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Adam’s collapse was so sudden and unexpected that it left Ichabod quite shaken, the more so when he quickly learned he was seemingly powerless to do anything to restore his young visitor. When the simple measure of applying smelling salts failed to revive him, the old man resorted to magic, yet nothing succeeded. Wasting no more time, he called for a servant to summon Barshivor, the King's Healer; certain he at least would have the skills to help Adam.
The physician was quick to respond to his call, trailing behind the servant sent to fetch him; he arrived red-faced and wheezing after a hurried dash through the long passages of the castle. Although Barshivor was no longer a young man, it was less his age than his ample girth that caused him to be so out of breath, his florid complexion further enhanced by his predilection for port wine. Notwithstanding, he was the finest Healer in the kingdom, hence his Royal patronage.
Unfortunately, he was equally renowned for his quick temper and brusque manner, which, on this occasion, due in no small part to his somewhat inebriated state and to misunderstanding the message sent in summons, made Ichabod the target for his ire. Immediately he arrived to find the old sorcerer apparently quite well, he began cursing Ichabod, his words distorted by a series of odd sounds as he tried to recover his breath. “Damn you Ichabod,” he wheezed, gulping air as he spoke the sorcerer's name and making it sound like a bout of hiccups. “I thought you were supposed to be ill.” His hiccups became a hiss as he fought to overcome his breathing difficulty, ending in a deep-throated gurgle. “If you've called me to witness...” back to hissing, “one of your foolish experiments I'll never forgive you.” The last sentence he finished with a strangled sound that could easily have been a belch.
The sorcerer allowed this tirade to go unchecked, then as Barshivor’s complaints petered out, he simply stepped aside allowing the Healer sight of Adam, still slumped in the chair.
“Whasis?” managed the physician, still puffing, “Oo's 'e?” Despite the fact that he was clearly not entirely sober his professional eye had immediately recognised that the young man was someone obviously in need of his ministrations. Without further ado he crossed the room towards Adam prepared to provide whatever help he could.
Regardless of the Healer's apparent condition, Ichabod knew that he was never so deeply in his cups that he couldn't perform his work. “He, my friend, is the reason for my calling you. There's no time to explain who he is, or how he comes to be here, but as you can see for yourself, he needs your help.”
Despite their apparent differences, the sorcerer and physician were good friends of many years standing, kindred spirits, both in their own ways, rebels. Never one to waste time arguing when lives were possibly at stake, Barshivor’s manner became completely professional as he prepared to set about his work. Recognizing his friend's unwillingness to answer questions about the young man now before him, the Healer did at least need to know what had happened before his arrival, and why the man had collapsed.
“Very well,” he said as he bent to examine Adam who remained unconscious, “but you must at least tell me how he comes to be like this.”
Ichabod frowned, “That's the trouble, I don't know. He was a bit shaken after his journey so I gave him a mild restorative, nothing that would harm him,” his tone mildly defensive.
“What was it you gave him?” demanded Barshivor, who despite his friendship with the old wizard had little time for those who meddled in matters he considered the domain of himself and others similarly trained.
“Nothing more than a little ruboric in water, it seemed to calm him,” was his somewhat cautious reply.
“Ruboric never hurt anyone, unless you gave him too much,” retorted Barshivor briefly glancing over his shoulder as he continued to examine Adam, his voice carrying a hint of accusation. Then before Ichabod could defend his actions he added, “Still I'm sure you would not have been so foolish, and even in excess it would not have done more than send him to sleep, so what happened to make him like this?”
Biting back his intended remark, the old wizard simply replied, “Well apart from being a little shaken, he seemed all right. It was when I told him he was expected to stay here to fulfil the purpose of his visit that he collapsed.”
Dissatisfied with such a meagre explanation, yet knowing that the magician was unlikely to tell him more, Barshivor insisted on moving Adam to a bed in a quiet room better suited to his needs. Summoning two of the castle guards to assist him, he then banished everyone from the room and set about his work. Before he could begin his examination, Barshivor needed to remove Adam’s clothes yet so unfamiliar were the garments that he wore, he spent several frustrating moments struggling with them there being no buttons to undo in his shirt and the zip in his jeans defeated him completely. Mumbling to himself and cursing Ichabod roundly for his difficulties the Healer finally managed to free enough of Adam’s body to satisfy his requirements and began his work confident he would soon know what ailed the lad.
Whatever transpired behind the closed door, it was quite some time before the old Healer finally emerged, shaking his head as he went in search of Ichabod, who had returned to his laboratory. When he found the sorcerer, the look of distress on his face so took him aback his earlier thoughts of complaint vanished. Never had he felt so inadequate, the sad news that he carried making him feel almost guilty. “I'm sorry old friend, but I've never seen the like before. It's almost as though the spark of life itself is all but extinguished. Nothing I can do is going to help him.”
Ichabod started at the words, staring hard at the rotund, little Healer. Such a pronouncement coming from one as skilled as Barshivor worried the old man, for him to admit that a patient's ailments were beyond his ability to overcome, was almost unique. Gazing at the Healer clutching his leather bag of instruments in one hand and his hat in the other, Ichabod's despair was clear in the way he asked, “But is there nothing you can do?”
Barshivor shook his head, “I'm truly sorry Ichabod, I wish there were, but I don't know what we're dealing with. I'm afraid that to do anything might make matters worse or cause greater harm.” He paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully; trying to avoid the offence he feared they might give, knowing the sorcerer reacted badly to even the slightest criticism. “There's something very strange about all this, what I mean is...well, it's not that I question your own abilities you must understand that, but is it not possible that a spell has been cast over him?”
For an instant, it looked as though even his careful phrasing had been inadequate, as the old mage's eyes flashed with an inner fire, but the moment passed before he spoke, his voice oddly resigned. “To be honest the same thought had occurred to me, although no enchantment that I've ever seen would cause such effect, or weaken a man this way. If magic has been used, then it's wrought by someone with powers far greater than mine.” An admission almost without precedent.
Nodding his head, the Healer could only add, “Then we must look elsewhere for an answer, but I tell you this, it had best be found swiftly or it will be too late.”
With that bleak pronouncement, Barshivor carelessly plonked his black tricorn hat with its gold badge, the symbol of his calling on to his head leaving it askew then bag in hand, made to leave. As if sensing that his friend expected something more, he paused at the door and turned around. Seeing the anguish on the sorcerer's face, he offered the only crumb of comfort he could. “I will be on hand if the young man's condition alters, Ichabod, you know where to find me.”
Thanking his friend, Ichabod turned away and shuffled wearily back to the room where Adam lay. Despite his obvious distress over what had happened, he knew that time was too precious to waste on self-pity. With heavy heart, he called for his servant, Zolf and asked him to fetch a messenger. He knew there was insufficient time to send farther afield but he could at least summon the Healers and men of magic within the city in case they might have an answer. When the man arrived, he handed him a hastily penned list of names of all whose attendance he required to which he had added his own seal by way of authority. Despite his great respect for Barshivor, he had to try everything, and that included inviting other healers and even magicians to succeed where he himself had failed.
Time passed slowly whilst he awaited the arrival of those he had summoned. For the remainder of that day and throughout the night, back and forth he trudged, searching through his spells looking for any clue that might lead him to what ailed Adam, keeping watch at his bedside, and growing increasingly weary.
The new day dawned to the sound of much anxious murmuring and shuffling of feet as the wisest and most erudite men of the city gathered in one of the great halls of the castle. Without knowing the reason for their being summoned they worriedly exchanged views, certain that such an extraordinary demand made by the King’s Magician could only bode ill. However, when Ichabod appeared to explain the purpose of their presence, they breathed a collective sigh of relief before they each went to examine Adam. The constant to-ing and fro-ing that ensued, between the hall and the room in which the stranger lay created a general air of activity and expectation.
Unfamiliar with the symptoms presented them, one by one they had to admit failure. As the day drew to a close and the light began to fade, so too did Adam, his condition noticeably deteriorating. Although he had apparently regained consciousness for a short time after his collapse, he showed no sign of awareness of what was taking place around him. With blank expression, his eyes unblinking and unseeing he gradually withdrew into himself, where he showed no response to even the strongest stimulus.
Ichabod was beside himself with remorse. He felt responsible for Adam’s condition, which made his inability to remedy the situation all the more galling for him. Deeply saddened to see the young man virtually fade away before his eyes, the old sorcerer gave vent to his frustration in a string of curses. Although he had many powerful spells and potions at his command, he knew that none would help where the will to live had ceased. The loss of Adam’s Manifex was an added blow; falling from his grasp when he collapsed, it shattered when it hit the floor. The crystals had the power to heal the guardians to whom they were bound, but each Manifex served only one master and Ichabod couldn't use his own to benefit Adam.
Angered by the ease with which the powerful talisman had been lost, its destruction came as a bitter reward for all Ichabod’s efforts. For some time now, he had been aware of a gradual yet seemingly inexorable deterioration in life’s pattern, seeing the effects, whilst fearing the cause. At first, the changes had seemed insignificant, a spate of bad weather that had damaged crops could be taken as misfortune, the same when fishing boats had returned without catch since such were the trials of life. However, when these and other similar events began to repeat themselves, when drunken brawls became more frequent, petty crime increased and an air of disharmony purveyed the towns, the old sorcerer knew that a gradual imbalance between light and darkness was occurring.
Because of this, he had laboured long and hard in the hope that one day he might succeed in restoring the lost Manifex of Talosh to its rightful place. Now it had gone; destroyed by a cruel twist of fate at the very moment it had returned. His despair weighed even heavier at the thought of losing the talents and powers he knew the young man that lay dying before him might have wielded.
Although he'd only known Adam for such a short while, he knew from the mark he bore, and because he had carried the Manifex, that he had been chosen as a guardian, to aid them in the fight against the corruption spreading through the lands. He'd felt a bond, an affinity between them, and knew that the young man possessed a power, yet untested, that would surely have taken him far beyond anything he might have imagined for himself. Yet there had been no time to tell him of the many and wondrous things that he might achieve.
Perplexed by the loss of the Manifex, and needing the distraction, Ichabod turned to his great books, tomes full of ancient and powerful writings, where he hoped to find an answer. He had always held to the belief that save from destruction by one of its own, the Manifex was immutable.
Few inhabitants of the world of Falgorin knew better the story of the creation of the Manifex than did Ichabod. Fashioned from mystic elements found hidden deep in the heart of Mount Kaldshard, by the hands of the giant Beorhtán, the mightiest wizard of all time, it was he who had forged the three crystals in the fires of the Glomers’ labyrinth of flames.
Magical tokens of immense power, only their creator had ever been able to command all three. Legend had it that he had used them at the time of the Awakening to overcome the forces of darkness and to destroy Shegrimoth the Dark One.
Centuries after the Awakening, Beorhtán appointed three guardians, Heoar the Warrior, Talosh the Healer, and Ichabod the Sorcerer, one for each Manifex. Charging them with their safekeeping, he had instructed them that they were only to be used to help others in just and good cause. Finally, he warned the guardians that should any one of the three, turn from this agreement, or attempt to unite the Manifex one with another, it would result in his destruction and the Manifex being passed to a successor.
For centuries the Manifex served the peoples of the lands through the guardians, their life span beyond that of normal mortals. But throughout, Talosh nursed a deeply hidden dark secret, suppressing his true nature. As time passed, he became bolder, feeling stronger from the use of the crystal, until gradually his greed and craving for personal greatness began to dominate his thoughts and actions. Finally, throwing caution to the wind he no longer even made any pretence at disguise, and allowed his true self free rein. Thinking that with the Manifex he would be strong enough to withstand even Beorhtán, he began to use the powers of the crystal to his own ends. His ambitions were to be short lived, his demise swift and terrible.
Although Beorhtán had not ventured from his mountain eyrie for many years, he was not unaware of the change in Talosh and was quick to respond. Summoning the Phyrith, he ordered it to attend the home of the guardian. A dark spirit of the afterlife, the Phyrith shares, with the Creator, the souls of the dead, yet unlike its counterpart who has claim to the souls of those who have led good and decent lives taking them to eternal peace and tranquillity, the Phyrith's charges must endure perpetual torment. Few hold the power to command that the Phyrith take a soul from a living being.
One night as Talosh lay sleeping; the ghostly creature entered his room, passing through the walls as easily as light enters a window. For a moment, the mist-like tendrils that were the Phyrith swirled and undulated over the sleeping man, becoming a column that rose like smoke from a fire, as the beast resumed its true shape. Its skeletal frame clearly defined beneath the taught stretched ivory skin, made it look like a cadaver brought back from the dead. Dark eyes gleamed from deep sockets, as the mouth opened to expose long, pointed teeth that stood proud in its jaws.
The moment it had transformed it set about its grisly task. Oblivious to the cries and screams and with incredible strength it began tearing its victim's body limb from limb where he lay. At the instant life ceased for Talosh, the reiver snatched his soul leaving nothing but bloody offal. At the moment its job was complete a blinding light filled the room exposing the whole gore drenched scene, and instantly both the Manifex that Talosh had been charged with guarding and the ghoul disappeared.
However, time changes many things, and with the passage of countless years, Beorhtán was no longer to be found within the halls of Mount Kaldshard. Growing in numbers, the followers of the Dark Path, although still not yet strong enough to challenge openly the forces of good, were becoming bolder in their efforts. Small bands began to disrupt the normal patterns of life, embarking on acts of theft and petty crime once unheard of. Their most audacious exploit was the slaying of Heoar the Warrior, which they had contrived to appear the work of a band of Antaleki soldiers, whose raids had also been on the increase. They robbed him of his Manifex, and lacking its protection, he had soon fallen to them.
Aware of the growing numbers turning to the Dark Path through the increasing manifestations of evil, and fearful of its increased strength, Ichabod knew he could not challenge them on his own. It was for this reason that he had tasked himself with finding the missing Manifex of the dead Talosh. Every instinct had warned him that the lands were again plummeting toward a darkness against which only the powers of the combined Manifex and their guardians could prevail.
Now the lost Manifex had finally returned, and at a time when the lands needed its power more than ever. Its sudden destruction had instantly dashed all the hopes Ichabod had held, plunging him into the despair of his current predicament.
Gathered from every corner of the world through countless generations and preserved in the depths of the castle lay the greatest collection of magical writings in all Falgorin. Every aspect of wizardry, every spell, potion, word of power and incantation lay within its dusty parchments and tomes and it was to here that Ichabod turned for answers. Although he searched long and hard through the archives, through Beorhtán’s writings as ancient as time, through those of the myriad wizards and sorcerers past and present, many of them of his own authoring, every reference relating to the Manifex that he could find, only served to confirm what he already knew. It was only possible for one to destroy another. With that now a certainty in his mind Ichabod was despairing of an answer. How could Adam dropping the Manifex have destroyed it? If only he had known that the crystal and its new guardian were to be transported, he could have made better preparation, yet such thoughts were futile.
Finding nothing to aid him, Ichabod became even more agitated and depressed. Was there no solution? Desperately tired from long days with little sleep, he determined to rest a while before renewing his quest. Returning to his private rooms, he kicked off his sandals and loosening his belt, made himself comfortable in his favourite chair to take a nap. Hardly had he settled before he drifted into a fitful doze, full of portentous images as if conveying a message.
To a mage of Ichabod’s learning and skill, one well versed in the magical arts, the significance of portents conveyed by dreams was not something to be treated lightly. So he sought answers to his problems from the visions that filled his sleep, increasingly feeling that he was on the brink of some great revelation regarding the crystals.
Allowing himself to drift with a flow of images that clearly depicted Adam and the three Manifex, it surprised him when they suddenly included Beorhtán. It was less the sight of the great magician that moved Ichabod, than the awed expression on Beorhtán's face as he gazed at Adam. When finally the meaning behind the dream became clear, it was with no great comfort to the sleeping magician, but it did appear to offer him the solution to that which bothered him most.
Since truly only one Manifex could destroy another, it followed that Adam had to be endowed with the same powers as the crystals. Clearly, the Manifex lived in him. With part of the puzzle thus resolved the troubles that had beset the old man's mind were much lessened, the turmoil eased, allowing Ichabod to sink into a deep and peaceful sleep.
On waking, the old sorcerer recalled his dreams and felt sure that the question of Adam's role in things would soon reach its conclusion. However, Ichabod's confidence vanished the moment he looked in on his visitor and saw that if anything, Adam's conditioned had deteriorated over night. Wondering if there was something he ought to be doing to help him, whilst silently cursing himself for wasting time sleeping, he found he still had no more idea this morning than he had the previous day. The only thought that presented itself was that perhaps, if his dream had been true, his own Manifex could aid the young man. Fetching the crystal from his pouch, he quickly restored its size; but despite his probing, it offered no assistance.
Taking it to where Adam still lay unconscious; Ichabod was reluctant to place the Manifex too close to the prostrate figure in case it had some adverse effect. To be truthful he continued to worry in case Adam managed to destroy the crystal, despite the dreams, thinking that just possibly he may be an agent of some dark and evil force, sent to destroy them.
When nothing happened, Ichabod felt that he had to move the Manifex closer. Placing it beside the young man, he allowed it to touch the bare skin of his arm. The moment it came in to contact with his flesh it glowed brightly, bathing the still form in a warm golden light. Fearful of what might happen, Ichabod hastily murmured an incantation, a pale aura of purple light surrounding both him and Adam as he did so. With the shielding spell cast, the old magician relaxed a little, certain that nothing could harm either of them from beyond its bounds, although it would offer no protection from what lay within.
Still the Manifex glowed, and as it deepened in hue from orange through crimson, it began to resonate. At first, it was just a single deep note but it soon began to rise in pitch. Gradually harmonics joined in until the room filled with the sound. Wave upon wave beat at Ichabod's ears sending him reeling almost senseless. Clutching his hands to the sides of his head, the old man retched as the sound almost became a physical thing that threatened his very being.
Barely aware of what was happening; Ichabod knew that the shield was magnifying the sound and that he had to release the spell. Summoning the words, he mumbled the incantation and the aura disappeared. The moment it had, the sound from the Manifex lessened, and Ichabod made to remove it from where it lay, glowing fiercely at Adam's side.
The instant he moved towards it, the sphere spun away from his grasp, rising until it hung suspended just out of reach. Never before had the crystal behaved in such a manner, its action causing the magician great consternation and no small fear. It wouldn't obey his commands, yet it made no move to harm either of them. Desperation driving him to take a risk he wouldn't normally consider he uttered the words of a spell, and raising his right hand sent a bolt of light towards the slowly turning sphere. Simply deflecting the force, the crystal continued to turn, the restraining spell having no effect.
“Fiddle and blast, what to do, what to do?” muttered Ichabod in anguish, but no answer came. Racking his brains for his next move, his gaze wandered from the crystal back to where Adam lay. The instant his eyes fell upon the recumbent form, it disappeared, and in a blinding flash so too, did the Manifex.
His cry when the crystal vanished was loud enough to bring the palace guards hurrying to his aid thinking that the old man must be in danger. Rushing in with drawn swords, the six men milled about in confusion when all they could find was the sorcerer, alone, seated at the side of an empty bed, with his head held in his hands. Somewhat in awe of the mage, the guard sergeant's first enquiry was rather timid, but when he got no response, he was forced to raise his voice. Still getting no reaction, he walked across the room and gently touched Ichabod on the shoulder. The instant his hand fell on the old man, the sorcerer leapt to his feet with a startled cry, turning to face the soldier as he did so.
From the sergeant’s expression, it was clearly apparent that Ichabod had alarmed him, yet the old man made no apology, brusquely assuring him that all was well. When the magician turned away, the sergeant took it as a sign of his dismissal and signalling to his men to leave, beat a hasty retreat from the room closing the door behind him. As soon as he heard the door close, Ichabod sank back down onto the edge of the bed, with his mind still reeling from the events just past.
Any doubts he might have harboured previously were quickly banished from Ichabod's mind by the loss of the second Manifex, replaced by a certainty that dark and powerful sorcery had to be at work. What worried him most of all, was that whoever was responsible could well have the Manifex stolen from Heoar, and with the second having been smashed by Adam, did they now possess the remaining one? If their purpose was to destroy all that lived by the light, then the first objective for the followers of the Dark Path had to be the removal of these, the most powerful obstacles to stand in their way.
Being directly challenged on his own ground was a new and alarming experience for the old magician. Although generally modest about his abilities, Ichabod knew his magical skills made him a strong adversary, and yet he'd been bested so easily. He was quick to shake off such egotistical thoughts however, knowing that far more was at risk than his pride, with all three Manifex lost the future for the world of Falgorin had suddenly become far less secure.
More immediately, he feared for the safety of the city since Meriandor had nothing in the way of defences against grand conjury as powerful as that which he had just witnessed. Wards and defensive spells would need preparation, which in turn would likely require the help of fellow members of the Brotherhood. Convinced of the danger he decided that he must speak with the king aware that his delay in not speaking to him earlier would likely earn him his displeasure.
No sooner had he reached his decision, than he stood up, and hurried from his rooms, heading for the Royal Chambers, his long hair streaming out behind him as he rushed along the passageways. Incanting a spell as he hurried down the long corridors, he suddenly levitated as it took effect, and drifted rapidly along, his feet no longer touching the floor. So unusual was his passing that several servants stopped and stared open mouthed as he flew by them oblivious to all around.
Reaching the antechamber to the king's state quarters, he reversed the spell and gently dropped to the floor, hot and breathless from his journey. Although the magic had hastened his passing considerably, it had still taken energy to maintain it although not as much as would have been expended had he travelled on foot. His arrival caused a flurry of speculation amongst the various court officials who waited there, all of whom were quite unused to seeing him so agitated or for that matter, floating. Spying Lord Riax, the king's Lord Chamberlain, with a group of elder statesmen, and without waiting to compose himself, Ichabod confronted the man and demanded an immediate audience with King Randufil.
Sorcerers are held in high regard on the world of Falgorin and Ichabod’s position as Grand Master to the Court positioned him amongst the most senior ranks. However, a demand for an immediate audience with the king even from one so highly placed, was cause for no little consternation for Lord Riax. It was obvious that the mage was troubled by something he felt the king should be made aware of and if he denied him entry it would fall on his shoulders if the king later found out he had prevented the information from reaching him. Caught in a dilemma from which he could see there was no way for him to escape he decided to risk the king’s ire whilst silently praying that whatever Ichabod had to say would prove to be worth it. Knocking on the door to the king’s chambers he entered having bid Ichabod to wait whilst he sought the king's permission.
Although normally a man of even temper, King Randufil was ill disposed towards interruptions to his planned routine and had been known to vent his displeasure on those who did so. It was therefore with some trepidation that Riax approached the seated monarch, hoping the king would acknowledge him without the need for him to make his presence known.
“Ah Riax!” exclaimed the king, seeing his Chamberlain enter, “what brings you sneaking here at this time, I thought we'd already discussed the day's plans?”
“Indeed, Highness, but something has...well someone has...”
“Spit it out man” demanded the king, giving the poor Chamberlain a start with his interruption.
Riax tried again, “Yes sire, well sire...”
Even such a short delay as followed the Chamberlain's attempt to form the words of his intended request was sufficient to cause the king to react. “Well come on for pity's sake Riax, get on with it.” The king’s mood was clearly not the best.
Taking a deep breath the Chamberlain explained, “You have a visitor sire, Master Ichabod demands an audience...Sire.” The last word added in a late and rather lame attempt to deflect the wrath that he felt sure would fall upon him.
“Oh! He demands does he?” replied the king, his voice stern, whilst his face gave nothing of his feelings away. Then with a broad grin he added in a much less querulous tone, “In that case you'd better send him in.” And with a few words of dismissal, cleared the room of the dozen or so lords and dignitaries with whom he had been speaking before Riax had entered.
Like his father before him, King Randufil often shared confidences with Ichabod, treating him as a friend, which was why he had agreed to see him. That and the boredom and frustration that had been developing from his earlier meeting and turning his mood sour. He placed great trust in Ichabod, respecting his wisdom and skills, so much so that if the sorcerer felt it important that he be seen then so be it.
When the old man hurried in, his gaze quickly swept the room noting the four guards stationed at the doorways, the Lord Chamberlain who was still present and the two pages hovering behind the king’s chair. Seemingly unmindful of court protocol that required his being announced before proceeding into the king's presence, Ichabod rushed forward, his appearance providing Randufil with something of a shock as he stood up to greet him. Ichabod's hair and beard were in a state of total disarray from his speedy trip along the passages of the castle, and his pale and drawn face did nothing to improve the way he looked.
Ignoring the magician's minor indiscretions, the king's welcome was friendly enough, “Well, Ichabod what brings you here in such manner, you look as if you've seen a dæmon?”
The light-hearted mention of how he looked, instead of having the intended effect seemed to upset the old man further. Running his hands back over his head in an attempt to straighten his hair, as if his appearance had at last dawned on him, Ichabod began agitatedly tugging at his beard. “Fiddle and blast,” he grumbled, then as if remembering where he was, added in a slightly apologetic tone, “I'm not sure what I've seen, Your Majesty, but I fear dæmons are at work.”
Although still a relatively young man, the king shared the same qualities that had made his father before him a great monarch. Tall and slim, with the bronzed skin of those native to Caregoron, he made an impressive figure, his clothes, although informal, detracted nothing from his bearing. Dressed as he was in a loose shirt of scarlet silk with a mandarin collar, over close fitting navy breeches, tucked neatly into his gleaming, high black boots, he looked every inch a man of high rank.
His regal costume, with all of its finery and trappings, he reserved for state occasions, thankful that only rarely did he have to bear its weight and discomfort. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he eschewed personal adornment, believing that actions, not jewels made a monarch what he was, which on this occasion even excluded the gold circlet from his head. His long, jet-black hair, he wore drawn back from a high forehead, above his dark liquid eyes that missed little.
Puzzled by the remark, and concerned by the magician's obvious distress, he smiled, and settling himself back in his seat, lightly added, “Well you have or you haven't, but what is this talk of dæmons, it's not like you to rush about in such a manner. Someone hasn't conjured up another rogue have they?” A short chuckle escaped the king’s lips as he recalled the time when an apprentice had mistakenly incanted the wrong spell, causing a mischievous sprite to appear. It had run Ichabod ragged for some time before he was able to corner it and send it back from whence it came.
There was no hint of amusement in the sorcerer's reply, “Randufil, I beg of you don't make light of what I say, powerful forces are being set against us.”
The effect was instant. No one, not even Ichabod, unless he had the mightiest of reasons, would dare to address the king simply by his first name.
Despite the hardening of his gaze, the king decided to let the matter pass at least until he'd heard the man out. Adopting a more formal tone, a degree of sarcasm betraying something of the effort he was making, Randufil said, “I apologize, Master Ichabod, I hadn't realized the gravity of the situation, pray sit,” he gestured for one of the pages to bring a chair, “and tell me what it is that has you so concerned.”
Apart from the four guards standing by the doors and the two pages, Ichabod and the king were alone. Randufil had dismissed Lord Riax soon after the magician's arrival, yet the old man spoke in hushed tones as he recounted the events of the last two days.
Having listened to Ichabod's story, King Randufil began to understand why it was that the magician was so agitated, his own annoyance having vanished as the story unfolded. Not that he was unaware of what was taking place beyond the walls of his castle or within, but he hadn't thought that matters had reached such a point. Admittedly, he’d been wondering when Ichabod would get around to telling him about the arrival of his visitor, the commotion of recent days and its cause not going unnoticed but had decided to wait until the sorcerer mentioned it rather than asking him, placing his trust in the old wizard.
Not for one moment had he considered that circumstances might be as serious as he was now being led to believe. Was it possible that they were to face the same terrible forces that had been unleashed on the lands at the time of the Awakening? He knew that if this were so, there would be precious little that could be done to protect his people.
Briefly he pondered on what had had just learned, whilst the sorcerer kept silent, knowing that for his own part he had already tested his king to the limit and that to interrupt his thoughts now would undoubtedly prove ill advised. He didn’t have long to wait, decisive as always, the king knew he would have to discuss the matter with those who governed the land but before that, there was one person he needed to speak to immediately.
Beckoning to one of the guards, he ordered the man to summon General Kawuhl, Commander-in-Chief of the army then dismissed the other guards and both pages despite them being too far removed to hear Ichabod’s tale. Randufil realised that the fewer people who knew of the loss of the Manifex the better yet he wanted the general present because the defence of the kingdom would fall to him and the men that he commanded. He also knew that Kawuhl kept close watch on the happenings in the city and that he of all people would know if things had deteriorated to the point that Ichabod felt they had, yet he felt sure he would have been informed had they done so.
As far as history could recall, the people of Caregoron have always been a peaceable nation, striving to lead undisturbed lives. Farmers, Healers and artisans, their fame for making fine furniture, weaving, and most importantly their medical skills, had spread across all the lands. Sadly, it was their unwillingness to fight that frequently lead to the internal conflicts of the two neighbouring countries to spill over into Caregoron, its people easy prey for the warring factions of both Mandax and Antalek. Constantly fighting amongst themselves, the armies of the adjoining nations had repeatedly raided Caregoron, killing, raping, plundering the crops, and imprisoning Healers to serve their military.
For generations, Caregorons living near the borders stoically suffered these raids or moved away; the local militia too small, inadequately trained and armed to prevent them. Despite pleas from their beleaguered subjects, successive monarchs chose not to act, their indifference made easy by distance and self-interest. During the reign of King Pilgan, a singularly weak and spineless man, the atrocities increased in both number and ferocity. Fortunately for his people, he was to live a short life, dying young, unwed and without heir. Having neither brother nor sister to whom the crown could go, as is the custom, it fell to his only surviving relative, a distant cousin on his mother’s side, Prince Randufil.
At barely twenty years of age, the young prince suddenly found himself crowned head of one of the largest and potentially weakest kingdoms of Falgorin yet neither circumstance deterred him from quickly establishing his authority. Determined to improve the lot of his subjects, he summoned the heads of the ruling houses of Caregoron to attend him only to discover that a number of them had taken up residence in the castle thereby avoiding having to deal with the issues they would have faced had they been in their own homes.
Those early meetings had tested both his mettle and resolve as he soon determined that the majority were simply hangers-on, feathering their own nests at the expense of the general populace. Consequently, the new king realised he needed advisers whose council would go beyond self-interest and sought them outside of the ruling classes. Banishing from his castle all those who failed to agree to his demands for the greater portion of tax revenues to be paid to the crown, that it might be used to benefit the whole population, he warned the dissenters that the matter had not been settled. That done, Randufil went in search of people he felt he could trust and who would in turn offer him sound advice on dealing with the problems his kingdom faced.
One of his first meetings had been with Ichabod, sorcerer and Manifex guardian. Unlike his predecessor, Randufil held magic in high regard and hoped that having been chosen as a guardian, Ichabod would be a worthy adviser. This proved to be the case; however, the role of guardian did not permit the wizard to intervene directly in the border clashes. Because of this, Randufil the First, great, great grandfather to the present king, knew it was he who had to act to protect his subjects. Recognizing that his own people lacked both the skills and determination to withstand the raiding armies, that he needed an armed force to deal with the recalcitrant nobility and any domestic dispute, he resolved to find an alternative solution.
Far to the north of Caregoron, across the vast wilderness of the Ruhlish Plains, lay the land of Jelvoa. It was here that the king sought the answer, amid its fierce warrior clans, tales of their legendary fighting skills having reached as far south as his own kingdom. Although Jelvoan loyalty might be bargained for once purchased it could not be turned against those to whom it had been pledged. Randufil knew that if he were to have any hope of succeeding in reaching agreement to obtain Jelvoan mercenaries to defend his country, it would only be by going in person to their leaders.
Having made up his mind, the king set out on the long and arduous journey to Jelvoa, accompanied by a handful of loyal men equipped with nothing more than the clothes that they wore and such meagre rations as each could carry. Leaving his castle and Meriandor troubled Randufil, yet not as much as having to part from his new bride. They had been married for less than a month, barely one year after his accession to the throne, delayed only because the bishop had refused to officiate at the wedding sooner.
Queen Carline loved her husband dearly; accepting that Randufil would of necessity put duty before his own pleasure. For that reason, she had encouraged her husband and vowed to do her best to act in his absence. Randufil had few doubts about his wife's capability in that respect; since it was her strong will and determination as much as her striking beauty that had endeared her to him.
Reasoning that to carry money with which to encourage the Jelvoans would only render himself and his men more liable to attack en route, the king like his companions carried little coin, hoping that his word would be accepted by any who agreed to join his new army. The only item of real value that he took with him was the ring that he normally wore on his right hand, now hidden stitched inside his undershirt to hide it from public view. Only this would prove him the rightful king of Caregoron, yet he had no way of knowing if the inhabitants of far Jelvoa would recognise it or even care about its ownership. As they set out, they looked for all the world like one of the many bands of itinerants that roamed the lands in search of such employment as they might find in exchange for meals and a bed to sleep in. There was nothing about their appearance to suggest wealth let alone royalty.
After successfully running the gauntlet of several Mandaxon and Antaleki patrols before entering the Ruhlish, they faced the tremendous heat and dust of the plains with sufficient optimism to feel that their endeavours would succeed. However, after endless days of discomfort and deprivation, when the party finally left the Ruhlish behind, they were both weary and more than a little dispirited.
Less than half a day's ride from the border, their spirits were lifted when they caught sight of a party of a dozen or so Jelvoan Warriors. Lacking devious intent and needing help in reaching their destination, they openly approached them. Unfortunately, the Jelvoans proved less than friendly, and within moments had surrounded the small group, promptly overpowering them. Despite the protests of his aides who did their best to point out that Randufil was royalty and not to be treated like a commoner, the whole group was bound and gagged. Thus it was that the Caregoron king was brought before a gathering of Jelvoan Clan Elders.
When it became clear that Randufil exercised authority over the group of captives, he alone faced the Elders, still bound, to explain why he and his men had ventured in to Jelvoan territory. Realizing he had nothing with which to bargain to secure the safety of his party, Randufil told his story, explaining why it was that he, the Caregoron king, wished to secure the services of Jelvoan warriors to act as mercenaries to defend his people.
Intrigued by the story, the Elders asked no proof of his claim to royalty but what he offered in return for this service. In reply, the king said that for the first year, he would feed, house and clothe the army from his own purse. Providing the arrangement proved satisfactory, only then would future payments be met from tax revenue. That way his people would not have to shoulder the burden until such time as they had been able to determine whether or not they felt the benefit justified payment.
It was apparently this proposal that sealed the pact between the two lands. Recognizing the king's preparedness not only to sacrifice something of his own for his people but also that he had personally undertaken the hazardous journey to seek their help, had convinced the Jelvoans of his sincerity. They struck an agreement that has held from that day forward, yet it has never been discovered why they chose to accept the king at face value.
A Jelvoan mercenary and his men would lead the Caregoron army, supported by as many local men as cared to enlist. The Jelvoans would train Randufil's people and prepare them so that one-day they might provide their own leader. Now despite the passing of generations, a mercenary still leads the Caregoron army, grown in numbers to over one hundred thousand men, many of them Jelvoan warriors, the rest volunteers, since it was always considered that conscripted men would prove unreliable.
Like his predecessor Heoar, Kawuhl the Jelvoan commanded the army, a fearsome Warrior whose loyalty to King Randufil II meant that he would willingly sacrifice his life defending the Caregoron sovereign. Typical of his race, he stood a clear three and a half metres tall, his rugged features, coarse blond hair and blue eyes, making him handsome in his way.
Striding into the chamber in response to the king’s summons, he halted in front of Randufil, slapping his chest with his right fist in salute. He made an imposing figure; with the heavy gold epaulettes of his scarlet tunic making his already broad shoulders appear even wider. Black leather trousers tucked into long boots with gold shin guards, and the gleaming bronze helm with its scarlet plume that he carried, completed his uniform. His only visible weapon, the massive curved sword favoured by his people that was clipped to his belt.
“You sent for me, Your Highness.” His voice a parade ground bark.
“I did indeed general, and thank you for presenting yourself so swiftly,” replied the king. “Ichabod has brought grave news, which if he is right in his assertions must concern us all,” a hint of worry in his voice as he added, “in fact; if he is right then all of Falgorin is threatened.” Gesturing the Jelvoan to a seat, the expression on the soldier’s face surprised the king. Instead of the expected reaction, he saw not consternation but the look of one caught out by some misdeed. Choosing to ignore it for the moment, the king continued, “Master Ichabod, tell Kawuhl if you will what you have just told me.”
Listening intently as the sorcerer retold his story, the general didn't interrupt once. However, as soon as Ichabod had finished speaking, he began addressing the king, his voice harsh, almost abrasive. “Your Majesty, I have been aware for some time that there have been stirrings and mutterings amid certain elements of the populace. There have been the usual complaints about taxes and suchlike, but lately they're being voiced more strongly. It seems there is a small but growing faction that seeks to depose you and rid themselves of what they claim is the tyranny of your rule.” The last sentence was spoken quietly and with some hesitation as if the general was finding the words abhorrent.
Clearly taken aback by what he had just heard, although now understanding the general’s earlier reaction, the king sought to know why such matters had been kept from him, still unaware of the seriousness of what was to come. “This revelation shocks me Kawuhl, how is it that I've heard nothing of this before, why wasn't I informed?”
“Sire, I'm sorry to be the bearer of such news. I made no mention before today, as I hadn't thought it worthy of your attention. We have already identified the ringleaders, and had things grown more serious than the whinings of a few dissidents we would have taken steps to arrest and imprison them. I only mention it now because there has been a recent development that is more disturbing.”
Barely appeased by the explanation, the king snapped, “Which is?”
With the king's displeasure clear, Kawuhl hurried on, “One of my guard captains has been keeping an eye on things, by secretly attending the meetings of this troublesome faction. Yesterday he didn't report for duty. Luckily I happened to be in the guardroom at the time so was able to order an immediate search for him.” Then as if pausing for effect, he noisily cleared his throat before going on, his next statement clearly needing no such embellishment. “His body was found a short while ago, horribly mutilated, and then dumped in a back alley behind the disused barracks.”
Even the thought of an attack on a member of the military was shocking; that such a vile deed should be perpetrated within the city bounds went far beyond outrage. The news shocked both the sorcerer and the king who demanded to know more. “The murder of one of your officers goes beyond being a serious crime since it threatens the very essence of law and order, yet I'm not sure I see more than a tenuous connection to what we are discussing here.”
“I agree sire, that such an incident on its own would have little bearing; however, there is an aspect yet more terrifying. Although I have never before seen the like, there can be few on Falgorin who do not know the legend; the body clearly bore the mark of the Ghyyrox.”
Few words delivered in such measured tones could have had greater effect. “But that's not possible,” gasped the king his face reflecting the horror and revulsion Kawuhl’s pronouncement brought upon him, “It cannot be, Beorhtán destroyed the Ghyyrox at the time of the Awakening.”
It fell to Ichabod to break the stunned silence that followed, shaking his head, he spoke slowly, unable to hide the note of despair his voice carried, “Not so Your Highness, like the Dark One the magic of Beorhtán only bound it, but even his power was unable to destroy them. If the Ghyyrox truly walks again then it can only be because Shegrimoth has been set free or he has found a way to undo the spells of binding cast upon the beast. Only he would have the power for such an act of evil.”
Before hearing what Kawuhl had to say, Ichabod had thought that things couldn't become much worse, however, it was now clear that the situation had deteriorated beyond his reckoning. The Ghyyrox, a beast created by Shegrimoth at the time of the Awakening, had ravaged the lands for many years. Able to change shape at will, it had caused havoc, death and destruction wherever it went. Betrayed only by its eyes, no matter what form the Ghyyrox took, they remained bright, blood red. The mark referred to by Kawuhl as that of the Ghyyrox could always be found on its victims; it turned their eyes to stone.
Despite the great age of the sorcerer, of the three even he wasn’t old enough to remember at first hand the time of the Awakening. The legends of what had happened, of the Ghyyrox and how Beorhtán had fashioned the Manifex and banished the forces of Shegrimoth were all part of the history of Falgorin. Tales told of the years of pestilence and famine, the flight of whole tribes of people, their deaths at the hands of the evil forces, and of the victims with eyes turned to stone. Yet none lived who had survived those times.
Because of this, it was difficult for them to comprehend the enormous evil of the forces being sent against them. Once more it fell to Ichabod to break the spell of silence that had descended after hearing the grim news imparted by Kawuhl. “We must prepare to defend the city as best we might. Word should be sent to the kings and lords of the other lands so that they may also make ready. I will need to visit the other members of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers so that we can combine our resources if we're to have any chance of defeating Shegrimoth.” Shaking his head he added, “Ah but if only Beorhtán were still amongst us, he would know what to do.”
With nothing further to say, and granted his leave by Randufil, Ichabod returned to his quarters to prepare for the journey he now knew he must make. Despite the king's protestations, he had refused to allow a squad of Jelvoan warriors to accompany him, insisting they would better serve by remaining in the capital. Summoning his servant Zolf, he instructed him to make ready horses and sufficient food and clothing for the trip. He intended leaving immediately, certain that time was already short. It was not going to be easy convincing the other members of the Brotherhood, that the Ghyyrox again walked the lands.
Doubts besieged Ichabod as he gathered up various belongings, making his own preparations. Why hadn't the Manifex warned him, and where had it gone? Had Adam destroyed it, or did it now lay with its counterpart in the hands of the followers of evil? And what of Adam, had he returned to lead them? So many questions, so few answers.
Far from the troubles facing Falgorin and its people, and completely unaware of the concerns his disappearance had caused, Adam woke to a great uneasiness. It wasn't the same as on previous occasions, there was no feeling of fear, or rapid breathing, and glancing down to check, no alarm clock messages, but something wasn't right. It took a moment or two for him to gather his thoughts, although as he replayed the sequences in his mind, he couldn't quite equate how one moment he'd been sitting in the lounge looking at the crystal and the next he was waking up in bed.
Puzzled, he lay drifting on the edge of sleep thinking about his dream for that was what he thought it had been, yet it had all seemed so vivid, so real. Such was his state of mind that it took several moments before he became aware of how uncomfortable he felt. As soon as the fact registered, he realised it went beyond discomfort and that he felt damnably hot. Throwing back the bedclothes he was shocked to find himself fully clothed, if somewhat in disarray the consequence of Barshivor’s attentions, something that he'd never managed even after a particularly alcoholic party. What in heaven's name was going on? He'd no recollection of going to bed, and certainly not with his clothes on.
Standing there in dishevelled jeans and T-shirt, he noticed how dirty they looked, as if he'd been crawling around on his hands and knees. “Hellfire!” He exclaimed aloud, “It wasn't a bloody dream.” Touching his right elbow, his fingers came away with a sticky trace of dark blood on them. Feeling faint, he sat back down on the edge of the bed, as the room spun dizzily.
If he hadn't dreamt it all, then how on earth did he come to be back home, and where was the Manifex? He didn't notice that he'd mentally referred to the crystal by the name given it by Ichabod. As his initial shock passed, he got up and hurried to the lounge. There was the chair as he'd left it, the curtains still drawn, and the little cupboard stood on the table, empty. With the possibility that the crystal had dropped to the floor, he bent down looking under the table and chairs, but there was no sign of it. Instantly Adam felt as though some part of his being had been taken from him, the disappearance of the crystal bringing a feeling of personal loss.
Glancing at his wristwatch, he saw that unless something had happened to alter its setting, less than an hour had passed since he had sat in this very room to begin his crystal gazing. But it wasn't possible or was it? He couldn't recall anything of his talk with Ichabod after the time that he mentioned the purpose of his journey to Caregoron. Did time behave differently in that other land, did that other land truly exist or had he simply entered some sort of fugue that had allowed him to act without recall? He didn't have the answers and that scared the hell out of him.
Needing a distraction from the thoughts rolling around in his head, something to restore his equilibrium, he went back into his bedroom to strip off for a shower. Pulling the T-shirt over his head again reminded him of Meriandor as the sleeve tugged at the scab beginning to form on his scraped elbow. Dropping the shirt on the floor, he kicked off his trainers, unzipped and stepped out of his jeans and went in to the bathroom.
After a long hot shower, he felt much more at ease, although when he dried and combed his hair, seeing the white streak sent a shiver down his spine. Fixing a plaster dressing to his elbow, he hurriedly tugged on clean clothes then set about clearing up the mess he'd left in the bedroom. Picking up the dirty clothes, he bundled them together and flipping open the lid of the laundry box, tipped them inside. As the clothes dropped into the empty box, there was a clatter as something hard hit the wooden bottom.
Hauling the clothes back out, Adam bent down and peered into the box to see what had made the noise. Lying in a corner at the bottom of the box was the Manifex, again reduced to the size of a marble. Seeing it there, Adam didn't quite know how to react as conflicting emotions pulled at him. The pleasure he felt at its return, was more than tempered by the fear of what its possession might mean.
Knowing that he couldn't just leave it lying there, he put his hand down and fished it out. Straightening up, he looked at the little glass ball thinking that it didn't look like much when it was so small. The moment the thought crossed his mind, the crystal began to grow, the colours swirling inside just as they had the first time. Better prepared this time however, Adam made no move to drop the Manifex.
Once it had regained its full size, Adam thought he would return it to its box, whilst he decided what he should be doing. Incongruously he suddenly recalled that he was due to leave the country the next day for his holiday in America. Thinking about the trip made him realize that he had absolutely no desire to go ahead with it, and acting on impulse, he called the travel agent, cancelling his reservations. The lateness of the cancellation meant forfeiting the cost of the airline tickets, but he felt that he had to be where he was for at least the next few days.
Having put the crystal back in its container, he sat down in his chair, and for several minutes just gazed into the middle distance trying to create order out of what had occurred. He was finally convinced that the place he had thought only existed in his dreams was as real as the one he was in now. That being the case, what was happening there; did Ichabod have anything to do with his return?
His mind spun with the possibilities. Perhaps if he called Pauline, the assistant from the Holistic Store, he could ask for her help, but the thought was stillborn as he realized he would have little chance of convincing anyone of his story and he retained enough of his senses to not want to risk her thinking he was losing his mind. A feeling of inertia came over him, which he found hard to overcome. He had to do something; the question was what?
There was only one thing for it; he would have to use the Manifex. He hesitated for a while; still wary about the crystal and unwilling to run unnecessary risks, but he could see no alternative. Taking the sphere from where had put it just a short while previously he set it on the table as before. Just as he was about to start, he had a sudden thought.
Leaping from the chair, he hurriedly searched around for a suitable weapon. He wasn't going to take any chances this time; if he was about to be hauled off somewhere, he intended to go better prepared. Almost wishing that he owned a gun, he had to settle for a heavy brass poker that he gripped firmly in his left hand as he sat down. Gazing at the crystal, clutching tight to the poker he waited for something to happen.
“You won't need any weapon,” came a loud voice seemingly out of nowhere although he was certain it wasn’t Ichabod’s, then without time to react he felt himself falling just like the last time. Fortunately, his arrival on this occasion was somewhat less painful, due mainly to his landing on his bottom on a large animal skin, the soft pelt being draped over several cushions.
The instant he landed, he scrabbled around looking for the poker, realising that although it would likely prove of little use as a weapon it was better than nothing, but again the disembodied voice spoke, halting him in his search. “I told you that a weapon wasn't necessary, you didn't bring it with you.”
Looking around, he saw no sign of whoever had spoken, the place he was in being too small to conceal anyone. Judging from its surface, he was alone in what looked like a small, naturally formed cave. Apart from the fur and cushions on which he sat, there was very little else visible, except for the hole cut in the rock to his left, which presumably served as the means to get in or out.
For a time, it didn't dawn on Adam that although there was no visible means of lighting, he could still see quite clearly. It was only after a few moments had passed that he saw that the walls themselves gave off a faint glow, enough to light the small space.
“Well are you just going to sit in there, or are you going to join me?” asked the voice.
“Where are you and who are you?” queried Adam shakily, the wavering tone of his voice betraying his concern.
“If you'll just come through here, you'll see who I am,” came back the reply.
With there being only one way out of the cave, Adam got up and going to the opening found that he had to bend down to crawl to get through. Poking his head into what looked like a short passage, he hesitantly set off along it. At the end farthest from him, he could see that it opened out into a much larger chamber, and as he moved forward a giant of a man sitting on a huge stone seat came into view.
As Adam exited the passage he got up and came towards him, his arms extended. “At last we meet, Master Adam.”
Not knowing quite what to expect Adam hurriedly scrambled to his feet and just stood there. The next moment, grasped in a bear hug that threatened to crush his ribs, he managed to gasp, “I still don't know who you are.”
Stepping back suddenly, the huge individual thankfully released the pressure. “Of course, my apologies, let me introduce myself, I am Beorhtán also known as Shegrimoth.”
