Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  “Thank you.” He bowed his head. “I will do so always.”

  “I’ve been watching you. You’ve had a difficult time on this mission, but things will soon turn around. When they do, you will begin to see your true calling and your greater purpose. There are powerful and wonderful plans tied to you, Rowan. One day soon you will understand.” Her voice was as comforting as a mother’s, soothing the troubled waters in his spirit. “Until then, carry my gift with you and recall my favor toward you.”

  “I will.”

  “And don’t doubt your heart. Listen to it, but don’t be ruled by it—not yet.” The words trailed off into faint whispers.

  “What does—” His question was cut short by the panther’s loud roar and the stark silence following it. Bravely raising his chin, he discovered the room was dark and empty once more. No panther. No Panthora. Nothing but the shadowy gloom. He donned the necklace, fingering the strange paw before shoving it beneath his armor, pressing it close to his heart.

  “Hello?” Rowan drew his sword before slowly feeling his way out of the dark room. “Panthora?”

  “Who are you speaking to?” A voice, no more than a whisper, floated past his ears. He spun in the direction but saw nothing but darkness.

  “Who are you?” he called out blindly, finding the grip on his sword.

  “I am a citizen of Gondad, but you are not. Yet you are human. How strange,” the whisper continued.

  “Where are you?” Rowan paced in a circle, his blade in front and eyes straining for any sign of movement.

  “I mean you no harm,” came the voice’s reply.

  “If that’s true, then show yourself.”

  “Very well.” A pale, translucent light shimmered into being before taking on the semblance of a human man surrounded by a glowing white aura. He’d obviously suffered a gruesome death: his torso was mangled by many open wounds, the result of being riddled with arrows and sliced through with swords. The worst, Rowan thought, was his face, which had a deep line cut diagonally through it, slicing the nose in half. This gash was so deep it exposed the bone of his skull underneath.

  “What are you?” Rowan took up a defensive position.

  “I have already told you,” the ghost said softly. “I am a citizen of Gondad.”

  “Gondad’s dead. It was destroyed thousands of years ago.” Rowan held his stance.

  “Yet I remain.” The ghost hovered closer.

  “Keep your distance . . .” He leveled his sword at the other.

  “As I have said before, I am not here to hurt you. Be at ease. I am here to guide you.”

  “Guide me where?” He tried for more answers from the shadows, fearing ambush. “Who sent you? Panthora?”

  “I have no knowledge of this Panthora you speak of.”

  “You don’t know the goddess of the human race?” He was shocked.

  “Yes, of course I do. Asora is the great creator of the human race,” the ghost calmly replied.

  “Maybe the elves who conquered you beat such thoughts into your head, but Panthora’s the only goddess of humanity, blessing us with her protection and prosperity. And I’m one of her knights.”

  “Forgive me, I have angered you.” The ghost bowed in respect. When he did so, a loose flap of skin fell over his face, returning to his scalp when he finished. “I forget I have not seen the world since my death. Much, it seems, has changed.”

  “You still haven’t told me who sent you.” Rowan lowered his blade, but remained ready for an attack.

  “The king has ordered me to find you.”

  “You mean Landis?” Rowan quickly pieced things together. “That’s who wishes to speak with me?”

  “Yes.”

  He was truly amazed at how highly he was favored by Panthora. The gift of the necklace was one thing—but an audience with Landis himself? Though he wasn’t sure why he was being called to the king’s ghost, there must be a reason. Didn’t Panthora just tell him he had a great calling to fulfill? Maybe it was going to be fulfilled faster than he thought . . . and with the ghost of the last king of Gondad, no less.

  “Then take me to him, by all means.”

  “Very well.” The ghost motioned Rowan onward. “Come with me.”

  He sheathed his sword and did as bidden. Together, he and the spirit traveled seemingly endless corridors and dark rooms. The ghost’s illumination was almost equal to torchlight, and it easily led Rowan through the broken and twisted halls. He took it all in with a sense of awe. He was traveling the very passages the mightiest human kings had walked. He was in the presence of history! Though his surroundings were drab and decrepit, his spirit felt as though it was soaring in the heavens.

  “We are here.” The ghost stopped at an old cobweb-layered wooden door. Rowan placed his hand reverently upon its frame, amazed it still stood. Standing about ten feet high and seven feet across, it displayed a crowned lion’s head whose profile faced right.

  “The crest of Gondad,” he whispered reverently. He gingerly traced out part of the raised wood, clearing away the grime and cobwebs.

  “Yes.” The ghost puffed his chest out with pride. “The sign of the mighty empire that would have gone on forever . . .” His chest then sank and his face grew sullen.

  “The elves have much to answer for,” Rowan told his guide.

  “Some might say we have our own share for which we need give account.”

  He was about to ask what the ghost meant when he indicated the door. “But you have an audience with Landis. I would open it myself, but in my current state I fear I am no longer able.”

  Rowan gently pushed the door open. It creaked and moaned after generations of neglect, but still held true to its hinges and frame. He peered with hesitant wonder into the opening.

  “How can I see if I have no light?”

  The room suddenly lit up with a burst of flames from a row of empty sconces lining the side walls. Like spectral torches, they illuminated the interior in near-perfect light, allowing him a fuller understanding of just how empty the place was. Only a rotten wooden throne remained. And on that throne rested a skeleton draped in a few scraps of robe and some dull jewelry. Wisps of hair, no more visible than strands of spider webbing, draped from the skull’s crest. A crusty green crown sat on its head, and a scepter of tarnished iron was still clutched in its left hand, which lay on its empty chest.

  “Is that—” Rowan dared a look back and found the ghost had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

  “Rowan,” a faint voice called from a great distance. As was becoming the case, while he might have heard a voice, he didn’t find its speaker. And then he saw a shadow near the throne shift slightly, followed by a figure who emerged from beside the decaying seat. Like the earlier ghost, the being was translucent and pale white. This new ghost, however, wore a death shroud as a cloak, which hid a great deal of his features as it twisted in an unseen wind sending out waves of frosty air into the otherwise warm room.

  Rowan knelt before the throne.

  “Rise, sir knight. Though I was once a king, I now come as a messenger to aid you on your quest.” The spectral figure beckoned Rowan closer.

  “You know of my mission?” Rowan cautiously did as bidden.

  “Yes. You seek a ruined city built by the dranors, not far from here. There, you wish to bring honor to your knighthood by finding some ancient insight into what can make a nation great.” The figure watched him stop a few feet from his throne. It was as far as Rowan dared tread.

  “That’s true, but you said you were a messenger. What is your message?”

  Before Rowan could react, azure flames took over the spirit’s eyes as his translucent hand shot out, gripping Rowan’s wrist. Icy bursts of pain washed over him and he cried out, struggling for release. A heartbeat later he became receptive to the spirit, compelled to listen as its shape transformed into a skeleton draped in a ragged robe.

  “Now listen, whelp. You’re going to locate a tall blue cylinder in the ru
ins. Don’t touch it, but instead, after the mage has cast her spell, you are to kill the demon who comes through the portal. Do you understand?”

  Rowan nodded.

  “Hold up your sword.”

  He did as ordered. The lich brought forth a transparent glass vial in his other hand. The bright green liquid inside was solid in comparison to the hand holding it. With a smooth motion, the lich pulled the translucent cork out of the vial and poured the thick green fluid over the blade. While careful not to use it all, he made certain the sword was covered from point to hilt before waving the same hand above the weapon. Green flames sprouted over the entire blade, wrapping around it like a shimmering emerald scabbard.

  “Now listen very carefully. You will remember nothing of what was spoken to you here by me or the ghost who led you here. But when the time is right, you will recall all I’ve said and will do all I’ve told you . . .”

  Following Rowan’s departure, the others had sunk into silence, the long journey and dour circumstances getting the better of them. Dugan could have stayed awake a while longer, but decided he’d join the others trying for some rest. As he got comfortable around the fire, he caught sight of Cadrissa watching him, absently coiling a few black locks as she dared a peek. He pretended he didn’t notice her admiring him as he shed his tunic in order to make a crumpled pillow, but he could feel her gaze upon him nonetheless. Opting for a quick peek of his own, he saw the slight smile flutter across her lips before her green eyes darted away.

  “I think she fancies you,” Vinder whispered from where he was preparing his own resting spot a few feet away.

  “She’s had her eye on me ever since Altorbia.”

  “Let’s just hope you don’t prove to be too much of a distraction. She has her head in the clouds enough already without having to daydream about you too.”

  “Well, I’m not leading her on,” said Dugan.

  “I don’t think it takes much to get her going.” The dwarf lay on his right side, keeping his axe sheathed at his left hip. “All the better you don’t fancy her.”

  “There’s just a few other things on my mind right now.” Dugan arched his back and stretched from the day’s hard trek. “Besides, there’ll be plenty of time for all that once I get out of this jungle.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Vinder grinned. “That is, I would, if we had anything left to drink.”

  “Still . . .” Dugan caught sight of Cadrissa pondering him yet again and couldn’t resist a smile in response. “It’s nice to know I’m not too sore a sight.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” said Vinder, brushing a stray mosquito from his cheek. “Eventually, you’ll get to a point when they’ll start thinking you’re a grandfather.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  Vinder smiled. “More than you want to know.” Their laughter was cut short by Alara.

  “We’re still going to need to keep watch—make sure we keep an eye out for Rowan when he returns. You up for going first, Vinder?”

  “I suppose.” He sighed.

  “You were already in your armor,” said Dugan, watching Vinder sit up. The dwarf hadn’t removed it nor his weapon since they’d first met.

  “Force of habit,” he said. “I’ve learned it’s better to be cautious than half naked.” He gave Dugan a nod.

  “I trust you’ll be second, Dugan?” said Alara. “I can take third watch.”

  “Sure,” he replied, letting Alara depart.

  “Sleep fast,” said Vinder.

  A few hours later, the dwarf woke Dugan for his shift. He had just finished donning his tunic and strapping on his sword when the two paused.

  “Did you hear that?” Vinder whispered.

  Dugan drew his gladius. “It’s coming from the west.”

  “Northwest, as I reckon it. Might be Rowan. What do you think?”

  “He wouldn’t be trying to be so silent,” said Dugan. “Pretend to go to sleep. I’ll check it out.”

  Vinder lay down, acting like he was readying for bed, as Dugan wandered over to some trees that had torn up the cobblestone streets with their corded roots. His nerves twitched and his muscles bunched. He could taste the keen tang of steel in his mouth; he was ready for anything. He went farther into the bushes, scanning through the dense growth, pretending he was preoccupied with emptying his bladder. He found nothing. Heard nothing.

  Convinced it was the movement of an animal or even the wind, he turned to leave. As he did, he felt a blade press against his neck. Though it was crudely fashioned, he knew it was sharp enough to cause grievous injury if drawn across his throat. He struggled for a glimpse of his attacker, but could only make out an iron-tight arm of dark brown skin. At least he knew it wasn’t Rowan who held him. His captor then shouted something next to his ear. The wilderness became alive with Celetoric warriors, who quickly encircled the camp in a mob of men too thick to count.

  Vinder jumped into action. “We’re under attack!” he shouted as a fierce, dark-skinned warrior rushed him.

  A short time later Rowan found himself in the camp, bewildered as to how he’d gotten there. Just moments before, he thought, he’d been speaking with Panthora, and now here he was. Could it have all been another dream? And then he felt the hard object between his armor and his chest. The necklace and shriveled panther paw pendant were real. Whatever happened must have been real on some level—if not entirely, then at least in part. But now wasn’t the time for working through such matters. He needed to get some rest and then . . . He paused, realizing he was the only one in the camp.

  Where was everyone? The fire was spent, and there was no sign of anyone anywhere. Had they deserted him? He supposed it was possible. They’d made it clear they weren’t too fond of him leading them here—even if it was Panthora herself guiding them. And he supposed his mad dash into the ruins might have been the final crack in the dam, convincing them to depart without him. He wouldn’t put it past the elves. But where would they go in the darkness?

  His moment of deliberation passed as a familiar twinge made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Someone else was nearby. He could almost feel their breath upon his skin. He looked from his left to his right, making out shapes in the night, and caught sight of a dark silhouette. It appeared to be a man of normal height and weight, yet the figure was so swift he could barely discern him.

  “Who goes there?” Rowan called out in Telboros. No sooner had he spoken than he was surrounded by spear-carrying warriors wearing nothing more than hide breechcloths.

  “I mean you no harm,” Rowan said in Abjula, the language of the Celetors. Rowan never was more pleased to know the language. Upon hearing their native tongue, the men whispered among themselves. Their conversation drew on for a few more moments until they allowed another Celetor to pass between them.

  “How do you know the words of my people?” asked the other in the same tongue. He was dressed like the others—a simple breechcloth and bare feet—but he wore a green and blue feathered necklace with a bone bracelet about his left wrist. Like the others, he carried a spear, along with a dagger, at his side.

  “I can speak all the human languages,” said Rowan, “just like all knights in the service of Panthora.”

  “You honor Panthora?” The Celetors lowered their spears, taking a more relaxed stance while the lead Celetor stepped closer.

  “Yes. The Knights of Valkoria look to serve her in all things.”

  “Then you’re not with them?” The other pointed out a clump of trees where slumped, tied bodies could be seen in the darkness.

  “Are they dead?”

  “No, just sleep darts,” the Celetor replied. “We didn’t want to kill. Just question them. We thought they were coming to attack us like the others did.”

  “What others?”

  “Like the gray-faced ones. They were not as pale but had the same pointed ears.”

  “Elves.” Rowan’s face darkened. “People like this attacked you?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “About two moons ago.” Rowan’s heart sank at the news. Were they already too late? Had the elves already reached the ruins and taken the knowledge? It was clear they’d made it into the marshes but how much farther had they gone beyond that?

  “They came to steal our food and goods, but we ran them off before they could take too much. Ever since the yellow-skinned men, we’ve learned to keep better watch, especially at night.”

  “Yellow-skinned men?” Rowan’s interest was piqued.

  “Yes. Yellow-skinned men with pointed ears and clawed hands. They came about four moons ago—out of the jungle—and took many of the tribe away. My own brother, Ekube, was killed in the attack.”

  “May Panthora watch over him.” Rowan made a solemn nod.

  “Thank Panthora they haven’t come back.” The Celetor received Rowan’s condolences and blessing, adding, “But we still keep watch each night.”

  “Yellow skinned and pointed ears?” Rowan thought aloud. “That sounds like hobgoblins.” He moved for the unconscious bodies. The nearby Celetors tensed, but with a wave of their leader’s hand, they relaxed. “Well, these people aren’t here to attack you or your tribe.”

  The other pointed out Alara and Gilban. “And them?”

  “They’re not the same elves. And I’ve been with them the whole time. We haven’t come near your tribe or you until just now.”

  The Celetor fell silent.

  “What’s your name?” asked Rowan.

  “I am Nalu, son of Kabawa.”

  Rowan held out his hand. Nalu considered it. “None of us mean you any harm,” he continued, regarding Nalu’s stare.

  “Your words have the weight of truth,” Nalu said at last, taking firm hold of Rowan’s wrist. “And I can sense you do hold reverence for Panthora.” Rowan watched Nalu’s previously serious expression transform into a toothy grin. “I shall be glad to call you friend.” He motioned for the other Celetors standing by their sleeping captives to cut their rough bindings.