In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (26 page)

“Master Marik, this is Elmon.  I’ve known him for some time now.  He’s a talented Miller, but more important, he’s agreed to transport us across the inlet.”

Elmon rubbed his hands together.  “Happy to make your acquaintance, good sir.  We don’t get True Mages to visit us very often.  Perhaps you and your friends would consider staying for a few days before we sail?”

Marik smiled and said simply, “Thank you for the offer, but we cannot stay more than a day.  But we would gladly take you up
on your offer of a room.  We haven’t slept in two days and all of us, including our horses, could use some rest.  Can we set off tomorrow afternoon?”

“Of course, of course.  Please
—come with me.  You’ll find our house small and warm, like our food.”  He winked, and led them slowly down to his house.  Marik fell in next to Venatus and asked how much this would cost them.

“Oh, that depends.  I told him you could heal his leg.  I reckon if you can take care of that, we might get out of this with our gold intact.  Otherwise, be prepared to dig deep into your pouch.”  The Ranger patted Marik on the back
, smiling nonchalantly, like only a man spending another man’s money could.

~Xaro~

Xaro never enjoyed his meetings with the fourth member of his small council.  His Dark Cleric, Malenec, served as a constant reminder of the one power that had been granted another and withheld him by his God:  the power to raise the dead.  It has always been the final test of a True Cleric’s faith.

Centuries ago, when True Clerics still existed, there were some who worshipped Kuth-Cergor.  These Clerics, commonly referred to as “Dark” Clerics, had the power to animate the dead.  Xaro didn’t like thinking about the other God, because in his mind there was only room for Kuth-Cergor.  But intellectually, he knew there was another.  Her name is Dymetra, and in an honest moment, he would admit that She was the equal of his God.  True Clerics of old also prayed to Her, and when their prayers over the dead were answered, they could bring them back to life—not as undead bodies, but as living creatures once again.  And if he was even more honest with himself, he would admit that he coveted
both
of these powers.

But he possessed neither.

Xaro frowned.  Prayers to animate the dead may not get answered every time or in every situation, much like every spell he wove didn’t always work…but the power to do so must be demonstrated if one is to be a True Cleric.

Malenec, however, could animate the dead—and it infuriated Xaro, in part because his Dark Cleric would never let him forget his failure.  In every other Clerical way, he and Malenec were equal.  They both shared knowledge of the truth about the ancient Gods:  The world believed that God abandoned Man, creating a Dark World.  In fact it was the other way around—Man stopped worshipping God, and left to our own devices, the world grew dark.  Kuth-Cergor would re-order things, bring wisdom and Godly-fear back, and Xaro would rule underneath him.

They both had been divinely led to the ancient Tower of Dariez, ancestral home to the True Clerics.  They both studied there and received training from the last True Clerics on Tenebrae; three Elves, guardians of the faith.  At first it appeared that all three of them were devout followers of Dymetra.  But over time one of them revealed a different philosophy.  They spent the bulk of their time with the third Elf, who was secretly a devotee of Kuth-Cergor.

They both passed all of their tests of basic healing, of logic and judgment.  They learned languages and history and the
geography of Tenebrae, and mastered prayers to control the four elements to do their bidding: Soil, Water, Fire, and Air.  And they both mastered the most advanced prayers: the summoning and binding of spirits.

But the Final test was where they deviated.  Kuth-Cergor answered Malenec’s prayer to animate the dead.  One day, Malenec attacked and killed their mentor—the last Dark Cleric—then raised him to make his first undead warrior in the name of Kuth-Cergor.  He was a soulless zombie that would do Malenec’s bidding; Xaro had witnessed it all with his own eyes.  He remembered how the other two Clerics were aghast when they found out.  They both prayed to
Her
, and the third Elf was restored to life against the wishes of Malenec, and presumably Kuth-Cergor.  He became a follower of Dymetra without reservation or deception…
almost as if that had been Her plan all along
, thought Xaro.  Malenec was forced to leave, outcast.  But he was a True Cleric and an unapologetic Dark one at that—of that, there was no doubt.

Xaro paused in his memory, looking out over the dust storm that was forcing everyone to scurry back inside the castle.  He sighed. 
Why wouldn’t you grant me the same power, Master?

Procrastinating a bit, he continued his trip down memory lane.  He recalled his final days in Dariez.  His former teachers, the three True Clerics would have nothing to do with him, and asked him to leave as well after casting Malenec from the Tower, for the one knew that he shared Malenec’s heart when it came to worship.  Before he left, he couldn’t help but to try the exact same thing.  Finding that same Elf alone (the one who used to teach both he and Malen
ec all the ways of Kuth-Cergor), Xaro also killed him, just as Malenec had done.  Xaro was already a True Mage; it was easy enough.  But when he tried to raise him from the dead as Malenec had, he failed.  He prayed incessantly for hours before he was discovered, and the other two were again aghast that their colleague had been murdered twice.  Xaro was outcast immediately from the Tower.  He never found out whether the Elf had been raised yet again by the other Clerics, if that was even possible.

Since that day Xaro had killed dozens of men, often just to practice his prayers, and was unsuccessful every time; he had never raised one corpse.  Malenec could now do it without fail.

Sighing, he finally lost himself to his Art, trying to content himself with the talents he possessed and which Malenec lacked.  He scattered the black dust again, waiting for the outline of his Dark Cleric to begin to take shape and fill in.  It was time for his update with him.

~Magi~

It was, in fact, a couple days later when
Marik, Magi, Kyle, and Venatus finally left the village.  Marik looked at Elmon’s leg—it was grotesque.  Swollen and covered with sores, it would have to be removed if the Miller was to live.  Leprosy, a plague, or something worse—Marik could not say.  Elmon was quarantined by his other villagers, and nobody would buy his mead or eat his bread.  The Smitty was insisting that they take the leg—nobody wanted a disease such as this in their midst, especially in such a small village.  And True Clerics, like the Deities they called upon, were all but nonexistent.

T
hough Marik was not as gifted at healing as a True Cleric, he was not without talent.  He crushed some dry leaves over the leg and called forth his magic.  Kyle and Magi watched, familiar with the spell themselves, though always somewhat impressed at the power Marik wielded.  The dry leaves smoldered and ashed as the open wounds closed, the sores evaporated, and the disease began to retreat.  His flesh slowly began to resemble that of a normal leg.  The Smitty, who Venatus also knew, was on hand to see—standing ready with an axe if the spell should fail.  As the magic dissipated, Marik exhaled and sat down, clearly tired.

“And now, let me sleep.  All of us, especially the spellcasters
—” he winked at Magi and Kyle, “could use a full day’s rest, as could your friend Elmon.  Venatus, I trust we’ll not need a watch under your friend’s roof?”  Venatus just looked at the transfiguration of the man’s leg and shook his head, speechless.

“Never seen anything like that in my life.  Probably never will again,” was all the S
mitty said as he walked back to his forge.  The only sound in the room now was the Miller’s snores.

That was two days ago.  Grateful for the healing, Elmon was happy to outfit them with fresh supplies as they loaded up the “boat.”  Calling it a flatbed boat would be an insult to rafts.  In the end, Kyle cast a calming spell over all four horses just to get them on board.  They pushed off mid-morning and hoisted a small sail.

“Shouldn’t be but one night on board and we’ll get you across in no time!”  Elmon still walked with a limp, and always would—some of the damage caused by the disease was permanent, and beyond the limits of magic to address.  But the disease was contained, his leg was saved, and Elmon was pain free for the first time in almost a year.  Magi could hear the gratitude in his voice.

Marik just smiled, l
ooking refreshed from his sleep.  They set out into the wide inlet, unable to even see the other side.  They had to go fairly far due to the weight of the passengers and cargo; a slight jaunt around the shoreline really wasn’t an option.  Marik drew his travelling cloak tighter around himself; it was definitely much colder than it had been several days ago.

As they sailed into the late evening, the
diffused light from the sun (which had been hidden behind thick grey clouds all afternoon) faded even further, and Magi was forced to cast a glow ball.  The wind began to pick up, and the first distant flash of lightning to the west drew everyone’s attention.  Venatus suggested heading back, but they were halfway there—there was no certainty that they would make it back before the storm hit anyhow.  They couldn’t see the shoreline, but Venatus knew it was a sheer rock wall and useless for disembarking, let alone with horses.  They pushed on, lowering the sail and manning some crude oars.

The clouds opened up so suddenly that they were caught off-guard.  “
Strap down the gear!”  Marik shouted.  The raft began to rock and the horses, despite the calming effect of Kyle’s spell, grew restless.  Lightning gave them a glimpse of the rising waves as the thunder followed almost immediately after the flash.

The inlets around and between all the peninsulas in the Three Fingers were all fairly shallow. 
The storm whipped up the shallow sea into incredibly choppy water, and the raft creaked and pitched back and forth.  The rails on either side of their boat kept no water in or out, and also didn’t stop anything from sliding from one end to the other. Some of their supplies began to fall into the icy water as the cold rain pelted them.  “Tie it down!”  Marik yelled as he fought to stay standing on the tilting deck.

Venatus was frantically t
ying knots when a massive wave crashed over him and sent him sliding across the deck.  He grabbed a rail to avoid falling into the water.  Magi reached out and pulled him back to his knees as they both tried to crawl to the center of the boat.  The next wave crashed into Elmon, who had no chance to keep his balance, and was swept into the sea.

Kyle screamed “Elmon!” and grabbed his pack as the raft began to break apart.  The last thing Magi remembered was a terrified horse screaming in agony, impaled on a shattered rail as the raft was consumed in the storm.

~Magi~

Magi was shivering.  Cold sweat rolled down his face, but
he couldn’t tell with the hard rain still falling at a slant.  There was also a curious blue fire crackling on the shore.  The downpour was relentless.  Magi lay flat on his stomach, and felt wet sand clogging one of his ears.  He tried to open his eyes and look around.

They were on a rocky shore, mere feet away from the sea, which kept rolling on top of everything that had been salvaged or washed up.  The water spilled over the magical flame, doing nothing to it, of course, but the constant waves kept everything
else wet.  A soggy pile of clothes to his left looked like Kyle.  Magi struggled to move toward the pile and felt light-headed.

He then
tried to call for Marik, but his voice was gone, and he was overcome with a coughing fit.  He shuddered, rolled over, and pulled his wet cloak tighter around him, which did nothing for warmth.  Behind them was a series of rocks that rose high into the distance.  It was still dark—Magi couldn’t place the time, but in the modest light of the blue flame, and the frequent cracks of lightning, he thought he saw trees atop the rock face, at least a hundred yards up.  There was nothing but a few feet of sandy land, the raging sea, the rocks all around them, and the magical fire.

Magi’s
whole body ached, and he knew he was getting a fever.  He crawled closer to the fire, but it, too, gave him little warmth.  He tried to cry out again and brought up only phlegm for his effort.  He coughed, shivered, and tried desperately to crawl closer to the pile that may or may not be Kyle.

Still the rain pounded down on everything.  Through half-open slits, freezing from the cold, he ma
de out packages and bundles slowly hovering over the black sea, just above the crests of the largest waves, floating toward the rocks.  He saw one of Marik’s travelling chests slowly descend to rest next to the flame, just out of reach.  He looked and saw more bundles floating up out of the water toward them.  The space was so cramped; less than ten feet separated the sea from the rocks behind him, that soon everything was getting stacked in awkward piles all around him and the fire.

Magi rolled over
again to try and find someone, but he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness and the rain.  He thought about casting a spell for another small fire to help warm himself, but he couldn’t recite the words without coughing.  All he could do was shiver as the water continued to roll over him and suck the warmth off his body, dragging it back into the sea with every wave.