I'm not complaining, mind you (well . . . maybe a tiny inny little bit. I still like nuts-and-bolts hard science fiction more). But I'd like to know. What makes for good Fantasy? What are the ingredients, what's the formula, that is needed to stir up to capture a reader's imagination and keep'em glued to the book . . . and maybe to the entire series.
The reason I bring this up is because a few years back I came up with the idea of a Fantasy series. The Roland of the High Crags series. Roland is a warrior-monk dedicated to protecting Humanity from the ravages of a bipedal group of Dragons who look upon humans as their ancestral enemy. The back story as to why Dragons hate humans and visa versa is complex, twisted, and hidden in the far far dim past of both species.
But Roland is also an accomplished wizard. And it is his wizardry skills that hold both the answers to ending the Dragon/Human wars and finding out the truth about how the wars began.
Roland, the human, is asked to both protect and raise a small Dragon child. A female who, as legends and myths foretell, will be born to a certain Dragon clan and who will ultimately become the key Dragon weapon which will destroy all of Mankind. Roland knows the child is this weapon. Knows he should destroy her immediately. But he doesn't. Instead, he decides to accept the challenge and raise her as his own. For reasons of his own.
So . . . my novel/series is complex. With layers upon layers of shades of gray as relating to the motivations each of the characters exhibits. Nothing . . . nor no one . . . is what they seem to be. One book cannot possibly answer all the questions I suggest. Maybe not even ten books will answer all. That's what excites me about this series. The mysteries; the questions; the motivations behind the masks of the smiling, or snarling, faces Roland and the child meets.
So I'm trying to revive this proposed series. Revive it by sending off the first three chapters to a publisher who may, or may not, pick it up. I'd like to have a publisher get behind this project. I think the potential is there for great success (every writer is going to say that about his work, right?)
I thought I'd share with you the first three chapters of the book I'd like to revive the series with.
Hope you like it. Tell me what you think.
Prologue
Know
your enemy, my son.
Respect his skill; admire his cunning.
For the Dragon was built
For War.
-From the
Book of St. Albans-
In
the Beginning . . . . .
They
hung in the clear blue winter’s sky like two glistening jewels. Two dragons.
One a Winged Beastie, her giant bat-wings stretched out to the fullest,
riding the thermal drafts of the rugged forest hills like some dreaded Dark
Lord. Her wingspan was a good fifty
feet. Her body, a charcoal gray color,
with its long serpentine neck and equally long horned tail delicately balancing
her in her flight, sat in the sky as if she was a natural part of it. She was a fire-breather. An old warrior. Supremely confident and master of the skies.
Her rider, strapped in the heavy
saddle just in front of the Beastie’s forward shoulders, had wrapped himself in
a heavy cloak to keep the biting cold at bay.
The air was frigid cold. Winter’s
harsh grip had taken hold of the land and would not let go for another six
months. Snuggled close to his body was the heavy looking crossbow so favored by
King Dragons. A weapon of immense power
and range and very deadly in the hands of a marksman. And something else was held close to him
underneath the cloak. Something important.
So important it
required him to keep his crossbow strung and notched.
Two dragons riding the empty winds
in maleficent grandeur. Terrible to
behold.
Harbingers of Destiny.
And I?
Once a Bretan warrior-monk and accomplished
wizard, now condemned and hunted by my high above
and behind the unsuspecting Dragons.
Cedric was a Huygens-bred Great Wing.
A beast much resembling the smaller, but equally dangerous, Ferril Hawks
which populates the forests and mountains of the High Kanris. But bigger, much bigger, and far more
deadly. A powerful bird. Capable of carrying me and my weapons of war
high into the skies to hunt Winged Beasties and their masters.
Friend.
Confidant.
Ally.
This was my Cedric. One does not own a Great Wing. Neither bird nor man is the other’s
master. To fight the ravages of the
Dragon, man and bird must unite in a
common cause. They must blend into a
well honed weapon with one partner knowing what the other will do in the heat
of battle even before the other knows himself.
Cedric and I had fought the dragon for decades. We knew each other’s soul as if it was our
own.
Neither of us could believe a Winged
Beastie and King Dragon rode the cold blue skies of the Northern Hill
Country. Yet there they were. Both radiating from their souls a sense of
boredom and being lost at the same time.
I sensed their half-hearted attempts to search the forests below for
something they expected to find. They were
on a mission. They were lost yet they
were near to where they should be. Given
time they would find what they sought. They would deliver the dispatches the
dragon clansman clutched beneath his cloak tightly to his chest.
It was not that we were surprised in
finding dragons. Dragon clans possessed
baronies in the North Country . The Malawei, the Bruinii, and not too far in
the west, along with the Marouth.
Malawei and Bruinii were near.
Small clans hardly large enough to keep the lands they had carved out of
the enclaves of human kingdoms surrounding them as their own. Yet they too
would have been an oddity to have one of its fabled fire-breathers riding alone
in the clear skies here and now.
But this clansman was neither
Malawei nor Bruinii. This clansman
dressed in red and trimmed in black was Hartooth. The First Clan. A warrior of the fabled clan who first rose
out of the swamps of the Far South. A
warrior far from home. Far from the
skies and forests he would be familiar with.
A creature who was decidedly out of his environment. Yet more
importantly these Dragons were enemies.
The rider was a warrior of a legendary clan. Legendary in their intense hatred for all of
things human. Wherever a Hartooth
appeared, so too appeared death and destruction. He was, for me as an outcast Bretan
warrior-monk or not, my sworn enemy.
There was but one option for my
feathered comrade and I to take. We had
to destroy the Hartooth courier and his fire-breathing companion. We had to find out why a warrior of his clan
was so far north. It was imperative we
snatch from his dead or dying body the messages he held so close to him and
ascertain the real threat he represented.
Reaching for my bow I quickly pulled
it from its leather pouch strapped to my saddle and strung it. Notching arrow to the string I said nothing,
made no movement to signal my comrade, nor had to. We were a team. A well oiled machine. The moment his sharp sense of hearing heard
me string the bow he waited long enough for me to notch arrow to the
string. And then, in the blinking of an
eye, he folded his wide but powerful wings and threw his beaked head down. We, like a massive stone, dropped from out of
the skies in a steep dive. The cold
winter air flew past my face at an incredible speed. I felt my face grow numb and the sense of
touch in my hands begin to disappear.
But this did no matter. Our enemies were rapidly approaching and our
goals were simple. Destroy both dragons
and allow neither to escape.
When it appeared we were about to
crash into Dragon and fire-breather I sat up in my saddle, lifted the bow and
pulled the string back to my ear before releasing the arrow. It was a swift, sure, and practiced move. One I had done a thousand times or more in my
life. The arrow flew from the bow
straight and true. It hit in the middle
of the unsuspecting warrior’s back with such force it threw the warrior forward
and actually penned the creature into the neck of his comrade. The fire-breather lifted its head and
screeched in pain as it started to turn and look behind and above him.
Too late! The Winged Beastie had no chance to dart
away. With talons extended my giant
comrade and I slammed into the fire-breather’s neck with a horrendous jolt. The collision almost ripped me out of the
stout leather straps holding me into my saddle.
Cedric’s talons gripped the Beastie’s neck into a death grip and we,
dragons and all, began plummeting to earth in a spiraling Dance of Death.
The fire-breather tried to twist out
of my Great Wing’s grip. A stream of
blue-white flame roared from the Beastie’s mouth as it tried to turn its head
and engulf us in his fiery fury. The
roar of the flame, the heat of the fire, and the smell of burning sulfur almost
saved him. Close came his final blow to
I and my faithful comrade. But Cedric’s
grip was too strong. The Beastie could
not turn his head far enough to hit to dislodge his tormentors.
Onward we plummeted to the ground
below. I felt the life draining from the
fire-breather and from the Hartooth. And
then, only few hundred feet above the snow covered forest below us, the
fire-breather expired and Cedric released his grip and twisted away at the same
time. Hartooth rider and his Beastie
crashed into the a small clearing with a thunderous finality. A dark cloud of snow and soil was thrown up
into the air and momentarily hid our enemies from view. But we circled and waited, bow notched again
with arrow, and both of us anticipating anything from below. But there was no need. The cloud of snow gently blew away. Below us our prey lay in a jumbled heap of
broken bones and splayed limbs.
Cedric landed in the clearing some
distance away from our fallen quarry and in a position which, if the
fire-breather was still alive and wished to again use his hot breath against
us, would be difficult for him to do so.
I leapt from my saddle after unstringing bow and replacing it in its
quiver. From my side I withdrew the
curved blade of a Dragon scimitar and gripped it firmly as I approached the
mass of flesh before me. No life force
could be felt within the stilled heart of the fire-breather. But the Hartooth clansman was, for the
moment, alive. His life force was
draining from his soul rapidly. He had
only moments left in this world before journeying over into the
Netherworld. He, still strapped to his
saddle, had been ripped away from his companion and lay to one side of the dead
Beastie. As I stepped around the dying
creature to face him I heard the clansman snort out of rattling chuckle of
amusement as our eyes met for the first time.
“Ah! I travel to the Dark World
thanks to the deadly aim of a Bretan priest.
So be it. I go honorably. As it should be. We were destined to meet, human. Our
destinies were set long ago. My life
ends and yours continues on for a little time more.”
He coughed, blood trickling down his
lips. From out of his chest the shaft of
my arrow was visible. He held one hand
to his chest and coughed again. And
again chuckled in amusement.
“Destiny, our destines, human, are
set in stone. It is the destiny of the
Hartooth to rid this planet of all your kind.
It is the destiny of all of your kind to accept your extinction.”
I nodded, frowning.
“What if I do not believe in
destiny, warrior? What then?”
“Ha!
Believe or not! It does not
matter.”
He tried to laugh but had no
strength as his life force deserted his physical form.
Using the tip of my sword I reached
forward and slid part of his red cloak to one side. Lifting the heavy leather courier’s satchel
from his body I cut the straps holding it to him. Picking the satchel up with
the tip of my blade I stepped away from the dead and moved back to a position
close to my comrade. A quick perusal of
the dispatches made me frown even
more. The Hartooth were coming. And they were coming in force.
Destiny. Our destines
sat long ago. Set in stone
forever and incapable of changing.
Did I believe
that? Was it true? Was it the destiny of mankind to be
eradicated from this world by the Hartooth?
Was it meaningless to resist?
Destiny.
****
The worlds of the Dragon and of Man
shook and shuddered from the terrible conflict. This maleficent conflagration
consumed the innocent and the valiant like some uncontrolled forest fire. There was no one who would escape it
unscathed. There was no place to hide. Like a disease this war grew ever larger,
absorbed more riches and natural resources, while conversely increasing the
grim migration of souls into the farther reaches of the Netherworld.
Even the heavens and the Netherworld
roared with the cacophony of battle. The
gods of Man and the grim Dark Lords of the Dragon, ancestral and immortal
enemies since the beginning of time, chose now to come down from the heavens or
rise out of the nebulous veils of the Netherworld and partake in the blood
letting.
I, a simple warrior-monk of the
Bretan, knew my duty.
Warrior. Monk. Wizard.
Trained since childhood to fight the
battles the weak, the innocent, the hapless could not. Trained to seek out Evil in all its forms and
confront it; to make war on it and to drive it back into the abyss. We in the Bretan worship one god. It is our belief that Shin’zin is everywhere.
He is everything. Both the animate and the inanimate contain a part of
Shin’zin. But more importantly, we
believe Shin’zin comes in the disguise of a thousand different gods. He is called in a thousand different
ways. He shapes his visage so he will be
recognized by those who plead for his help.
He is the Giver of Light and Life.
He is the Healer of All Wounds.
Beneficent. Humble. But ever
vigilant. Evil comes in many shapes and
forms. Evil comes with the murderous
roar of the Lion or with the tender caress of an apparent loving mother. Evil relishes its disguises and gloats on its
accomplishments in deceiving those who plead for mercy.
Evil must be confronted. A warrior-monk-wizard of the Bretan does not
hesitate.
Nor did I.
It all began a year and a half earlier.
In the monastery of St. Rolla I felt a great stirring of Evil. I felt it stirring like a deadly snow-viper does
just underneath a fresh blanket of snow and moments before it strikes. An Evil of immense proportions which dwelt
only in the twilight between the conscience and the unconscious. An Evil powerful enough to reach out and
control the destines of Man and Dragon.
And possibly even the Currents of Time found in the Netherworld.
This feeling came to me in the early hours
before dawn while a blizzard with howling winds and blinding snows made the
walls of the monastery grown and creak.
The last throes of Winter were screaming in their rage and Spring was
about to return and thaw the earth.
Spring. A time of hope. Renewal.
Rebirth. But on that night, and
in my Mind’s Eye, I felt as if death itself was stalking the land.
Wizards have an ability called the
Inner Eye. It is a added sense which makes us ‘see’ the auras of
living things around us. All living forms
have both a generic and specific
aura. A generic aura would be
describing what Evil looks like. It is a
dimly glowing mass of blues and blacks.
The colors move and change shape, they either brighten or dim, depending
on the mood of the Evil and whether it moves or whether it has found a prey and
stalks it silently. On this night I felt
a great stirring of Evil. It washed over
my soul like a sudden onslaught of frigid arctic air. And it came from the East.
Rising at sunrise to begin my
training anew word came to St. Rolla that the Clan Anktooth and their lands
were being overrun by an ancient and deadly foe. The Anktooth, an old and honored Dragon clan
we of the Bretan were long familiar with, both as a friend and as a foe, were
facing a foe many times their size in numbers and far more wealthy—and far more
proficient in making war. We of the
faith sent spies toward the Anktooth’s lands to seek additional
information. On their return the news
cemented our fears a terrible event was taking place.
The First Clan was again waging war
on a grand scale. They were swallowing up lands and baronies in a wide swath
and were now trying to devour the Anktooth.
The Hartooth, in Dragon legends one of the first four Dragon clans to
rise out of the swamps and stand on two legs, carried with it the Dragon
prophecy of being humanity’s nemesis. They again blew the horns of war and
brought fire and sword down upon their enemies. Slowly and methodically in
their terrible martial splendor they were marching toward the High Kanris.
Toward humanity.
A year ago I decided to mount my
magnificent Huygens bred Great Wing and ride the winds toward the lands of the
Anktooth. Normally Dragon and Man war
against each other. Yet, of late, there
had been instances where individuals have come to the aid of their once
ancestral enemies. I knew the
Anktooth. I knew them to be
honorable. I knew they wished to forge
some kind of cessation of hostilities with Mankind and to begin a lucrative,
and mutual, series of trade agreements with
the kingdoms close to their borders.
I knew they would accept my offer of
assistance.
To my surprise others came as well. Niscian riders, Hurlian bowmen, and an
assortment of mercenary warriors. All
human. All united in their desire to confront
the Hartooth and defeat them in battle.
For a little over a year the combined arms of human and Anktooth fought
the might and wealth of the Hartooth.
Perhaps a hundred or so Great Wing riders from the High Kanris came down
from their snow capped peaks and joined us.
For a year I led this group of Great Wings, rising into the air over the
battlements of the city to confront the flame-breathing Winged Beasties and
their riders of the enemy.
It was a valiant fight. A war which songs of mighty deeds, from all
sides, no doubt were composed. But
heroic deeds of individuals cannot win a war.
With out wealth war cannot be fought for long durations. The Hartooth had warriors as heroic and as
brave as any Anktooth or human. Yet the
numbers of the Hartooth seemed to never dwindle. When a Hartooth fell three would rise up to
fill the gaps in the battle line. That
could mean only one thing. Gold.
A vast reservoir of gold seemingly
limitless in size and spent lavishly for men, arms, material and the other
accouterments of war. The Hartooth’s
wealth seemed like an endless ocean.
Everyday from the battlements we would see new formations arriving to
join the ranks arrayed before us.
Everyday, as our numbers dwindled and weakened from constant battle, we
faced fresh enemies eager to join the fray.
My hundred riders dwindled with each passing day. We would litter the skies with the falling
bodies of our foes still strapped to the saddles of the dead Winged
Beasties. But at night, when we had
fought our last aerial sortie, I would count those who returned and my heart
would grow heavy.
Wealth is the engine of war,
Pilgrim. Without it no barony, no
kingdom, no rarified and Noble Cause can sustain itself for long. The Anktooth were not a wealthy clan. They did not possess gold or silver
mines. Their wealth came from
commerce. Trade and commerce was quickly
decapitated from the Anktooth the moment the Hartooth arrived.
The end came soon enough. And the journey I now struggle to complete
began.
In the dying hours of the final
assault on the city of Anhk , the
last city belonging to the Anktooth, I was pulled from the fight by the
taciturn presence of a Mauk Clan warrior loyal to the old Anktooth baron. The Mauk had been loyal followers and
servants of the Anktooth for generations.
Related to the Anktooth, the Mauk knew they faced the same threat as the
Anktooth did from the Hartooth.
Resisting a First Clan meant, if they lost, extinction. The Anktooth were losing. Only a matter of hours were left in their
existence. Before the rise of the next
sun not one, but two, ancient and honorable dragon clans would no longer walk
the earth.
I was quickly led to a place where
the old Anktooth baron stood with a group of other warriors, Dragon and human
mercenaries, along with a few of his own warriors, accompanied the old
baron. There was a child there as
well. A female Dragon child of seven
years. Shaking with terror. Her heart filled with anguish and pain. Clinging to the leg of her grandfather, the old
baron, with the intensity only the desperate can achieve.
But more than just a Dragon
child. More than just the last of the
royal blood to the Anktooth. She was, in
truth, far more important than that.
She was a legendary Pearl Princess.
The last of the five promised to Dragonkind through prophecy.
The Fifth Sister.
The one promised to rise up and unite all of
Dragonkind. The promised prophet
destined by Dragon gods to be the salvation of the Dragon. Once united she
would lead the dragon in the Final War against humanity.
Evil incarnate. A witch who, as the four before her were, was
endowed with incredible powers to control the Netherworld. She would master the Netherworld. She would be able to tap into that vast and
limitless dynamo of raw supernatural power and mold it to her will in whatever
she desired. No human wizard, if she
grew to adulthood and acquired all her power, would be able to defeat her. No collected mass of wizards combining their
powers would be able to thwart her plans.
Humanity would be lost.
Destroyed. Wiped from the face of
the earth if this Pearl Princess was allowed to live.
Being a Bretan warrior-monk, and
wizard of the First Order, I was sworn to protect humanity from the ravages of
the Dragon. But more importantly my vows
compelled me to seek out and destroy Evil whenever and wherever I could find
it. Now Evil stood directly in front of
me. In the presence of a seven year old
child. A frightened and confused child
clinging to her grandfather.
“You are to take her, warrior. You and your fabulous Great Wing are to ride
high into the mountains beyond. Hide
her, Roland of the High Crags. Hide her
and protect her . . . “
A Dragon baron asking a Betan
warrior-wizard to save and protect the abomination called a Pearl
Princess. A Dragon asking me to defy my
humanity and protect the one creature who would acquire the power to eradicate
humanity from existence. To defy my
religious vows. To become, if I accepted
the quest, a Malus Apostate, the most
horrendous of all heretical banishment decrees a wizard could acquire from his
religious order. To be hunted like an
animal. To be shown no mercy. To suffer the agonized and miseries within
the Netherworld for the rest of eternity.
If I accepted the quest. If I chose to condemn my kind to damnation.
If . . .
I gazed into the child’s soul. I felt her pain. I felt her terror. I glimpsed the edges of her already
astonishing powers of the Netherworld.
She made no effort to hide or disguise her soul from me even though she
knew I was examining her closely.
I saw the potential in her. The potential for both Evil and Good. But there was something else I
detected. She glowed with an aura of a child’s
innocence. There was no Evil present.
They were no hidden veils which might possibly mask Evil. She was as she appeared to be. An innocent child on the verge of being
cruelly executed by a hostile and unforgiving world. No one was strong enough to protect her. No one felt any tenderness toward her, except
that of her grandfather and the old Clan Mauk warrior who led me to her
standing beside me. To the mercenaries
who tried to convince the old baron they were better choices in saving the
child’s life I could feel nothing but greed and hatred for the child.
She was alone in the world. Alone, confused, and defenseless. Yes . . . already she could command immense
powers within the Netherworld. But she
was without training. She knew not what
she could do with these powers. Left
alone and unchecked she would become a danger to all life on the planet. If she fell into the hands of her father, the
Hartooth baron, she would become the trained weapon of Dragon prophecy.
But . . .
Two thoughts crossed my mind
immediately the moment I looked into her soul.
First, warrior-wizard of the Bretan as I was I could not kill an
innocent child. All my religious
training in the Bretan Way
screamed against such an act. The Bretan
was supposed to defend and protect the old, the weak, the innocent, and the
young. The child was devoid of all
evil. She was but a seven year old
child. To extinguish her life with the
flick of wrist, much like that of someone pinching the burning flame of a
candle into oblivion, would be an evil act in itself.
At the same time a revelation came
to me. Suddenly, before my eyes like a
blinding flash of intense light, opened the possibility of defying
prophecy! By taking the child into my
protection and teaching her the tricks and techniques the Bretan used to
control both the power and the potential madness found in the Netherworld,
might I mold the weapon which would destroy Dragon prophecy? A Dragon weapon forged by the Dragon gods
themselves used to destroy the very ones who created it! Struck breathless I saw all the potential
dilemmas and the potential rewards this possibility offered!
If prophecy could be destroyed,
might it be possible for Dragon and Man to finally learn how to live together
in peace? Was it mandatory that one
species or the other had to be wiped clean from the face of the planet in order
to obtain peace? To finally remove the
bleak and terrible fury of the Dark Lords from the hearts of the dragon was a
vision none before thought possible. But
here was a chance–an admittedly dismally slim chance–of doing just that!
Defy my religious vows. Defy my gods.
Defy all of humanity and Dragonkind together in order to achieve
something beyond comprehension. Peace. Wonderful, lasting, so long sought after
Peace.
I agreed to the Anktooth’s
request. I agreed to protect the child
and teach her the Bretan Way . I knew what dangers this could mean to
all. I knew Evil, if it ever entered the
child’s heart, would know how to thwart all the techniques the Bretan knew in
controlling the Netherworld.
I knew I would be condemned by
all. I knew I would be hunted, along
with the child, and promised a most horrible end. I knew my fate. And I agreed to defy it. Within an hour we fled from the dying city of
Anhk . We flew high into the towering peaks of a
mountain pass which led up into the High Kanris. We, the child and I, began our quest for
either achieving the unreachable crown called Peace. Or die trying.
Only the Fates knew how our journey
would end.
One
Be like the graceful willow
Which bends and does not resist
When the wind blows strong;
For in truth,
Strength lies not in resistance
But in the power others
hurl against you.
-From be Book of St. Albans -
Destiny.
-One’s
destiny is never the route anticipated.
-Destiny
is the Mistress of Obfuscation; one never knows where it might lead.
-Random
serendipity, or maleficent opportunity, are like the strikes of a
blacksmith’s hammer on the glistening
surface of Destiny.
-Destiny
may be formed with random thoughts, or an idle turn of a word; it is as
virulent force fed by ideas. Or as weak
as an old man’s passing whimsy.
-One
needs not seek Destiny. Destiny will
find you.
Destiny.
I remember these words vividly. Spoken to me by an old man who walked with a
firm stride, hands clasped behind his back, his dark brown eyes taking in the
beauty around us as we made our way through the gardens of St. Rolla’s
Monastery. Even then, as a young
initiate in the midst of my training in wizardry, Master Breen was old. As old as the Bretan Brotherhood was old some
said. Others whispered Master Breen knew
Saint Bretan; learned from the sect’s founder the Bretan
Ways of a warrior monk. Still others said the old man had witnessed
the final climatic battles against the onslaught of the Dragon which drove the
remnants of humanity into the High Kanris.
It does not matter. I know not the truth. All I can say with certainty is that Master
Breen was very old. Yet, in many
respects, very young at the same time.
He did not walk with the gait of an old man. His stride was slow, deliberate, but firm and
unhesitating. He was old and wise. And gentle.
This I remember the most. His
gentleness.
His dark brown eyes were sharp and clear and
filled with a mischievous merriment quite captivating to behold. He loved the cloistered gardens of St.
Rolla’s with a passion. After every
arduous training session, whenever a task in training a warrior monk to become
a wizard had pushed me to the brink of exhaustion or frustration, I would find
Master Breen kneeling at a rose bush and carefully working the flower beds
around it in an effort to make it bloom more beautifully.
“Ah, the young wizard has suffered
another defeat?” he would say, a smile working his thin lips, his voice quiet,
yet compelling, to hear. “You need not
worry, boy. Tasting defeat in a trial of
skill is but a thin layer added to the eventual lustrous shine. Patience is the key. Patience and endurance. Yes . . . patience
and endurance.”
He would come to his feet, wait for
me to join at his side, and we would stroll through the gardens for hours on
end talking about my difficulties. Ah,
to be honest; I would be the one talking and he mostly listened. He would smile, make an amusing comment about
something or the other, and it all seemed to come together by the end of our
stroll. I always felt better, and even
prepared, for the next day’s difficulties after these talks.
Master Breen was neither a monk nor
a servant at St. Rolla’s. He had no
official position there.Yet he was much revered by monk and servant alike. Even the abbot himself demurred to Master
Breen’s wishes whenever the old man voiced an opinion. It was, in retrospect, all very curious that
such a one as he would come to live in a Bretan Monastery. Not that our monasteries are reclusive hide
outs for the devout. In all of the
surviving monasteries my brothers occupy our doors are open to any who made
need our assistance. The weak, the poor,
the dying, the young, the destitute come to us seeking our aid. We turn no one away.
But in Master Breen’s case it seemed
quite odd such a man would choose to live the simple monastic life of a Bretan
monk. Neither rich nor poor, Master Breen was neither common peasant nor exiled
nobleman. He was not an inhabitant of
any of the standard class systems found in most of the societies in the High
Country. He was an non-entity. A ghost
who lived among the living. A ghost with
very special skills.
As a young initiate I learned much
from this old man. Important concepts a
wizard must accomplish if they wish not to be seduced by the powers of the
Netherworld. Power is corruption. Power
is an enchanting seductress which lures their victims into a sensual oblivion
which knows no limits. Once lost into
that oblivion no wizard ever comes back. They are gone forever.
The Netherworld was the ultimate
seducer; the ultimate power. A wizard who consciously played within its
confines would, in the end, find himself standing on the precipice of his own
destruction. In the end the seducer’s
sensual call would become too much for the wayward magician to resist.
Think of the Netherworld, pilgrim,
as vast river which stretches off into infinity. Standing on its lone banks and gazing onto
the river was like looking into Infinity itself. There are no boundaries. Only
the unwavering flatness of water everywhere.
Standing on the banks before the Great River of Time is an intoxicating
liquor in itself. One’s senses are
bombarded with exciting stimuli. But
this sensation is nothing when compared to sliding into the water itself. The water in the River
of Time
In the waters of the Netherworld all
who have come before you, and all who will come after you, can be
summoned. With stunning clarity not only
do you see the current of Time you reside in all of its stunning detail. You
see all of the currents of Time which make up the River
of Time River
of Time
For a wizard to summon the soul of
someone who has, or will at some time in the future, tread the paths found in
the Outer Realms is a dangerous liquor to taste. But the power to summon yourself . . . summon the You of your Past or of your
Future, and discuss with them what is in store for you, is a power of destined to make you slip into
the clinging arms of Insanity.
Terrible is the power of the
Netherworld! Frightening are the dangers
found in this River of Time
Ah, pilgrim! Foolish is the wizard who becomes thus
seduced into believing this madness! The
terrible truth is Time cannot be manipulated.
The Future is too nebulous of clearly see. Too many currents weave a complex tapestry we
call the Future. Certain threads within this tapestry may unravel and
break. Others will fill in the gaps and
make the weave even stronger. The Future
is never a constant. It is always in a
state of flux. Too many currents, too many
variables, make up the Future. No
wizard, however powerful he may be, can use the powers of the Netherworld to
shape what is to come.
That I learned while at the
monastery of St. Rolla. The powers of
the Netherworld were to be used only when necessity demanded it. A wizard’s power came directly from the
Netherworld. If one wished to be more of
a wizard than a warrior-monk, one would eventually succumb to its lures. Into the abyss the wizard would fall. An abyss which there was no path available in
bringing him back into the Light.
It was Master Breen who taught me
about the seductress of power. In his
soft and gentle ways he showed me the pitfalls
“To live with the Netherworld,
Bretan, means to always look at it as a potential enemy. It never reveals its true purpose. It is neither Good nor Evil. Honor or morals means nothing to it. Because it cannot, or will not, consider the
Good from the Evil it becomes the perfect residence for both. In the Netherworld never, ever, take anything
felt or witnessed with your own senses for what it appears to be. The true nature of the Netherworld is to
deceive.”
****
Words, spoken long ago by a man I so
admired played across my conscience as I sat on my hunches beside a towering
oak in the depths of the Goram Hill forest country. Below me, perhaps no more than two or three
miles away, in a narrow valley between towering forested hills, I gazed upon
the encampment of a Dragon army. I felt
myself frowning. My heart felt like
lead. The valley the Dragon occupied was long but narrow and as straight as the
path of an arrow. Virgins forests, thick
and dark, filled most of the valley floor.
Here and there were large patches of open spaces where local farmers had
hacked out fields to plant their crops. Running through the middle of the valley,
twisting and turning in a dark brown ribbon of constant use, a wide and deeply
rutted road made its way from the north to the south. In the north it finally faded into the vast
sprawling grasslands of the Northern Steppes.
Its opposite point ended in front of the massive wooden gates of a
walled city called Malagna. The first of
two large Dragon enclaves possessed by a small Dragon clan called the Malawei.
A part of my mind wished to dismiss
the sight below me as some kind of fever-induced dream. The First Clan so far
north in the hill country? Here, and
apparently ensconced in their fortified camps, unbeknown by any human or dragon
opponent?
Impossible.
Yet there they were. A vast fortified camp setting behind a wooden
palisade made from felled trees. Within
the walls the Dragon had created a perfect city. Rows upon rows of tents formed perfectly
aligned communities and wide streets allowed for easy access to any part of the
camp. Just on the other side of the
wooden walls a deep and wide trench had been dug encircling the entire
fortification. Sharpened stakes driven
at angles into the back slopes of the trench provided an extra barrier for any
foe who might attack the dragon encampment.
This was not a temporary resting
place where an invading army momentarily paused to rest itself. This was the beginnings of a permanent
establishment. The rough canvas tents
would soon be replaced with stout log cabins.
A second wall, stronger in it construction than the first, would be
thrown upon the opposite side of the trench.
With the addition of that second wall the Dragon would be rooted into
the land itself. It would take an army four
times the size of the enemy before me to dislodge them from this valley.
Yet, by spring time more of the
First Clan would arrive. Thousands more.
In this part of the Goram Hills
neither the Malawei, nor the warriors from the two small human kingdoms nearby,
would be strong enough to remove the Clan Hartooth from the valley. With winter setting in no force could be
hammered together to do the bloody work needed before the spring thaws
arrived. The Clan Hartooth had arrived
in the North Country .
The First Clan of Dragonkind. The
clan who reveled at making war on all of humankind. The prophecy said they would unite all of
Dragonkind and lead the combined clans into the Final Battle against humanity.
They were here. In this valley. Threatening the very existence of humanity
itself. And I, a Bretan warrior-monk,
and one of the few surviving Bretan wizards left, sworn by my religious vows to
confront Evil in all its forms, saw Evil resting in the valley below.
I knew my duty. I knew what must be done.
Evil had to be confronted.
Coming to my feet I turned away from
the sight below me. My heart was
heavy. Guilt and shame flooded through
my veins. I would mount my powerful war
bird, a magnificent black and red plumed Great Wing and ride away. I would shirk my duty and flee from this
conflict.
A more powerful threat compelled me
to act like a coward.
Two
When one faces a force of greater
strength,
Bend with its surging tide and channel
its power in ways
It least
expects.
For force blindly hurled is effort with
no purpose;
Without a clear vision
No Victory is possible.
-From the
Book of St. Albans-
In
the saddle of my powerful Cedric I gazed down at the heavy forest
floor below me. Winter’s first heavy
blanket of snow fell the night before, creating a rugged, and isolated,
canvas of white over the entire length of the valley floor. As the powerful Hugyens-bred war bird rose
and fell on the various winds which played across this remote section of a
mountainous valley, I used my Inner Eye to
scan for any possible wizardry traps. A
wizard’s Inner Eye is a powerful tool.
One ‘sees’ the auras of all living things within the range of his
powers. Since all Life radiates its own
signature aura. It cannot be hidden,
with the possible exception of a wizard who has wrapped himself in the folds of
a Cloak of Invisibility.
So fine and so precise are the auras
visible to the Inner Eye a good wizard can identify a person’s, or a species’,
aura individually. Even among wizards
their auras are so unique one can tell if a particular wizard may be Bretan,
Niscian, Rogarian, or any of the other specific religious sects. From my perch high above the valley I
felt no presence of danger. Nodding in
relief I twisted in my saddle and looked at the heavens above and behind
me. No fire-breathing Winged Beastie,
the four limbed, bat-wing Dragons of legendary fame, rode the winds. Nor,
thankfully, did I see the feathered
magnificence of any Great Wings. Turning
again to my left I scanned the gray-white haze of the towering shield wall of
the High Kanris.
The High Kanris.
The unassailable rock
edifice with its lofty tops crowned with glistening snow called the shield
wall. The homeland for the majority of the human race. A series of mountain ranges, torturously
intertwined and undulating like a pit of deadly vipers, in rugged snow capped
peaks and high mountain valleys. Residing deep within the mountain ranges were
a number of human kingdoms. Large and
small, rich and poor, the kingdoms found refuge in those high crags. Refuge and safety from the ravages of the
Dragon. It was the shield wall which
provided this blanket of security.
A wall of rock, rising with a sudden explosive urge high into
the heavens, encapsulated the High Kanris like the stone battlements protecting
an impenetrable city. The wall towered
more than nine thousand feet into the sky.
Rising, like some mythical god, over the forest hills rolling country
surrounding it. It was too high for a
Winged Beastie to soar over. Its wall too steep and too rugged for any
individual to climb. Only four major routes lead into its interior. Each route heavily guarded by warriors
dedicated to keep the Dragon at bay.
Because of this magnificent natural defense the Dragon found himself in
a stalemate in his war against humanity.
The shield wall protected Man from Dragon incursion. The stark grandeur of its immense size and
stupendous height actually frightened the normally fearless spirit of our foes. The Dragon feared heights. Ancient experience and Dragon folklore told
them the high country was filled with unspeakable terrors.
Only invasion by an overwhelming
force of their fabled pike-wielding infantry, and hordes of fire-breathing
Winged Beasties, lay open to them if they wished to continue the war. An invasion up through one of the four wide
passes penetrating the wall itself. So
far no Dragon clan felt compelled to attempt such an arduous task.
Or, at least, not yet.
But in the next valley not too far
way lay encamped a massive Clan Hartooth army.
They were, as Dragon prophecy foretold, the ones who would ultimately
storm the very heights of heaven itself in their desire to eradicate humanity.
Satisfied all was well I
urged my old black-winged friend to land in a small clearing below. With a swift and sudden descent
Cedric spiraled down and used powerful wings to brake before setting down in
the quiet clearing. Leaping from the
saddle I turned and hurriedly unsaddled the black beast. It was feeding time and I could feel the
hunger pains rummaging through the soul of my old friend as keenly as I could
feel my own. Cedric bent his huge
head down to me and gently nudged me with his hooked beak. Playfully I roughed
his dark blood red feathered plume atop his head and told him not to eat too
much. Stepping back I braced myself for
the rush of powerful winds as the war bird launched himself back into the
heavens.
“Grandfather!”
The voice of a child
calling. A small child, perhaps seven or
eight years, her voice filled with relief and pleasure at seeing me arrive at
last. Turning, I caught her just as she
bounded into the air and leapt into my arms. Throwing arms around my neck she
hugged me tightly and kissed me on the cheek.
“I’m happy you are here,
grandfather. Especially now since so
many bad people have arrived.”
Holding her in my arms I kissed her
on the forehead and turned to watch the others join us. The rough pebble skin of her forehead felt
odd to the touch. Especially so for a
warrior-monk as I. As a Bretan monk I
swore religious vows to protect Mankind against all evil. For generations that evil was defined as
Dragon and the Dragon’s unquenchable thirst to destroy humanity. Yet, here I stood, holding in my arms a Dragon
princess, the last surviving relative to a once powerful Dragon clan.
But in truth she was more than just
a child princess. She was a Pearl
Princess. The definition of Evil
Incarnate in the legends and prophecies of both Dragon and Man. The last of the five promised Pearl
Princesses Dragonkind would be given by the Dark Lords. With this last one preordained to unite all
of the clans and make war upon Mankind for one final time.
As a warrior-monk, and as a Bretan
wizard, I knew the prophecies which
swirled around this child. I knew she
was a creature who possessed powers far and away more superior than mine when
it came to the manipulation of the Netherworld.
I knew the immense gamble I took five months earlier when I agreed to
take the child and raise and train her in the Bretan
Way .
Any other monk would have slain the
child upon first sight. A quick and
efficient death and a final defeat to Dragon prophecy. But I could not. I felt her soul. My Inner Eye scanned her aura. I found no evil residing in the child. She was, five months earlier, as she was now,
an innocent child being pulled and tossed about in a grand scheme of
manipulation. Like a helpless child’s
puppet there were powers, both Dragon and Man, who wished to control her innate
abilities. And depending on which force
finally won out the child would be an instrument of good or a weapon of evil.
I could not slay an innocent
child. My hopes were to show her how to
control her immense wizardry powers and mold her into that Netherworld force
which would defy the Dragon’s Dark Lords and forever deny them their victory.
But there was a heavy price to pay
in accepting this role.
Now practically every kingdom in the
high country, and almost every Dragon barony, hunted us. Not all.
But the vast majority did. We were outcasts. Our lives were forfeit the moment we were
caught. And I, once a loyal follower of
the Bretan Way , was now
condemned as a Malus Apostate; a
warrior-wizard of abomination. A
creature who, thanks to his acquired powers, was automatically a threat to all
of humanity. Every wizard from each of
the religious beliefs would be hunting us.
I doubted any would offer any form of mercy if, and when, they found us.
Two kinds of Dragons hunted us. One set believed in their prophecies. The child,
the Fifth Sister, would grow up and acquire all her wizardry
powers. She would unite all of
Dragonkind and the ultimate war would be fought against humanity. So they hunted us to free her from my
control. My fate, and the fate of the
three others who helped me in protecting and teaching the child, were
sealed. There would be no escape.
A second group of Dragons hunted us
with equal intensity. They too wished to
destroy us. To destroy all of us. These Dragons doubted the prophecies of the
Dark Lords. Over the last few years of
living alongside, and sporadically fighting the human, they had come to grudgingly accept humans for
what they were. Commerce arouse between
many Dragon baronies and human kingdoms.
A sort of unspoken truce existed with many Dragon clans and human
kingdoms. Prosperity flourished between
Dragon and Man for those who chose this path.
The child represented a dire threat to their prosperity. She was a symbol of old hatreds and ancient
curses. She had to be destroyed.
The child was named Ursala. She was the grand daughter to a dead baron
and extinct clan called the Anktooth.
Her father, incredibly, was none other than the Baron Baknar Hartooth,
the hereditary leader of the Clan Harktooth.
Fate and destiny came together in this child’s life in a complicated
weave of intrigue and black secrecy. If
no one came to her rescue she would have a short life, and a horrible end,
waiting for her.
I, Roland of the High Crags, chose
to defy my faith, the gods, and the Netherworld itself. I chose to protect the child and make the attempt
to lead her away from her terrible destiny. And a few others, through no fault
of their own, chose to follow the path I now traveled as well.
Two youths, blond haired and blue
eyed, tall and lanky and with that
certain air which suggested each was filed with immense confidence, approached
quickly. Twins, Gawaith and Gawain were
nephews to a good friend of mine, a king in a doomed city called Odar’s
Landing. This city was a key defenses
thwarting the Dragon’s entry through one of the main passes leading into the
high country. The Vik was a kingdom who
defended this pass from Dragon incursion.
The First Clan had invaded the lower end of the pass and pressed against
the stout walls of Odair’s Landing with a huge army. The last we knew their
uncle and his loyal followers still held the city. But our last word of the king’s defense came
to us three months ago. Only the gods
knew how he faired now.
Behind the grinning boys came the
white haired, grizzled old Niscian warrior-monk who called himself Alvis
Fairhands. Small and bone thin, he knew
not how old he was. Ancient would be the
word I would describe him. Ancient and
yet very dangerous when he held a sword in his hands. He was the only warrior-monk I knew who was
allowed by his religious brethren to retire from the warrior’s role. Warrior-monks never live long enough to
retire. They are trained from youth, in
each religious sect, to fight evil and the Dragon. Regardless of the odds. Regardless of their personal well being. Few lived past the age of forty. Fewer yet ever become warrior-wizards. None, except for the old man standing beside
me, ever lived to retire.
But the Niscian was more than just a
warrior-monk. He was a Null Stone as
well. In the Realm of Wizardry found on
my planet, a Null Stone was a very special creature. Special and rare. Our folklore tells us that a wizard’s magic
‘is in the blood.’ Not every one has the
destiny to become a wizard. Only a few
are born who have the natural abilities a wizard must have. Of those born with the talent, fewer yet
become one. To be a wizard first you
must train to be a warrior-monk. After
this training you must enter the Outer Realms, the world around us as we see
and feel it, and survive. If, after so
long a time, the warrior-monk has survived and has shown his worthiness, and if
he has the gift to become a wizard, he begins the arduous training of wizardry.
But a Null Stone is a different
creature. Whereas wizards must face
years of training and a lifetime worth of trying to control the powers given to
him, a Null Stone is just the opposite.
A true Null Stone is someone with the gift of shutting off the
Netherworld and its addictive powers. A
wizard cannot use his powers against a Null Stone. They are, in effect, like a bucket of water
thrown onto a smoldering fire. Their
powers extinguish any and all magic.
Alvis Fairhands was such a
creature. A human Null Stone of great
power. He was here because I had the
need for him to curb, or silence, the child’s powerful mind. Poor Ursala, as the Pearl Princess she was,
instinctively commanded more magic naturally than most wizards ever acquire
through vigorous training. But so
untrained the child radiated her presence in the Netherworld like some powerful
beacon throwing out a beam of light in the darkest of nights. Every moment of her existence was felt by
those who knew of the Netherworld.
Wizards could feel her power. And through her so too could they feel
mine. She not only radiated her immense
power but somehow also augmented mine and made it stronger. No matter where we traveled our presence was
know to others. Our foes hunted us. In the distance I could feel the presence of
wizards searching. But so far Alvis’
talent as a Null Stone was masking the child’s mind and diffusing her powers
enough to momentarily hide our presence.
It would not last long.
“Master, we are happy to see
you! It’s been a week since we parted.”
Gawaith muttered, gripping his short
horn bow in one hand and nodding his head, “We have venison cooking over a spit
and Master Fairhands has found some wild piqut as well.”
Piqut was a melon which grew late in
the summer all the way through to the first heavy snow fall. It tasted sweet and was juicy. In this valley it was plentiful.
“We have seen no one in the past
week, Master. Not even a flock of wild
Great Wings,” Gawain put in, grinning and holding a bow as well, “But lots of
fresh game in this valley. We could stay
here all winter and never worry about feeding ourselves.”
When one spoke the other had to say
something as well. Exact twins, the boys
were barely old enough to begin training as a warrior. In a fair world they would reach the age of
perhaps fifteen or sixteen and then begin the hard training of a Great Wing
rider. But this was not a fair
world. Their fates had been thrust upon
them by a Dragon clan bent on destroying their homelands. In an effort to save them there uncle, King
Olaf, asked me to take them with the princess and I as we fled up into the high
country.
Now they too were being hunted
relentlessly, their destinies so closely woven into mine.
“We cannot stay here for the
winter,” the old Niscian grunted, shaking his head. “This valley is too near
often traveled paths. Sooner or later
someone would find us. We need to move
on. Find a more remote place to hide
ourselves.”
There was a reason why I led us to
this valley. A reason I did not share
with the others. A reason which had nothing to do with the Dragon army so
near. Yet, in its own way, compounding
the need for our presence here.
“In the next valley I found a large
Clan Hartooth army encampment. Perhaps
thirty thousand Dragon pike and perhaps twenty or so Winged Beasties and their
riders. They have settled in for the
winter. I found them when I discovered a
lone Hartooth and his Winged Beastie riding the winds. A courier bringing news to the Hartooth
commander. Bearing terrible news. More
come this spring. Thousands more.”
The twins glanced at each other, the
color in their cheeks fading, their eyes growing serious as the returned their
gaze toward me. The old Niscian,
frowning, only grunted and waited for me to continue.
“I have no idea why they are
there. The Clan Malawei are no threat to
them. In the past the Malawei have gone
a separate way from the majority of Dragonkind.
They trade with the various kingdoms close to there and have agreed not
to wage war on anyone as long as no one warred against them.”
“Perhaps Hartooth gold has persuaded
them to join them,” the old monk grunted, frowning and looking grim.
“Perhaps,” I nodded, thinking over
the possibility, “But I doubt it. The
Malawei and the Anktooth were distant relatives. It is more likely the
Hartooth, in their drive to remove their enemies from the field, have decided
to remove the Malawei as well.”
“You mean extermination,” Fairhands
answered, half turning to view off into the distance toward the Malawei’s
lands, “Can they face the threat and survive?”
I shook my head. Ursala squirmed in my arms, frowned in
displeasure, but kissed me again on the cheek and asked if I had anything sweet
to eat. Smiling, from within my livery I
pulled out a piece of hard candy. She
let out a chirp and reached for it with both hands at once. Squirming out of my arms she beamed up at me
as she turned and went racing off toward the camp site.
All of us were smiling as we watched
the child. But each of us were deep into
our own thoughts. I could feel the
overall sense of depression creeping into their souls. Another Dragon clan, fiercely independent and
proud, yet small and without the resources to face the stronger opponent, were
about to be swallowed up by the Hartooth.
“Is there anything we can do to help
them?” Gawain asked quietly.
“Yes! We must warn them! Tell them to flee and save themselves!”
Gawaith added.
“Bah!” snapped Fairhands angrily,
glaring at the boys, “Where would they go?
To the north into the steppes?
There is nothing there but wind swept grasslands and emptiness. Should they travel east or west? That means invading the small kingdoms the
Malawei have tried so hard to live alongside in peace and prosperity. There is no place for them to go. Their valley is their home. No one, no Dragon nor Man, would voluntarily
leave their homes and their lands. Not without a fight. Not while one last warrior yet stood defiant
against his enemy. Bah! The Malawei are dead already. There is nothing we can do but mourn for
them.”
The faces of the twins sent pangs of
guilt through my soul. Both lads looked
as if they had been thoroughly beaten with a stout cane. From their hearts I felt a sense of outrage
and anger. Helpless to intercede in any way, the only thing they could do was
to stand back and do nothing. I felt the
same way. Yet the words of the old
Niscian rang true.
“We can at least bring word to them
of the threat the face,” I said, trying in a meager way, to breathe some form
of hope into the souls of the twins. “I will approach the Malawei
tomorrow. They will then have the option
to chose their own fate. It is the only
option left to us.”
“Humph!” snorted the dour faced old
warrior-monk, frown as he turned to walk back to our camp.
“Lads, go attend to little Ursala. I
feel she is, like you, upset over the Hartooth’s presence so close to us.”
Nodding, and knowing more was unsaid
than said, the boys grinned as they turned and trotted off to join tiny
Ursala. Alvis watched the boys leave for
a moment or two and then turned to peer at me, his eyes narrowed quizzically.
“We are in need of a second Null Stone,
old man.”
He nodded in agreement but remained
silent.
“Her powers grow and threaten to
overwhelm you, and me, if we do not bring her in control.”
The old Niscian nodded again.
“Not too far from here is the
monastery of St. Rolla. There lives a
very powerful Null Stone whom I know quite well.”
“Yes, I have heard of this
monk. But it is a dangerous move,
Bretan. Very dangerous. Your brothers hunt you and the one you wish
to contact would be the most dangerous of them all.”
I nodded. The Niscian’s words were true. Master Breen would be the one warrior whom I
might have feared the most. He was not a
warrior-monk. But his skills with
weapons was beyond doubt. He was not a
wizard. But his abilities as a Null
Stone were known to have sucked the wizardry out of the most powerful of
wizards know. No. It was not those skills which made me look
upon this Man as a potential, and deadly, foe.
“You are aware as to why your
brothers so honor this warrior?”
“Yes. I have known for quite some time now. Long after I left St. Rolla, and his
tutorship and entered the Outer Realms.”
“Humph!” snorted the old Niscian,
nodding in understanding, “It makes
sense. The Bretan would wish to keep
this Man’s true talents as secret as possible.
His occupation goes against everything they claim to believe and
preach.”
“Sadly true, old man. But is it not true for the others as
well? Is there not a need for such a
talent? We live in a world full of deception and intrigue.”
“Yes,” the old Man nodded, smiling
grimly, “The most powerful of Null Stones groomed to be the ultimate assassin;
an assassin of wizards. Who would expect this from the Bretan?”
I nodded smiling ruefully.
Who
indeed.
