In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (14 page)

“Master!  Master Marik!”  They both shouted at his door.  “Please, we have
returned and have news!”

A man slightly shorter and thinner than Magi came to the d
oor and opened it.  He was middle-aged, but fit.  His bald head was usually matched with a clean face, but this late in the evening caused the presence of a heavy shadow of stubble—black with flecks of grey.  His over-arching feature, as it was with every True Mage, was his eyes.  Marik had the pure white eyes of a mage who had successfully climbed the Staircase and earned their rank.  He was dressed in night robes—a bit of luxury in this day and age, but Marik could afford it.  “Boys?  It is late.  I’m glad you’re safe.  What is it?”

“Lionel and Sindar are dead!  They have been murdered!”  Kyle exclaimed.

Marik narrowed his eyes and turned to Magi. “WHAT?  Do you have the Scroll?  What happened?”

Magi
told the entire tale from when they had first entered Gaust, and then handed him the Scroll.  “Master, what should we do?  We have no idea who killed them.  Do you think it had something to do with this Scroll?”

Marik looked at the rolled
-up Scroll, then back at Magi.  “I don’t know.  Perhaps.  People get murdered in this Dark World all the time.  If there is a God, He sees fit to leave us mortals to our own base devices.  Even in Brigg.  Yet in a large port city such as Gaust, it is even worse.  Theft, rape, hate, greed, jealousy, corruption, torture, murder—it is a Dark World indeed.  Still—it is beyond troubling that your two seasoned guides and protectors should be cut down, while you remain unharmed and with all your possessions.  I can’t begin to explain that.  But I will make some inquiries.  You were wise to leave the way you did—it would be too easy for Lord Corovant to pin these murders on you.”

Kyle nodded.

“What does the Scroll do?”  Magi asked pointedly.  “Is it a spell you can teach me?  I didn’t recognize it.”

Marik looked at Magi and smiled
sadly.  “It’s actually a fairly innocuous spell.  Someday I’ll share it with you.  But for now you must rest, and I must tell Lionel’s family.  Sindar had no family that I’m aware of.  But I thank you for this Scroll, and commend you both for such resourcefulness.  I sent Lionel and Sindar to protect you, though I hardly would have expected them to lose their lives for such a privilege.  Clearly I must spend more time on offensive and defensive spell casting with my students.  You should have had more weapons than a sleep spell.  My failure was almost disastrous.”  Putting the scroll inside his robes, he put a hand on both their shoulders and fixed his white eyes on both of them.  “You must be exhausted.  Get some sleep.  My annual Tournament begins in a few days, and you’ll both want to be at your best to represent your class.”

With that, he dismissed them
.  Kyle turned to Magi.  “Well, I guess it’s to bed.  Master is right; I am so very tired after that ride.”

The wind blew gently
in the deep hours of the night, stirring leaves in the village.  “Yes, let’s get some sleep.” 
Right after I finish taking another look at my copy of the Scroll of Tralatus, still in my pouch.  Whatever the scroll does…I doubt it’s ‘innocuous’. 
They walked back to their barracks, Magi tucking his hands deep into the folds of his travelling cloak as they went.

~Marik~

After the two boys left, Marik sat down and poured himself a glass of spiced wine, which he heated.  This was
nearly disastrous.  He swirled his wine in a goblet far nicer than anyone in the village typically owned.  Sleep was the furthest thing on his mind.

“I send those two young men out to see a city, learn some practical skills from experienced men…and to retrieve a scroll of interest to my studies.  I never thought any harm would come to them.”  He spoke out loud, alone with his thoughts and his wine.  “Surely this must be part of some larger plot.”  He took long sip that was hot on his tongue.  “Thankfully the boys came back unharmed.”  He took another sip, and began to pace.

What I don’t know is why…

~Xaro~

The noise of the crowd surrounding the large central training pit was always loud.  It was a boisterous affair, watching men bleed for the chance of earning their Mark.  It was only on rare occasions, however, when more than half of the two thousand fighters cared enough to stop their own training to gather together to witness the battles between and amongst their brethren.  Such had been the case with Xaro, and with Tar-Tan and Strongiron…but those were exceptions.  Usually less than five hundred fighters gathered at the same time and place while training in the pits.

Except this cloudy afternoon, when all two thousand were assembled, having been told that there was an announcement from Lord Kensington.  When they had all fanned out into the stands around the pit, however, it wasn’t Lord Kensington that walked out into the center to address them.  It was Xaro.

“Fellow warriors,” he began.  “You have been told that Lord Kensington has a message for all of you, and we shall hear it soon.  But first I have something to say.

“These many months I have trained beside you.  Fought with you.  Ate with you.  Laughed with you.  Each day, a new challenge.  I won’t insult you by saying we’re as close as brothers, for many a brother will kill his kin to feed himself in this Dark World.”  He paused here and saw some of the hardened men in the crowd snickering and nodding. 
Good. 
He pressed on.

“We say that a lot—that it is a ‘Dark World’.  Have you ever wondered why?  Have you ever envisioned something better?”  He drew his sword from its sheath in a dramatic arc.  The crowd began to mutter.

“The Gods hate us!” someone yelled.

Xaro let the crowd yell a bit while he just slowly turned around the pit, looking at the assembled warriors.  He couldn’t miss Strongiron’s resolute jaw in the back, staring down at him with unblinking blue eyes.

“They abandoned us!” another yelled.

Xaro took his sword and jammed it into the dirt at his feet.

“NO!”
  He shouted.  Such was his voice and presence that the crowd quieted.  He calmed himself.  “No.  The Gods never abandoned us.  We abandoned them.  It is a Dark World, for it is a Godless World.  You come here to learn how to fight—for what?  So you can kill.  For what?  So you can steal or protect what you already own.  For what?  So you can eat and live and thrive.  Look around.  This is what we are reduced to with the absence of God:  fighting to gain what is not ours, and fighting to protect that which is. 
All
darkness in this world flows from this simple fact.”

He looked around and saw more heads nodding, some fists shaking at the sky in both agreement and anger.  He shut his eyes and uttered his silent prayer to Kuth-Cergor:
let me have these men and I will build you a mighty army, Master.

Opening his eyes, he continued.  “My fellow fighters…I would offer you a better vision.  A bolder vision.  It does not have to be like this.  One God—a True God—has taken an interest in us, and if we take an interest in him, there will be more than plenty for his followers.  Plenty of food, of gold, of slaves, of women—all that your heart desires.  Those who join
me will have the choicest of spoils, as peace is delivered through conquest.  You have seen my exploits in battle…now let me show you who
my
Master is.

“
Behold, Kuth-Cergor!”

Holding his hands outstretched, palms up, two columns of flame erupted from his palms toward the sky, twisting and weaving in and out as they shot upward.  The grey clouds above the pit ripped apart, but instead of a blue sky behind the grey, it was orange and red, and the flames converged on the terrible opening in the sky.  Xaro raised his hands higher still, and the ground began to shake.  Violent lightning poured out of the rip in the sky, striking the ground around Xaro in a perfect circle, like needles sliding through cloth in precise pattern.  As the last bolt of lightning charred the dirt, a deep voice that seemed to come from the sky cut through the commotion and chaos:  “
I am Kuth-Cergor, and I am returning
.”

Xaro closed his palms into fists and brought his arms across his chest like an X…and there was silence.  The orange/red rip in the sky was closed as grey clouds converged like salve in open wound.  The closing of his palms extinguished the two columns of flame.  Wisps of smoke rose from the two-dozen scorch marks encircling him on the dirt from the lightning blasts.  The ground settled and stopped shaking.

Xaro raised both arms above his head.  “Join me, and you shall be the cornerstone of an army that ushers in a New Age where God is no longer absent from our lives, where there will be order and plenty and peace and fairness.  Join me, and I will brand you True Warriors myself.  Ask yourself this:  who is best suited to complete your training, Xaro, a True Mage, True Warrior, the God Finder and Griffon killer, or
him?”

At that signal, Tar-Tan entered the pit, dragging Lord Kensington on a metal neck-leash.  The noble Lord had been stripped down to a loincloth, and bore the open lashes from recent brutal whippings.  He dragged the leader of the city in
front of Xaro and stopped, stepping aside to stand at Xaro’s right hand.  He jerked the leash down, and Lord Kensington fell to his knees.

Looking down at the beaten Lord, he allowed his eyes to become pure white as he directly addressed him softly, out of earshot of everyone.  “You bowed before me a week ago, now bow further and kiss my feet if you wish to keep your arms and legs.”

Whimpering, Lord Kensington put his lips to Xaro’s boot and kissed them.

“I say again,” his voice rising.  “Who would you follow—Xaro, favored by a True God, or this pitiful man kissing my feet who would presume to judge your talent?  If you fight for yourselves, then you are limited to yourself.  If you fight for a True God, you shall have no limits.  Who will you follow?”  He yelled.

Someone shouted “Xaro!”  Then another.  And another.

“WHO DO YOU FOLLOW?” bellow
ed Tar-Tan, the half-ogre.

“
Xar-o!  Xar-o! Xar-o!”
the crowd chanted.

Xaro smiled as he took in his new warriors.  He did notice, however, one man riding off across the hard-packed plains away from the city, north toward the coast. 
And so it begins.

Chapter 5:  Games and Plans

~Marik~

The day of Marik’s annual tournament had arrived.  There was a larger crowd than usual this year.  Everyone knew Magi’s class was going to be competing, and his skills were well-known throughout the village of Brigg.  A palpable buzz simmered in the air; Magi was somewhat of a village celebrity.

Looking down at his scuffed boots, he caught a glimpse of the frayed cuffs around the bottom of his too short trousers.  They had been handed down by Marik, who was his Master, teacher, and for all intents and purposes, the only father he had ever known.  He was grateful for the worn cloth, still bearing stains from his hard journey a few nights earlier. 
Celebrity indeed.

Magi
looked across the 50-foot square at his opponent—and best friend—Kyle Quinlan.  He had always been smaller than Magi, but fit, not fragile.  Wiry-strong, with slender, quick fingers, Kyle could run forever.

But he cannot match me,
Magi allowed himself a moment’s pride.  He rarely allowed this type of thinking to come to the surface.  In fact, his next thought was
where’d that come from? 
He had known Kyle for more than ten years now, often studying together as roommates long into the night.  Having recently returned with him from the harrowing trip to Gaust, he was a little distraught to be paired against Kyle in the match right away.

Marik had called for a tournament every year that he run the school, this being the eighteenth year—the same number of years he had effectively raised Magi.  He thought it was a fitting way to harden his graduates for the real world, as well as to prepare those who chose to pursue the life of a True Mage and attempt to climb the Staircase.  The rules for the tournament were simple:  knock your opponent unconscious
or get them to yield, all the while keeping your spells to the confines of the grassy square.

Hundreds of villagers encircled the tournament boundaries, some pressing dangerously close to the field lines.  Marik had set up invisible protections, but one could still get hurt if the crowd of commoners pressed you up against the barriers.  Several shoving matches (usually instigated by parents) and more than a few insults set the tone as the match was set to begin.  The fact that the two best friends were about to fight only heightened the drama.

Magi surveyed the crowd, saw Lady Goodwin, the old widow who was actually a magic-user herself.  He saw Black-John the smitty, the large scale farmers Horace Packard and Brandon Gains.  He also recognized Phillip, the Village Elder (whom he tried to avoid whenever possible), but his eyes were searching for someone else when Marik signaled for the match to begin.

Kari.
  Magi had always liked Kari, Kyle’s younger sister.  She was so stunning, so witty, so fiery.  She was one of the guys when Magi was eight.  By fourteen, all the boys had a crush on Kyle’s kid sister.  Now at eighteen, their thoughts went a little farther than a mere crush.  A mere year behind at seventeen Kari—a woman by all accounts, well, she was rarely able to avoid attention.

Actually, she c
an avoid attention any time she wants,
Magi thought with a smirk.  Kari was studying the Art of Illusion, a seldom-used track of magic at Marik’s school.  At seventeen, she was competent enough to blend in just about anywhere when necessary. 
I mean, how amazing is that?
He smiled, shaking his head.

CRACK!  A shock-jolt came from Kyle’s outstretched hand as Magi daydreamed
away.  A less-gifted mage would have had no chance to block or recover from it.  It was only the sound of the spell that brought Magi back to attention and gave him that fraction of a second he needed to duck and roll as a mild form of lightning sizzled over his head and struck the invisible barrier behind him.  Several villagers pressed in close against the barrier leapt backwards as the jolt reminded them this was for real.   Kyle may be his best friend, but on this day, he was his adversary. 
Focus.

Magi looked
across the square at Kyle, his dusty blond hair both messy and cool at the same time, like always.  He was wondering whether Kyle would flash him a smirk or something. 
Nothing
.  He was getting his next spell ready.  Magi gave himself over to his magic as well; he relished that heightened state of awareness that came so easily for him—that fraction of a moment before he called forth his magic where everything slowed in a manner that was almost unfair.  He noticed a faint salt taste in the air, mingled with the smell of Kyle’s sweat from across the square.  The sunlight felt hot on the back of his hands.  A hundred yards away in the stables, one of Marik’s precious unicorns just moved its bowels.  Kari had washed her hair earlier, and scented her bath water with hibiscus.  The spell was instantly on his lips.

An invisible air hammer the size of a wagon wheel crash
ed down on Kyle, who was frantically trying to crush a marble for some sort of defensive spell.  It mattered not.

The side of Kyle’s head opened, and with a sickening
thud
his body crumpled to the ground as a small pool of blood began to form underneath him.  It was the same spell he’d used to break open the door to their room earlier that week.

Magi was running
the moment the hammer struck his friend, and got to him right before Kari, with Marik and dozens of others right behind.  Marik shoved people out of the way to get to Kyle.  Kari rounded on Magi just as Marik knelt beside her slightly older brother.

“Kyle
—can you hear me?”  Marik said.

No response.  Marik calmly crumpled a few bone-dry leaves over the wound and said a few words of healing.  The wound began to knit closed.  He
scooped Kyle off the Tournament square to carry him back to the small home he shared with Magi and a couple of other boys attending Marik’s school.  “Tarsh, help me carry Kyle back to the school.”

“
That was no simple spell!”
 
Kari screamed at Magi.  She was wrong…and right.  It was a fairly simple spell.  Most of the time the target got a knock on the head that disoriented them a little bit, or in the case of the door—it might get pushed open or knocked askew from its hinges.  A good spell for escaping trouble and one that Magi thought would help him ease past Kyle in the Tournament.  But like many of his spells lately, it seemed to be more powerful, almost super-charged.  He would never, ever intentionally hurt Kyle.

Magi just stood there dumbfounded watching Kari depart with Marik and Tarsh as they carefully moved Kyle back to his barracks. 
What happened?

~Xaro~

The trip across the sea had been uneventful.  His prayers to Kuth-Cergor for favorable winds and calm seas had been answered, and the entire fleet of Lord Kensington had been commandeered for Xaro’s trip to
Sands End
. 
Indeed, he left barely enough food for the humbled noble to survive upon after his departure.  He certainly stripped the Lord of all his wealth.  Six weeks of aggressive sailing had landed him at the ancient western stronghold with two thousand men.

  The castle was old and deserted
—a relic of kingdoms past.  There were stones that were crumbling, winches that had not turned in a century, waste ditches that had to be re-dug.  But it suited his needs for the moment.  Perched atop a mesa in the ancient city of Garinthia, overlooking the cracked dirt and tortured land, the fortress at Sand’s End
was virtually isolated, but strategically located.  Protected by the Ajax Mountains to the south, it was surrounded by desert on three sides.  It was, however, close enough to the coast of Ipidine that supplies could be procured over water to the west.  Food from the fertile plains to the north in Adimand came by ship.  So, too, did stone and minerals get shipped to Xaro from the mines of Harken just across the mountains.  He bought wood from the merchant Elves that lived further south in Shinty-Moor, a thriving city in the woods.  The Elves who settled this far from their homeland traded on their knowledge of woodcraft, and Xaro paid better than most for the high quality lumber. 
At least until my gold runs out
, he thought ruefully.   Sands End
really was the perfect encampment from which to launch his campaign.

It was now time for Xaro to begin to assemble his Lieutenants.

He had some ideas.  These individuals would be crucial to his plans, and if they were successful, they would each find themselves ruling vast areas of Tenebrae if they so chose.  It was not a trivial appointment.

He would start with easiest, since he had made up his mind weeks ago. 
To be fair, Strongiron made my mind up for me, but it is pointless to look back. 
He summoned Tar-Tan to a meeting.

The half-ogre entered the sitting room and stood before Xaro, who motioned for him to be seated and comfortable.

“General,” Xaro began.  “I am pleased you accepted my appointment.  Your help marshalling the ships and organizing the men into fighting units was very efficient.  Excellent work, Tar-Tan.”

“Your faith in me is well placed, my Lord.”  Tar-Tan said.  He and Xaro had been peers of a sort during their training in the pits, but after Xaro revealed the depth of his power, the half-ogre had taken to calling him ‘Lord.’  Of course, he had also referred to Kensington in that fashion, but that was before the half-ogre saw fit to flay strips of flesh from the weakling noble.  Xaro had thought that unnecessary at the time, but it did put an end to any hint of status he might claim.  As to the title of Lord…Xaro was comfortable with it.

“And the plans for the reshaping of Sands End go well?” Xaro asked.

“They do.  We have enough gold for the majority of materials we need—wood, minerals, clay, food, equipment.  We are rebuilding training pits, finishing the task of turning these men into True Warriors, however I am modifying their training to focus on learning to fight in groups, rather than as individuals.  I estimate that our gold will cover these expenses, but as you know, it will take more to launch any attack on the mainland of Elvidor.”

Xaro nodded.  “Yes, it will.  But one thing at a time.  Right now I have another task for you, General.”

“Yes, my Lord?”  Tar-Tan focused his beady, yellow eyes on Xaro.

“Before we worry about attacking anyone, it is time we acquire a real army.  I am looking for a force of hearty men, 50,000 strong, with which to go to war.”

“It will take more gold than we have to acquire that many mercenaries.”  The half-ogre was direct.

“I don’t envision us taking on mercenaries in that great a number.  I expect you to handpick a large force, a thousand or more well-trained men, and sail south to the Uncharted Isles.  There you will find strong, but untrained men.  Tens of thousands of fighting-age men, and even some hardy women, that I would have you conquer and forge into an army.”

“Lord…islanders?  Is that wise?  How will they fight?”  Tar-Tan rose to his full eight-foot, six-inch height, not to protest, but to think while he paced—or so it seemed to Xaro.  He was rubbing his chin as if already trying to work out the logistics, the tactics.

“Kuth-Cergor will give them over to us; I have faith in him.  And I have faith in you, my General.  I will leave the planning to you; whenever enough of the men have been trained to your satisfaction, you may leave.  Take as many as you see fit, but remember you will be returning with fifty thousand more men than with which you depart, so plan well.  As to your last question—they will not fight.  That is how you may overtake them outnumbered forty or fifty to one.  They are farmers, and while their bodies are hard and strong, their preparation, organization, and fighting skills will be weak or even non-existent.  Bring them back to the pits, and we will train them for a new life.  A purposeful life.  I have seen what you have done with the rabble we brought from Kekero—you can turn these farmers into a real army within a year.  And that will give me enough time to find the gold we’ll need to move that many east against Elvidor, and her capital—the mountain fortress of Rookwood.”

The half-ogre stopped pacing and looked at Xaro, crossing his massive arms across his chest in a posture that caused his forearms to ripple.  The bulging muscles drew even more attention to the symbols he had tattooed across his arms.  Dozens of black circles were painted close together on his flesh, like bubbles grouped together.  Inside each was what appeared to be a knife bisecting each circle at different angles.  He offered the faintest of smiles.  “Then I shall commence my planning, Lord Xaro.  It shall be done…you will have your army.”  He nodded, turned, and started to leave.

“Remember one last thing, General.  Give these men something to fight for, not just something to fear.”

Tar-Tan grunted, gave one final curt nod, and departed without fanfare.

His test will hardly be the logistics.  And it will hardly be subjugation; any brute can whip a weaker man.  No…my doubts rest in his leadership.  Will he get these men to fight under him when he returns?

~Magi~

“Magi Blacksmooth—what did you do to my brother?  Answer me!” Kari’s voice was insistent.