Asperah Aftermath - Chapter I

It was early spring in Thean. At this time of year, the season of the goddess Anshae, wildflowers grow abundantly in the meadows of the outlands. The farm animals are herded out to graze, children run and play along the cobbled streets while their mothers go about the daily routines of grinding grain to make bread and keep the house in shape. Young knights who earned a few days leave from service usually return to their homes during this tranquil period. Theanite squires and apprentices however, must stay and weather the rigid training in the barracks for the span of the years allotted for their learning.

This year, two young squires showed promise under the strict tutelage of Vanyel, armsmaster of the realm. A former dragon knight himself during his wilder years, he had kept a sharp eye for both danger and skill. Now, as a master, he is in charge of putting order into the ranks of Thean, culling the chaff from the wheat, putting the students into the heat until they shone like the brightest gold. Shiro, a refugee from the Eastern realms excelled in the field of combat, and Aren, a young local from the house of Eldraim was proving to be a very good tactician. These are the two candidates to be considered by the king’s council to ascend to full knighthood. Allowing himself to get drowned in the chain of thought, Vanyel started to walk towards the heights of castle Thean. He was hoping to get a glimpse of lord Vol, one of the king’s advisors, and talk to him about the preparations for the year’s initiation rites. His light mesh armor kept him unburdened as well as protected under the traditional red cloak of arms mastery that fluttered with the soft wind behind him.

“A fine day for an early morning walk is it not?” A familiar old voice called out as Vanyel spun, greeting the wrinkled face covered with snow-white hair with a knowing smile.

“Good morning to you too, master Jezriel.” The armsmaster greeted with a light bow. Jezriel Masterson, hands forever scarred with the brand of flames his late father, the spiritmaster Jeun left him as a legacy, himself a master of mindwork at his own right in the college of Thean. He grew old slower than most men, some say he has been around since the founding of the great city itself, perhaps an attribute of the phoenix flame his father used to play around with, constantly revitalizing and renewing the body as well as the mind. “I didn’t realize you had a taste for the morning breeze. I always thought the great wizards liked it in the cold and dark candlelit stone lairs, towers or chemist’s laboratories.” Vanyel stopped himself. The old master came up to him in such a casual manner he almost forgot who he was talking to. “I – I’m sorry I didn’t mean any-”

Jezriel smiled, the creases on his face ever increasing. “And you are right, partly. They do like the dark dismal places where they can be alone in their thoughts. But I am no great wizard. I am merely a teacher whose time is almost due.”

“You jest, master Jezriel.” Vanyel said as the old mage joined him walking towards the castle, which stood not a long way off. “Everyone knows you are the wisest and most powerful mage in Thean.”

“Am I?” Jezriel half-laughed. “Tell me Vanyel, since you have been in many quests, how many times have you fought against ‘great’ wizards who could throw at you more than two or three spells that had a real effect?”

“I have only encountered dark mages back in the ebon years where the cult of the undead tried to regain its lost power over the land. I believe they are called Necromancers. And, no… one or two spells perhaps, most of them didn’t even cast spells. But I can’t really be sure, after all, am I supposed to wait and count while they try and perfect a hex that would surely be the end of me?”

“No, not really. It wasn’t a question I wanted an answer to.” Jezriel said softly, his calm voice soothing as the morning wind. “My point is that magic is a very difficult thing to control. An average wizard in his lifetime could only master three spells, four at most. Now, how far can it go for the ‘great’ wizard as you put it? Resources are scarce. Not everyone is born with a gift.”

“You are.” Vanyel interrupted. “You are Jeun’s son. You inherited the phoenix flame. You hinder time itself from affecting your body.”

“That may have a truth in it. But as everyone knows, I inherited the scars, but not the phoenix flame itself. For some reason, the Lady Anshae denied me its power when my father died in the battle that destroyed Lord Ambross.”

“The All-Father Ambross.” The armsmaster murmured. “A very few commoners remember the legend. Only those with gifts and scholars at the college know the whole story.”

“And even then, no one is really sure what transpired that fateful day, when the Lord Ambross’ essence itself was undone by the hands of his own son, Gaul of the dark… so the Lady Anshae had to step up to her father’s throne to keep the order of the heavens and the worlds.”

“Thrown to the seven winds…” Vanyel said, reciting a half-remembered inscription from a ruin they once raided in search for a certain Leander’s Sword.

“You have been reading your scrolls. I am impressed, sir Vanyel.” There was a tone of amusement in the old man’s voice. “I thought you were too busy mastering the battle-art that you so passionately teach the would-be defenders of the realm.”

“I didn’t –” Vanyel stuttered a bit, he himself surprised that he recalled the piece of ancient text. “I read it in a stone inscription in an old temple in Asphenaz where we were supposed to find the sword of Leander. We found no sword however, only the whispers of the soulless dead. Until now, I am not really sure it even existed.”

“Leander of Asphenaz. It has been years since I last heard that name. Asphenaz was a great city… until now, there are still those who hope to find ancient secrets there waiting to be unleashed into the new world. Leander was one of the paladins of legend who bore the sword of Anshae - that was what it was called back then, when a stray bolt of black wave struck down the commander of the king’s imperial army. He was a hero, by a strange twist of fate. It is said that only those worthy could wield that blade. The original temple of Anshae still stands there, at least, what’s left of it. And yes, Vanyel, it existed once. I once felt the sword’s blade with my own hands as a child, when my father showed it to me. Back then, I was full of curiosity and unchecked power, but even so, I was unable to move it even a single bit.”

“You saw it?” Vanyel asked, surprised. “Then why did you keep silent when the king sent an envoy to retrieve the blade from the ruins of Asphenaz? You were there at the council when they were choosing the best men to go. Now that I remember it, you specially picked one of my men to go with me.”

“Oh yes, the master smith Damion.” Jezriel nodded, as though recalling it like it happened only yesterday. “He was a knight under your service then, and you were still captain of the gold banner. How time flies. You are both masters now in your own trades. He came into my chambers the night before the drafting, pleading that he had to see the sword for himself if it truly did exist. I saw the passion in his eyes. It is rare that I find such love for metalwork as his.”

“You did not answer my question.” Vanyel said impatiently. He was not about to let go of it. He understood the way the old mage was leading him off the topic.

“I had no idea where it lay after the dark years. I had to see for myself.” Came the plain reply.

“Wait a … You didn’t come with us!” The armsmaster protested, his voice almost frustrated. He stopped walking abruptly, facing the mage who had stepped ahead of him a bit but turned and smiled.

“Believe me Vanyel, I was with you since you left Thean, into the dead city and back out. Who do you think led you through the many puzzles and traps that lay like a hopeless obstacle before you?”

“A young soldier who died triggering the final snare laid out for us. We all mourned his…” Vanyel gasped at the realization. “…loss. You really are a master of mindwork.”

Jezriel nodded. “You could have been a fine scholar yourself Vanyel. But I guess armsmastery is what keeps your lifeblood running.”

“One will have to be a darklord of Oran to master both physical and mental tortures. I chose the pains of the flesh.” Vanyel replied. “I didn’t have any suspicions about who that soldier was until you told me now… I didn’t realize… but we found no such blade. Your trouble was all for nothing.”

“Was it?” Jezriel smiled. “Come to my chambers in the college after your business at the castle. I want to show you something.”

“What is it?” Came the impatient reply.

“Something Damion has been working on for seven years now.” The mage chuckled, tucking his head tighter into the wide-brimmed hat he wore. Even his cloak of deep blue seemed to contain all the knowledge of the inner workings of the mind. A mastery no one else before him succeeded in having. “I will see you then.”

They separated at the outer grounds of the palace. The mage was obviously off to tutor the king’s daughter Erin in the art of mind magic as well as ancient lore. Personally, Vanyel preferred the rush of a good, old-fashioned tavern brawl to a day of luxury in the king’s courts with paper, ink and books. Walking up the portcullis, the guards immediately recognized him and raised their visors in salute. He nodded in acknowledgement and proceeded into the council hall. The red carpet guided his path like a road of flames. This is castle Thean, impregnable, thanks to the constant guidance of the masters and the unsurpassed wisdom of the king. Double walls of stone reinforced by metalwork guarded the outer walls. This was all Damion’s design. Their shields too, adorned by the emblem of the white dove, the symbol of Anshae are a worthy challenge against any rampart, forged unbreakable metal that resisted even dragonfire. Damion claimed he had help from the resident master of flame and his students. Magic has its practical applications after all.

The trumpet sounded as the massive double doors swung heavily open before him. There at the center of a large room adorned with worn battle-tapestries from various lands was a long table of white marble; twelve seats stood there each facing another in two opposing rows. Of them, three were occupied by the king’s council of wisdom, strategy and magic. The one called Vol stood in formal greeting.

“Vanyel of Sor. Welcome. Come and sit.” He said, ushering him with a hand. “We have certain matters to talk about, some of them you already know.”

The armsmaster complied after a short bow. Somehow, something was gnawing trouble within him, like his mind shouting there was something amiss and he was ignoring it like an irritable, hovering insect. “The initiation rites for this year, correct?… As well as the final quest to finally bring the young squires and apprentices into the ranks of knights and wizards?” He said, half expecting them to shake their heads. “Is something wrong? You look troubled lord Vol.”

“Vanyel, you remember back then in the dark years when we rode into your homeland in search of some savage night trolls?” Vol asked. He was stone-faced and dead serious as always, but this time, Vanyel recognized something more. He was worried. Vol is never worried by anything. Under his jet-black armor, he knew a mind more complex than the labyrinths of Sor woodlands. “… That day we lost three of our knights in an ambush from the wolves of Camril.”

“Yes, I do. Go on.” Vanyel said, suddenly picking up interest.

“We thought it was a random incident then, and we let it pass after the clerics dispatched of the wolves, who apparently, were impervious to our weapons that carried no holy magic. They were strays after all, perhaps driven by hunger like the night trolls who follow their instincts like it was the only thing they had in the world, perhaps one of the necromancers sent them to cover the trolls’ escape.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” The arms master replied. “These creatures only inhabit the far side of Oran wastes. They do not like villages and noise.”

“We have had several strange reports of wolf attacks in the past days. Increasing in number… all coming from Sor.” Vol said flatly, resting his head back on the comfortable seat while drawing a deep sigh.

“Someone should send word to Oran.” Vanyel replied, somewhat annoyed. “They should keep their own wild in check. Things are tense enough between our kingdoms. Their stray wolves do not have to complicate the matter.”

“It has been done.” Vol said, getting up to fill his goblet with wine. “But I suspect the problem lies within Sor. We have kept watchmen up all night. There have been no sightings of any wolves entering or leaving the town, yet the victims increase in number each dawn. You know that place well don’t you, Vanyel?”

“You are suggesting that I go and investigate the matter?” Vanyel asked. It was a chance to get away from the duties of arms mastery and engage in some long missed passion of even a half-real quest.

“No Vanyel, you are the armsmaster of Thean. They need you here to teach the squires of what they need to resolve problems such as this one.” Came the answer from Vol. The other two advisors sat with knowing silence, as though waiting for Vol to declare something. “That is why we decided to change the quest for this year. You have two squires ready to join the ranks you say?”

“Yes, but…” Vanyel was almost protesting, only realizing now what Vol was suggesting. “These are not normal wolves, lord Vol. We lost three of our best men back then, and if your suspicions prove to be correct…”

Vol put his goblet on the table. “That is why I will summon the masters of the college later and get any apprentices ready. You will need all the magic you can muster.”

“As you wish then.” Vanyel conceded. “I will have to talk to my students. They do have a choice in the matter. Only, with such stubbornness of the young, I should make it clear what exactly they are diving into.”

“You have my leave then, master Vanyel.” Vol said with a knowing look in his eyes. “I expect the party to be ready to leave by the light of the second moon.”