by Rex Hazelton
"Sir," Ay'Roan said. "It's a pleasure to meet."
"The pleasure's mine," Bacchanor ran his thick fingers through the shock of curly hair covering his head, "and one I've looked forward to since before you were born." Looking at all of Jeaf and Muriel's sons, he added, "You know, I spoke to your mother about the four of you when Kaylan and Travyn were still in her womb."
"She told us." Kaylan felt his heart being knit to this fascinating man, though they had just met. "But you did more than just speak, you prophesied over her."
"Yes, I was one of those who knew the Storm would give birth to the Four Winds who were destined to come to Ar Warl and gather the scattered remnant of the Fane J'Shrym."
"And when that which was lost is found," Mar’Gul's emerald green eyes shone with an inner light as she spoke, "the grace that once lived in the Age of Star's Blood will be resurrected and the Age of Parm Warl will begin"
"And that which was dead will be brought back to life." Kaylan stared off into the distance as he spoke.
"Resurrection!?" Breathless with excitement, Horbyn quickly latched onto Kaylan's enigmatic utterance.
"Yes." Bacchanor's reddish-brown irises were suddenly ringed with raptor yellow; his eybrows took on a feathery aspect. "Many things will be brought back to life- honor, humility, nobility, and the magic that comes with them to name a few."
Horbyn was struck by the change in the Brown Wizard's eyes. He's a shape-shifter, he thought as he finally understood the humor he had missed out on. No doubt, one that can assume Dog's form. Then he asked the question that was upper most in his mind. "The dead... will they live again?"
"Will Vlad'War and Andara be brought back to life? I think not. But their magic could be resurrected and, most certainly, the virtues that guided their lives." Bacchanor blinked raptor-like as he added, "Many things that the Evil One has buried in the barrow Ab'Don has built for him will rise out of the grave and see the light of day again."
Horbyn took a deep breath and nodded his head with the satisfaction that he was with these men, the Four Winds who are the catalysts that will activate the very magic he wanted to possess.
Travyn pondered Bacchanor's congenial demeanor, wondering if it was superficial, before he asked, "I've been told much about Ar Warl, and none of what I heard sounded good, how are you able to maintain a sense of humor in this place? I doubt that I would be able to."
He's puzzled over my cheerful ways. He exchanged friendly banter with me. Bacchanor took note of Travyn's behavior for his sanguine nature hid a mind as astute and calculating as any found in either the School of the Candle Maker or the School of the Hag.
Evaluating Travyn with an eye to detail, he was looking for clues that would help him understand the young man and his twin brother, Kaylan. Knowing their spirits had spent time in the Warl of the Dead in the presence of the Nameless Evil, he was trying to acertain how this tragic event had affected them. Was their essential nature altered? Was their being compromised in way that made them susceptible to iniquity's manipulations? He had to know.
But the boy was showing interest in his affable ways, though he was bewildered by its presence in this shadowy warl. That was a good thing and made him optimistic that Travyn's passing into darkness was not inevitable.
"Without a sense of humor, this place, as you call it, will chew you up and spit you out." Baccahnor explained.
"It's a coping mechanism?" Kaylan nodded in agreement with his own assessment.
"Yes." The Brown Wizard took Kaylan in with an appraising eye as he spoke. "But even cynical men laugh when their dour predictions are proven to be true. And evil men find pleasure in their perverse ways. The sense of humor that is needed to survive in Ar Warl is different; it's one that helps a person release the distress they feel over their harsh circumstances so they are free to embrace whatever good can be found."
After pausing to chuckle a bit, Bacchanor added, "And what can be more invigorating than having a little fun with your friends? After all, laughter's the spice of life, and having friends is the meat of the matter.
"Speaking of friends, we need to talk about your father."
"We'll talk when we get under way," Mar’Gul said as she looked about the room like she was searching for something. Then pointing at a spot in the empty air in front of her, Mar’Gul smiled and added, "There it is."
A look of concentration soon replaced the smile as the woman in black twirled her finger slowly about like she was stirring something viscous. In time, she opened her hand and massaged the empty air with a swirling motion until a soft glow appeared. Once this happened, her other hand joined in as she began manipulating the luminous patch with an ever expanding motion that produced a spherical shape.
Mar’Gul's face grimaced as she exerted the imense effort needed to work her magic. This was no easy task. Then the woman in black grunted as she pulled her hands together like she was crushing a round loaf of bread into a ball of dough.
Grinding her teeth and narrowing her eyes, Mar’Gul struggled to hold the condensced magic together. Then she groaned and threw her hands outward like she was letting a frenzied bird escape her grasp. And as she did, the three braziers' flames suddenly flared up as their light was drawn into an ever increasing sphere of luminousity that was so pale, its expanding skin was as transparent as a window pane covered in ice.
Once the sphere enveloped Mar’Gul, and those who were with her, the hut went black an instant before everyone was overcome by a falling sensation, and as the sphere fell, it began spinning; so much that those inside felt like they were in a barrel rolling down a hill. Up and over they went, one moment upside down, the next back at the sphere's bottom, and a moment later back up to its roof. Over-and over they went until the spinning began slowing like the sphere was reaching the bottom of a hill whose angle tapered off.
In the end, a rocking motion settled in like one would feel standing on the deck of a ship negotiating its way through a sea filled with bulging swells. After a time, the waves decreased in size and the experience of Flying took on a pleasant swaying motion that gently rocked the company who rode inside the large bubble marbled with the braziers' captured light.
Flying was made possible by juxtaposing two forces against one another- the Warl of the Dead's pull on the passengers' spirits, drawing them to a place where they were destined to go once they died, and the pull the corporal warl exerted on the sphere that originated there. For the magical orb, and the bodies of those who rode inside of it, belonged to the Warl of the Living.
If the two forces were kept in balance, the point at which the equilibrium was achieved would feed on the opposing energies and use them to push the sphere along
The key to maintaining the necessary balance was motion itself.
As long as the sphere kept moving, it could stave off being sucked into either warl. A moment's hesitation, or even a noticable loss of speed, would alter Flying's dynamics and allow the competing forces to vie unimpeded for the prize that dared to slip through the seam found between the two warls.
In the end, the spirits of those who were bold enough to Fly could be pulled out of their bodies and thrown into the Warl of the Dead. If the flesh and blood casings refused to give up their freight, the entire sphere would be dragged along with the spirits as they were pulled into a warl where sphere didn't belong and from which it would never escape.
The Learned, from an age long past, thought those who employed Flying rode the crest of a wave that was created at the place where two forces pulled apart once the sphere had passed by. In this theory, the magical vessel, moving through a place where the two forces met, frustrated the pulling action by keeping it at bay. Responding to this, the two energies compensated for the sphere's resistence by intensifying their pull on it. Then, after the sphere had moved on and the magic that kept the energies from suceeding in doing what they were trying to do, the forces snapped violently apart, creating a shock wave that pushed the bubble-shaped vessel forward.
&n
bsp; No matter how the art of Flying was actually achieved, it was lost to memory save in the line of Mar’Gul. Still, using the word lost is inaccurate since the practice was discontinued because of the high mortality rate that accompanied the risky enterprise. But none of the speculation now that they were Flying. With their course set, there was no turning back.
Horbyn's eyes grew wide as he surveyed the warl that swept along beneath them. Mother is down there, he reasoned. And if he had his way, he'd reach out, scoop her spirit up, and take it back to the Warl of the Living with him. Then, if he could just figure out how to access the magic Muriel Oakenfel used to reunite the spirits of those slain in the Battle of the Temple of the Oak Tree with their bodies, he would place his mother's spirit back in the corporal form he had carefully preserved in ice after her murder.
The thought of resurrecting his mother had occupied his thinking ever since he heard rumors about the miracle the Prophetess inacted in a place the Nyeg Warler's called the Wilderness. That's why he was here with the Oakenfel brothers.
Where is she, Horbyn wondered as he studied the terrain beneath him? Black as coal, the ground was riddled with crevices, looking like a massive lava flow had covered the Warl of the Dead's rolling surface and then cooled into a barren waterless wasteland. The rugged terrain continued on until it reached a large mountain that looked like a monsterous denizen of the deep was rising up out of a sea filled with tar.
All was covered in deep shadow except for the horizon where the huge mountain stood. There, light was seen that looked like the sun was about to appear. But Horbyn knew the Warl of the Dead didn't have a sun. Instead, it had another mountian topped with luminous clouds.
In time, these very clouds appeared above the black mountain's upper reaches, though they were much farther away. And light came with them that reflected the full spectrum of an artists color wheel in brilliant flashes that filled the clouds. The geological collosus that kept the clouds aloft was next to come into focus.
Covering a distance that the wizard couldn't fathom with his concept of speed used as the rule of measure, the sphere raced toward the light and a strip of green that appeared below it. All the while, the mountain, topped with luminous clouds that were filled with radiant bursts of color so diverse that Horbyn swore many of them couldn't be found in the Warl of the Living, kept growing in size until it filled more than half of the horizon's expanse. Compared to the peak's verdant grandeur, for its lower reaches were as green as the ground that swept out around its base, the black mountain looked pathetically small, like an artist had used black clay to make a replica of the larger peak.
"Behold the Mountain of Song," Bacchanor said with with childlike enthusiasm as he gazed past the ragged illumination sweeping across the sphere's surface, and at the billiant giant that was so big his eyes were looking more forward than down as he spoke.
Could she be there? Horbyn cut this thought off as quickly as it came. For if she was, would his mother want to leave such a place and come back to live with him in a warl where she had been murdered. He had heard of the Mountain of Song before, but only in specualtive terms that included how the Hag could get their hands on its riches. And all the time the dark wizards discussed the matter, none suggested it was a real place. To the Hag, the Mountain of Song was a metaphor for untapped magic and nothing more. But here it was. And it was as real... as real as...
Then Horbyn began to doubt what he thought he was seeing. But his doubt was forced. If there was no Mountain of Song as his Hag education had taught him, then his mother wouldn’t be tempted to stay there when he summoned her spirit back to the Warl of the Living. The mountain's a projection of our minds, he reasoned. And I can control my mind. Why can't I control this... this... this object? He watched the distant flashing lights as he tried to sort things out. I've been able to control every other kind of magic I've come across, and when I do master whatever is creating this illusion, I'll get my mother back. For it can't be a real place.
"Why is this part of the Warl of the Dead black?" J'Aryl, who was remembering he and his brothers' enounter with The Watcher, ended the wizard's time of reverie. "It reminds me of the Stone Desert." Then looking to Bacchanor for feedback, he added, "Could there be a connection between the two?"
"I couldn't say whether there's a connection between the two," Bacchanor ran a hand through his thick beard as he considered J'Aryl's words, "though the idea is one I'll spend time pondering when time presents itself. Why do you ask?"
"Both places feel foul," J'Aryl scrunched up his nose like he smelled something unpleasant when, in truth, he sensed the foulness with his Powers of Intuition.
"The black lands, stretching out beneath us, are more than foul," Bacchanor replied. "They're the result of malevolent machinations that were birthed in the Evil One's horribly depraved mind. The Stone Desert, on the other hand, was created by magic that is foreign to us. I believe it's this strangeness you are confusing for foulness. Both places bear the mark of fire since they have been burned to blackness. But be careful, it is unwise to let color sway your judgment, for it is wrong to think that the pure only love white, while evil prefers things black. Right Sweetheart?"
Mar’Gul looked pleased over Bacchnaor's show of affection as she answered a question that was directed at her choice of clothing and the color that dominated that choice. "You know... I started wearing black leather when I was a bandit."
"I know." Bacchanor was a bit miffed at his wife's uncooperative reply. "You chose to wear black because it's intimidating. But that's not my point." The wizard puffed out air in exasperation before he continued. "You wear black today, and you're Mar’Gul."
"So you're saying that I'm no longer intimidating?"
"Oh, you're still intimidating." Bacchanor's voice took on a placating tone. "But you pose no danger to anyone who carries good will in their heart."
Clearing his voice as he returned to his original train of thought, the Brown Wizard added, "I wear brown clothing." Using a hand to point out his cloak, pants, and boots that were all brown- while his shirt was orange in color- he continued on. "Does this tell you whether I'm good or evil? What do the colors of your own garments say about you?
"By their plainness," Bacchanor scanned J'Aryl's clothing as he spoke, "I'd say that you lack wealth or that you want to blend in and not draw attention to yourselves. But I can't determine what lies in your heart by their color or make, nor can I guess what motivates you, or whether you can be trusted or not. People are judged by their actions, not by the color of their clothes or eyes. You should know that."
"Speaking of eyes," Travyn interjected. "What about the gray man here?"
No stranger to being judged by the color of his eyes, for his dark irises were encircled with a ring of luminous amber coloring that was unsettling to most, the topic of conversation made Travyn consider Horbyn whose Hag robe was undergoing a transformation that he said was in keeping with his resolve to abandon the dark order of wizards. Once black as talamir ink, his garment had turned gray; a thing that time, as strong as it was, could never effect on a Hag's garment, given the magic that was woven into it.
Not only was Horbyn's garment gray, his eyes and hair were too. These physical attributes brought into doubt the assumption that his robe would eventually turn white as the culminating sign that his ties to the Hag community had been fully severed.
But even if the garment did turn completely white, would that prove that Horbyn's inner metamorphasis was genuine?
"I don't know why Horbyn's garment is changing colors, so I won't place too great of significance on the phenomenon," Bachannor said as he pondered the gray wizard who sat before him after Travyn explained all that he knew about the man. "But we must not discount the fact that Andara's tear might have something to do with this, hearing that it responded to his call- though minimally so. Nor should we dismiss his history with Mar’Gul, for she sought him out all those winters ago, not the other way around. And why? Because she had hope that he
would do the right thing when the time came for him to play the part she believed fate had chosen for him to play. That's why he's here now and why we will value his company, though we don't know what that will lead to, not precisely at least.
"Nevertheless," Bachannor took Mar’Gul's hand in his own as he added, "in spite of this uncertainty, we all must choose hope."
Ay'Roan looked at Horbyn with eyes that didn't reveal his emotions as he said, "With all that he knows about Father, we have no alternative. Still, hope doesn't have to be blind. And as you've said, a man's heart is revealed by his actions."
"Well said." Horbyn nodded in agreement as he studied his traveling companions. "We'll all keep our eyes open as we hope together. For the blind do not long endure in Ar Warl."
"Yes, we’ll watch each other," Bacchanor said in resignation. "To do differently would be unwise in this place where the Sorcerer rules, for who knows how far his darkness can reach and who it can touch?"
As the Brown Wizard finished speaking, he looked down at the black mountain that had drawn closer while they spoke. Then he turned his gaze on Kaylan and Travyn.
Horbyn, Mar’Gul, and Bala did the same, each aware the twins' spirits had been brought before the Nameless Evil wrapped up in their mother's womb.
"Old Man." Kaylan's words were devoid of the affection he had displayed the first time he addressed Bacchanor, back in the time of playful banter, since he had followed the wizard's eyes as they turned from the black mountain and on him. "Are you worrying about what happened to my brother and me down there?"
"I must admit that I am." Bacchanor's eyebrows took on a feathery aspect, his brown eyes paled to yellow. "Both of you were touched by evil's hand in that place. What this has done to you is anyone's guess."
