Wielder of the Flame (16 page)

Why could he not let the orbs fall into my hands?

He thought again.

He opened his eyes as the hovering chamber shuddered to a
stop, soon he would be near the crystal, soon he would feel its strength and
its energy and soon he would be back to his full power.

The doors slid open to reveal a long thin bridge thousands
of feet from the ground connecting the flying room with the unbelievably
enormous dome in the center of the building-city. Tremos stepped out onto the
rail-less bridge and began to cross its wide expanse.

The walk across the bridge was not far but seemed to take an
eternity in his weakened state.

Tremos finally reached the gigantic black rock doors. This
was the Dark Lord’s personal entrance into the large dome. He opened them with
a wave of his hand as well.

Far down below, the crystal dominated the center of the
dome. The precious stone was large, the size of four or five men tall and half
as wide around. It stood upon a gargantuan pedestal constructed around the
crystal. Hundreds of hanging walkways, ladders, and all sorts of decorated
metal scaffolding arrayed the crystal on all sides. Its surface was all black
but shined and glittered, reflecting its surroundings very clearly. It had
hundreds of thousands of facets, each about as long and wide as an open hand.

The greatest of his gnome alchemists had their elaborate
laboratories, gadgets and contraptions set up around the vicinity of the
pedestal and crystal. Unless ordered otherwise, they were at all times working
on understanding the powers and workings of the crystal. Now, they were
abandoned, at his command. The gigantic dome was empty, and silent.

 A chair, similar to the throne found in the Overlord’s
chambers, was situated near the top of the crystal.

To the left, a massive stairway, built around the
circumference of the dome, led down to the bottom floor. To the right an
intricate system of ropes and pulleys operated a large moving platform also to
the bottom floor.

Tremos moved towards neither of these to reach the crystal.

Dark black mist creeped out of Tremos’s body, within moments
the immense sickly looking beast formed from the mist and Tremos was gone.

The monster jumped, plummeting quickly to the floor below.
Moments before impact it spread both its enormous black wings and pumped them
violently to land softly on the ground next to the large pedestal and the
throne there. Blackness quickly seeped from the creature’s chest, forming into
Tremos.

Tremos approached the throne and sat down, facing the
crystal. The dark mist tendrils floated back to his body, the creature now
gone.

The top of the crystal was unfinished, missing a number of
pieces. A chunk roughly the size of a human head was simply not there.

Slowly, carefully, he placed his hands upon the black,
sparkling, reflective surface of the crystal.

Power instantly began to surge into him and Tremos slowly
closed his eyes.

The pain he was feeling now was only a small setback to his
plans. He would soon be strong enough to return to his hunt. He needed that
map, it had the location of the rest of the crystal shards which he needed to
finish rebuilding the main crystal. When he was finished with that, nothing
would be able to stand in his way. The Gateway Realm would be his and his
possibilities for ultimate power would be endless.

As he drew magic from the black crystal he continued to
think upon his encounter with the Keeper.
Why could he not let the orbs fall
into my hands?

He thought for a third time.

He thought and regenerated, thought and regenerated.

And then the realization hit him.

The sudden comprehension triggered a violent surge of rage
within him. For a moment or two the rage built as the implications of that
understanding deepened.

Then, like a dam bursting abruptly, he let the rage come
forth. He lifted his head back and let out a roar that was empowered with the
force of the beast which he called his pet. The chamber echoed and echoed and
echoed with the sound.

All those within the giant castle heard their master’s angry
cry.

And all who heard him, trembled with fear until even their
bones were shaking.

.

The town square of Essoril was
filled with people.

The sun shone warmly down upon the marketplace, glittering
off of shiny display carts of fancy glassware, bejeweled trinkets, tall green,
blue and dark red bottles of strong drink, and across the wavy surface of the
fountain statue in the center of the large plaza. The bitter cold of Gelu had
held long, even through till the end of Nouvus Lucis, but this Refoveo had come
with a good heat. With the light and the heat it had also brought a flourish of
traveling merchants through the small city. Many were headed to Itherin for The
Gathering, promise of good deals and large trade amounting to great riches lead
them across great distances. The locals were taking a bit of an advantage with
the travelers, but that was to be expected to turn a good profit. Many of the
adventurers had come from small outposts far in the east, deep in Wildlands,
where accommodations were not quite inviting, and the folk in Essoril were
making an extra effort to provide much better quality goods and services, and
charging a pretty penny for it. Some of the travelers were even relic hunters.   

Two boys stood near a display cart of one such traveler who
was a relic hunter. A many number of others also looked on in a large half
circle.

The first boy was taller than the other. He wore the simple
clothes of a blacksmith’s apprentice on his day off, plain dark pants and black
boots. His light parchment colored tunic had no sleeves and large v neck was
open because of the heat, revealing his well-cut upper-body physique, earned
after many cycles hammering metal by the forge. His fairly long light brown
hair fell over his handsome face. The most distinguishing feature of the boy
were his sharp eyes. They appeared a simple grey in color, but upon close
inspection shimmered like gleaming steel.

His name was Puck.

The second boy was about a foot shorter, but also handsome.
He was plainly dressed as well, with a black shirt, brown leather vest, light
brown breeches and brown leather boots. He had jet black hair, mid length and
unkempt, and a serious, but curious and engaged, look in his dark brown eyes.
His name was Ranasa. They both looked to be about the same age, seventeen and
sixteen cycles respectively.

They watched, fascinated, as the relic hunter demonstrated
his find in the Wildlands. The man was tall and scrawny but still had thin,
well defined muscles. He wore blue and gold loose flowing travelers robes, cut
off at the shoulders baring his sun touched arms, and open, to reveal his bare
chest. He stood next to a large faintly glowing blue stone about three times
the size of a man’s head. The stone was hollowed out, with nothing inside. He
had a large clear vial filled with water in one hand.

“On this blazingly hot day, with the power in this enchanted
stone, I bring to you the white snows of Gelu with a simple tip of this water
into the bowl I carved into the rock. BEHOLD!”

The man moved with an extravagant flourish, and poured the
vial into the stone. Puck and Ranasa were amazed as the water instantly turned
into pure white snow upon contact with the stone. The crowd gasped in equal
amazement as the boys.

“If you do not believe it,”

The man dipped a cup into the snow and tossed it at the
multitude. Many shouted and stumbled away, but a brave soul brought up a quick
hand and caught it. He quickly dropped it.

“It is cold! Cold as Gelu comes!” He said in awe.

“Remember!” The man said, “The magic of old is not lost, it
shall return, we shall find it, and we shall bring it back!”

The people clapped.

“But that is not all, This snow is pure, made from clear
water I gathered from a spring myself.”

He scooped the cup back into the snow, and pulled some out.
He then tilted it back and ate a cold mouthful.

“A nice refreshing treat on this hot Refoveo day! Now, for a
hundred quins each I will let you have your own cupful, but eat it quickly for
the magic wears away quickly and the snow will melt back to water if you are
not fast enough,” The man pointed at the already melting snow the observer had
dropped onto the town square clay tile.

It was quickly turning into a small puddle.

A number of the richer folk began pulling at their coin
purses, eager to be one of the few to taste the cold of snow in such heat.

Ranasa turned to his friend, “A hundred quins! Where in
Lyrridia could we even hope to get such wealth?”

Puck shrugged in equal dismay, “At least he demanded no coin
for the demonstration.”

“I mean I understand these artifact seekers must live off of
something but…”

Puck was only half hearing what Ranasa was saying because
someone at the edge of the crowd was drawing his attention.

It was a man Puck had seen a few times before within the
last fortnight. Why was he always around? Something about the figure seemed
odd. His attire was that of a traveler, which was not too out of place with so
many outsiders traveling through, but it was as if the man was just trying too
hard to seem like an outsider, as if he was desperate to blend in by sticking
out. The man kept looking over at Ranasa and him, and then glancing away,
pretending to be interested a cart of silks on display. Puck was not convinced.

He tried to dismiss the feeling, he was just tired from last
night, proud, but tired. He had finished another piece to a suit of armor he
was working on in the forge, using his Knowing, or The Sense, as his father
called it. A rare gift, passed down from his father, who received it from his
father and so forth down from many generations passed. Puck’s dad said it was a
part of their legacy before the War of Power, maybe even from the Beginning.
But those were legends, and Puck didn’t think too much about it. He only knew
that he had the Knowing now, and he liked using it very much. He wish he could
use it openly, he thought that it was such a thing that everyone should see and
admire, like the Relic Hunters and their magical trinkets, heralding for all to
see.

But he listened to his father well when he told him to keep
their power a secret.

“Puck?” Ranasa said again, nudging his friend.

“Beg your pardon,” he replied, pulling his attention away
from the stranger and back to Ranasa.

“I asked if you were hungry,”

“Yes,” Puck said

“Well, my mother is sure to have middag on the table by now,
see the sun,”

The sun was indeed about halfway across the clear blue sky.

“Of course,” Puck nodded, “But I promised my father I would
sup with him today.”

“It is no bother of mine,” Ranasa replied, “Meet back here
afterwards though? Mayhap another Relic Hunter will pass through come eve,”

“Mayhap,” Puck replied, “It is well,” he agreed, “Meet back
here in towns square after we have finished eating,”

He paused, glancing over at the man by the cart.

He was gone.

Puck felt a bit troubled.

“Ranasa—?” Puck said as his friend turned to go.

“What is it?”

“Did you—” Puck began, but shook his head, he was getting
himself worked up for nothing.

“Go and eat, you are hungry,” Ranasa said.

“Yes,” Puck nodded, his stomach grumbled in agreement.

They clasped forearms briefly and grinned.

“See you later,”

Puck nodded.

Ranasa turned and raced quickly through the towns square
back home, he was hungry also.

But Puck thought he would not yet return home. He would find
and trail the stranger, just to see what would come of it.

Probably nothing.

But his gut told him otherwise.

It did not take him long to find the
man again. He was at the other side of the market,
not
really looking
over more wares on display.

Puck began to shadow him, first from a distance, then
slowly, ever so slowly, easing his way closer and closer.

Puck wanted a good look at him, a real good look, to
memorize his countenance. His father taught him, you can understand much of a
person just by looking at their face, especially by what you see in their eyes.
He watched as the stranger purchased a leg of meat and cheese from Sranka’s
food stand. He watched the man eat slowly, then toss his leftovers to a nearby
balkar pen. He watched as the man wandered through the market, further and
further to the edges of town.

Puck didn’t know what he was hoping to see, some sort of
obvious sign that the man was,
was what
, a spy, a thief, an evil man of
some sort? Something. Puck trailed him and hoped for something. But the man
seemed mostly normal, aside from the occasional glances, but pretty ordinary.

Puck thought the man saw him a few times, but the boy was
quick enough to duck behind a stack of barrels, or blend in with a crowd of
buyers and sellers nearby just at the last moment. He decided perhaps he was
getting too close for comfort and fell back a ways.

Finally Puck saw the man pause at an alleyway, looking
furtively left and right to make sure no one was following him,
though I am
indeed
following you
, Puck thought with a grin.

And then the man turned swiftly and disappeared into the
passage between the two buildings.

Puck rushed forward towards the alley, he did not want to
give up the chase just yet, he was sort of enjoying himself. He was getting a
rush from the thrill of evading being caught.

He sprinted quickly down the road, dodging between crates
and barrels. He didn’t even realize how few people were nearby, in fact, there
was no one nearby.

As he neared the entrance to the alley he slowed down a bit
to quiet his footsteps, but not enough.

He rounded the corner quickly and stumbled right into the
man he had been following. He fell backwards, hard on his behind.

The man was on him in a moment, pinning him to the ground.

Puck struggled against the man’s weight and at the same time
took a long look at his face. The stranger smelled of many hot sweaty days on
the road. Sour ale hung heavily on his breath. The stranger appeared to be in
his thirty-fifth to fortieth cycle of life, shaved head with a scar jutting
from his forehead leading up far into his hairline. His eyebrows were black,
thin and curved, a small knotted goatee of the same color grew from the tip of
his chin. Small silver hoops pierced his ears in numerous places. His skin was
dark in appearance, or so it seemed at first, but then Puck realized the man
was painted all over, like a lady of the evening would paint herself to
disguise her imperfections. He was large and muscular. His eyes were light
brown, fierce and deadly. What did he need to hide?

The man pressed his knees against Puck’s arms, holding him
down, and with his free hand (the other still holding the knife to Puck’s
throat) he forced one of Puck’s eye’s open wide. Puck fought away from the man
but the man seemed to nod, satisfied he had glimpsed enough and pulled away
from the boy slightly.

There were three more men, like the one pinning Puck down,
standing nearby. They were dressed in the same brown and faded white skins and
traveling gear of journeymen.

One of them was holding Ranasa.

 What is going on, who are these people?
Puck thought
as he tried squirming out of the man’s grip.

“Do not fight, hold knife!” The man spoke the common tongue
with difficulty. Puck could feel the blade against the flesh of his neck and he
stopped struggling.

One of the men, the taller off the four, stepped forward to
get a closer look at Puck.

He grunted a few quick words to the man holding Puck.

The man holding Puck nodded and hoisted Puck to his feet,
turning as he did so.

“Watch friend now, he die.”

A look of pure terror overcame Ranasa as he overheard the
man.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Puck said quickly, struggling.

“Puck, do not let them kill me, please, Puck, PUCK!”

The man holding Ranasa drew a knife. Ranasa screamed and
began to thrash wildly. The man next to them clamped a hand over Ranasa,
muffling his screams.

Puck could not believe what was happening. He beat his head
fiercely against his captor, but he might as well have been hitting his head
against a stone wall for all the good that came of it. The knife rose. Puck’s
eyes widened in apprehension, Ranasa’s seemed as large as middag plates, tears
streamed down his face. The men were grinning, giddy at the spectacle, eager to
see the young man’s blood flow.

Where is the town guard?
Puck thoughts fired quickly
across the surface of his mind,
has not a single person heard us here? The
commotion? Our muffled cries?
PLEASE!
He cried to the Great Ones,
not
Ranasa, not my friend, someone help us, SOMEONE! PLEASE!

The blade fell.

There was a swift rushing sound and suddenly the head of the
man wielding the knife was thrust backward violently, a small hand axe
protruded from his face. There was a flash and splatter of red as the man fell,
Ranasa tumbled backward as well, though unharmed. 

The men cried in anger and turned. Puck felt his captor’s
grip loosen.

“Father!” Puck cried with joy.

Puck’s father, Marad, stood at the entrance to the alleyway,
almost completely blocking the passage with his broad shoulders and muscular
biceps. A small breeze ruffled his mid-length hair and full beard and
moustache. He was dressed in his smithing apron and thick breeches. The braided
leather belt his wife hand wove for him was around his middle, a number of axes
like the one already thrown hung from it. He held his largest sledge hammer in
his right arm, ready to swing at any moment. A necklace of small shiny chain
links hung around his neck.