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WITHIN THE LIBRARY of the fortress Sylvyndene, south of Noanoak in the great mountain range of Helgor Heights, Ifhrd sat comfortably in a musty but cushioned chair. His apprentice, Jorlon, stood reading from a great tome. This was a required part of a wizard’s education, but Ifhrd found it the dullest task, perhaps more trying on the wizard who had to listen than on the apprentice who read the ancient text. The book rested upon an oak easel that was darkened by antiquity. Forbidding gargoyles leered, fearsomely carved from the supports.
Ifhrd found the humidity of this mid-summer evening oppressive after the uncommonly hot day, as he idly studied the aura that glimmered around his apprentice’s outline. It was something common to wizards that only wizards could generally see. The dark glass of the arched oriels behind Jorlon greatly emphasised it. On the window, pallid designs of holly-green, bat-winged imps and jaundiced owls stained the latticed glass. The caricatures were all lifelike, but otherwise dreary for their dull hues. He considered the mountain pass beyond, a trade route from Le-Annael. This night a caravan was due. Hopefully, the rewards would be fortunate and replace the ancient glass.
Ifhrd felt a dark, cold steel down his long, straight spine. A heavy foreboding weight entangled his heart. Suddenly, he sensed that he had not much longer to live. Where this sudden thought surfaced from, he had no idea; he was not one for premonitions, and it was not as though some other mage was trying to communicate with him at the moment.
The torches flickered as an otherwise welcome draught blew through the partially opened window. ‘Why am I to pass on so soon?’ There was no one to ask but Jorlon. There was no one else here from whom he could seek advice. All the former magi of this wizards’ tower had fled elsewhere to seek safety from the High King’s edict. ‘Perhaps I should avoid guiding the retainers on this night's raid as it could be a trap?’ Lost for thought, Ifhrd decided that this was more likely than things going wrong with his prearranged plan to play for the title of the board game Effugium Rexus later that night. He decided he would detail Jorlon to lead the upcoming raid. Otherwise he put his misgivings down to nerves. He was not gifted with second sight or premonitions.
With the bans against wizardry, Ifhrd had remained to claim this tower as the future leader, where other wizards had fled. Hiding out in this old fortress with his retainers, who, with no other alternative except to join or fight King Tell, had turned to banditry. Deciding the apprentice was skilled enough, Ifhrd had even allowed Jorlon to help them with magic to lessen the casualties. They had all gained some wealth by this life-style and having become accustomed to it the banditry would not be easy to put a stop to now. Originally they received an income for guarding the pass, which they had duly honoured, but that ceased when wizards were outlawed. Ifhrd would be happy to return to guarding the pass.
Ifhrd redirected his thoughts towards the competition of Effugium Rexus. It was a game that relied on skill, rather than dice, that he was to play against Mage Astocath this night. Ifhrd felt certain that victory in this round would be sure to win him the prestigious award of Imperator amongst the Circle of Medeas, a union of magi to which every wizard ought to belong for mutual protection. Although the award gave nothing except prestige, it was a highly coveted prize. He hoped his formidable opponent would not be at his best. With the two of them in magical communion to bridge the distance from one to the other, the danger to them was minimal.
If the thought that he was to die this night was true, he surmised that his lot was empty; Ifhrd had done nothing toward influencing King Tell’s acceptance of wizards. He had always felt he would play a prominent role asserting the Circle of Medeas with the arising of this powerful leader. But as ever, he had no reason to suppose as much. Now, things were not the clear picture he had envisioned. He had not found a way to influence Tell’s sights and policies. He was living in fear and failure, hiding from all. But the consolation was that, if he was so wrong about his part to play regarding King Tell, he could be just as wrong about forfeiting his life in some way today.
The mage’s attention returned to the moment as he realised his apprentice had fallen silent. Jorlon stood behind the easel looking for direction. Ifhrd had no doubt he had directed his guiding hand over Jorlon with wisdom. If his time now was short, perhaps he would never know one way or the other. Youth flies hither-thither at the best of times.
"Jorlon, we must find a way to reinstate the Circle."
Jorlon looked most perturbed, and his brown eagle eyes widened with bewilderment. Sweeping his thick black hair from his brow, Jorlon asked after the matter. “Master?”
“There is much racing through my head. I can’t concentrate,” Ifhrd scowled. His thick sideburns enhanced the fiery look upon his rustic face, of which little could be seen for the straggling grey beard emanating mainly from his chin. “But for the moment, I have a game to win that I want to think upon. Just you meditate on all I have told you.” He flapped a hand. “We must prepare the pentagram.” He gestured a dismissal with a nod of his head. “Go ahead and see to it.”
***
ALTHOUGH JORLON HATED having to painstakingly weigh each ingredient to the exact measure, he concentrated well. In the pail were chalk, flour, saltpetre and sea salt. ‘What would a good-wife make of it all?’ he mused to himself. He had never tasted it and had no thought to do so now.
Jorlon rarely found concentration difficult under any circumstance. Many an apprentice fell by the wayside for an impatience to master the arts. Their desire to conjure spells and feel the power flowing through them would overcome them before they gave themselves the chance to comprehend the consequences. They would risk all rather than begin by learning the fundamentals. The discipline of concentration was the one safeguard against the dangers of conjuration. He considered his status; he was the envy of many a master as an apprentice because of his studiousness, and he was happier still to be the ascendant eagle above the quarrelling sparrows that marked many an apprentice. He loved being the centre of their jealousy; his good looks he considered the least of the sticks in his bushel. Wizards were not normally given to love affairs.
Then he remembered Ifhrd’s sordid tale of a couple of nights previous. Jorlon had felt his every nerve become numb as Ifhrd spoke of his horrific heritage.
“How should I feel? I was conceived and was yet unborn. Developed and yet did barely laden a womb,” he had replied to Ifhrd. “Of all who are alive today, or have ever been, or who are ever to be; will I ever know how I should feel other than feel that I am what I am?” He recited his words now to his wooden stirrer. “Brought to Ifhrd before being born, it is by this that I have the talent for magic, to me it is a natural ability! It is me - my very essence of being. By my very substance, I have become as I am. What matter has my wrangled origins to do with me?” He looked around and flushed as he saw Ifhrd at the doorway.
“What’s the noise?” Ifhrd asked lowering his tired eyes, and rubbing his sideburns. Jorlon did not reply, though he realised he had become a little carried away and voiced his thoughts a little loudly. Ifhrd sighed deeply and said, “You must lay the circle if you are done. Be glad you were never a menial servant.”
“I am glad,” replied Jorlon knowing that if he were deeply ashamed of himself for his creation, though that no fault of his own, Ifhrd could be of no consolation to him. But had Ifhrd needed to have told him? There again, it made sense that he had always been brushed away when he had asked after his mother and father.
Ifhrd did not move as Jorlon pushed past him at the doorway. It was as if the wizard had turned to stone. “Perhaps, Jorlon,” he muttered, “perhaps I should never have told you. But then ... then what if the other apprentices told you?” He looked down at his sandals.
“It is better that you did,” Jorlon replied, and continued to carry the bucket along the short hallway.
Ifhrd’s personal servant, Ethrail, had earlier cleared the gaming room, leaving a simple chair set before a highly polished ash-wood stand. Upon this was the game Effugium Rexus prepared for play. Jorlon put down the wooden pail and stepped over the outline where the pentagram was yet to be completed, and he gazed at the board and playing pieces. Ebony goblins and marble elves stood upon the exquisite chequer-board, made up of 144 pure ruby and emerald squares numbering twelve by twelve. He drew in an appreciative breath.
“Wondrous, isn’t it?” Ifhrd had followed him. Without awaiting a reply he continued, “All ready? The bucket was properly cleaned and dried?”
“Yes, just before I used it for the pigs’ swill,” Jorlon mumbled, wanting to laugh.
“Eh?” Ifhrd held the young man with a steady eye. He went over to his chair. “Carry on,” he said. “Then find yourself some sleep before the raid. Tonight might be dangerous. Have a good break tomorrow; you’re overworked by far.” There was a moment of silence. “What ho!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Thought projection with Astocath—do you think I will beat him? Oh yes, I think so. It is as if I am to travel far south this very night! Wouldn’t believe it, would you?” He tapped his head. “All in the mind, Jorlon. All in the mind.” He tried to smile, but Jorlon stared at him as if he peered upon a stranger. That there were spells of thought-projection, Jorlon was well aware as an apprentice.
“Such spells as these are potentially dangerous, and since the time of communion is to be prolonged, necessary protection requires the pentagram to eliminate risk. What is one of the risks?”
“The projected thoughts in the ether could attract unwanted spirits. The pentagram keeps the spirits a distance from the occupant,” Jorlon affirmed.
For a moment, Ifhrd looked uncertain. Fearful even. Then it appeared that he checked his thoughts. “Yes, well ... You met Astocath long ago, I think. You were around, I’m sure.” He scratched his greying beard.
“I do not remember him. I daresay I was very young.” Jorlon felt self-conscious of his stilted words. ‘Just out the pickling jar, no doubt,' he thought wryly. 'How filthy: life.'
“I’m in the mood for playing the goblins’ side. Hope he’s the elves.”
“Hmm.” Jorlon glanced at the artfully crafted elf king. He was mounted upon a unicorn at the centre of the mahogany-based board. Surrounded by sixteen warrior elves, the king had to leave a corner before the twenty-eight goblins flanking the outside edges could stop him.
Once he had finished painting out the pentagram under the eye of Ifhrd, he decided he would taunt Ethrail before retiring to bed. He was in a particular frame of mind for mischief. Now he realised both of them were freaks of nature, he believed he had more reason to tease and test a fellow unfortunate.
***
HAVING ESTABLISHED a mental link with Astocath, Ifhrd confirmed his choice to play the goblins, his favourite side, but he regretted his decision immediately. He would rather play to liberate the elves instead. He scratched his head, wondering why he should be in this frame of mind. There was something immediate nagging at him, something amiss. What the bone of it was he did not understand.
Would Jorlon have betrayed him and prepared the ingredients for this pentagram to the wrong recipe? ‘Is this pentagram secure?’ he wondered. ‘Should I play? No, I must.’ His heart and pulse hastened, and his head throbbed. Ifhrd rubbed his brow. The apprentice was a conscientious, diligent and intelligent character, and although he was occasionally mischievous, sometimes to an extreme, he was not malicious—not to the point of murder! Jorlon’s attitude did not seem to have turned against him. What a lot of nonsense then, all these fears!
He felt Mage Astocath probe into his mind. “Are you well?”
“Yes, yes. We must begin ... But I have the feeling I am to die ...”
"You doubt your pentagram? Is it faulty?” Astocath asked. "I sense nothing amiss."
"Then let us begin."
“There are rumours that in my lands of Olfounand, other Kings are making similar decisions to outlaw wizards. We must act fast!”
“We must. I will find a way to convince King Tell to accept wizards if we embrace every mystic in the Circle of Medeas.”
“We made plain we will guarantee we won’t interfere in politics and such.”
“It will also serve to make our Circle powerful and what we have already established, protects us from wizard wars. Sounds a good idea, at this moment. We must talk more on this.” Ifhrd felt excited by the idea. With a pact in place, neither side should give the other much trouble.
Astocath advised his first move which Ifhrd replicated manually upon his board before deciding his subsequent move. Already he felt he had lost; he was distracted by Astocath’s idea and the fear of an imminent spiritual attack. He felt as if he was being spied upon and a hatred against the unknown entity burned within him. Yet it was almost as if it were himself he despised, not a brooding presence at all.
The feeling passed after a few hours, and Ifhrd quickly found a renewed inspiration. His mind was clear, and dismissing his fear borne of his earlier premonition, he studied the contest with vigour. After a long while, he saw a flaw in Astocath’s tactics. Inspiration struck with uncanny clarity as he saw how he could best exploit the weakness of the elves, and crush a whole flank to clinch the game.