The Tessellation Saga. Book Two. 'The One' (30 page)

‘Please, none
of you will be harmed, in this place time stands almost still, this
land has magic of its own and, well, if you can close your eyes and
listen, you will hear the truth of my words.’ Young Jed stared at
Thaddrick,
what does he mean, time almost stands still,
he
thought but as no one else had seemed to notice, he said nothing.
Once more Thaddrick began speaking and as one by one the company
closed their eyes they found themselves watching as the story took
on a life of its own, the listeners seemed to be part of the tale,
imagined themselves there, watching silently as the events
unfolded.

‘The Gatherer
constantly challenged authority and with his growing number of
followers caused conflicts all over his home region, people
unaffected by his charisma and undoubted charm strove and fought to
get back loved ones they believed had been spelled. He began
experimenting with the magic causing inexplicable damage and untold
death, eventually the entire population of a small village
disappeared in a spell that went horribly wrong, only then did the
Council of Parton, the major city of Boetesh finally act. Some say
too late, but the council managed to capture Gatherer and many of
his chief disciples, bound and imprisoned for the study and the use
of illegal Blood Magic they awaited their fate as the council then
deliberated over punishment. The council’s decision was to
re-educate the people who had fallen victim to the Gatherer’s
charm, as it was the humane thing to do. The wise and loyal men of
the ancient kingdoms had long ago outlawed this type of magic,
Blood Magic, knowing it to be a form so destructive and evil, so
old and rare that most people believed it nothing but folklore and
superstition. However, one could still feel the air turn to sand if
the subject ever came up late at night and around the old and
fearful.

Underestimated
by the council and enraged by his incarceration the Gatherer and
his men plotted escape and they chose their moment well. A
celebration, held for the supposed ending of the Gatherer’s power
and a return to peace allowed for leniency toward other inmates of
the prison and in honour of the occasion, the council declared a
day of visits from families, loved ones and priests. It was
permitted of course, in the belief that it would help rehabilitate
the prisoners. A sudden and dreadful storm occurred during the
visit and whilst every available mage was out helping to calm the
tempest and counteract the damage it was causing, the Gatherer
managed to escape from his cell. He stealthily released his men and
together they killed their fellow prisoners, their families and the
guards, they made their way out of the storm-ravaged city passing
through the city gates and again running as freemen.

The Gatherer
and his surviving aides again began to use blood magic freely; they
became stronger than ever commanding vast armies. The Council of
Parton was at a loss, not knowing how the Gatherer had suddenly
become so powerful. Gathersmen in their hundreds rose up and lashed
out against the Council, the war and hostility now spreading across
the globe. Over time, a Council of Schools was created, with a mage
from every nation offered a seat, all in an effort to stop the
Gatherer.

Years of war,
both magically and physically violent followed, great armies of the
Council Loyalists and Gathersmen marched and battled until, it
seemed, there was not a continent on the planet that was unaffected
by the vicious war, not one soul untouched by the death of a loved
one. People died in their millions, whole communities were wiped
out as the old, the frail died and the men and boys would follow
the Gatherer’s banner. Still, the schools mages could not work out
why he was so strong, why people flocked to fight and die for
him.

Eventually
common soldiers forgot why they fought; the only thing they knew
was the fight itself. Then the planet’s very core began to falter
under the stress of everlasting war and pain, the Gatherer gained
the upper hand, his men infiltrated the Council at its heart, using
the blood magic so abhorred by civilised society, he devised a way
of extracting the minds and souls of certain chosen men, the most
powerful members of Arotian society. He replaced them with the
souls and minds of his own followers, men loyal without question to
him; these chosen and extracted souls were contained and held
within spent spell crystals, crystals whose magic had been used up,
and were now no more than pretty ornaments waiting like sponges to
be refilled.

These stones,
mined from the mountains of Dakar and used for good were born
again, born of blood magic and they became powerful artefacts for
evil. A source of a power the Gatherer and his closest men had
never imagined or even hoped for, here in these once spent crystals
the stolen souls would remain until the stone shattered finally
allowing its release. Freed at last it would continue its journey
into the afterlife. Once empty of a soul, the original fallen
bodies, now just empty shells of men, remained to wither and die,
so great pyres were constructed where the bodies were burnt. Those
that missed the fires were left to rot and decay with wild animals
and even insects refusing to prey upon the corpses, somehow knowing
they were evil.

The Council of
Schools and the people had fought using all the power they safely
could but the evil that was the Gatherer and his followers had
virtually triumphed. The battles had gone on too long, the war had
to stop before the planet died and all died with it. The warring
factions had almost drawn the planet asunder and had had a
cataclysmic effect on the core of the planet itself. The once
stable but molten centre became volatile as the countless magical
barrages devastated the population with disease and malnutrition
becoming rife, wiping out entire regions, small pockets of people
survived only to die of starvation as food stocks and clean water
became scarce.

Now on the
verge of complete collapse magically enhanced explosions tipped the
planets axis out of true, causing climate change, flooding and
drought. The seas boiled, life was almost gone from the roiling
waters as ice melted, mountains fell and buildings lay in ruins
after constant earthquakes. Volcanic action in the South Seas
filled the very air needed to sustain life with toxic waste from
the bowels of the planet, the sun was hidden behind by vast clouds
of red dust and debris, everywhere around the globe, life was being
extinguished, but still the Gatherer and his followers fought on.
The world, our world of Arotia was dying, shaking itself into
oblivion.

In desperation,
the few remaining leaders of the allies, once a part of the council
had gathered for a final summit at Parton, thought to be the only
remaining populated capital. Amid the trembling earthquakes and
falling masonry...,’ Thaddrick stopped speaking, Roidan knowing
these were painful memories squeezed his shoulders once more.
Lifting his left hand, he placed it over hers and started speaking
again.

‘An envoy was
dispatched to the Gatherer with a message. ‘Peace, we beseech you,’
it read but the head of the envoy was returned in reply, the
Gatherer did not want peace; he wanted to rule the world.

The fabric of
the world was coming apart as spell crystals were becoming scarce,
of the crystals on which the councils magic focused, only a few
remained. Their source, the mountain ranges of Dakar had been
heavily mined and fought over, once beautiful beyond measure the
mountains now lay in an area where life was not possible. The few
crystals that did remain in Parton were weak but it was unknown if
the magic of the crystals alone would be enough to save the world.
At last the planet itself began to vibrate constantly, as if it
were just waiting to explode and a gentle hum filled the air
continually as it shook.

One of the
council members conceived a simple plan, so simple it was almost
idiotic. There was considerable doubt about its success but they
had no other choice, although the price for success, the price in
balance for Arotia’s survival, would be high they had no other
choice. Théoden...’

Again,
Thaddrick stopped and Gideon peeped out from under his lashes, he
was not surprised to see Thaddrick’s eyes mist over. He glanced
quickly at Mayan whose own eyes were tightly closed but as
Thaddrick resumed his story all trace of the tears Gideon had seen
were gone, he closed his own eyes once more and watched as the
pictures again filled his mind.

‘Théoden, First
Mage of Schools had spoken long with his peers, the Council of
Mages. All were in agreement, all wanted the very slim chance to
evacuate some of the people and save a little of the culture of
Arotia, the planet and the few remaining inhabitants that could not
be evacuated were to be left to fate and courage.

A few months
before, a follower of the Gatherer, a man named Astin, was caught
as he attempted to steal the soul of a Mage named Themos.’
Thaddrick faltered again, it had been so long since he had spoken
this name aloud. Roidan squeezed his shoulder once more; he
swallowed hard and yet again resumed his tale.

‘Themos was too
strong a mage for Astin and forced his surrender. Under a spell of
truth, Astin confessed to his crimes, confessed to the theft of
minds and of souls. Finally, he told of the Gatherer’s pact with a
Demon from the void,
this
was the reason the Gatherersmen
and their leader had become so powerful almost overnight.’

‘Demon…!’
mouthed Mayan, almost smiling at the absurdity of it and peeked at
Gideon from beneath half-closed eyes, Gideon did not respond and
Thaddrick had stopped talking again, so Mayan closed her eyes once
more.

Thaddrick
himself shuddered; he thought of the arrogance and the mistaken
leniency the Council of Parton had shown the Gatherer and his men
whilst it had held them captive and from that arrogance, the
beginning of the final mage war.

‘My friends,’
Thaddrick said slowly, ‘the next part of my tale is taken from a
memory orb, a pulse of magic if you like an orb that can collect or
show memories in their truth. I warn you now, although very old it
is still very potent, the sound, ‘Thank the Journey,’ has long
since corrupted, although I will narrate. I show you only because I
want you to understand what the council was up against at this
time. This memory was taken from Astin and for this, you will need
to open your eyes as it was not my memory although I have seen it
many times, it pains me as much now as when I first saw it.’

As everyone
opened their eyes, a light began to glow from a small box Roidan
placed in the centre of the table. The light grew and expanded,
pulsing as if it had a heartbeat of its own, the light in the room
dulled as it sucked into the ever-growing orb now spinning, even as
it thinned and expanded on the tabletop. People appeared within the
yellowy light, some old, some young, men, women and children all
silently screaming and then falling silent. Mayan could see tears
running down faces and knives flashing as throats were savagely
sliced open one after another. Everywhere there was blood, deep red
blood. She saw the back of a girl’s head so close to her she
thought she could touch it, a hand;
my hand
she thought,
even as she realised it was not her own hand but the hand of the
man Astin, whose memories she was watching. The hand reached out
and pulled the girl’s head back by the hair. A flash of silver and
she tasted blood, felt hot, warm blood flowing over the knife used
to slice open the child’s throat and she felt herself stutter in
her song as she licked her lips to rid herself of the blood
splatters.
By the journey ‘e were singin’ as ‘e killed ‘er,
she thought feeling sick and wiping away real tears of horror and
shame that she should be watching such a thing.
Strewth Gid,
what’s this got ter do with you?
She asked herself silently and
closed her eyes with a loud sob, unable to watch anymore. Instead,
she listened as Thaddrick told the tale the others were
watching.

‘As I have
already said, the people and the Council of Parton held a
celebratory party on the Gatherer’s initial detention where he and
his men plotted escape. In desperation, they killed their guards
and herded the rest of the prisons hapless inmates, along with
their families into the great dining hall where he held them
captive. Here, led by the Gatherer himself they performed a
dangerous spell of summoning. In their self-congratulation, thus
their arrogance and arrogance surpassed only by the Gatherer’s own,
the council believed the gatherer and his power were at last
contained. Never had they been so wrong. The skies darkened and the
wind and waves lashed the castle above them as they sang their
spell, the balance for the extraordinary spell was the frightful
storm that raged above Parton. Trees uprooted and great ships in
the harbour were flung around like mere flotsam, whilst the city
mages struggled to calm the unexpectedly bad weather, attempting to
prevent damage and loss of life. The Gathersmen themselves blindly
began to chant with their master as one by one, the captive men,
women and children lost their lives; their throats cut with
ruthless savagery. Their blood used as a sacrifice to appease the
Dark Magic’s balance, as the victims bled, and screamed, their pain
also joined the song of summoning and a discordant noise filled the
air. Exultant, the Gatherer sliced his own wrist and sang of death
and promise as he watched his lifeblood fall away in a deep scarlet
stream. When he weakened, his followers changed their song, cutting
their own wrists, pouring their own power into their master, giving
him their support, their aid in his spell. Finally, for the first
time in the history of the worlds a rent in the barrier of the
void, the place between worlds and between times appeared briefly
and the Demon slipped through. The Gatherer was half-dead with his
own his soul, black and iniquitous, clinging to his body by a
thread even as he bargained. The Demon offered a powerful
compulsion spell, a worldwide compulsion, a glamour that eventually
drew men and women alike into the Gatherer army. In return, as the
Gathersmen and their victims died and began their journey into the
afterlife, their souls, up to a thousand, thousand would belong to
it, belong to the Demon. The Gatherer himself it was agreed, would
keep only a select few.’