Wielder of the Flame (7 page)

“Yes, of course, sir. I cheered for you in your last
competition,” Zildjin offered eagerly.

Lanvar nodded with a small grin, then turned to Soren, “I
would purchase both crates of your churta, then.”

Soren and Lanvar bartered for a moment on the price.

“The deal is done,” Soren stated after they agreed on a
price, “Zildjin, jump down and fasten the crates to their steeds.” 

Lanvar motioned for one of his servants to hand over a bag
of coins. Soren took it.

Zildjin sat motionless for a moment, looking at Lanvar, not
really realizing that Soren had spoken to him.

“Boy?” Soren prodded.

“Me? Oh, yes, of course, right away.”

Sesuadra was already in the back lifting one crate which he
passed to Marc. Zildjin jumped down from the wagon. The crates held small
crimson colored fruits. Marc carefully handed off the crate to Zildjin. They
repeated the actions and soon a second crate was loaded into Zildjin’s arms. He
quickly walked over to Lanvar’s steed.

“Secure them here,” Lanvar instructed.

Zildjin nodded and carefully placed the crates on the two
legged creatures back, behind Lanvar. He then deftly roped the crates into
place with a few tight knots.

“Very well done. Continue to cheer for me,” He said,
directing his attention to Zildjin, “your dedication is appreciated. Here is a
small token for your enthusiasm.” He reached into a bag tied to the side of the
saddle atop his animal. As he searched he spoke, “Remember, the magic of old is
not lost, as relic hunters we are bringing it back, piece by piece.”

Finally he pulled out something that looked like a silver
medallion, and then handed it to Zildjin.

“Take good care of it, there is something special about it.”

“Thank you sir,” Was all the young man could say.

The three riders turned and rode back up to the front of the
wagon train. Lanvar dismounted and entered back into the carriage. The others
took care of his steed and the crates of the fruit.

Zildjin stood, transfixed, looking at the small token in his
hand.

“Well, get back on the wagon!” Soren called, bringing the
boy out of his stupor.

 Zildjin jumped back in just as the wagon in front of them
began to move.

“Forward ho!” Soren cried, whipping the reins.

“What is it?” Marc asked after he helped Zildjin up.

Zildjin sat down, still looking at the gift, still
mystified. “He gave me something, I cannot believe it!”

He held up the artifact so Marc and Sesuadra could see it.

It was a silver medallion that fit easily in the palm of
Zildjin’s hand. One side of the pendant had strange but beautiful markings on
it and the other had a small figure embossed on its surface. The figure was
dainty, dressed in extravagant flowing robes with wings almost like that of a
butterfly on its back. Marc could not tell whether the figure was male or
female from its features, but it was a stunning piece of artwork. 

“It is of the Fae Ones,” Sesuadra whispered, inspecting the
item.

“The Fae Ones?” Soren asked, “They disappeared at the start
of the War of Power, everyone knows that.”

“True,” Zildjin chided in, “But some still believe they will
return again. Some even claim to see them from time to time!”

“To spy a Fae One would be extremely unlikely, and if a
person did truly see one, that person would be exceedingly lucky.”

Zildjin continued to stare at the coin for a long time. 

He finally, carefully placed the item inside his pocket,
patting it with an open hand to make sure it was safe.

They ate more food when the sun was
halfway through the sky.

Marc noticed that the day seemed to stretch on forever, he
was very hungry by the time Soren ordered some food and drink to be broken out
and distributed. Marc hungrily tore away at some cold meat that seemed overly
salty but still edible, mostly because of his hunger.

“Who was that man, why is he so important? And what is a
relic hunter?”

Zildjin had taken out the small token again and was fiddling
with it between his fingers. He opened his mouth as if to answer. After several
moments of silence, he seemed to give up and turned to Sesuadra for answers.

Sesuadra acknowledged that he was spoken to but seemed deep
in thought, sorting out how he wanted to say what he wanted to say.

Soren finally broke the silence.

“Best way to say it, is to start at the beginning, when the
Freelands were formed. The greatest victory the Freelanders had against the
Terragurion might was at Rawson’s Pass. The Noble Kingdom finally withdrew for
good and the Freelanders had their freedom. With the war behind them the
Freelanders had the monumental task of creating places to live, farm, and grow.
After many cycles passed and the cities developed, people began to remember the
old times and the magic it held. Tales of lost ancient treasures and magical
riches to be found in the Wildlands began to circulate and explorers began
investigating. It was dangerous work, however, so people began to train
specifically for that livelihood and relic hunting was born. Usually relic
hunters work alone, but sometimes they band together in small groups. Eventually
Guilds were formed, small at first, until they grew all through-out the
Freelands, and even into Independent Dominion. Today there are three major
Guilds.”

“Reclaimers, Crimson Accord, and Guardian Alliance,” Zildjin
jumped in quickly, “Lanvar’s father founded the Reclaimers.”

“Correct,” Sesuadra seemed a little annoyed at the
interruption but continued, “membership to these three guilds is very
restrictive. They are awarded only to those Relic Hunters who fulfill entry requirements,
which change depending on the Guild.”

“And they come to Kolima to celebrate a festival or
something?” Marc asked tentatively.

Soren nodded, “It is not just some festival or celebration,
it is The Gathering, a rich part of the history and culture here, a tradition
that runs deep in the roots of what it means to be free to choose one’s own
life-work. Once each cycle every Freelander has the opportunity to celebrate
the work that relic hunters do. Those who can work magic are few and far
between. During the Illuminated Era, before the War of Power, almost everyone
could wield magic, even young children grew up knowing how to use it. It made
the War of Power
the
most devastating time anyone can ever remember.
Even the lowliest foot-soldier could cast spells. Magic nearly wiped out all
living and breathing races of Lyrridia. Since that time, magic became a symbol
of evil and people stopped using it for fear of what it could do. Now, so many
cycles later the people long for the ability to create the wonders of the Illuminated
Era, before the War of Power. It seems that most these days cannot inherently
manipulate magic. The next best thing is using an item that was imbued with
magic from the ancient times, thus the esteem that relic hunters hold. They
inspire people. Every relic, every magical artifact they recover from the
Wildlands is a reminder of good times long past and a hope that one day things
can be like that again. This is why we have The Gathering. Seekers from the
guild also attend The Gathering. They are appointed by the various Guilds,
seeking out new and upcoming relic hunters, promising candidates that would do
well to join the Guild’s ranks. For those not quite as apt in the relic hunting
field, there are many smaller guilds with minimal requirements, with some
accepting any applicants with their own traveling gear, weapon, and a coin or
two in their pocket. The celebration is beneficial in other ways too, it
promotes trade, increases business, and lets people relax for a few days,
forgetting all their worries.”

Zildjin chimed into the conversation, putting away his
little relic, “The Noble Kingdom hates it too. Every cycle they try and do
something to upset the celebration. That is actually one reason they moved the
celebration to Kolima a few cycles ago. Kolima is better fortified and
protected than most cities in the Freelands, the furthest from Terragur as
well. Ses, do you remember a few festivals gone by? They discovered one of the
relic hunters had funded his expeditions with Terragurion gold and he was run
out of Kolima by the large majority of the Freelander’s there at the
competition.”

Sesuadra finally spoke, “Of course,” he grinned, “that relic
hunter was never heard of again.”

Zildjin laughed and Sesuadra nodded his amusement. Zildjin
reached over to Sesuadra. They clasped each other’s arms, linking at the
forearm briefly as a gesture of their humor, similar to when Soren had first
shook Marc’s hand.

He figured this was equal to a ‘high-five.’

 “Honestly,” Zildjin continued, “relic hunting is something
I have always wanted to do. The life of a true adventurer, there is excitement
in the boots of a relic hunter. Just imagine it!” Zildjin finished, “Poets and
bards writing stories and tales about the things
you
did! It is the
stuff of legends and heroes to be sure. One day I want to join the Reclaimers.”

“Refoveo,” Sesuadra interjected, “is when the weather is
warm and the fields are rich with crops, it is the time when people gossip and
chat of the magic of the times gone past, and of the heroes and brave souls who
choose a life of danger. It is a chance to hear the stories firsthand, see with
your own eyes the tangible fruits of others’ labors. Street performers, music,
dancing and merriment of all kinds.”

 “Sounds exciting,” Marc commented.

He felt a sort of coldness, an outsider’s feeling of
awkwardness, that was separating him from the other three there, start to
dissipate. Sesuadra was opening up, speaking more than just a word around him
now.

Some time passed in silence, the sun
crept across the sky slowly.

As Soren had indeed said before, the road became more and
more active with wagon trains, carts of goods, peddlers, merchants, and now and
then a lone rider atop the strange two legged creatures. Marc asked what they
were called, Zildjin told him they were aldoms. Soren exchanged greetings with
everyone who passed them. There were plenty who did, but none as fancy as
Lanvar’s train.

 “So what happens once we reach Kolima?” Marc asked, mostly
meaning,
what happens ‘to me?’

“Well,” Soren looked over his shoulder in reply, “You will
stay with a woman named Eleanor. She is Zildjin and Sesuadra’s caretaker, and
has been ever since they were young. I think it is safe to explain some, maybe
even all of the situation to her. It is only fair to her since Zildjin and
Sesuadra are like sons to her. I have some things to take care of when we reach
Kolima. I know someone who might be able to help us understand a little bit
more about the sword and the magic involved in all of this. In the meantime,
the three of you must be absolutely silent about everything. Marc, you
especially must learn quickly so that you will not stand out so much here in
Lyrridia. The three of you will continue your training with Topar until I
return.”

“Who is Topar?”

“A close companion of Eleanor. He is a rovaar, powerful, and
not one to be crossed. Stay on his good side though, and you will be alright. I
will most likely have returned once The Gathering has ended.”

Marc nodded, then asked, “Roh-vaar?”

Zildjin answered instead, “You will see soon enough.”

“It will be dark soon, try and get some sleep,” He finished.

They ate again as the sun was
finally beginning its descent in the sky. It had been a fairly warm, mostly
cloudless day. The sky was cast in maroon and orange as the day closed. The two
planets appeared above in the coming darkness, the stars poking out one by one
immediately following.

Sesuadra and Zildjin lit the lamps to let the balkars see
ahead and for Sesuadra to keep a lookout in the rear.

Though they had not done much physically, the ride wore them
out and no one said much as the night came on.

Marc did not think much as he let the back and forth motions
of the cart lull him to sleep.

And then he dreamed once more.

Marc opened his eyes and sat up.

The world of silver and grey surrounded him.

Sesuadra was there in the dream world as well. In the waking
world, his body was near the end of the cart, sleeping. In the dream world, his
body was in the same location, but he was awake.

Sesuadra came over and offered his hand. Marc took it and
with his friend’s help, got to his feet.

“Marc,” Sesuadra nodded his head respectfully.

“Sesuadra,” he replied.

They both stood in silence, looking around them at the
endlessness of the silvery plane.

“What do you make of this place?”  

“I have heard of such a place in my lessons,” Sesuadra
answered, “But I cannot remember much.”

Marc opened his mouth to speak again but he was interrupted
by the sound of metal striking metal.

Marc turned his head at the noise.

“Sesuadra, Did you hear that?”

But when Marc turned back he was surrounded by mist.

“Sesuadra?”

Marc tried again.

“Sesuadra! I know you are there, say something so we can
find each other in this!”

He waited for a response but there was only silence followed
by the striking of metal against metal once more.

“Hmmm,” He said.

With a shrug he began walking through the obscurity.

He did not go far before he was stopped suddenly by a dark
stone wall.

He turned away from the wall.

The mist vanished instantly. He suddenly could sense a strong
arid heat all around him. He could not feel the heat, per say, but glancing
around the room he was able to tell that it was very hot.

Marc did not know the words with which to accurately
describe the space but he had taken enough medieval history to know that the
general equipment, materials, and furniture in the room made up a smithy, or
blacksmith’s workshop. The largest of objects in the room was a forge, a stone
hearth for a fire, connected to large bellows, operated to fan the flames and
coals to intense degrees of heat. A workbench stood nearby, stacked atop it
were an abundance of tools, hammers of various shapes and sizes, swages,
fullers, punches, chisels and many more. Stacks of metal ingots filled up half
a wall, there were shovels and horseshoes, armor bits and more hung nearby the
ingots. There were many numerous small slits in spaces at the top of the wall
and ceiling that were more for ventilation than windows. Across from the
workbench at the other far end of the room was a giant anvil.

It was at this anvil that caught most of Marc’s attention.

A young man bent over the anvil, a large hammer in one hand,
and a pair of tongs holding a piece of metal into place in the other, it
appeared to be a sword. The boy was about Marc’s age. He wore brown leather
breeches, heavy brown boots, a light colored tunic, heavy black gloves, and a
thick black apron over his clothes. He had fairly long light brown hair falling
down to his shoulders.

Marc stood in the doorway, and watched, fascinated, as the blacksmith
skillfully worked on a sword. Marc’s world was one of mass production, where
things were created in copious amounts, cheaply made, cheaply distributed. But
here was a single young man hard at work on a single item. It seemed to
resonate with Marc’s soul. Each blow of the blacksmiths’ hammer was struck with
precision and dedication. The young man worked the bellows, stoked the coals
into flashes of fiery red and searing white, then retrieved the weapon and
hammered the malleable hot metal into submission.

But never did he turn to Marc. Marc was invisible again. He
did not know what to do. The last time he had been frightened by the boy
covered in blood, and did not know what to make of this. So instead he watched
to see what would come of his presence there. For hours the smith pounded the
sword, to the fire, then back to the anvil. It was a fascinating and
exhilarating thing to watch. The boy seemed to be struggling to get the sword
just right, it was still bent at an odd angle near the tip.

The young man began to look tired and he stopped, wiping the
heavy sweat from his forehead. He took a number of deep breaths and let his
head back, closing his eyes. Then he slowly stopped and turned around, looking
directly at Marc.

For a moment Marc thought the boy could see him, but the
young man looked around the room. He set down his tools and went over to the
walls. He climbed up on a stool and peered out the slits near the ceiling. He
checked all four walls of slits, then he went to the door at the end of the
room next to Marc. He opened the door and glanced to the right and the left, as
if making sure no one was nearby or watching him.

Finally, satisfied, he shut the door and returned to his
work. But instead of picking up the tongs and metal hammer as before, the young
man picked up the blade itself. Marc was about to call out, as the sword on the
anvil still steamed with fiery heat. But the boy did not yelp or even react at
touching the heated metal. He held it easily in his hands. He closed his eyes and
sat on the ground.

Marc watched in utter amazement at what happened next.

A sort of glow came over the boys hands, a soft silver
light, it filled the blade. The entire room began to brighten. Then, the sword
in the boys hands began to change, it moved and warped like clay being shaped
by invisible hands. The silver light pulsed like a heartbeat, stronger,
brighter. The boy began to sweat, concentration showed on his face. The aura
fell in brilliance for a moment and the boy shook his head, as if warding off a
distraction. Then, the odd bent angle in the tip of the blade straightened
itself and the light went out. The boy smiled and opened his eyes.