Chapter 1: The Dispatch

The Annals of Ghalensa: The Power to Remake

Chapter 1: The Dispatch

         Magnhem Garrold, master of magnhemsitry, stood in his arched chamber window staring off into the distance. The setting sun shone in all its effulgent blue and green glory behind the distant hills of Evinshear, his home parcel. He turned his orb over and over in his hand, enjoying its cool glasslike smoothness. He remembered the first time he had ever felt that soothingly cool sensation, that very exciting dawn when he first held the spor.

         That dawn was etched in his memory above all others. Through the years he rehearsed it again and again in the scenes of his mind, especially at every Occasion of Remembrance, when all magnhemists were to contemplate the duties the spor had called them to.

         As the years passed, Garrold's dedication to his studies and his abilities in magnhemistry earned him some rapid elevations in several Houses through the levels of Learner, Apprentice, Watcher, and Artisan, to his current level of Magnhem, a master of magnhemistry. Ten years from Learner to Magnhem was quite remarkable. But for the past five years, he had been stuck at Magnhem. He knew why. Temmolin opposed him.

         Garrold had tried in vain over the years to win his support. When he fell in love with Temmolin's daughter, it just complicated matters. After a contentious courtship, Garrold married Elya anyway, still hoping that it might eventually soften Temmolin's heart. It only made him angrier, and gave him more access to make Garrold's life miserable.

         Why did Temmolin hate him so much? The spor had, after all, chosen him, even if it had not gone as expected. He thought for sure that Temmolin would lose his anger over time, but the grudge grew deeper and deeper through the years. He acted nice enough around Garrold in mixed company, but caused no end of grief for him in more personal meetings. Garrold knew Temmolin despised him.

         Garrold’s friends said it was because he defied Temmolin at his Occasion of Choosing. But Garrold remembered one thing no one else knew. After his Occasion of Choosing, Temmolin promised him that he would stand against Garrold so long as both of them set foot in the same parcel. Temmolin was a jen of his word. If he said it, he would do it. That’s why he stood against Garrold, and that’s why Garrold had again been passed over.

         Passed over for the tenth time straight. How long would he have to wait to be elevated to Proficum, or even get a shot at Magna? He would never make Magna at this rate, and yet he had to. The people needed him. Magnhemistry needed him. If he could just make Magna some dawn, he would fix everything. He would do good for all the people and lead them into progress. But if he didn’t elevate soon, he’d be a Magnhem for the rest of his life. Trapped. Stifled.

         He squeezed his orb. He had so much more to offer, so much more to give. Why had they held him back? Why were his unique abilities ignored? The voice had said he was chosen for a special purpose.

         Questions weren’t getting him anywhere. He needed to take action, do something, but what? Those who withstood him were all magnhemists of reputation. He squeezed his orb again, harder. His eyes fumed. What could he do that wouldn’t ruin him further? He was already held in derision by too many.

         A knock at the door jolted him out of his musings. It was the double knock of a student, perhaps one of his own. He still stood in his arched chamber window staring off into the distance. The sun had set and twilight descended upon the land.

         He spoke just loud enough to penetrate the thick norshwood door, “Enter.”

         The student entered. Garrold did not turn to look. Instead he continued to stare at Evinshear out his chamber window, high up on the eighth level of the Bower. The student stood, waiting for him to acknowledge.

         “Go ahead, young jennah,” he said, still peering out the window.

         “Magnhem Garrold, Apprentice Dyorin presenting, sir. I have a dispatch for you from Grand Holder Haknem of Yarowglan. He says it is urgent and that you should attend to the matter at once.”

         Garrold took the dispatch from Dyorin and sent him on his way. He scrutinized the seal on the scroll. The orange wax wad bore the imprint of the Grand Holder’s emblem, the Orange Bower encircled by nine three-pointed stars representing the nine jennah provinces, and one large five-pointed star above the tower representing the Province of Ghalensa, the great Tree itself. At the base of the tower stood an image of a Grand Holder, presiding over an Occasion.

         He knew the specific nicks and imperfections of the genuine seal of Grand Holder Haknem of Yarowglan. Satisfied with its authenticity, he broke the seal, unrolling the parchment. After the greeting, the body of the message said:

         The Seer Kurdevon informed me with urgent seriousness that some sort of aberration exists within the pattern of the power of the Tree that indicates a grave threat to the stability of Aralon. There is, as he sees it, a growing concentration and draw on the power occurring in the midst of Vikzyrn, somewhere in the Gozim Desert. He also noted a distinct shift in the pattern centering in upper Vikzyrn, at or near the Salt Cove. Though I suggest we approach this carefully and without undue alarm, I must tell you that he seemed somewhat distressed as he relayed the following words to me, “Something is going on over there, I don’t know what, but it’s not good. No, it’s bad, very bad. There’s a taint to it. The power is being manipulated, bent– surreptitiously. This is no random aberration. There’s an intelligence in it. Someone is taking great care to avoid notice. We must seek the answer, we must know what malady would take us.”

         I dare not speculate about, yet I cannot ignore, the rumors he also mentioned, from Keistowne, which tell of a dissension among the Providers and their inquiries for the whereabouts of a certain number of defectors. The rumors all vary as to number and give no names. He intimated the likelihood of a correlation between the change in the pattern of the power and these events, though he had no proof. He promised to continue to seek answers and will inform me of his discoveries. For now, he said, “Beware Vikzyrn, beware and watch for changes in the pattern of the power. All is not well.”

         Whereupon, Garrold, I took it upon myself to immediately communicate these happenings to you, knowing you to be expert in such matters, and my good friend. I ask also that you allow me to inform Kurdevon of your interest in these matters and your knowledge of The Writings and true history of Aralon, inviting him to contact you instead of me, as that will be more profitable for Aralon. Please inform me without delay if this is agreeable to you and I will have Kurdevon contact you by dispatch using my seal.

         I don’t have to tell you, but it is prudent anyway, to please destroy this dispatch at your soonest opportunity. I am at your service and ever your friend. Peace to Aralon. It is as it is.

         Garrold gazed into the walls of his chamber as if seeing through them, yet seeing nothing. His blank stare helped him to think, to focus deep within himself as he thought on Haknem and the dispatch.

         He had met Haknem many years earlier when they were both Apprentices, himself in the Green Bower, Haknem in the Orange Bower. The border parcels between their two provinces, Yarowglan south and Rudivia north, had been experiencing inconsistencies in weather that resulted from shifting variations in the power of the Tree. Yarowglan sent a delegation of magnhemists to Rudivia to discuss ways to coordinate working the power in these parcels to avoid these problems.

         All the younger ranks of the delegation, Learners and Apprentices, stayed in the dormitory of the Green Bower. Garrold coordinated a work crew which included Haknem. Among the Evinfolk, even guests were put to work. The Evinfolk enjoyed hard work. Anything worth having required good counsel and hard work. Anything easy held little value.

         Garrold immediately took a liking to Haknem because of the quality of his work and his pleasant demeanor. One night they stayed up late and spoke for several hours regarding background, family, plans, ideas, ambitions, and Vikzyrn. Yes, Vikzyrn, the forbidden topic. Well, it wasn’t really forbidden. There was no law against it, but you would have thought so by the way everybody treated it.

         The Writings condemned it as a wasteland of all that is vile, poison, and evil. The Histories hardly mentioned it. The Proposals declared it to be the very seat of the turbid side of the power, the festering center of all that is grim and hideous, the Dark Heart of Morbidity. In all practicality, access to Vikzyrn did not exist. The Void, that ever-impassable, seething chasm, had stood defiantly between Aralon and Vikzyrn since the Great Shaking some twenty-six hundred years earlier.

         Garrold and Haknem agreed that Vikzyrn hid many secrets of the past, protected secrets, whether by Providers or by their Bowers. Certain wild stories spoke of a decrepit race of beings hiding in the contorted forests and roughs of Vikzyrn, living in the murkiest parts of the world. After all, what had become of the thousands upon thousands of people trapped there after the Great Shaking? The Writings claimed that all perished, but legend spoke otherwise.

         There were the scrawks, large, flying reptiles that came from the mountains of Vikzyrn. Some now lived in the higher parts of the Spitting Mountains of Aralon. They were meat eaters. So what meat did they feed on in Vikzyrn? What creatures became their food? A land full of scrawks and edible creatures did not sound like a dead land to them.

         A scrawk once strayed from Vikzyrn over the Spitting Mountains into western Rudivia. Local villagers hunted it down and killed it. Its bowels contained the skeletons of several creatures, including a five foot biped. The Green Bower concluded they were the remains of an urlani hermit who had taken to the mountains. But some firsthand witnesses told a different tale. They said they had found a strange bauble, unlike any made throughout all Aralon and Ghalensa. After authorities from the Green Bower arrived, the bauble disappeared. Rumor had it that the bauble was secured in the vaults of the Green Bower.

         Garrold asked about this bauble a number of years ago. His overseers dodged the issue. When he pressed further, he met with disdain. Finally, when he became publicly vocal, he received a formal reprimand. They told him his actions would only cause confusion and contention in the Bower and to leave such matters alone.

         “Magnhemists are not to concern themselves with rumor and speculation,” they warned, “but are to attend to their studies and the service of their province with a steady mind.”

         “If there’s no bauble,” he insisted, “then it couldn’t hurt to search through the storerooms and vaults and lay the rumor to rest once and for all.”

         “Obstinance and disregard will only find you put out of the Bower,” they said.

         That ended his quest. Look into the matter further, and be put out. He could do nothing but bide his time, learn and grow, and master magnhemistry. Maybe some dawn he would be in a position to change things, to get to the bottom of these glossed-over matters. But that dawn seemed far away with all the opposition from Temmolin and his followers. He had already waited far too long. The stiff, religious ways of his Bower were getting him nowhere.

         Rudivia and Yarowglan had been close allies since the time of The Settling, when the Ancients sent the Providers to establish the Art of Magnhemistry. The Providers built the Bowers and Tholes, defined the provincial borders, issued the first of The Writings, and became the overseers and preservers of the power of the Tree. They established nine provinces out of the remnants of what had been the four old jennah kingdoms before the Great Shaking.

         The Evinfolk primarily populated the three western provinces carved out of the old Kingdom of Evindehl. Rudivia was the northernmost of the three provinces, then came Yarowglan in the middle, and Sylvhen farthest south extending all the way to the lower coast.

         The Evinfolk were the smallest of the jennah. True, they were slightly taller than the Boors, growing to a height of six feet, while the Boors only grew to five and a half. But the Boors had broad, husky frames that gave them greater girth. Evinfolk had smaller frames. The other two varieties of jennah, Vales and Ahnjin, were both taller peoples. The Vales grew to seven feet tall, and were well built making them the largest, while the Ahnjin grew to about six and a half feet.

         Evinfolk led simple lives, loving woodcraft and farming, and preferring country life to city life. They embraced no weakness or fragility, being unafraid to face challenges and challengers bigger than themselves. They were also a friendly sort, so long as you did not cross them. Any injustice pretty much crossed them. Zealous of fairness and equity for all jennah, they took sides with anyone being treated unfairly, Evinfolk or not.

         The urlani were a different matter. Most Evinfolk held a deep seated mistrust and hatred for them based on a legend which told of a cruel slaughter the urlani inflicted upon them after the time of the Great Shaking. The common versions of the tale placed the slaughter in Vikzyrn.

         Garrold, however, despised how his people treated the urlani. The Writings merely affirmed that all in Vikzyrn perished, but did not say how. A slaughter of the distant past from a turbulent time of unrecorded history did not provide a sound basis for suspicion and mistrust. Those were different urlani in a different situation from a different age. Why blame the present urlani for what their ancestors had done?

         Garrold went and sat at his desk to reread the dispatch. He wanted to help Haknem, but how could he devote any time to this dilemma without being detected by his opponents in the Bower? Temmolin would certainly demand explanations and cause him trouble at every turn. And Temmolin was sure to have the support of Magna Ulberrin.

         Magna Ulberrin worked hard to keep the magnhemists of the Green Bower united despite the rift between the two main differing schools of thought, the Progressionists and the Preservationists. Those known as Progressionists advocated a flexible adherence to the Order of Magnhemistry, one in which they were free to progress and develop by exploring new possibilities. The Preservationists, on the other hand, declared that tradition must be maintained above all else, and a strict adherence to the Bower’s interpretation of The Writings must be enforced.

         Magna Ulberrin gave allegiance to neither school of thought but advocated aspects of both. Nonetheless, when pressed on issues, he clearly tended to lean toward the Preservationist ideas. He forbad the formal organization of any separate schools of thought. All magnhemists were to work together and continue in open dialogue regardless of their personal inclinations. He also affirmed that every magnhemist had the privilege to think as freely as he desired in his own mind, but was bound by duty to act only according to the sound practices and accepted standards of the Bower. Any new ideas were to be submitted to the Magna and his counselors for years of careful consideration and scrutiny so they could be fully researched before being released to the Bower.

         This sounded fair and equitable on the surface, but with deeper scrutiny it was clear that this policy did more damage to stunt the forward movement and growth of magnhemistry than it did to preserve the integrity of it. Since anything that is not growing is dying, and anything that is dying is no longer whole and has lost its integrity, then this policy would ultimately undo the integrity it sought to preserve.

         Since the time of his unusual Occasion of Choosing, Garrold always found himself in the midst of controversy. Some called him a dissenter, others proclaimed him a visionary thinker. Some accused him of being loose and undisciplined, yet others maintained he was detailed and meticulous. The hardline Preservationists accused him of undermining the Bower. The Progressionists heralded him as a pillar of the Bower and regarded him as their defacto leader.

         It’s too bad he didn’t serve the Orange Bower, like Haknem, where there were great opportunities for forward thinkers to be elevated. By way of Haknem, many of his ideas already enjoyed open discussion in Yarowglan, especially the effort to rebuild a more accurate record of jennah history. The secrets of Vikzyrn needed to be exposed. His research regarding such matters excited Haknem and the Orange Bower, hence, the urgent dispatch he now held.

         Five solid raps sounded at his door, definitely not a Learner or Apprentice. Then he heard the gruff and penetrating voice he learned to loathe.

         “Open up, Garrold, it’s me, your gin-father.”

         Grand Holder Temmolin. He could not believe it. Already at the door and the dispatch hardly minutes old. Temmolin made Garrold’s life miserable while he grew up and learned at the Bower, hoping to chase him away. He claimed Garrold married his daughter and took her away from him just to spite him. He even went so far as accusing Garrold of not really loving Elya. All ridiculous accusations. Garrold loved his wife and hated the contention he had with his gin-father. But Temmolin never missed an opportunity to patronize Garrold. To make matters worse, Temmolin not only backed the Preservationists, he was probably their leader.

         Garrold thought for a moment that maybe he should ignore Temmolin’s knock and leave him standing in the hall. He could sit quietly until he left. But alas, protocol obliged him to open the door. So he did.

         Temmolin pushed his way into the chamber and verbally assaulted Garrold with his interrogation. “What does he want now? You know that he should communicate with me as his counterpart in Rudivia. Where’s the dispatch? Let me read it.”

         Garrold presented his ash can to Temmolin with a wry smile. Temmolin slapped it out of his hands with a loud clang. Garrold darted for the careening can, hoping to minimize the spread of ashes around his chamber.

“What the vik did you do that for?” Garrold said, scooping ashes off the floor.

         “I’m sick of your antics, you little mung.” Temmolin poked an accusative finger at Garrold. “If I had my way I’d have you scourged and thrown out on your ears for the disgrace you are to magnhemistry. Always conniving, you and your little friend Haknem from that messed up Bower with its bogus practice of magnhemistry. As the Grand Holder of Rudivia, I demand you tell me every detail of that dispatch or I’ll drag you before the Magna, so help me.”

         So went the typical conversation between them. Others considered it a mere “domestic dispute,” or “familial fracas,” wishing to avoid contention with the Grand Holder. After all, The Grand Holder held the top position in the House of Officiators, only two levels away from the Magna himself. With that kind of authority, Temmolin got away with almost anything in the way of verbal abuse. But his threats were not as serious as they sounded. The many checks and balances within the Order of Magnhemistry kept things stable. His verbal tirades rarely produced tangible results other than to cause his listeners to either cower in fear or storm off in rage. Garrold went through both phases in his dealings with Temmolin. He eventually learned to just stare back, not saying a word, until Temmolin cooled off or stormed off in his own rage. But Temmolin had gone too far this time, slapping the can out of his hand and calling him a mung, a no-good, dirty, urlani savage.

         Despite Temmolin’s abusive actions, Garrold regretted his vulgar response, summoning the curse of Vikzyrn with the short form, vik. He forced himself to focus on cleaning up the ashes. It had a calming effect. So much so that the next few sentences of madness emitted from Temmolin’s mouth became just so much background noise while he composed himself. Temmolin had never resorted to violence before and this new behavior alarmed Garrold.

         “The dispatch was personal,” he said, “a simple letter between old friends to catch up on social news.”

         Temmolin drove each word into Garrold, “People don’t burn social letters from friends.” Temmolin scowled down the bridge of his long nose, victorious in his point, and then continued, “Pull it out of your pocket and let me see it. Do you really think you’d dupe me? Do you think I don’t know those ashes have been long cold and there hasn’t been a wisp of smoke in this chamber for hours? Do you take me for a fool? Hand it over.”

         The keen old grouse had him. Judging High Court required skill in perceiving subtle clues. Over these many circuits, Temmolin had countless hours of repetitive exposure to a multiplicity of diverse people and situations. He honed his skill into a fine art. A true master, and a tremendously accomplished Grand Holder, all held him in great regard for his work. He had heard some very tough cases, and passed very fair and lasting judgements. Garrold admired his ability. Temmolin’s accomplishments and his esteem in the province made it that much more difficult for Garrold to speak out against his personal attacks, and to seek relief for the constant turmoil that he caused.

         Garrold sighed, calm to the bones. “I’m sorry, sir, the dispatch is addressed to me and it is intended for me, therefore I will not give it up unless a proper warrant is issued for it, but I will tell you this, in addition to the personal communication there is mention of a certain lunatic Seer who asserts that there is a strange concentration of the power in central Vikzyrn.”

         “Who is this Seer?” Temmolin shot back.

         “Kurdevon.” Garrold wished he could have thought more quickly how to evade the question but he could not bring himself to lie outright, especially not to the Grand Holder. Rather than to appear to be holding back other information he freely gave the name. Would he come to regret it?

         “Oh,” Temmolin’s brow furrowed in surprise, “that crackpot. I doubt anything sane came from him, nevertheless, I will inform the Magna. Was that it?”

         “Haknem said he would check it out and let me know.”

         “Very well, I expect you to report to me as soon as you know more, understand?”

         “Yes,” Garrold acceded, “now if you’ll excuse me I need to visit the draw.”

         “Let it never be said,” Temmolin chortled as if he and Garrold were concluding a pleasant interlude between friends, “that I have stood in the way of a jennah and his business. Again, my gin-son.” And with that he whisked himself away, out the door and down the hall, leaving Garrold silently fuming over how rapidly he could swing from antagonistic insanity to friendly chatter. Temmolin used this cleverly crafted ruse to deal with people. He kept them off-guard and got them to say things they really had not expected to say.

         Garrold kicked himself for having mentioned Kurdevon. But he had succeeded in holding out on other information. If Temmolin thought the dispatch covered more, he would still be in the chamber grilling Garrold. Whether he needed to use the draw or not. As it was, Garrold really did need it. He locked his door and silently made his way down the hall. On his way, he realized he was hungry and ought to go find something to eat in the mess hall afterward.

*      *      *

         No one else was in the dining room eating. Supper had ended some time ago and the servants, kojen, were busy finishing with clean-up.

         “Ho there,” Garrold called to one, “let Reston know I’m about, will you?” The kojen nodded, recognizing the robe of a Magnhem, and ran off quickly with his appointed task. The vast majority of kojen, non-magnhemists, lived out and about in the villages, towns and cities of Aralon, but a certain number applied for service in the Bower. Those chosen by the magnhemists became Bower kojen and enjoyed a certain elevated status of respect among other kojen, even beyond the terms of their service. Many served for a lifetime, but others served terms of four to six years.

         “Garrold, my friend,” a broad smiling face intoned, led by a steaming platter of glazed rorx over delicately boiled rice with a side of fresh greens. Rorx was a favorite game bird throughout all Aralon, a light delicate meat. Garrold was convinced none could prepare it as well as Reston Qintar Chefjen. “You look well, Garrold, please sit and enjoy, I’ll fetch some wine.”

         “No, no,” Garrold waved his hand for Reston to come forward, “please sit with me, I need to talk.”

         Reston turned to one of his workers and sent him after some wine, cheese, and crusty bread. Turning, he waited for Garrold to sit down in front of his succulent, aromatic platter. Then he took the seat opposite.

         “How’s that lovely wife of yours?” Garrold asked before sinking his teeth into a sizeable chunk of rorx.

         Reston described how she recently took up knitting and mangled several knots, or loops, or whatever they were, and the sweater she made looked somewhat dilapidated. At first she was very upset, but after, they both laughed hard. He helped her undo everything and rewind a few balls of yarn.

         Reston also told stories about each of his three children and their escapades. Garrold asked about the kitchen, then about Blades practice, and wanted Reston to repeat the story of the Loth-Vale who had eaten three whole rorxes. Reston told him all, entertaining him while he ate.

         After the rorx, rice, and greens disappeared, they broke the bread together, ate it with some cheese, and chased it with wine. They carried on for almost an hour before the earlier incident with Temmolin came up.

         “Yeah,” Garrold said, “he just smacked it right out of my hand and it went flying, ashes flew everywhere, and he called me a mung, of all things, can you believe it?”

         “A mung?” Reston was appalled. “By Vikzyrn, what was he thinking? Can he do that? Can’t you do something, go to the Magna or something?”

         “No, no, no” Garrold shook his head and waved his hand, “that’s not available. The Magna is quite fair, true enough, but he must defer to his higher functioning magnhemists when it is word against word or there would be confusion in the Bower and others would openly challenge superiors. Besides, we’re talking about no less than The Grand Holder himself, highest judge of the land. And what if The Magna is also curious to know about the dispatch? I’m sure Ulberrin means well, but I can’t risk what could come of it.”

         Reston leaned in toward Garrold and talked under his breath, “So what does the dispatch say? Should we be alarmed? Is there trouble? Are you going to Yarowglan?”

         “Whoa, slow down there, one question at a time, friend.” Reston often slung several questions at once as they popped into his head. He annoyed many with this habit, but not Garrold, it amused him. At times, he even played around with Reston by firing back four or five quick answers respective to each question.

         “There are strange things happening to the balance of the power over in Vikzyrn. It might be connected to the possible defection of some Providers from Ghalensa. A revoked Seer, who is expert in discerning these things, has pointed them out. He says that whatever is happening is not random, but very bad, tainted, evil.”

         “Don’t surprise me none,” Reston shook his head, “nothing good has ever come out of that Ancient-forsaken waste.”

         Garrold peered off toward the far end of the dining room, the wheels of his mind turning, gathering speed. “I don’t quite know what to do, whether to go meet with Haknem or arrange a meeting with the Seer, or undertake my own observations. It’s too early to say, I’d be springing the bell to make a decision now.”

         They both mused and sipped their wine and ate some cheese followed by a good chunk of bread, and sipped more wine.

         “Just keep these things to yourself, my friend,” Garrold requested as he began to back away from the table.

         “Oh I certainly will, Garrold, you know that,” Reston assured him, “here, take this bread and cheese for the walk home.”

         “It’s just around the corner– ”

         “I know, I know,” he said, “but take it anyway, it will make me feel better.”

         “As you wish, you just stay out of Temmolin’s way and don’t let on that you ever talked to me. He’ll pry things out of you that you forgot I even said.”

         “No way, Garrold, I’m too sly for that old grouch. Why, I could even have him turned around backward in no time.” Reston was fooling. They both knew damn well that as a kojen servant of the Bower, he would show the utmost respect to Temmolin. He would probably even shake in his boots to just talk to Temmolin. But he meant well and his heart was with Garrold.

         Reston began barking several commands to his workers, some of whom appeared to be standing around without direction. Garrold took leave and made his way for the exit opposite the way he had entered. He lived within the courtyard of the Bower complex, not more than three hundred feet from the dining hall. That put eight hundred feet between him and the Bower itself, which stood a little over a hundred and twenty feet high, precisely in the center of the entire complex. The Bower, perimeter wall, and several buildings had been built by the Providers during the Settling. The rest of the buildings were added through the many circuits since then and were of various sizes, shapes, materials, and time periods.

         Garrold loved the solitude of the Bower complex late at night. He breathed in the fresh forest air wafting in from the surrounding land. The chill in the air was invigorating. As he walked, he thought on the dawn, especially on the dispatch. What would he do?

         The shadows stirred. Something loomed there. He stopped dead in his tracks, hand on the hilt of his blade. Both of the larger moons, Tor and Sar, were out. Each shone, one half full, the other almost full, on nearly opposite sides of the sky. Tor headed toward its setting. Though this often made for some very interesting shadows, more than opposite moons had disturbed these.

         “Who are you? Show yourself,” he said.

         A long, curved blade protruded from between two tightly situated buildings. The cloaked and hooded wielder crouched in the shadows. Garrold sought his orb with his left hand. With his right, he drew his blade.

         “Come no closer,” a strange voice hissed with an accent Garrold never heard before, “we mean you no harm.”

         Garrold crouched silent, straining to see, ready to use his blade.

         “I bear a message from he who comes with the hordes. Beware of meddling where you don’t belong, Magnhem Garrold, Son of Dinnis the Helper, Elya-mate. Kurdevon will die. Take heed, we prepare the paths of the Ancients who are coming to Aralon to right the wrongs of magnhemistry. You can be a powerful help and well accepted of the Ancients. They have noted your ability. Do not foolishly become an adversary, Garrold. The choice of life or death is in your hands. Don’t be stupid.”

         “Yes, it’s your choice,” a gruffer voice hissed from behind him off to the other side, obscured by a protruding porch, “the Ancients come with the hordes of wrath. Go now and join Magna Ulberrin and Grand Holder Temmolin, and spare Rudivia, and be great among the Ancients.”

         “Do not move before the count of twenty,” the first voice returned. Garrold barely saw movement as both figures melted back into the shadows and disappeared in the dark recesses between buildings. Garrold yelled after them, “Why can’t you show yourselves? If you’re genuine–”

         “Take heed,” a voice cut in, hissing loudly in his ear from behind. Garrold spun, blade ready. Nothing. Just the shadowy wisps of moist night air.

         He found himself quite alone in the silent and still evening with his heart pounding and his thoughts racing. Join Temmolin? I will do no such thing. Not another shadow stirred. The night became as before. He looked for some clue of them in the shadows. There were only bushes. An owl hooted away somewhere off in the woods. The smell of burning hickory trickled up his nostrils. It was almost as if he’d imagined the whole thing.

 Next  "Chapter 2: The Catastrophe of Nagaron"