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IN THE MID-MORNING of the following day, still not having spoken with Errimiayo, Astocath was crouching over the mystical Pool of Cyan. It was huddled within a knoll towards the edges of the Great Forest, the heart of Elven lands that spread far to the north, and wide to the east and to the west. Elves, gnomes and dwarves, those that did not dwell in mountains, alike farmed districts within the realm, and trees were replaced as required.
Astocath sprinkled more spice upon the still water. It floated upon the mirror-like surface and he strained to see through his reflection, but all he could see of Sylvyndene was mist. It was also apparent to him that the force creating the haze had a mystical eye scanning much of the fortress. Astocath dared not attempt an ethereal journey. He would be too much on his own against an unknown quantity, a power that was surely of greater strength than himself.
The mage stood up, sat down and stood up again uncertain as how to best proceed with an effort to contacting Jorlon clearly. Then he walked around the pool, about three hundred paces each side, anxiously biting his fingernails. Walking around the waters twice more, he tried to recall what memories he had of Ifhrd’s fortress and of its mountainous terrain. That Sylvyndene lay to the south-east from here, he knew. He doubted Jorlon would attempt to travel away to his land of Ellador in search of Adriselle; why would he? However, her brother Mordrak might well do so if he and Jorlon could properly figure out what had happened. He nodded with a frown and said aloud to himself, “They might well...”
He crouched again over the pool and opened the inner eyes of his mind. Now he saw the pool reflect a dark void. He immediately withdrew. “This is getting dangerous. Ifhrd would surely have warded Sylvyndene, and that protection would lie beneath this malignant guarding.” He dismissed the notion of attempting to break through all the spells just to reach Jorlon. Sylvyndene would become too vulnerable to the enshrouding enemy.
Then as something dawned on him, he felt so indignant of his stupidity Astocath could have kicked himself in the shin. Yes, he ought to have realised there had been an alien presence about the place whilst playing Effugium Rexus; why had he thought nothing of it then? A good life lost for a stupid title from a mere game that he also had to earn. That wasbn’t even the final match. He buried his ears in his hands as he thought how dull he had been when briefly forcing Jorlon’s mind to respond to his call.
Astocath tutted. “Nothing for it, you will have to go to Sylvyndene yourself,” he sighed a little ruefully. He had brought along only a light lunch with wine. He had been looking forward to a feast this coming night. Ill-prepared for the journey as he may be, he dared not remain here any longer.
He leaned back in the grass and saw a flock of birds pass over as they circled in search of flying insects. “Hmm, there’s a thought.”
The mage considered the option of sending a bird; little use, they could not be trusted. They’re not the brightest of creatures, he had since determined. And furthermore, he had attracted the attentions of the enemy by attempting a link with Jorlon. Any bird attempting the flight would be endangered along the way, or at least tricked into passing over any message, Astocath reasoned. Not only that but, after all was said and done, there is a wyvern hereabouts. He felt his stomach writhe with frustration. Two or three days would take him to Laraid, a city given over to Tell without fight. Close by was Bar-Nexus, a House from where Ifhrd had long since emerged as a mature mage. If anyone knew how to contact Jorlon, it would be Mage White Eye, properly named, but rarely called Evenar, who was one of the principle magi in bringing the baby Jorlon through the unnatural birth.
Astocath decided his journey, first to Bar-Nexus would begin immediately. Right now. Then he would then return here to the King of the Elves.After a few hours, now well on his way, he was resolved there was no turning back. Gradually he began to feel more and more alone. As his fears arose, he turned to thoughts of Adriselle.
His optimistic dreams made for better company. Her daring spirit was impressive, which surely was becoming stronger the more she was tested. Were she a man she would prove to be a brave knight; of that, he was certain. And more closely now, she had his child, he wondered on the possibility of a lifelong relationship with her, at least all her life long. Then gloom struck again as he imagined her struck down by an enemy for the worst of motives: Jealousy.
His mind turned to her life again. Would the mould of aristocracy about Adriselle crumble from her frame altogether? Could it? He felt uncertain, Adriselle did not seem to be all that interested in courtly life. Could he even hope that she would or even could betroth herself to him? She carried his child. He was resolved he would have a child to rear one way or another. How was her older brother Mordrak going to react to any of these possibilities?
They were not the only doubts that were creeping forward from the back of his mind. Nagging him was the ever increasing idea that his quest and whatever it would entail was futile. He was not sufficient to renew the Circle in Tell’s lands, and even less equipped to release the curses. His sense of single-handedness weighed him down as he strived to assure himself he could not be the only one prepared to fight for the survival of all.
He drew strength against these brooding thoughts; they felt a little foreign–nagging doubts pestering him as a spaniel about the heels. He now suspected the stronger enemy was using an influence against himself. Astocath knew he was not equal in power. His attempt to penetrate the magic only those few hours ago confirmed as much; furthermore, he may well have given the spying sorcerer a taste of his soul. ‘Dangerous stuff is divination’.
Surrounding his mind with his own protective layer of mist, Astocath began to feel better; he believed the magic should now hide him from all but the most determined of mystics. Gradually he began to feel more and more alone with only pangs of guilt for company. He would not be present for the King’s banquet. He tried to console himself that he had been invited only because he had happened to visit. But that would surely mean his poor manners could not help his unhappy lot when he sought Errimiayo’s assistance later, which he was certain he would come to need.
The owning magi of Bar-Nexus had planned to forge a gateway to Faerie and he wondered if it had ever been completed. If so, perhaps they had long since fled through the gate from King Tell’s edict and of course, that would waste his time completely.
He beat the coming of twilight as he took refuge close within woodland. Almost having finished his wine he was glad to have found a spring of water. The stream flowed into the heart of these woods, and he wistfully promised himself to follow the brook one day to see the river it might form.
He sat back and enjoyed the delicate flavour of the remains of his now diluted wine. Astocath conjured wards of guarding before he rested hours later to sleep. The face of the moon peered down upon him. He wished he could be upon it to survey the complexities of his world.
Astocath awoke at the shriek of a ward that was louder and more piercing than the cry of an owl. His eyes met a pair of glowing red eyes that seemed to hover ten feet above the ground. Behind them was a dark shadow, a huge shadow only a mere half dozen leaps away. Astocath knew he was peering at the fiery eyes of the wyvern that was momentarily frozen by the sound of the alarm.
The enchantment broken, the numerous forks of a long tongue slithered between sharp teeth of the reptile’s jowls. Astocath was on his feet and leapt behind the fire. He felt his breath shorten as the reptile eased its weight forward as it raised its wings to squeeze through a couple of oak trees. The trunks shuddered at its weight. The hooked bone tips of its wings were too high and caught against the overhanging branches. Hissing in agitation, the immense beast tried to bully its way through the gap of creaking and cracking boughs.
With a sweep of his hands, Astocath caused embers from the fire to scatter into the wyvern’s face. It shrieked with pain; rearing and jerking against the trunks, it could not retreat. Shaking its fearsome leathern head, it made the sound of an exploding volcano. Then a huge spray of poison burst out at Astocath. Glad to have anticipated the attack, he backed away farther into the woods. The wyvern’s forked tail spat acidic venom, and it shook every neighbouring tree as it fought to recover its sight. The poison spewed into the fire, causing flames to flare up, hissing and spitting again into the wyvern’s face.
Astocath looked around fearfully. There was some of the campfire left. He conjured the embers to cast into the wyvern’s eyes once more. The dart-like embers exploded against the relentless spitting. As the cinders blasted its face yet again, the beast roared with greater ferocity. Pulling and pushing, it struggled against the restraining trees that cried out beneath the awesome force, or so it seemed. Astocath was strengthening the boughs as best he could. Slowly the ashes upon the forest floor that were flickering, and the red hot embers at the wyvern’s dangerous feet, smouldered and kindled to the shifting air. Sparks were flying everywhere, and suddenly, primed by the poison, the trees crackled in fire. The pools of acidic venom ignited.
The serpent’s spearheaded tail somehow suddenly slipped to the fore where now it flung a stream of poison that issued across the encampment. Astocath barely ducked beneath the smoking hail of bursting flames. Now the leaves above the beast glowed. The beating of the terrible barbed wings was fanning them. In panic, the wyvern tossed and bucked its angry head whilst it spat its poison ceaselessly through its forked tongue.
To a run of commands, the mage caused more of the kindling to flare, which consumed the wyvern. To Astocath’s amazement, the wyvern writhed with impossible determination as the growing blaze was becoming more fearsome. Astocath retreated and probed magic into the serpent’s mind to confuse it. As Astocath bellowed out arcane demands he was shocked to realise his danger. Suddenly he found himself standing in the reach of the vicious barbed tail sweeping from side to side, issuing poison-ball after poison-ball.
The ferocious hissing and roaring of the wyvern’s anger added to the groans of the forest and her awakening inhabitants. Every sleeping creature called out with shrieks and howls, and here, the inferno became alive with panicking animals that smashed through the forest in their bid to escape.
Flinching back, Astocath leapt away for the cover of the remaining trees that were not yet alight. He could see now the wyvern’s defence was spent and the last of its venom merely oozed from the tip of the tail. Even so, the serpent, clutched by the smouldering trunks, was not yet entirely overcome by the pyre. As the tail twisted in reflection of its fiery agony, the sparks of flame that were brushed aside made no difference to the blaze that had now spread nearly everywhere. The fire quickly embroiled the taper of dripping venom and the reptile gave a final roar of unimaginable agony, rending the crazed air. An horrendous popping noise, sounding of overheated eggshells, added to the stench of the burning leathern body. Beneath the imprisoning trees the wyvern shuddered with unearthly strength for the last time.
As a restraining oak fell, fire leapt from the trunk and ripped along the woodland floor. The flames spread farther into the woodlands. Astocath’s heart choked in his throat as he measured the extent of his orgy of ignitions. As the wyvern lifted and fell, writhed and rolled in its death throes, Astocath frantically worked his spells. He dodged here and there, leapt from sparks that chose to target him. As one flame subsided another took its place. It seemed that each tongue of fire and every feasting blaze had its own character. He shouted at the fires: rebuking, subduing and snuffing the blazes. His voice boomed with an authority that he never believed he possessed, but he was taming the raging fire in all too few places. It was soon apparent there was more ablaze here than he could arrest. His task seemed futile, and he was aware all the time he too was in danger of the fire. And so it was apparent there was magic yet afoot. Even so, Astocath desperately fought on in the eerie absence of the fearful cries of the woodland animals that had now since fled. The wyvern crackled aflame as if it were a molten rock. The stench was like brimstone.
He did not relent fighting this fire, and soon even began to take heart. The heat had certainly begun to diminish. The intensity of the fire eased and thankfully was becoming subdued. He drew breath and felt nauseated by the stench in the air; it smelled worse than a tanners’ lane. Beginning his task afresh he became emboldened as the fire quickly dwindled until the embers winked and brightened only as if they gasped for the final mortal breath. Daring to relax at last, Astocath leaned forward clutching his knees. He puffed with relief that his abilities were greater than he had accredited to himself. He straightened his back to repose and compliment his prowess for a full minute before wiping his brow.
“Hope you’re satisfied!” a voice growled at him. The language was elven, but it was too shrill to be the voice of an elf.
Astocath spun around to face the disgruntled speaker. Standing half of the wizard’s height, a group of gnomes crowded before him in great indignation. He could not see them clearly in the darkness, but their long bushy beards were apparent and their slight build marked them apart from dwarves. The voice of the speaker was neither as deep as dwarven tones or as light as an elf. These folk indeed must be gnomes.
“I’m sorry, people,” he pleaded. “I am so sorry!”
“So you should be. Don’t you know no spell ‘part from fire?” he scorned.
“It was all I could do,” Astocath humbly entreated all of them.
“Well go away, we don’t want ye here, see?” The gnome waved his arms towards the fringes of the woods. “Clear orf! Fit not ta live. Septin’ yer elvish ken, we’d a left ye ash too.”
Astocath shook his head with regret and humiliation. He could not remember feeling so contrite since his failures in days of apprenticeship. He walked away feeling like a dog, one who deserved to have his tail cut off. He felt burdened by the gnomes’ insults, their angry jibes and ridicule with only the comforting knowledge that at least they were not cursing him.
As he left the wood, the cries following him dwindled. Daring to relax he looked for the moon. It was not in sight and he reckoned the time was close to dawn. He walked wearily across the moor and through the cold of the rising bitter mists that threatened to lose him his way, if not devour him with its sharp frost breath. He trudged over the whitening heaths toward Laraid in the best direction he could sense, and likened himself to a condemned soul ever to trail along dead-end lanes and byways.
Past noon after the journey of a couple of days, and into the late afternoon after the wyvern encounter, Astocath arrived hungry and tired at the ruins above the catacombs of Bar-Nexus. As he looked over the wasted site that once housed a village, he saw a straggly-haired young man picking about the tumbled rocks and stones.
“Halo!” he called over and waved an arm.
The youth quickly stood, revealing his once cream coloured tunic to be dirty. The woollen hung barely above his knees. He put a hand to his dagger that he had tucked in a belt about his waist. “Yes?” he asked curtly.
“I seek Math,” said Astocath in the tongue peculiar to magi.
The youth paused for a moment. “He’s not here.” The reply was the same cant.
'Hmm,' Astocath thought. “Do you know him?”
The boy looked at him with an impatient frown. “What if I do, and what if I don’t?”
As Astocath reached for his purse, the youth, whom Astocath reckoned to be aged about seventeen years, shook his head. “Money don’t bribe me.”
“What are you looking for?” Astocath tried to sound friendly in the face of antipathy.
“Things.”
“You’re an apprentice, are you not?” The mage observed with a growing impatience. “Belong to White Eye?” Math ever spoke of having no practical need for an apprentice. Blind, White Eye would like as not remain within the shelter of this hidden House.
“What’s an old man like you doing out here alone?” He had become malevolent.
“You should wear your tunic longer, because you might give a wrong old man the worst of impressions,” Astocath snarled. Then with a nod, the hem of the youth’s tunic whipped above his belt.
The youth struggled for his dignity; his eyes were ablaze in the midst of his prominent face. His hair was a shock of wispy blond.
“I am a mage as you do well to know,” rebuked Astocath. He added sternly, “And your death if you uttered it.” Astocath decided he would cease battle.
The youth relaxed. “These are dangerous times. I am an apprentice, sir. My name is Moragon,” he said flatly.
“Will you introduce me to your master?”
Moragon considered him for a moment. Astocath noted his sturdy body would be stronger if he took more exercise. “Please wait here, Mage Astocath. My master is indeed White Eye as you guessed.” His tone sounded strained, although he strove to be polite. He strode quickly away. Casting a final look at Astocath, he disappeared into a hole in the ground.
Whilst Astocath waited, he studied the area of loosened rubble Moragon had been inspecting. Astocath’s experienced eyes could see the shards of magic essence lying here and there; the stones trapped most of the residue. Moragon had no doubt been gathering this precious essence.
Long ago ordinary folk had built their village upon this mystical site where, susceptible to its power, the people had founded their ruin. Picking some near invisible shards for himself, Astocath sat down to await Moragon’s return.
His wait was briefer than he had anticipated. He had misjudged Moragon. He had expected to be kept far longer than would rightly be necessary. Half the youth’s body appeared above the hole and with a wave of his hand, he called for Astocath to come.
Astocath duly went over to the entrance where he said kindly, “Moragon, my wish is to be on friendly terms with you.”
The apprentice looked up above Astocath’s head: “As you wish. I should not insult a mage.” He began to climb down into the catacombs. “Come in, Mage Astocath,” he called up, and Astocath grappled with the rickety ladder for a good hold to follow after him.
Astocath’s heart sank; the place was so quiet and so still; Bar-Nexus was very different from the busy community he had had occasion to visit in better days. “Where have they all gone?” he asked, knowing his voice was filled with despair.
“To Faerie, mostly. Don’t think anyone’s been sogged in these parts here though. That is, no real mage has, of course.”
“So you built the gate!” The reality of such a dream impressed Astocath. Many had the theories been to make a permanent gate that did not depend upon magic-rings. At least, he thought, they must have achieved this. He had seen no evidence of standing-stones hereabouts.
Moragon said nothing. Although the way rambled through dingy, ill lit and rubbish strewn corridors, Astocath doubted he had lost his sense of direction. “Why have you remained behind?” Astocath prompted him.
“Master wouldn’t give up. This way.” Moragon opened a door to a clean room filled with laboratory equipment and benches. “Can’t see where he’d be going. I suppose he won’t admit anything close to that, of course.”
Astocath could see the top of a balding head behind a table. He ventured, “Greetings, Evenar?”
The head turned around with the shifting weight of its body. Two white eyes blinked at him. The old blind mage had the remotest wisp of white beard below a firm, thin mouth.
“Astocath?” he enquired.
“Evenar! It is I.”
The old mage arose. “Welcome! Welcome to Bar-Nexus!”
Moragon drew up a chair and guided Evenar to it.
“You are not so blind as you look, I perceive,” said Astocath with gentle cynicism.
“Yes, I see things.” He nodded and shrugged. “I train Moragon here well enough. He’ll be his own master soon,” he sighed, “and as well.”
“You’ve many years left to you, I’m certain,” Astocath ventured to encourage the elderly wizard. “My! It’s plain to me now, I last visited far too long ago.”
“Why are you here?” The magi’s eyes seemed to roll toward Moragon squatting by his side.
“He seeks Math,” the youth said quietly.
Astocath cast an expression of annoyance at the youth and then replied: “He is one I seek. I mean to understand what everyone’s doing under these awful times.”
“Aah. Many have scattered and Math is one of them, but I sense most of them cling to the dream of unity. But these are difficult days, Astocath. Anarchy will soon divide us unless we all unite, as we lived together until recently.”
Both Moragon and Astocath exchanged glances.
“I know, Evenar. I want to help save the Circle.”
“What can I─” he took Moragon’s hand. “What can we do to help?” His question was not a pitiful cry, but a question of resolution.
“Ifhrd was a mage here, once.”
“Once. Long ago. Since you last visited, of course. You played Rexus with him yet? He has long since fought the ranks for the grand title.”
“He is dead.”
“Dead? Betrayed?”
“Murdered by the same power that grips King Tell,” whispered Astocath. “Which is all so far as I have deduced. And everything is so complicated!”
The old blind mage bowed his head and mumbled, “Is it the unseelie? I will hazard a guess, it is. After all, they hate us.”
“They do. But Jorlon survives. You remember him?” Astocath felt self-conscious by asking. “He’s the one to avenge his master’s murder! Almost as if he was born for the job! Ah, he will change the nights.” The mage’s tone rose and fell. “But he’s not here.”
“Yes.” Evenar clenched his fists. “Yet many anticipated Ifhrd was to be instrumental in stabilising the Circle.”
“Oh.” Astocath frowned. “If by what has happened, such foresight is ironic.” He breathed in deeply. “Do you know how to penetrate the wards over Sylvyndene to get a message to Jorlon?”
“Jorlon is not here with you?” Evenar seemed to wonder for a brief moment why Astocath should want to communicate with him. He tut-tutted. “Boy, hrmm, Moragon. Get that pickling jar!” And the mage chuckled. His mirth was quickly sobered by a fit of coughing. As he recovered, he asked Astocath: “Did I spray blood?”
“No, plenty of saliva, though.”
“Phlegm then. When a cough bleeds you’re near the end.”
“There’s plenty in you yet, old boy.”
“Evenar, remember me saying to use my name?─Oh it does not matter...” He flapped his hand dismissively as he considered Astocath with his inner-senses. “Why did you offend my apprentice?”
“I had a bad journey here and was impatient with his poor greetings. If I have offended you, I apologise.”
“I remember prophesying to you that you would owe me an apology... do you recall?”
Astocath smiled and lied, “I do.”
Evenar nodded and chuckled, “Well if that’s it I’ll never be... Hmm.” He waved his hand again. “No matter, as you can see there are not many of us to teach Moragon properly. Even when they were around the others had little to do with him. He’ll always be a little rustic. Not all his fault.”
They sat in silence until the apprentice returned bearing a five gallon, wide-necked glass jar. About a third of it was filled with a pinkish liquid.
“Place it between my feet, please, Moragon.”
This done, the old mage seemed to croon over it as if a babe still lay within. “There was life in this bottle once, Moragon. But if you heard the story once, you’ve heard it a thousand times. The Norns! They were the days. A golden age. No, perhaps the silver, and the gold is yet to come!”
“Things are not so irretrievable,” said Astocath hopefully.
“Oh, there is so much darkness, Astocath,” whispered Evenar as he peered into the bottle. Then he spoke quietly into the bottle before repeating himself. “The darkness has grown so, this past year.”
“Have many gone to Faerie?” asked Astocath.
“Many. They’ll grow fat, lazy and content to be like it as the unseelie corrupt them.” Evenar’s words were filled with disdain. “I have prophesied to Moragon. He will have a full life─and an arduous one at that.”
Astocath remembered this mage would always give time to tales of wandering Judezzeks and of the oracles they uttered. Perhaps the gift of supernatural knowledge had been granted to Evenar. He smiled to himself and glanced at the bashful apprentice.
“He’s said more,” said Moragon, “but my ears for it are enough.”
“You may always call on me. Though I’m not sure where I’ll settle,” offered Astocath with a raised hand.
“What would you have me say to Jorlon?” asked Evenar, quickly easing the bung from the jar.
Astocath looked at the pink mist that had risen above the now clear, bubbling liquid.
“Be quick─be brief!” Evenar urged.
Astocath chose his words. He felt the room cool and he prepared his mind for the unexpected. Evenar’s silent concentration was almost fearsome. It was as if he could pass his very thoughts through the swirling liquid and its vapours. Astocath leapt back in alarm as Evenar slapped his hand upon the bung.
Apparently unaware of Astocath’s fright, Evenar said, “It is done. He will meet you. His untrained mind for these things was weak. But there are evil eyes there and further. Did you not know?”
“Will you two be safe?”
“The likes of you cannot move much unseen.”
“Will you be safe?” Astocath pleaded.
“We shall be, and our servants too. There are still some wizards about.” He swallowed and closed his eyes as he leaned back his sleepy head. “Supper?”