Chapter 15
In the morning, Tomas tried once again, despite Nek’s advice, to convince Cyras that he had no business going north. “So Cyras,” he began as he saw the old wizard beginning to rouse from his blankets. “What kind of wizard are you?” The shepherd thought it best to broach the subject delicately, engaging the troubled spell-caster in light conversation before moving to the heart of the matter.
The old man yawned and stretched, looking about as if having trouble remembering how he had gotten there. He looked for a few moments at Tomas then nodded, obviously once again clear on his location. “What?” he asked.
“Your school of magic,” the young man said. Tomas pointed towards the lack of coloring on the inseam of Cyras’ tattered robe. “You aren’t wearing the traditional marks of a Guild wizard. I was just wondering what kind of wizard you are.”
“My own,” the wizard answered.
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s fairly obvious.”
“What do you mean your own? Your own what?”
“What did you ask?”
“I asked you what school of magic you study, what kind of wizard you are.”
Cyras nodded as he stood. “And my answer?”
“Are you saying that you’re your own kind of wizard?”
“If you knew the answer, why did you ask the question?”
Tomas blinked. “I didn’t know. I still don’t.”
“You just said the answer.”
There must be many accidents by people around Cyras Darkholm, Tomas decided. The feeling of dizziness just does not stop. “Cyras, I asked you and that was your answer.”
“So, if I answered your question, what’s the problem?”
“Your answer doesn’t make sense!”
“Neither does your question.”
The young man actually screamed in frustration. “Fine, Cyras. You win. My question makes no sense.”
“You certainly enjoy repeating me, don’t you,” the old man noted as he sat down against a tree.
“I’m just curious what school of magic you study, you damned senile old bastard!!”
“Mostly divination, but I’m fairly competent in all schools.”
Tomas stopped. “Oh,” he said, feeling foolish. “So, does that mean that you’re an aquamancer, a water mage?”
“No.”
“But you just said that you mostly study divination. Every diviner I’ve ever met was an aquamancer.”
“I never said I was a diviner.”
The shepherd thought he was beginning to understand just how it was that one must frame a question for the Trickster Mage. He was actually warming up to the conversation. “Alright,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “You want to play this game, I’ll play.”
Cyras snored.
“Wake up!!” Tomas roared.
Cyras opened one eye in irritation. “Now what?” he demanded.
“The school of water is the one of intuitive thought, correct?”
“Yes,” the old man sighed, trying to settle himself in for a nap.
“Then are you a master of aquamancy?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So, you’re an aquamancer.”
“No, I’m not.”
Tomas nearly shook in rage. “But you just said that you’ve mastered the school of water! A wizard can only master one school right?”
“What gave you that idea?”
“That’s the rules!”
Cyras apparently thought that was funny since he started laughing. “Who made these rules?” he finally said through his laughter.
“The Arcane Guild,” Tomas replied.
“And what made you think I was a member of the Guild?”
“Then you aren’t sanctioned by the Guild?” the young man asked. “You’re a rogue?”
“No, I have Guild sanctioning.”
“You just said you didn’t!”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why are you being so difficult?” the young man demanded. “Do you enjoy driving people insane?!?”
“It does pass the time.”
“What kind of evil old bastard are you?”
“Why is it you ask every possible question except the one you really want answered?”
The young man glanced about nervously. “What does that mean?”
“You planned to make some pointless conversation with me until you worked up the nerve to ask me for permission not to go to the Northern Keep.”
“I planned no such thing,” Tomas lied. “I was just making conversation.”
The Trickster-Mage rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’ll continue to pester me until I answer all these pointless questions of yours.”
“What’s so pointless about trying to get to know a little more about you?”
“Why would you want to?”
“You’re one of the most famous people in history! You’ve seen more than most people even dream of. You’re the most powerful adept in the world.”
“Do you know every adept in the world?”
“What? Of course not!”
“Then how do you know I’m the most powerful?”
“That’s what the stories all say.”
“Do you believe everything you read?”
“I suppose,” Tomas replied.
Cyras quickly grabbed a piece of parchment and scribbled a message on it with a quill pen he retrieved from inside his sleeve. Handing the message over to Tomas, the old man settled back down against a tree and closed his eyes. Looking down at the note, the shepherd could only laugh. It read, “You should leave him alone and let him take a nap.” For whatever reason, Tomas stood and left Cyras in peace, somehow knowing that he would only learn what the Trickster-Mage wanted him to know.
“Does he ever listen to anyone?” the young man asked of Nek as the brute cleaned the dishes from the morning meal that his master had demanded. “Does he ever really answer anyone’s questions?”
The Uldra paused in his departure preparations, thinking for a moment. “He listens to everyone. Of course, nobody has ever changed his mind, but he listens. And he did answer your question; you just didn’t understand what he was telling you.”
“Do you understand what he was saying?”
“No, but then, I wasn’t the one he was talking to.”
“Well, I don’t have the slightest idea what he was saying.”
“Maybe you weren’t listening properly.”
“What’s the point of listening to someone that is going out of his way to be vague?”
The giant shrugged. “He might say something funny.”
“I think you’ve been around Cyras too long.”
“It has been a long time.”
Tomas sat down on a log. “How long?” he asked.
Nek stopped and stared off into the distance. He thought for a very long time before answering. “I don’t remember. Me and the Boss have been moving ever since he showed up in my village, saying he needed some muscle.”
“You don’t even talk with much of an accent anymore,” he noted. “Where’s your village?”
“In the valley of Tsits. It’s about a month’s journey west from Draila.”
Tomas snorted. “You’re a long way from home.”
The giant shrugged.
“Why help him?”
“You youngsters always take a long time to figure out the truth.”
“What’s the truth?”
“Happiness is knowing who you serve, and why.”
“Well, you know who you serve, but why?” the shepherd demanded.
Again, Nek shrugged. “Because he needs me.”
“Well, I don’t serve anybody,” Tomas declared.
“Are you happy?”
“Not right now.”
“Maybe you should find somebody that needs you.”
“Like a wife?”
The Uldra shook his head. “Like somebody that needs you.”
“Well, if you’ve been with him for so long, then do you know what kind of wizard Cyras is?”
“He already told you. He’s his own kind of wizard.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You think of wizards the way the Guild has told you to think. Just like you think about non-Humans the way the Church has told you and the way you think of the Boss the way history told you.”
“So how should I think of him?”
“However you think you should think.”
Tomas shook his head. “I just want to know which school of magic he belongs to. Which color would he wear?”
Nek finished putting the dishes away and rubbed his massive chin in thought. “Well, by Guild law, he could wear any color.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s mastered every school and the Guild gave him the rank of Archmage, so I suppose if he wanted, he could wear any color he likes.”
“How in the world did he manage to master all the schools? I was always taught that when you start learning one, you couldn’t learn others.”
Nek shrugged. “He can do just about anything he sets his mind to.”
They were both quiet as Nek finished his cleaning. Finally, Tomas stood and sighed. “Is there any way I could talk Cyras out of this?” the shepherd asked.
Nek gave the young man a look that spoke volumes.
“What if I just say no and leave?”
“Do you think that would stop him?”
“I’m stuck with this aren’t I?”
Nek nodded, saddling Cyras’ horse. Stopping suddenly, Nek’s eyes went wide, scanning the entire grove.
Tomas also looked about the trees, his hand going to his sword hilt. “What is it?” he asked.
“Druug,” he hissed.
“What!?! Where?” At the Uldra’s announcement, the young shepherd’s pulse quickened to such a pace that he feared his heart would explode from his chest.
“In the trees, three of them.”
“Do you have a weapon?”
“Don’t need any,” Nek strode forward, flexing his hands in anticipation.
Tomas, obviously the less experienced of the pair, ran over to Cyras. “Cyras!” he yelled, shaking the old man’s slumbering form. Hearing Nek battling the Druug, Tomas grabbed Cyras by the shoulders and shook him violently, screaming, “Cyras!”
Finally coming awake, the wizard groggily looked around. “Huh? What? Is it time to go? Oh good.”
“No Cyras!” Tomas shouted, his desperation growing as the sounds of the fight drew closer. “Nek is fighting some Druug! You’ve got to help him!”
“Alright, alright. Just calm down,” he said, rummaging through the pouches at his belt. “Now, where did I put that sulfur?”
Giving the Trickster-Mage up as a lost cause, Tomas turned to rush to Nek’s aid as, with a thunderous roar and a sound akin to a boulder being split, Nek’s unconscious form was hurled out of the patch of trees he had entered, toppling several in the process. As Tomas watched, open-mouthed in near terror, the Druug finally revealed themselves. Standing even taller than Nek and smelling like an open cesspool, all three of the grey-skins carried the crudest of clubs, their huge muscles displaying ample evidence of the extreme damage they could inflict. Tomas could easily make out the army of lice that moved about on each of the coarse-haired monsters. Over-developed lower jaws housed tusks dripping with drool. The yellow eyes of the monsters did not show even the faintest glimmer of intelligence, only a burning hunger and seething hatred. Three of the beasts emerged from the tree line, any one of which was easily capable of breaking Tomas in half with one blow. Now, all three looked at him.
A deep rumble the shepherd thought could be either a growl of the throat or a growl of the stomach rolled through the all too small distance separating Tomas from the Druug. The hair on the back of the young man’s neck stood straight up at the sound, primal fear tearing through his soul as every instinct told him to run, to save himself from these awful predators. Even as Tomas was on the verge of throwing down his sword and fleeing, each of the monsters began throwing looks over at the bumbling Cyras. It seemed as though to Tomas he could almost hear the silent argument raging in the animalistic minds of the towering monsters. They had already defeated a strong foe. Their hunger for violence had been sated. Now they found two types of prey before them. Should they first kill and devour the younger and seemingly stronger of the two, enjoying one last fight before gorging on blood, flesh, and fear? Or should they perhaps let go this younger meal and enjoy the older, easier kill?
Grimly stepping between the trio of Druug and Cyras, Tomas, with his father’s blade held at the ready in his hands, resigned himself to his fate. Had he been alone, there would be no doubt that he would have taken the advice of Mariano and fled. But something deep within the young man’s soul, something even more primal than the desire for self-preservation, a new instinct took over. So long as Tomas Fidelis drew breath, he swore silently if only to himself, no harm would befall a weak old man. “Now would be a really good time for that demonstration you offered last night!” he urgently called over his shoulder.
“Nearly there,” the befuddled old wizard announced.
The three Druug, sensing the resolve in Tomas, hunched down slightly at the shoulders and made ready. “Anytime now, Cyras!” Tomas cried.
“One minute, one minute,” the Trickster-Mage replied angrily.
“We don’t have it!” he nearly screamed as the green-skins each lowered themselves to one hand and tensed, ready to pounce. The stink of the brutes brought tears to the shepherd’s eyes, and he trembled as death touched him on the shoulder.
“You know,” Cyras said calmly, “patience is a virtue.”
Sighing with resignation, Tomas squared off with the largest as it raised its trunk-sized club above its head and charged, leaping through the air in massive strides. So this is it, the young man thought to himself; this is how I go out, using my father’s sword to fight three monsters, dying to defend a senile wizard. Oh, well. Roaring what he hoped was a decent battle cry, the shepherd raised his sword and ran forward. If he must die, then he would go down swinging.
Just as Tomas and his grey-skinned adversaries were about to collide, the young man and misfigured beasts all paused as they felt the ground shake beneath them. Turning in unison, both Human and Druug were stunned as a mounted warrior exploded from the trees, wearing a leather vest of splintmail and wielding a one-handed sword, its hilt and crosspiece unadorned. The warrior wielded it with one hand, the other keeping a tight grip on the reigns of his horse, and held the blade at the ready with apparent ease and skill. The knight wore no surcoat, and his shield was strapped to his saddle, instead of on his arm, so Tomas could make out no colors or heraldry. He wore no helmet, but instead had a leather headband in the style of a northlander with an Uldra rune stamped on the center to hold back his flowing red hair. The knight’s horse was black, with a long black mane and tail, and was well-muscled and obviously powerful.
The warhorse thundered towards the trolls as the warrior roared a battle cry that even the monsters found intimidating. Mounted as he was upon what had to be the meanest-looking warhorse Tomas had ever heard of, the knight closed on his targets faster than a man could see. Stabbing at the first Druug with a mighty attack, the knight drove his short blade through the neck of the first monster. He then reared his charger in once the mount had passed the mortally-wounded grey-skin, ripping his sword free and sending the beast to the ground in a flood of ichorus blood. The great warhorse reared up and, using that leverage, slammed his forelegs back into the earth, raising his hindquarters and kicking the wounded Druug with such force that the monster’s back snapped with a loud crack and was sent flying into the nearby creek.
The two remaining Druug raised their clubs and, roaring in fury, attacked. The knight, not pausing for even an instant, drove his hulking mount directly at the charging beasts. Skillfully parrying a clumsy swing from the left grey-skin, the knight retaliated by stabbing at the monster’s throat, inflicting a vicious wound that brought a bloody flood of black ichor from its mouth as it collapsed dead. Even as his rider dispatched the one, the warhorse stopped the other by the simple means of ramming his head into the monster’s gut, forcing the air from its lungs. Rendered helpless and vulnerable, the Druug could only gape as the warhorse reared again, kicking with his forelegs and caving the beast’s head in.
With all the monsters destroyed, the warhorse reared flamboyantly, kicking his legs in a victory dance as the northland knight roared, “Dammit Stick, calm down! You almost threw me!” Prancing around and neighing his eagerness to continue the all too brief battle, Stick oriented on Tomas and snorted, making the sound as a man would muttering a threat and an insult. “Don’t think that’s a Druug, Stick,” the warrior noted while dismounting. “You know, it’s a shame you can’t fight as well as you can dance.”
Stick just flicked his ears in annoyance and dismissal of his “master.”
“Alright!” Cyras suddenly said, “I’m ready.” Looking around the carnage he asked, “What happened to the Druug?”
“Punctual as always, I see,” the northlander noted with only the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. The warrior grabbed a rag from one of his saddlebags and wiped the ichorus Druug blood from his one-handed sword before sheathing it in the scabbard belted to his waist. He seemed to Tomas to be nearly glowing with satisfaction after the fight, his eyes dancing and a slight grin decorating his unshaven face as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He was solidly built, though by no means overly muscular, and he had a light step that belied the weight of his armor. He walked with a stride full of confidence but somehow no arrogance, crossing the small distance separating himself and Cyras and taking the old wizard’s hand in greeting.
Cyras looked at him sternly. “You’re late,” he grumbled, throwing the mixture in his left hand over his shoulder and detonating a tree with a thunderous explosion of blue fire.
“Didn’t realize I was on a schedule,” the knight replied evenly, the destruction obviously coming as no surprise.
“You should know full well that you’re due back at the Keep before next winter.”
Rolling his eyes, the Northland knight sighed, “How would I know that?”
“Is says so right here in the Prophecy!” Cyras replied, waving the scroll.
“You mean the prophecy you won’t let anyone else see?” The warrior walked back to his horse and removed his leather gauntlets, rubbing his hands and pulling a waterskin from one of his bags; a flash of light from the knight’s hand briefly drew Tomas’ attention to the small signet ring the northlander wore. With a glance to the waiting warhorse, Tomas noted that there was another blade strapped behind the warrior’s shield, this one a longsword. The second weapon looked much like the first, with an unadorned cruciform hilt and a simple steel pommel.
“Exactly!” the wizard snapped.
Shaking his head, the knight pulled a waterskin from his saddle and splashed some water on his face. “Cyras, did it ever occur to you that you might get a much more positive reaction out of people if you just give them a better idea of what is going on and what you want from them?”
“Did it ever occur to you that since I’m the only one with access to the Prophecy, maybe you and that daughter of mine should occasionally trust me?” the Trickster-Mage retorted.
Confused to the point of physical illness, Tomas interrupted the two, trying to head off a futile argument. “Excuse me!” he yelled, startling the other two, “but shouldn’t someone take a look at Nek? He got hit pretty hard.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Cyras said without looking at his henchman. “Nek is pretty hard to kill.” Indeed, even as Cyras spoke, Nek stirred from the collection of lumber he was buried under, only a small bruise on his left eye the evidence of his being hit with enough force to knock down a stone wall. The Uldra nodded a greeting towards the northland warrior before moving to check on his horses.
“What about you?” the knight asked Tomas, looking him over. “Any wounds?”
“No,” Tomas answered, sheathing his sword, “You took care of them before they got close to me.”
The knight looked at the young man’s blade as Tomas put it away. “Interesting choice in weaponry,” he noted politely. “Although, to be honest, can’t remember the last time I saw someone outside of the Legions using one.” He glanced at the shepherd’s shoulder, which was left bare by the simple sleeveless tunic he wore. “And you don’t have the mark of the Legions.”
“It was my father’s.”
The knight nodded in understanding. “Your father served?”
“For many years. He willed it to me before he died.”
“Sorry.”
The young shepherd shrugged. “It was many years ago.”
“That was a brave thing you did, defending Cyras.”
Tomas blushed, embarrassed at the praise from an obviously capable warrior. “It was nothing,” he said.
The knight drew his own blade, checking it for any damage from the battle before sheathing it again. “Actually,” he said, “it really is rare in these days for a man to step into certain death for someone else, especially for someone as notorious as Cyras Darkholm.”
“You two know each other?” the shepherd guessed.
“Much better than I’d like,” he laughed. “How long have you two known each other?”
“I’ve known of Tomas for years,” the Trickster-Mage declared.
“Actually, we just met yesterday,” Tomas corrected.
The wizard rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I haven’t known you for years.”
“You just met him and you were willing to die for him?” the knight asked, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a rare kind of bravery, kid, or maybe an even rarer kind of stupidity.”
Tomas’ embarrassment grew to nearly intolerable heights. None of his peers or teachers ever gave him such minor, yet earnest praise. Let alone mixed with such an immediate sense of camaraderie.
“What’s your name kid? How did you come to be traveling with Cyras?”
“His name is Tomas Fidelis,” Cyras said, packing his things back up in preparation for departure. “He’s your new squire.”
“Excuse me?” the knight and Tomas said in unison.
“I will tolerate no argument in this,” the Trickster-Mage snapped. “Critical events will be put into motion very soon, and I need you both ready for what lies ahead.”
“Cyras,” the northlander said in exasperation, “for once, would you please drop the cryptic nonsense and just tell me flat out what in Underworld is going on!?!”
“No.”
“No!?! What do you mean no?”
“You should know by now that I have reasons for everything I do, and I always get my way in the end so you might as well accept my decisions.”
“Excuse me, Cyras,” Tomas interrupted, “but I have no intention of being anyone’s squire. I have a quest of my own you know. No offense.” This last said to the knight.
“None taken,” he replied. “Believe me; I know how frustrating it is dealing with Cyras.” The knight turned back to the old wizard. “Besides, I’m in the middle of a… diplomatic trip. I’m due in Velaross next month, and don’t have time for another of your wild errands.”
“I don’t even know why I’m bothering to stand here and argue,” Tomas said. “Sir Knight, I wish you well; Nek, have a nice life. Cyras… seek help.” As the shepherd was turning to leave, Darkholm’s face split into malicious grin.
“Why, Tomas,” the Trickster-Mage said in an overly friendly voice. “You want so badly to face Rogan Eigenhard, why would you just walk away from him?”
Realization dawning on Tomas’ face, he turned very slowly and faced the knight, then moved to the far side of the warhorse, Stick, and took a good, long look at the heraldry on the shield.
“What are you talking about now, Cyras?” the knight demanded.
Cyras only smiled, clearly reveling in anticipation.
Speaking very slowly and evenly, Tomas asked. “What is your name, northlander?”
Looking, if possible, even more confused, the knight answered, “Rogan Eigenhard, of House Calonar.” Tomas looked up, the shield bore a field divided in the middle, gray on top, blue on the bottom, with two four-pointed diamonds in the center, the front one silver, the rear, white, both surrounded by a golden circle. It was the heraldry of House Calonar.