Lands of Daranor: Book 02 - ProphecyQuest Read online

  Tarthur looked at him curiously for a second, and then began to walk towards Yvonne, slowly at first, then quickening until he finally broke into a full sprint. He was panting by the time he burst into the room. Derlin followed closely behind him.

  Yvonne sat upright in the bed, looking flushed but beaming. Yvette was sitting next to her, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in new linen. They both smiled as Tarthur entered, and Yvette held out the bundle to Tarthur.

  As Tarthur looked down at his son, his emotions overwhelmed him. The boy reached up and grasped his entire hand around Tarthur’s pinky finger. His grip was so strong for someone so little, almost as if the baby thought he must hang on for dear life. The baby looked so perfect, as flawless as a new winter’s snow. Tarthur could not believe that he had had a part in creating this new life. He turned to face his wife.

  “You know, of all the magic I’ve ever done…this is the best.” Yvonne seemed exhausted, but defiant. She didn’t say anything, just smiled.

  Finally she spoke. “So we shall call him Alahim.” It was the name that they had agreed upon earlier. Alahim wasn’t actually a name, but it was a word in the ancient tongue of wizards that meant ‘shapeshifter.’ Tarthur was naming his son after Yan, a wizard who had been imprisoned by Queen Marhyn at the end of a great war, three hundred years earlier. His friends had all thought he was dead, and ceased to search for him. He had rotted in Marhyn’s prison, time eating away at his consciousness. Tarthur had stumbled upon the senile old man while attempting to escape the Dark Queen, and gradually Yan began to understand who he was. He had abruptly left Tarthur and Derlin to head to a meeting of the Council of Gurus, a group of the most powerful beings in Daranor. They had refused substantial aid in the battle against the Death Lord, yet they had empowered Yan as alahim, or shapeshifter.

  In the final battle with Darhyn, Tarthur had been able to steal the Water Orb. Darhyn still had control over the Power of Fire, but King Garkin had the Power of Earth. They could have escaped, returned to the army in the Savannah Plain, and then won a long and drawn out battle. This plan had a number of uncertain risks, and many more men would have died. Yan revealed that he had once come into contact with the Power of Air, and as a shapeshifter, he could assume the form of the Feather of Firewing. Yan had decided to make the ultimate sacrifice, to transform himself into an object from which he knew he could not transform back. He had aided Tarthur and helped him defeat Darhyn, but the price had been high. Yan had been lost out of the world, a remnant of the missing Power of Air. He had been a feeble old man for three hundred years, and had felt young again for only a few months. Yet, he had made the decision of his own free will. Few days went by when Tarthur didn’t think of Yan and what he had given up. He didn’t think Yan was dead, but as far as he knew there was no way to bring him back.

  So Tarthur and Yvonne had decided to name their firstborn son after Yan. Tarthur stared into the boy’s eyes, and thought he saw a glimmer of recognition reflected back. Tarthur didn’t know how long he stayed like that, tears rolling down his cheeks. Yvonne touched his hand softly, and when Tarthur looked up, he saw that Derlin and Yvette were gone. Yvonne took Alahim back from Tarthur and began to nurse. Tarthur stayed with her, until all three were fast asleep.

  ***********************

  The days passed swiftly, and soon Yvonne was healed and ready to travel. They returned to Krendon, and the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, and the months to years. Time began to move slowly onward—lovers loved, poets dreamed, and dancers danced. Sunsets turned to darkness and darkness turned to sunrises, and Alahim began to grow. Ten years passed, and the world went along its way….

  Chapter 1: The House Special

  “Try as you might, you won’t beat this anywhere!” Gerthoud said loudly, daring anyone to step forward and contradict him. “The king himself can’t get enough. Sent a whole wagon up for some of it just last week, didn’t he mister Rowen?”

  Rowen pretended not to hear him, turned his head down to the side, and looked away.

  Gerthoud kept shouting, all the louder. “Isn’t that right, Rowen? Probably takes it as a delicacy to the elves, is what he does. That’d impress an old elf king, yes it would. He’d say, ‘In all my thousands of years of livin’ in this here world, I ain’t never tasted anything finer!’”

  One of the newcomers had had about enough. He stood up forcefully. “What are you talking about, imbecile? Do you mean this crap? He might as well have served us dwarf snot!” He finished his words by turning his mug upside down and letting the contents spill onto the floor.

  Gerthoud was aghast. “Don’t waste it now! That there’s preciouser than the duke’s own blood, it is!”

  Rowen sighed. Things usually ended up like this. Why did he let Gerthoud still come to his tavern? He knew it was because his father had adopted Gerthoud some twenty years ago. As his father had brought him in from the cold, Rowen couldn’t throw him back out. Although, he knew in the back of his mind that he was good for business. Rowen had been experimenting with a special ‘house brew’ ale, and honestly, it did taste terrible. Gerthoud hated it too, but like most everything else in his life, he failed miserably at sarcasm. So Gerthoud would come in night after night, swallow the stuff as best as he could, and then start raving about how much he ‘loved’ it. Other people would take him at his word, and business would flare up. In fact, these newcomers now spitting it out had bought it on Gerthoud’s recommendation just moments before. It all stopped once they had tried a few glasses, but then Rowen just mentioned about how it was an ‘acquired taste.’ Most would give up at this point, but if someone had a formidable mixture of drunkenness and gullibility, they usually ordered a few more.

  “That’s enough from you now, Gerthoud.” Rowen’s voice was stern, and it seemed to cut through the drunken fog surrounding his friend. “I think you need to be heading home now before you cause any more trouble.”

  Rowen turned to the newcomers. “I’m sorry the house special is not to your liking, it’s a unique taste that takes some folks a few to get used to. Perhaps I could interest you in a nice Scorpion brand beer from Tealsburg?”

  The newcomers each took a glass from Rowen, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Now Gerty, you get up on out of here. Go home and get us some wood chopped for the fire. I’ll be coming home late tonight.” It was already 2 a.m., but Rowen would serve customers for another hour or so before he cleaned up and went home. Most of the other tavern owners lived in their taverns, but Rowen couldn’t understand that. He wanted his home to be a place away where he didn’t have to think about work. He had enough of loud, filthy drunks all day long. Why would he want them in his home too?

  Gerthoud was about to protest, then seemed to think better of it. He had had enough for one night. Groggily, he slung his cloak over his shoulder and moved outside, pushing the heavy door open in front of him. Rowen sighed as he watched him exit, and then set to work wiping down a dirty table with a rag that was only slightly less filthy.

  Gerthoud stumbled about as the cool winter air hit his lungs forcefully. He wasn’t terribly drunk. He was still at the point where he thought he had more coordination than he actually did. Soon he caught himself on a nearby building and began to walk more normally. The walk from the tavern to the home he shared with Rowen was not far, and he was in no hurry tonight. Spring was just beginning to come, although it was still cold outside. The alcohol lent him an artificial sensation of warmth. He was content to wander the near-deserted streets of Walis, pondering the meaning and purpose of life. Gerthoud was not normally a deeply reflective man. In fact, it was only when he was drunk that he happened to begin to wonder about what the purpose of his life was. Yet, what he was incapable of pondering while sober, he was especially incapable of understanding while drunk. Still, it was nice to gaze up at the stars and imagine that each was a world, or an angel, or even just a really shiny button.

  Abruptly, something broke into Gerthoud’s rambling mediation. He wa
s not alone. There was a young man staring at him from across the street.

  It wasn’t unheard of to see someone out and about at this time of night, but this man seemed not to fit.

  For one thing, Gerthoud had never seen clothes like that before. The stranger wasn’t going about his business, but just stood there, eyes fixated on Gerthoud, as if he were looking straight through him. That was especially odd, as the young man was the one who was transparent.

  “It is time.” When he finally spoke, Gerthoud was shocked by the pleading urgency in the other’s voice. Gerthoud looked down at his watch, forgetting that he didn’t own one.

  “Time for what?” Gerthoud was about to add, ‘time for you to leave me alone!’ but thought better of it. Something about this figure frightened him.

  “The One walks among us! It is time for him to enter.” The figure began walking closer to Gerthoud. He was only a few meters away now.

  Gerthoud instinctively stepped back, but this only caused the other to increase his anxiety all the more. His eyes called out to him, beckoning Gerthoud to help him. “The age is here. The time is now! I cannot do this alone!”

  Gerthoud rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the specter of the vision he saw. That ‘house brew’ must have been a lot stronger than he realized. When he looked again, the figure was gone.

  Cautious now, Gerthoud continued walking towards home, his pace slightly quickened. After he had gone a few hundred more meters, though, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He quietly ducked into an alleyway and began to relieve himself against the wall of a building.

  The previous scare had almost been forgotten, as he happily urinated on the wall. He thought to write his name, but then sadly remembered that he knew neither how to read nor write. It was amazing how alcohol could manage to magnify one’s perceived possessions and abilities. Once, he had even jumped off a table, believing that he could fly. His constant limp was to serve as an eternal reminder that he could not. He was almost done when he noticed with alarm that his urine had a green tint to it. What had Rowen put into his vile concoction this time? As he looked around, though, he saw that the green tint was coming from a mist that was slowly wrapping around his ankles. Confused, Gerthoud turned to see a new figure blocking the alley. This just wasn’t his night for drunken hallucinations!

  The new figure was dressed all in dark black robes and seemed to float on the green mist. Suddenly something made Gerthoud very afraid.

  “What did he tell you?” The figure spoke with a raspy voice that grated on Gerthoud’s eardrums.

  “Who?” He asked his question boldly, daring the vision to challenge him.

  If the figure was annoyed, Gerthoud couldn’t tell. “The one who came to you before. The Cloudwalker.” His voice sounded the same as before.

  Gerthoud had been pretty drunk before, but he never remembered his hallucinations talking to him about each other. Something was seriously wrong here. Gerthoud decided to play along. He didn’t know any Cloudwalkers, or even what one was, but he instinctively knew who the dark figure was referring to.

  “He said something about the time. Time for ‘the One’ to do something he couldn’t do by himself.” After speaking the words, Gerthoud almost wished he hadn’t. Something was not right.

  The figure seemed pleased. “Did he say anything else?” Now Gerthoud was beginning to get annoyed again, his moods quickly changing as he felt threatened.

  “He said that you should get out of here and leave me alone!” Gerthoud almost shouted the words.

  The dark wizard nodded. It seemed that he was satisfied with his interrogation. He turned to leave, and then turned back. “I almost forgot something. You should be rewarded for your help. I will make you great…I will make you powerful.” He was almost panting with anticipation. “But first…I need something from you.”

  At this he brought his hand up over Gerthoud’s chest, and then his fingers abruptly stiffened as a green glow began to form in his palm. Gerthoud felt the worst pain of his life. It felt as if the very cells of his body were being ripped from him, his life-force being torn from his chest. The pain cut through the haze of drunkenness and allowed him to feel the last few moments of his life with astounding lucidity. This was real. He screamed with all his might, but his voice was quickly lost as he felt his life draining from his body.

  The wizard’s breath was haggard, full of weakened excitement. He grabbed the dead body and slumped it over his shoulder. Before he left, he paused for a brief moment to savor the sensation of the warm life he felt within him mix with the cold night air. So the One now walked the earth. His goal had never been closer. The race was on.

  ***********************

  The pyramid collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks. The boy flinched back just in time to avoid being burned physically, but it was still emotionally painful. He wished that he could just ignite the larger logs with the burning shame that came to his face.

  “It’s okay, dear. Just try it again, and make sure that there are enough thick pieces there to hold it up.” If the situation wasn’t bad enough already for Alahim, now his mother was giving him advice.

  It was ironic, he thought, that his father had once possessed the elemental Power of Fire, and now he couldn’t even build a simple blaze to keep his family warm on a cold winter’s night. It was his tenth birthday, and if he could wish for anything right now, he just wanted this fire going before his father returned home.

  It wasn’t that his parents weren’t supportive—they were—but sometimes it was too much. He just wanted to be able to figure things out by himself. Having famous parents did have some advantages. Nobody tried to beat him up, but everyone was always expecting ‘great things’ from him. He did not know this, but his situation was much improved by residing in the small mountain town of Krendon. If he had lived in Tealsburg or another large city, his problems would have been multiplied many times over.

  The ring on his finger shimmered and flowed, a trapped silver river. A single tongue of dancing flame burst forth, mocking him. What a useless magic.

  So he tried again, this time starting carefully with the small pieces that he had shaved off with his knife. He stacked them into a pyramid shape, and then lit them with the flaming end of one of the pieces from his old pyramid, which was thankfully still burning. The dry tinder soon caught, and Alahim busied himself with setting up sturdier pieces to catch the flame from his new pyramid. He dug them into the sand of his fireplace and balanced them against each other. First, he set up three pieces, and then began to add more around the sides. Slowly, the middle of the tripod began to catch and then as he added more wood, flames started lapping hungrily down the sides. He added some thicker logs underneath, and watched as they began to smoke and crack. He knew he had it this time. He would have to be careful and continue to add medium-sized pieces for a few more minutes, but he was now out of danger of his fire going out.

  Yvonne came from behind and squeezed him with a big hug before he could think to escape. “Your father will be so proud!” Alahim hoped it was so. Twin smiles burst forth on his face and ring.

  But Tarthur did not come home that night. At least, not until long after Alahim’s fire had burned itself out and turned to ashes. For the farmer Addyean had summoned Tarthur to a secret meeting inside Zelin’s house.

  ***********************

  The old wizard Zelin was fast approaching the end of his days in the Lands of Daranor. He had already survived two great wars and had seen enough pain and suffering to last many lifetimes. Zelin was a very powerful man, and to obtain power always required sacrifice. His will was strong, and so he had always been able to endure what was necessary. But more than four centuries of living had begun to take its toll on his body. His once-powerful muscles lay flaccid and dormant under great wrinkles of a skin that had once covered a larger man. He spent most of his time resting, but Tarthur saw his eyes were wide open now. What Addyean had come to tell them was too important. Could it be true, af
ter all these years? And why now, of all times?

  Addyean was explaining the situation.

  “Several people in Walis have seen it,” the farmer-spy continued. “This includes one of ours.” Tarthur knew that by ‘one of ours’ Addyean meant one of King Garkin’s royal intelligence gatherers. This would be an extremely reliable source. “He has even been appearing to groups of people, although it seems that he prefers to appear to people alone.”

  Tarthur was dumbstruck. “How long has this been happening?”

  “We don’t know for sure,” Addyean answered. “Our first reports came in last week, but after he started appearing to large groups of people, nearly everyone claims to have seen him before. So it is hard to tell when it really began. One thing’s for sure—

  no one walks the streets alone anymore.”

  Tarthur was still reeling, trying to take in everything that Addyean was telling him. “Are you sure that it was him?”

  Addyean shook his head. “No, we cannot be sure, but he has appeared as a half-transparent wraith, saying that now the One is of age. If he has revealed his name, no one who has heard him has understood.”

  Zelin spoke. “This is fortunate, for I fear that there may be those who would try to search for the One themselves. They cannot be allowed to enter the Vale.”

  Tarthur thought carefully. “So…if the One enters the Vale, then Tivu will be able to pass through the Wall also. Do you think he will be able to restore the lost Power of Air before he does so?”

  Addyean looked at Zelin, but Zelin took his time to answer. He chose his words carefully, looking like a doctor trying to tell a patient that he might have a cure without raising his hopes. Everyone knew why Tarthur had asked his question. It was because of the one thing that haunted Tarthur like no other, never leaving him free to live his life in peace. Wild and carefree in his youth, Tarthur had become almost melancholy as he approached his thirty-second year. He blamed himself for the loss of Yan. Although Yan had made the decision of his own free will, Tarthur felt a special pang of guilt because he was there at the end. Even Tarthur knew that it was absurd to blame himself for not being able to defeat the Death Lord Darhyn with only the Water Orb to counteract Darhyn’s Flame Tongue. Darhyn had been at the peak of his power and had scores of deadly monsters inside his fortress. Still, given the choice again….