdlepipe to his lips. He blew softly, but this time a shower of sparkles floated slowly up into the air. A fanciful melody filled the forest and the sparkles danced among the charging Doelms like tiny woodland sprites. The Doelm leader froze and stared in horror at the tiny little specks of light, which fluttered and twirled through the air in front of him. He stumbled a nervous step backwards, when the magic particles breathed into his nose and landed in his ears. He swatted at them, but to no avail. He tried to clamp his hands over his ears to shut out the music, but his entire body went as stiff as wood. His glowing yellow eyes flickered around in his head, but he could not move. He watched as his foot started to tap the ground with the catchy beat against his will. The other Doelms also froze, watching in wonder. The Doelm leader broke out suddenly into a dance. He clapped his hands and twirled around with a fairy-like grace. He dipped and bowed and spun on his toes. His eyes looked around wildly like a trapped prisoner in his own head. He gritted his teeth through the humiliation, but still he danced on. His scarred and hard face protested against the ridiculous grace of the dance. The other Doelms laughed heartily, that is until their own feet started to tap to the beat as well. Festan’s music rose even louder, like a sweet honey potion making love to their ears. The entire band of brigands joined their leader in the synchronized dance. Their movements were perfectly timed, every leap and bound right on beat. The monstrous Doelms leapt with such perfect form they could have joined the ballet. Animals giggled from their hiding places. The Faun had total control over the mean band of Doelms except for their scowls, but he was far from finished with them. He paused on his pipe and said with a bold smirk, “Come along now, my merry band of minstrels.” Festan took back to the pipe hard. He played on as he turned around and skipped away. The heavy armor of the Doelms banged noisily after him like a symphony of pots and pans. He could imagine the looks


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on their ugly faces. He heard them curse and jeer. The Doelms skipped along after him. Trees passed by as Festan paraded his hostage dance party through the forest. He made them skip and dance for some time. The animals grew bold, skirting along the edges of the procession. He heard other friendly woodlanders laugh outloud as the charmed band of merry Doelm brigands passed them by. “The Fauns, the Fauns they dance and sing,” Festan took the pipe from his lips and sang, “they drink and be merry till dawn’s dawning. The sun, the moon, the stars, they dance with the Faaaaauns! The birds, the squirrels, the frogs pitch in and sing. They trill and squeak until dusk’s dawning. Come along everyone let’s sing and dance with the Faaaaauns!” “Curses!” the Doelm bandit leader grumbled. “Come everybody, sing along!” Festan shouted back at them. The Faun launched into an even bolder solo on his Widdlepipe. The Doelms even lost control of their mouths, a dozen awkward horrible singing voices plaguing the air, “The Fauns, the Fauns they dance and sing, they drink and be merry till dawn’s dawning. The sun, the moons, the stars, they dance with the Faaaaauns! The birds, the squirrels, the frogs pitch in and sing. They trill and squeak until dusk’s dawning. Come along everyone let’s sing and dance with the Faaaaauns!” Festan skipped up a heavily forested hill and finally stopped at the top. He continued playing, looking down over the far side of the hill that he knew to be rocky and steep. The Doelms reached the top skipping after him. The Faun eyed the nasty patch of thorn bushes which waited at the foot of the hill. ‘That will teach these rude guests some manners,’ he thought. The animals stopped at Festan’s ankles and watched in amusement. A Doelm or two managed a curse, but they sung and skipped gaily right over the hill. The Doelm chorus suddenly broke apart into a series of panicked screams, shouts and curses. The band of brigands slipped and stumbled on the loose rock, tumbling one by one down the steep hillside. Festan pulled the pipe from his lips and watched them plunging straight into the nasty patch of thorns. He heard branches snap and snag on tough Doelm skin. The brigands finally came to a stop, spitting and groaning, cursing the Faun from far below. “If you don’t learn to be nice,” Festan shouted, shaking his little pipe at them, “next time I’ll drop you off a cliff!”


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Chapter Three:

The World

We Knew…

avril and Edronius stared silently at the desolate plaza that had once been the legendary mage markets of the Arodius District. The wreckage of overturned booths, stalls, torn canopies and

battered down shops still littered the market grounds. The debris had simply been left to rot. Men had not moved in on the district or bothered to clean up the debris for fear of a magic curse. It felt like a giant hole had been left behind in the heart of the crowded marketplace. The tall looming curtain walls of the Arodius District cast a grim shadow over the market’s former chief attraction. Guards walked the ramparts hundreds of feet above with nary a care. Thick crowds went about their business in the adjacent bazaars as if the mage markets never existed. The two friends were at a loss for words. Their master’s symbolic words depicting a whore cast out into the streets by a callous people resonated with a chilling ring of truth. “So much for the world we knew,” said Edronius and turned his back. He shifted his staff to his opposite hand and looked around uneasily. “What do we do now?” “I have no idea,” said Davril sadly. The warmagi tried not to make it too obvious he had already noticed crowds of merchants and shoppers eying them and whispering in their general direction. The two friends exchanged knowing gazes and strode awkwardly away. A man pointed at Edronius whose ears turned as red as his robes. Davril could tell his friend simply wished he could disappear. He was drawing too much attention to himself. They picked up the pace, made a few quick turns and melted back into the fanfare and commotion of the main marketplaces. The Arodius District was the largest, most crowded trade bazaar in all southwestern Sylvane. Davril and Edronius pushed through thick crowds, dodging horses, carriages, trade carts and other traffic. The markets clamored with haggling and squabbles broke out in various places. The street corners teemed with people of all colors, class and creed. Elves, Dwarves and men, women and children representing nearly every human nationality filled the streets. There were dark-haired Doljinns, Brigorians, Vespuvians, Durnishmen, light-haired Shamites, Haradrik and Terramothians, people of mixed clans and many more. Davril looked around. There were so many eyes. Davril and Edronius hadn’t visited the mainland much since the

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abolishment of magic. Phendyrimoth had warned them that the world had changed. There were now bounties on the heads of mages. He looked at every person as if they were about to turn them in for a bag of bloodstone. A fisherwife’s eyes lingered on Edronius and she shooed her children away. An old man outright stared at the oddly dressed mage. A kid pointed at the orb atop Edronius’ staff. Most of the guards were high on the ramparts above, but still a good number patrolled the streets. The two mages passed several guards standing duty just outside one of the city’s many barracks that had been built into the capital’s complex system of walls. The capital was comprised of ten districts each the size of a city and so it reasoned that Doljinaar housed enough guards to fill out an entire army. A Doljinn guard with a moustache stared at them as they passed, but they kept their heads low. He did not budge from his post. Davril frowned miserably. There were people everywhere. Any one of them could be an informant for the local authorities or worse. He had heard there were now bountyhunters that earned a living by turning mages in. Magehunters. A few friends he had even known back home had been killed by magehunters. He looked at the warrior types with even more distrust. He saw Doljinn, Durnish, Brigorian, Braznian and Haradrian warriors armed to the teeth, but there were so many soldiers, sailors, mercenaries and adventurers in these parts. How could he tell the difference until someone drove a dagger into his side? “Wait,” Davril said, “we should stop and think this through.” “What?” “Do remember what Master Phendyrimoth said about moles and headhunters?” he asked, trying not to use the official terms. He could not stop thinking about magehunters. “Yeah,” Edronius replied, “these streets feel so different from when I grew up here. I never remember feeling so many eyes on me.” “You can say that again.” “We’ll have to be careful,” Edronius said, “come on, I know where we can look for work. It’s not far from my father’s stall.” Davril followed his friend further into the Arodius District. They passed down several streets of tall gray Doljinaarian shops with blue tiled gable roofs. The sons and daughters of shopkeepers stared down from balconies while mothers hung laundry over clotheslines that spanned the busy streets. Pureblooded black-haired Doljinns walked the streets with an air as pride as stark as the blue and white banners that hung from the buildings. The fiery standard of the white lion of Doljinaar roared in glorious silence on every banner.


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The last street opened up into a large open air market comprised of spread out buildings and many plazas where out-of-town traders were permitted to set up shop. Tables, rugs and canopies filled the plazas with splashes of color, displaying wide assortments of goods from all parts of the kingdom. There were also many wood stalls, shuttered booths and colorful tents. Never did the tapestry of Doljinaar’s multi-cultural centers burn so brightly as did in her markets. Davril felt even more nervous going into the middle of the crowded marketplace, but the people were so jammed packed together they didn’t stare at Edronius. There was such a bountiful array of goods. The gold-haired Sun Elves sold items widdled of sunwood, jewelry beset with rare gems, wines, herbs, spices, bows and Elvish Steel. Small pockets of Dwarves allowed shoppers to test their first-rate arms and armaments. A few tinkerers even drew crowds of curious onlookers by performing demonstrations of their most off-the-wall inventions. The warmagi’s nervous eyes fluttered to every corner of the busy marketplace. Doljinns offered sculptures, ironwork, weapons and armor. Durnish sold fine wares, skilled crafts and various services. The Haradrik displayed strange beasts, items fashioned of foreign white woods and stones from the largely uncharted lands of Witherglace. The Shamites haggled mercilessly over all manner of goods. Davril imagined he could spend hours browsing over the thousands of wondrous items for sale, but that was not why they had come. Davril followed Edronius down the next street. His trust in Edronius soured as they took an unexpected turn down a shady alley. They emerged onto a rundown backstreet teeming with disreputable men. Davril did not approve. Thuggish brutes lined the sidewalks looking dark and menacing. Black market dealers, poachers, trappers, dustdealers and the like were the only ones trading here. Drunk and motionless men lay in alleys outside the countless taverns and whorehouses. Granted, they were far fewer guards on this street, but scoundrels the likes of these would turn them in with scarcely a wink. “Edronius, what are we doing here?” Davril asked. “What do you mean?” said Edronius, “This is the best place to find work. My father used to hire men off this street all the time to accompany us on our expeditions. I’m sure we can find some good work here too, or at least an interesting story.” “I’m not sure I’m interested in their kind of work,” Davril said. He watched as a burly scar-faced Tulestine mercenary pulled a man’s severed head out of a sack and dropped it on the table of some oily faced Shamite merchant. The Tul’s long topknot hung almost to his knees signifying he was a prosperous and successful warrior.


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The merchant set down a glass of red wine, grinned wickedly and tossed a handful of bloodstone pieces at the Tul’. The mercenary snatched up the coins in his greedy fingers. “I’m not one for interesting stories either,” Davril said, “especially if we end up in one of them.” “Just follow my lead, Davril,” said Edronius, “and you’ll be fine.” Edronius headed down the street. Davril hesitated, his eyes sweeping nervously over the crowds. He caught the gaze of a scar-faced Braznian warrior. The man was part of a rough-looking bunch of other Braznians. They wore crimson banded mail which bore the emblem of their deity the fire horse, Raa’Shan. The Braznian whispered something to his right-hand man. The leader nodded still staring at the warmagi. Davril’s blood ran as cold as ice water. Where they magehunters? If so they would stop at nothing. Braznians were fearless and known for their reckless “Red Blood” behavior. Could Edronius and he handle an entire band of magehunters? The warmagi put a hand on his hilt and hurried after Edronius. He cast several glances back. The Braznian was still staring at him. Davril went to go tell Edronius, but the red robe had sat down at a table with a group of snake-handlers. A hairy black-haired Brigorian tapped a box loudly and pulled it up. A cobra sprang up from under the box. Davril’s jaw dropped as his friend took turns swatting at the cobra who snapped back. Edronius must have played the game before because he swatted the snake three times on the snout without getting bit. The other ruffians laughed and clapped him upside the back. He seemed to know them. Davril shook his head, leave it to Edronius to fit in among the dregs of society. “Fancy a kilo of Stardust, soldier?” he heard someone say. The warmagi turned and regarded a Shamite dustdealer. The Shamite smirked brashly back at him. He held a small bag of the sparkling drug known as Stardust. Stardust was a strong hallucinogen and could be inhaled in a bowl of steaming water. Davril frowned. Gold jewelry and chains poured out of every orifice of the Shamite’s brazenly smirking face. He wore rich golden robes and a turban so large it looked like it could break his neck. His wavy blonde hair had been sprinkled with golddust and he even had a few golden teeth. The dustdealer grinned slimily and winked at him, “It will put the twinkle back in your eyes.” Davril scowled fiercely. Shamites! He backed away out of sheer disgust. He could not abide Shamites. They were the worst of men as far as he was concerned. Greedy, money-grubbing thieves! Snakes and


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conmen all! He ignored the dustdealer and backed into the street, but Shamites were everywhere…haggling and swindling, lounging and dining, being paraded around on canopied litters by hosts of slaves or sheltered under umbrellas. They were escorted by huge bodyguards and armed thugs who shoved people out of the streets. “Enchanted wares?” another Shamite said from his side, trying to guide him into his bawdy colorful tent. “Dark Elven black bone?” called another Shamite merchant from behind his grisly booth. Black skulls and bones hung from twine ropes. He even sold knife and tool handles made of black bone. Davril felt the bile rise to the top of his throat. Several more Shamites called out to him, but his mind had already checked out. He spun around trying to escape the barrage of buttery Shamite tongues, but he was trapped. He was tempted in a moment of weakness to call for the city guards. Worse the sheer clash of colors, commotion and blare of the markets overloaded his senses and he wanted to scream out. Oh, how he hated being in cramped stifling crowds like this! He froze suddenly. The Braznian warrior blocked his path. Edronius’ back remained turned. Davril’s blood ran as cold as the icy depths of the Haraglace. The Braznian was accompanied by his entire band of heavily armed warriors. He even had non-Braznians in his number. Two huge filthy seven-foot Grulls, eight dark-haired ponytailed Vespuvians and a very tall Haradrik with an eye-patch. They were a rough looking bunch, every last one of them. The warmagi grabbed for his sword and shouted at Edronius. The magehunters had come…

Far to the north, on an abandoned block in the bustling trade city of Kurn, a dark figure hid in the shadows of an alleyway. A pair of unsettling white eyes lingered on the chained gates of the condemned tower of Mithrelmora. Graven’s face had been badly scarred many years ago. He covered it with a red cloth mask he wore under his ram-horned helmet making him a truly menacing spectacle to behold. It was a miracle he could even see at all. His milky white eyes resembled scored cataracts chewed away by some horrible disease, but Graven’s eyes held no disease, maybe just the disease of hatred. ‘I know you’re hiding in there, you filthy little cockroaches!’ his thoughts


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filled his veins with fire, ‘You can’t hide from me forever. I swear on my life I’ll hunt you down, every last beastly one of you!’ Graven squeezed the hilts of his double-sided battleaxe and spiked mace for comfort. It did not satisfy him much. Only their blood would gratify his ever burning desire for vengeance. He would not stop. He would not rest until they were all dead, every last one of them. He fortified his heart with a fortress of painful memories of his wife and daughters burning in Norfork all those years ago. The memories fueled the quenchless fire that burned brightly deep inside his scorched black soul consuming the last raw shreds of his humanity. He was but a hollow decrepit shell of the man he had once been, all love and honor drained from him, his heart still beat, but he had died long ago. The giant two-handed sword strapped to his back grew thirsty and so did the countless daggers and other throwing weapons strapped into the arsenal of weapons he carried on his person. His crimson plate armor shone with a soft glow. The armor was solid terramite and hummed like a dull magnet, but it provided a key measure of protection against his foremost prey. Ripped scarlet cloth, as red as blood, blew in the wind over his plate leggings. A single piece of the same torn cloth hung from the back of his horned helmet flapping like a banner of death in the wind. He was a messenger of blood, a purger of disease. Graven was all too familiar with blood. A dozen bloodstained armbands of various colors hung at his belt, each marked by a symbol of a school of magic. The armbands held no representation to his own scholarly pursuits. They were trophies, bounties he would soon collect on. Graven was as tough a warrior as they came. Over six-feet tall and thick, a Tulestine by race, he was a master at arms. He was also an ex-soldier turned bountyhunter with the coin to have trained under the most elite warrior guilds in the world. But he had to admit as the years wore on, he felt far more like an executioner. It had grown too easy. The glowing white tower of Mithralmora glimmered faintly in the late afternoon sun. Its power waned after all these years, but still magic pulsed in the walls with a faint delicate heartbeat. The wind swept in through cracks in the boarded up, grayed out, double doors of the tower. The legions of Doljinaar had battered down the gates many years ago. The eerie white mystical stone of the tower still glowed beneath black scorch marks and tufts of overgrown ivy. Graven had always found such enchantments to be wholly unnatural and he wasn’t talking about the blasts from artillery fire. The shriveled sick leaves and vines dripped with an eerie darkness weeping like chilling black tears. Graven would never go near such a place. The authorities believed


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the tower now lay condemned, abandoned by its former lords, but Graven knew better. After all, cockroach infestations could never truly be stamped out, not when the legions had failed to gut the bowels of this tower all those years ago. They should have ended it that day…burned the nests down to the last egg. The crumbled and trampled courtyard was now a briar patch of old warped trees and snarled thorns. Its paths had once been graced by those thought to be enlightened. ‘Fools!’ Graven thought, ‘You cannot hope to control it! Magic is wild and untamable. The pursuit of magic will be the death of us all!’ Mithrelmora had once been the intellectual epicenter of magic study of the civilized west, the birthplace of centuries of senseless genocide as Graven saw it through his clouded eyes. He glanced around. He sensed no one was near, but yet he waited. This part of Kurn was always quiet these days. Most city-goers just assumed avoid the tower, fearing a curse might guard its gates and so Graven saw no one in sight. He questioned his own judgment in lingering so close to the tower, but magic was the disease in desperate need of a cure. The buildings around him had been abandoned since the day the legions of Doljinaar first marched on this tower. Much anger revolved around magic in the general populace and a far greater fear had sunken its roots in deep over the years. The long history of Doljinaar had given rise to terrible Wars of the Robes that had cost tens of thousands of lives. Many wizards often went mad in their reckless pursuits of the Greater Powers. In their vain bungling quest to attain magical godhood these filthy cockroaches often lost their minds, slaying thousands in the process with their terrible powers. The Norfork Massacres was the last straw which led to the complete abolishment of magic. Graven’s blood boiled at the thought of the Norfork Massacres. He was there seven years ago when the warlock had first gone mad. What a fool he had been! He had actually tried to settle down, marry off and raise a family. He should have known a man with his history could never have a normal life. He was doomed, fated to stand in the wrecking path of magic. He had watched in horror as the warlock ripped open the skies and burned half the city to the ground. Such unfathomable power... He knew firsthand the horrific powers magic could unleash. He knew, his face knew, his family knew as they burned alive. He would not stop until he had wiped the scourge of magic off the face of Covent forever. Graven paused in his dark thoughts, as he noticed a hooded figure duck out of the tower through a crumbled hole in the walls. The man was clad in black robes, leper’s cloaks to be more precise. He leaned heavily on an old widdled staff that looked too well carved to be a poor old man’s walking stick. The man glanced about and hurried


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through the ruined courtyard. He reached the mangled black ornamental iron fence, checked the street and ducked quickly through several missing bars. The stranger appeared to breathe a little easier once out on the streets thinking the coast was clear. He was dead wrong. “I see you,” Graven whispered harshly, “you filthy little cockroach.” Graven had a deep baritone voice, one that echoed like the voice of a god rolling down a mountain, but the man was too far away to hear him. He waited in the alley. He did not move. It must have been the devil’s luck, but the man took the nearest street which ran right past Graven’s alleyway. Graven stepped out of the alley when the man reached him. He blocked the middle of the street. The hooded man froze startled. He looked up at him, and studied the well-armed warrior, revealing a long white beard. Graven could only make out the line of the man’s jaw under the shadows of his hood, but the skin looked far too smooth for leprosy. “You would be wise to step aside for your own sake, Warrior,” the man said at last, “unless you wish to catch the disease.” “I am unfooled by your disguise, Mage,” Graven cut right to the point, “though you are right in saying you are diseased.” His deep voice boomed in his helmet amplifying his intimidation. The man slid his hand higher up his staff guardedly. His right sleeve fell back to reveal white robes concealed under the leper’s cloak. Graven caught a glimpse of the true color of his robes. The man caught the look and spoke back with confidence, “I know who you are too, Magehunter,” he put a bit of iron in his voice, “do not be fooled by my white robes. I am a Diviner well schooled in the deadlier spells of Light Magic. I warn you our spells are not all flash and flare. I am quite powerful.” “You don’t scare me, filthy cockroach!” the magehunter spit back, “My purse has grown fat hunting down members of your order. Believe me I’ve killed wizards far more powerful than the likes of you.” “I will not warn you again,” the diviner said. “Then die.” Graven swung his axe. The diviner snapped his open hand at the magehunter’s face. A brilliant flash of light exploded. Graven carried the blow through. The light was blinding, but it did not even faze the magehunter. Wood cracked as the bold warrior cleaved the mage’s staff in two. The diviner cried out as the impact ripped the staff painfully out of his fingers. He fell backward on his butt staring up at Graven in shock. His leper’s cloak fell completely off exposing his white robes. Graven followed up with a mace blow.


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The diviner rolled to the side and just barely slipped the deathblow. The mace struck the pavement with a loud smash. Gravel stung the air. The diviner grabbed his leper’s cloak and threw it at Graven. The leper’s cloak got tangled on the magehunter’s horns and this time he really was momentarily blinded. He ripped the cloak off his face with a hard yank. The fabric ripped easily in his strong grip and he saw the diviner fleeing down the street. He would not get far. Wizards had terrible endurance and Graven’s body was built like a well-oiled killing machine. The magehunter stalked after him. The diviner reached the end of the street and spun around to face the magehunter. It appeared he knew his physical limitations as well, but what he could not fathom would be the limitations of his own magic. He stretched out his hands and burning white flares danced at his fingertips. A firestorm of power crackled around him in sizzling, popping light. He intensified its heat and flung it at Graven. The white fire burned so hot two banners on the adjacent buildings went up in flames. The magehunter merely smirked knowingly as the flares tore through the air. He swung the back of his gauntlet and batted away the flares like they were mere flies. He squeezed his weapons. His terramite armor glowed a bright furious red as it resisted the magic. The diviner blinked in shock. He gritted his teeth, flinging more and more flares at the magehunter. Graven slowly stalked down the street. He no longer bothered to bat the flares away. The flares struck and exploded against his armor, but he did not slow. The terramite held. The diviner intensified his onslaught, sweat pouring down his face, flinging an unceasing barrage of flare spells at his attacker. The magehunter pushed forward unslowing like a heavily armored wagon under a hail of pebbles. His big bellowing laughter rolled through his helmet. He laughed harder and harder, his cold cruel laughter echoing in his ears. “You are nothing,” he said callously, “nothing without your magic, cockroach, and now I’m going to crush you like the insect you are!” Graven cherished the look of pure unadulterated fear that ghosted across the diviner’s face. He closed in on the soft-bodied man, his axe and mace gleaming in the sunlight. The diviner ceased his bombardment. He wheezed heavily, his face soiled with fear and he fought to calm his mind. Graven was still twenty paces off, taking cold measured steps meant to convey a far darker message. The diviner raised his hands. He stretched out to the living things around him, beckoning them to come to his aid. Wisps of glowing white light exuded off the vines, oxidation and other overgrowth back at the tower. More Life Energy rose up from the


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rats hiding under the abandoned buildings, the bugs easily lost in the streets and even the birds as they passed high overhead. The energy gathered into a crackling white ball which hovered over the diviner’s fingertips. The powers of all life gathered to his hands, but even White Inertia had proven surprisingly deadly. White Robes had at first hoped that the discovery of Life Energy had restored the lost arts of healing, but instead the energy had the opposite effect. It was just as lethal and potent as the Death Energy of the Black Robes. And so the magic had become an offensive, not clerical spell. The diviner frowned sardonically. At least the spell would suit his needs for now. Graven’s booming laughter rang out from his helmet. He raised his axe as he came within ten paces of the mage. The diviner threw the now massive ball forward with a loud battle cry. He dove for cover and buried his face in his arms. The crackling ball of white energy exploded with a ground shaking boom. Finally the explosion drowned out Graven’s cold crowing laughter. The street shook. Debris blew every which direction. Smoke poured from a huge crater in the street. Several buildings completely collapsed. The diviner finally looked up after the smoke cleared. The dust stung his eyes. He rubbed at them trying to clear his blurry vision. A tall dark armored shadow stood over him unscathed. Graven chuckled slightly. “That tickled.” “What!” the diviner stared up in disbelief, “But how?” Graven swung his mace downward. The diviner screamed at the crack of bone and granite. He felt blood and unbearable pain enflaming his back left leg. He rolled on the ground clutching his crushed foreleg, but the pain was too much. He raised his right hand to unleash another terrible spell. The motion was cut short. He felt the bite of steel as the magehunter’s axe cut his arm clean off. He lost more blood and felt his consciousness fast fleeing from his panicked thoughts. He rolled on the ground screaming in terrible agony. His hood fell back revealing his face. Graven stopped suddenly, recognizing the mage. “I remember you, Lorac, right-hand to Lupier of the High Mage Council…a worthy kill. You were one of the few lucky white robes to escape all those years ago when the Black Robes left you Light Robes to be slaughtered at the siege on this very tower. The legions of Doljinaar had you cornered like rats. I fought among their number. They paid me well to spill the blood of your precious order. I would have gladly spilled your blood for free.” Lorac could only roll around in misery. His mind could barely fight off the floods of unconsciousness and death.


39

“It seems after they scattered you to the four winds,” Graven went on, “men have forgotten you’re kind still lurk in the shadows, multiplying, rebuilding your power and numbers. The legions may have grown fat and lazy, but I have not lost the taste for your blood.” “No, please!” Lorac barely managed. “You shall have no mercy!” Graven shouted, his voice suddenly aflame, “Were my wife or daughters shown mercy when that mad warlock melted the skin off their bones?” “Please stop I beg you!” “Don’t tell me!” Graven roared. The magehunter drew his long sword from its scabbard. “I was there at the Norfork Massacres. I saw your despicable kind slay thousands!” Lorac could barely see past the blood, tears and cold clouds of death closing in around him. The magehunter towered over him with his great sword as long as a man was tall. The mage looked on the face of his dark-helmed executioner, scarred and twisted in an unfathomable rage like a monster even through the mask. “You escaped my blades once, but never again. If it wasn’t for the king’s traitor brother, Phendyrimoth, you’d all be dead! I will find him and the rest of your order I swear it. I will slaughter you all!” Lorac spit at him. “Curse you!” “No! You are the curse, the stain on human existence,” Graven shouted, “magic will make the world burn. You are but a plague waiting to break out. You pursue this disease, this magic and yet you cannot hope to control it. One by one you fall to your lusts over the Greater Powers, one by one you fall into madness. And then you slaughter thousands of innocents in your insanity! You butchered my family!” he shouted, foaming at the mouth, “You are the disease and I am the cure!” Lorac’s last memory was the painful sting of the magehunter’s giant sword as it sliced straight through his neck…

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