Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  “Thank you,” he said, feeling the prick of tears.

  “I look forward to seeing you soon, Vinder.” Heinrick turned to make his departure.

  “Aren’t you going to stay? You only just arrived.”

  “And I’ve already seen a miracle.” Heinrick kept walking for the exit. “And I’ll be looking forward to seeing another one back in Diamant.”

  “You and me both.” Vinder watched his friend disappear through the doorway, listening to his footsteps grow fainter, until he was alone once again.

  “Thank you, Drued,” he reverently whispered, focusing back on the old statue. The tears were already soaking his beard before he was even aware of them. He let them flow while he engaged in a silent prayer to the god he’d let fade from his life decades ago with the rest of his past. And it was in that moment he welcomed and latched on to something else he hadn’t known in a long while: hope.

  Chapter 15

  Oh, his flame is everlasting,

  Let it burn true inside of you.

  Oh, his flame is everlasting,

  Let it burn you through and through.

  —A Remanic hymn

  The sun was kissing the horizon when Dugan made his way to the edge of what had been a park a few centuries earlier. Now the sickly saplings, scraggy bushes, and large tracts of dry, open ground were surrounded on all sides by Elandor’s older districts and the outer wall of the great city. In the center of the park stood a temple. He guessed it was forty feet at most—tall, yes, but not as towering as he’d first imagined.

  The temple was also old and constructed of volcanic rock, giving it a rough and slightly menacing appearance. Four pillars supported the corners of its flat roof that covered the stone walkway around the temple proper, resting about ten feet from the top of the smooth black steps leading up to it. Each column was inlaid with pieces of colored glass, making the pillars appear to be engulfed in flames whenever the sun shone upon them, as it did now at his approach.

  Ignoring the extravagant display, Dugan raised his eyes to the temple’s crowning achievement: a bronze dome sitting above the black roof, crafted to appear as if it, too, was on fire. Its metallic, flame-shaped tendrils wrapped around its center, as if straining to grasp the fading sunlight.

  The acrid tang of heavy smoke became more prominent as he ascended the steps, the air growing warmer until he stood on the last stair, forehead beaded with sweat. The atmosphere became so heavy as he neared the temple’s tall iron doors that he found it hard to breathe. Stopping to catch his breath, he slouched against the door frame. Who was he fooling? He’d never be free. Not from a pact with a god. For a moment, he thought about heading back and putting this whole foolish exercise behind him, when a small voice inside him encouraged him to continue. He didn’t know if the voice was real or imagined, but he knew that if he gave up now, he’d be tormented until his death with what could have been.

  Fresh resolution rising from within, he gritted his teeth and forced his legs onward. Admiring the door’s metal, he found certain areas had been polished to reflect the sunlight, giving the illusion of white-hot iron fresh from the forge. He watched the sun dance off the rest of the metal, casting a scintillating patch of light a few steps from him. For a moment, it reminded him of what happened in Argis—the diamond-dust sparkle that had preceded the strange and haunting mass of tentacles that had gotten him into so much trouble. He still had no idea what had happened, sometimes wondering if he’d momentarily gone mad.

  He tentatively rested his hand on the door, took a deep breath, and then made his way inside. The temple was hot and dark, dimly lit by torches and small braziers of glowing ash fixed to the walls at random intervals. He found no one in sight, only an intense heat radiating from all around. The walls and floors were made of fieldstone, years of soot and ash dulling the surfaces into a charcoal-gray grime.

  The passage he’d entered branched off to the north of the entrance and stretched a few yards beyond before turning a sharp corner. The hallway opposite it held a few darkened archways and doors. The low ceiling trapped the room’s heat and made the atmosphere suffocating, increasing Dugan’s discomfort.

  “Hello?” His voice bounced off the walls and ceiling.

  Nobody replied.

  He pressed on, examining the walls as he passed. Many were adorned with murals and frescoes whose bright paint had faded long ago. Now, layers of soot hid their exquisite detail. One of the scenes depicted worshipers prostrating themselves before a large bonfire. Another showed them pointing at a sun lovingly cupped by two great flaming hands. Farther down the hallway, a crudely drawn image illustrated people dancing around an erupting volcano.

  The final picture was the most vivid and striking. In the center of a field were two figures. One stood with a bloodstained sword gloating over the other, who had fallen, clutching at his chest. The victorious figure was a massive Telborian male with flowing blond hair. The victim was an elf wearing rich clothing and many golden chains. He felt goose flesh rise over his body. He wondered if the heat was making him delirious. Surely the picture was pure coincidence, nothing more.

  “You can’t see too much of them these days from all the soot, but there’s still enough to convey their meaning.” Dugan jumped at the husky voice, his hand instantly going to one of the gladii. Turning, he saw the speaker: an older, deeply tanned Telborian whose blue eyes smoldered beneath a stoic brow. He wore an outer orange robe open over an inner robe of red. Both were embroidered in yellow and gold thread that resembled tongues of fire.

  “May I help you with anything?” The priest’s demeanor was disarming.

  “I want to talk to Rheminas.” He kept his hand on the pommel of his sword, which wasn’t lost on the priest. But if the action troubled him he never showed it.

  “It will cost you.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “In that case, one of your swords will do.” The priest pointed at the gladius Dugan’s hand was resting upon. When he did so, Dugan noticed the priest’s fingertips were dyed yellow and glowed dimly in the flickering light.

  “All right,” he said, and relinquished a gladius—sheath and all—as he looked once more at the unsettling mural with the dying elf.

  “Not the best image, perhaps,” said the priest, “but it serves to tell its message.”

  “Which is?”

  “Like all the murals, it depicts one of Rheminas’ aspects. That particular image portrays him as the god of revenge. It’s not how he’s widely worshiped, mind you, but still one part of an impressive portfolio.” He paused, gazing on the image.

  “It’s even said Rheminas aided Colloni’s first emperor with his rage, forging it into a mighty weapon.” He spoke with a smugness Dugan found unsettling. “But I’m sure you know enough about revenge already, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?” His hand found the hilt of his remaining gladius.

  “I saw it on your face the moment you stepped inside. My lord has chosen you—laid claim to you already. What could you possibly want answers to when your future is already so clear?”

  “Get me to him and you’ll see.”

  “Fine.” The priest nodded. “Follow me.” He began shuffling down the hallway, heading into an even more intense heat, pulling free Dugan’s sword for a closer inspection as they walked. “You obviously don’t understand what you’ve done and where you now stand. It’ll be my duty then to explain what a life with Rheminas means.”

  “Like the priests of Saredhel?”

  The priest whirled around, a deep scowl lining his face. “Never speak of another god in the temple of Rheminas.”

  “Why? What’s he afraid of?”

  “It’s about respect”—the priest rapidly resumed his pace—“and knowing when to show it. Something to keep in mind if you want to get your answers. And for another, we don’t divine fate like those soothsayers.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I said I’ll get you answers, not
dig them out from scrying pools and entrails.”

  Dugan noticed the light had increased as they walked. So too did the heat. He began feeling faint, yet he observed his guide hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  “Why is it so warm in here?”

  “All will be revealed in time.”

  “Where are the other priests?” Dugan wheezed.

  “It’s the summer solstice and also one of our most sacred days, the Feast of Flames. The others have gone to celebrate it.”

  “Why aren’t you with them?”

  “Someone needs to mind the temple. And it’s a good thing I have, for your sake.” He led Dugan to a set of massive stone doors carved with an image of a great brazier holding a mighty flame at its center. Blackness began clouding his peripheral vision.

  The priest’s smile seemed serpentine as he motioned to the large doors. “All your answers are behind these doors. However, if you continue being so stubborn, you’ll never get them. You have no need of your armor here, but if you feel the desire to cling to it, I’ll humor you this once.” He placed his hand upon the swooning Dugan, whispering a prayer over him. Instantly, he felt cooler. His body began to shiver as all the sweat that had been pooling under his mail dried in the warm winds wafting around him, the same winds that had only a moment before felt as if they’d suffocate him.

  “Are you ready, Dugan?” A knowing smile crossed the priest’s face.

  “How—”

  “All will be revealed, remember?” The priest waved the thought away as he motioned him forward.

  Dugan sighed in exasperation, and leaned his weight into the large stone doors. To his surprise, they swung open with ease. Beyond them he found a huge chamber out of which radiated intense light—as brilliant as sunshine. And there was also a pungent aroma of ash and wood smoke, mingling with some spices he couldn’t quite place.

  “Come.” The priest beckoned him to follow.

  The roof of the grand chamber towered above them. He noticed the brilliant light radiated from an oculus in its center, which also allowed the smoke from the twenty-foot brazier below it to escape. The brazier was solid bronze, stood on three man-sized legs, and was covered with swirling designs and images. He assumed these were the heroes of their religion. It was the room’s sole decoration. The ceiling and walls had been blackened by the giant flame, cloaking any past adornment.

  “Sit.” The priest motioned to a plain bronze high-backed chair stationed against one of the brazier’s legs.

  Dugan sat as the priest moved for a small bronze stand a few feet away. He placed Dugan’s sword against the base, and then focused on the small bronze basin the stand supported. The priest lifted the basin overhead and chanted a few inaudible words. A tongue of flame shot out from the great brazier and into the basin, igniting a fire all its own.

  “Let us begin,” said the priest, approaching Dugan.

  “Oh Flame Lord, great Mover of the Sun, hear your servant!” he prayed. “One of your own has come seeking you. Though he has your mark upon him and should already know what awaits him, he yet wishes to petition you. Enlighten me so I may be able to share with him your decrees.”

  He fixed his eyes firmly on Dugan. “What do you wish to know?”

  “How can I get out of this pact?”

  “You can’t. You’re Rheminas’ forever.” The words hit Dugan in the gut, souring his stomach. Gilban had said he should go here for a reason. If it wasn’t about the pact, what else could it be?

  “Is there anything else?”

  “What about my future?”

  “I told you, we’re not diviners. We can’t discern your fate.”

  “But you just prayed for answers.”

  “Yes, answers. Not glimpses of the future.”

  “Humor me.” His comment produced a small scowl from the priest. “I gave you my sword. Might as well get something for it.”

  “Very well,” said the priest, sighing, and he stared back into the basin’s contents. “You want to know about your future. What about it exactly?”

  Before he could respond, the same shimmering diamond dust that appeared to him in Argis materialized between him and the priest like some gossamer curtain. At the same time he noted the smoke floating from the basin twisted and swayed into black tentacles—also like he’d seen in Argis. All of this was lost on the pondering priest, who kept his eyes fixed on the flames.

  “What’s this?”

  “What?”

  “I-I can see your fate.” The priest’s face was ashen with fear when next Dugan saw it. The moment he did so, the white shimmer and black tentacles vanished, leaving him wondering once more if he’d really seen them at all.

  “That’s bad?”

  “Yes . . .” He ventured again into the flames with a vexed frown. “I shouldn’t be able to . . .” After moments of tense silence in which the priest seemed hypnotized by the dancing fire, Dugan spoke.

  “So what do you see?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice was a low whisper. “I—this isn’t right.”

  “What isn’t?” He hunched forward, growing ever more curious for news. The priest again became lost in the basin’s flames. “Can you see my fate or not?” Dugan growled.

  “Yes . . . but I shouldn’t be—”

  “Then tell me.” He didn’t shout but came close enough to draw the other’s concern. The two exchanged a tense moment before the priest relented.

  “You shall live a life filled with passions and dangers—a warrior’s life, indeed.” Though his voice had gained some strength, it was still shaken.

  “A long life?”

  The priest shook his head. “I can’t see that.”

  “What will happen to me?” Dugan slid to the edge of his seat.

  “I see you living as a free man. The mission you are on now . . . you shall survive. I see a powerful figure as well. One who casts a long, hungry shadow. You and he are destined to meet twice before your end. Ah . . . Rheminas preserve me! How is it possible I can be seeing all this?” The priest gazed into the basin, the flames harshly outlining his troubled features.

  “I sense another presence here with us—Rheminas, preserve your servant!” He closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them, more at peace than before. “I see your last moments. No matter the road you choose, they all lead to the same spot. Only the dates change their form. You shall know suffering and sorrow and feel the lash of indignity upon you once more, like splinters in your back.”

  “But where do I go when I die?”

  “To Rheminas’ hand.” The priest locked on to Dugan’s troubled eyes, sweat trickling down his brow. “Like I’ve already said.”

  Dugan’s heart sank. “That’s it? You don’t see anything else?”

  “You’ve made a pact with a god. It cannot be broken.” The priest hurriedly returned the basin to its stand.

  “Not even by another god?” He did his best to keep disappointment from creeping into his voice. He saw the offense his question had caused but didn’t care. He needed to know what his options were—if he had any hope left to him.

  “Few, if any, would touch the property of another god.” The priest gave Dugan a hard glare, reminding him of the look his former masters held when calculating his worth in gold. “But you’re a special case, aren’t you? I didn’t sense it at first but you’re carrying something with you. Something that showed me your fate, and now contaminates this sacred space.” The priest’s eyes shrunk to slivers. “What sort of game are you playing?”

  “Game?”

  “This whole matter is very vexing. As are you.” The priest abruptly returned to the stand. “And the presence I feel is still here polluting this temple.” A motion over the basin extinguished the fire. “We’ve finished with your concerns,” he continued, again finding Dugan’s face. “I have a deep need to ponder what just happened in prayerful meditation.”

  “How did you know me?” Dugan asked, slowly rising. “You can at least tell me tha
t.”

  “Rheminas told me both your name and of your arrival. Even though you reject him, he holds out his hand to you. Truly you’re destined to do great things in his service. I wish I could be as blessed as you.

  “If you want peace, look to his hand. Fear not its warm embrace. Relish it. Use it to nurture yourself until you see him face to face.”

  Dugan wearily contemplated the massive brazier, realizing how much it reminded him of some kind of grand pyre. “If this is being blessed, then I’m living in the Abyss.”

  “Our time really is now passed,” the priest pressed. “I’ve borne this intolerable presence long enough. I can tell you no more.” He indicated the open door and Dugan’s need to introduce himself to it. “Please leave the same way you came.”

  Dugan sullenly withdrew from the inner chamber. He’d come here looking for hope and hadn’t found it. If anything what hope he had clung to before entering had been burned to ash. And then he saw the answer. The priest never said the gods would not listen to his plea for release from his pact. He could still approach them. And if he could still approach them there was still hope he’d find his release.

  Cadrissa had given him a brief introduction to the Tralodroen pantheon. Maybe one of them might have sympathy for his case. It looked like Gilban was right after all. He’d found his answer. There was still hope for his future.

  As to the strange manifestations of darkness and light—that was another matter. But as long as they weren’t a common occurrence and made Rheminas and his priests uncomfortable he could set them aside for now. If he needed to, after this venture with Alara, he could look at things more closely. For now, he'd found a possible key for his last remaining shackles and discovered something that rankled his jailer as well. All in all, he considered his visit a small victory.

  Content, he made his way back into the city, using what light remained to take a brief inventory of the various temples and shrines en route to the inn.

  CHAPTER 16

  Elandor shall thrive and instill its name in generations.