Chronicles of the Planeswalkers

by B. T. Robertson

  Tristandor finally turned his attention from the walls and addressed the Council directly. “We must do something. My son has broken our laws and stirred evil, but that is of little consequence in finding this to be true."

  He faced Aerinas with a renewed look of confidence in his eyes. Aerinas still kept his focus straight ahead.

  "My son, perhaps your disobedience has not been in vain. Go, for the Council must now decide a course of action for our people. The things you have seen here are not to be spoken of to anyone outside of this room. Do you understand?"

  Aerinas nodded silently. He bowed to his father, then to the Council, before being escorted out by the guards.

  Tristandor looked down at the section of parchment that his son had given him. Not much could be discerned from the weathered script, but it was inscribed with runes from a language thought to be long forgotten. He glided back across the marble floor and up the staircase to sink into his chair, the throne of Oruma. He dismissed the Council and remained there alone in the House well into the night. He pondered the details to awaken memories of ghastly things buried in the recesses of his mind long ago.

  * * * *

  The city's inner domain was constructed so as to not close off the beauty of the forest and sky. Rooms were not thatched at their tops, so the air and light could invade them at every angle. The trees provided protection from above, where the canopy loomed, forming a silvery roof when the sun's luminescence hit just right. Most of the treetop rooms had a minimum of three different causeways, allowing both entrance and exit. The walls were simple spindles of fine wood separated from each other by mere inches. This offered little defensive protection, but these rooms were for rest. The trees shielded these rooms when the rain fell and not one drop would ever fall inside.

  Aerinas walked along the causeways, deep in thought from the events that had just transpired. His blood boiled with fear and aggression, and his arm still ached. It was a grim reminder of his intrusion at El-Caras. Why had the guards grabbed me so tightly, as if I was a common thief? He thought of his music and his lyre as he tried to push out the flooding melancholy from his mind. He decided to take a break while he could. Music, after all, calmed his senses like nothing else. He retreated to his quarters to fetch his instrument.

  The night faded and the sun broke the cold with its golden arms, reaching into the forest through the arbors. Birds started to sing and fly about the forest coming alive with activity. Gray squirrels scurried up and down trees with their cheeks full of nuts. The autumn season was upon the land and many animals were getting ready for winter's full onslaught of frozen air and snowy drifts. Leaves had begun to fall and cover the forest floor with an array of colors ranging from brilliant reds and oranges to shimmering golds. The air was warm when kissed by the sun, so most of the people stayed out of the shadows and dark places.

  Aerinas stepped into the room that he called home. It contained a soft bed of goose down, enclosed with linens stitched together. It also had some furniture that his father had crafted long ago: a bookcase, and nightstand, that stood proudly next to where he slept, and a bureau for his garments. His home resided far above all others in the city, secluded from the eyes and ears of his brethren.

  He looked around and, satisfied that he saw no other soul, quietly reached for his lyre propped against his nightstand. Suddenly, a beautiful, soft voice broke the hush.

  "Aerinas, my dear, Aerinas.” The voice brought relief.

  Aerinas turned to the sweet, familiar face of his mother, Nimoni.

  Nimoni was an elegant elf lady with an ankle-length veil of white hair. Her skin glistened with a touch of silver, which was common to the female Krayn Elves. She wore garments of light green and blue that draped about her, and aided her in navigating the wooden platforms high up in the trees. Her leather sandals were emblazoned with designs that wrapped around her feet like ivy vines, enchanting them with grace. Aerinas adored his mother, who had taught him to sing and to play the lyre. Many nights he played the instrument amongst the leaves high atop the trees, letting the soft tones of the strings fall down to grace the ears of his people. Music and singing was a staple in the diet of Mynandrias, and Nimoni taught him well in these arts at an early age. Many knew of Aerinas’ talents, and he was asked to play as often as he could spare. This displeased his father greatly. Tristandor thought that Aerinas’ time would be better spent reading about leadership, or weapon crafting. “Those skills will prove to be of far greater worth to our culture,” he said often.

  "Mother,” said Aerinas as he approached and embraced her. “We have been worried sick about you since you turned up missing, me most of all. Why would you do such a thing?” questioned Nimoni. “You know your father has been troubled greatly these past months with all of the strange and vile talk out of the country."

  Aerinas turned and walked toward the wall, looking out between the spindles of elaborate wood as he spoke. His patience hung by a thread that Nimoni could almost envision from his actions.

  "I had to find out, Mother. I had to learn what was happening around the Realm. No one will speak of it, but Father calls secret meetings, watches are being kept on a round-the-clock vigil, and we are told nothing.” He grew more aggravated, and then turned once again with his face disdainful.

  "My dear Aerinas, I knew you had your father's fire in you. Fate, it seems, is more of a forceful matter than is known to us,” said Nimoni.

  "Whatever do you mean, Mother? I am not my father, just heir to his throne, nothing more. What has fate to do with it?"

  Nimoni said, “You bear the blood of your father and he was quite like you in his fresher years: on fire, passionate, and curious. His only hope was that you would not follow in his footsteps. He has seen much, my son, and wanted to protect you from the cruel things of this world."

  Aerinas snapped, “That is not for him to decide, Mother. I am not a child. I can make my own judgments, and it is time for me to test my resolve."

  "But, your judgments have caused you to stray from our laws and our way of life,” stated Nimoni calmly. “This may have brought us great danger."

  "I have heard enough of this, Mother. If it is great danger I found, then may it be prevented or stopped! With my prying eyes I have done this city a service. Perhaps the Council can argue over something more meaningful. I am going now,” snarled Aerinas. He grabbed his lyre, stormed past his mother, and retreated out the door.

  Nimoni sighed and shut her eyes.

  Outside, Aerinas ran to a nearby staircase that wound around the belly of a large oak. The long climb upward brought him to the very top. A sigh escaped his lips as he sat on the branch of the oak and leaned back against the trunk. He arduously fought against the many thoughts that ran through his mind. Picking up the lyre, he began to strum on the wiry strings. The tree shuddered a bit, as if it greatly approved of the exotic tones. Aerinas played most of the afternoon, as the sun made its course across the sky above. This was a tranquil time for him and it was cherished among the Krayn, for they desired little more than peace and harmony with each other and nature. The tree held him in its grip as he slowly drifted off to sleep. The great oak, solid and dominating in its world, yet meek enough to care for this smaller creature that was solid and dominating in his world, slept as well.

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  Chapter 2—The Sorcerer and the Mirror

  A shadowy figure crouched down in the bushes on the side of the wide road leading south of the Cursed Glades. The place was aptly named for the quagmires that filled the terrain there. Dusk was upon the land and the scent of pine grew on the frigid wind, as it whipped through the foliage and the trees. The figure snuck from one spot of cover to another, never setting foot on the road, and kept hidden as much as he could. Riders had stopped roaming on the road, but it was still risky in the fading light to travel. He had no horse, and his solo journey was bound by foot. After all, it was his duty to use stealth and cunning to complete his mission for his mas
ter. For six days he had traveled far, crossing the Hollow Wood, the Tunin River, and now the Mernith Forest. His horse had fallen in this forest from exhaustion.

  Keeper's going to kill me if I'm not there by dawn, he thought as he jumped from shadow to shadow. I must hurry with the news I hold. Curse that steed!

  He quickened his pace while the scudding clouds turned the once clear sky into a soupy mix of swirling light. The stars were shining brightly to the south, but in the north they seemed to disappear into the vortex. He did not care about that sky, for his path was south to Resforian in the land of the Farrin Downs.

  All night he made his way through the trees. They started to thin out and the forest was ending soon. Cover was sparse, but the darkness concealed him. He would be exposed if he did not reach the outer gate of Resforian before daybreak. At last, he came to the edge of the forest where it abruptly ended and the rolling grass fields of Fornidain began. He hunkered down to one knee, and silently scanned the open fields. He could neither hear, nor see, any creature upon the road that he so painstakingly avoided. Having little choice, he continued the rest of the journey on the road in the dark.

  Luck had better not give up on me yet, thought the man making his way as quickly as he could in the scarce light. He would still have to make it past the

  * * * *

  * * * *

  gate guards, board a transport up to the floating city, and get past another set of guards. He sighed. This won't be easy.

  The Farrin Downs were named for the rolling hills and furrows that dotted the land of the southwest. Most of the downs were fairly large, and navigating them meant little visibility of what lay ahead due to the constant rise and fall of the landscape. It was legend among the peoples of the Earth that a clan of huge giants once roamed this land. Because of their great size, their footsteps caused the earth to sink where their paths lay. The ground was not fertile, and hence, no trees or crops would grow. On a clear day one could see a great distance if standing at the crest of a down. Only grass of the sturdiest kind grew there.

  "Yes,” he said aloud in a raspy voice. “There it is at last!"

  He had caught a glimpse of faint lights in the distance. He quickened his pace, aware that the journey, and hence, the mission, was closing. He ran full-tilt down into a gully, and up the other side. Sweat was pouring down his face when he sucked the last of his water from the leather skin he carried on his belt.

  The main gate emerged from the darkness. Torch lights in the guard towers flickered wildly in the wind. He barely took notice, since he had seen them many times before in his service. The road turned from dirt to cobblestone on this last mile stretch to the gate.

  The guard towers here were just a small part of a larger stone structure that formed a tight square around a small sector of land. The city of Resforian was built on a land mass that hung suspended in the air a few hundred feet above the Farrin Downs. The only method of transport to the floating island was to take the lift system built in response to the sudden change in geography of Resforian. The lifts worked by using hot air to fuel a balloon buggy that was attached to large sections of rope track. The tracks were held steady by protruding arms that were fastened to the island's main rock underbelly. High winds were a constant nuisance; therefore multiple ropes were needed to keep the balloon buggies steady as they ascended and descended. All citizens, visitors, and cargo were charged a tax to use the lift system, providing a major source of income for the city from travelers, both incoming and outgoing, who were dependant on it. The guard towers at the bottom were put in place to control the flow of people, cargo, collect taxes, and to operate and maintain the lift.

  The man approached the main gate to the lifts and presented his pass, which was issued to all citizens of the city for a reduced tax rate (since the citizens traveled far more frequently than non-citizens). The guard simply grunted and motioned for the door to be opened. Grinding of stone and metal was heard as the gate opened for the man. Inside, he was met with the sounds of hot air bursts from a balloon buggy rising up on its rope track. The energy converter rapidly turned crystals into heat energy. One was also being unloaded and prepared for another ascent. Hurry up, come on, I need to get up there before the sun comes up, thought the man nervously. He could see fires burning around the grounds of the interior, and lots of rough looking men hustling about. Crystals were being wheeled from some underground storage room to the landing pads of the buggies, where they were then loaded into the power converters. The smell of perspiration, dirt, burnt wood, and other putrid fumes pervaded. The man feared the worst as the eastern sky started to change color, the sign that the sun would soon be rising.

  "Ok, all aboard for the next ride to the sky!” shouted a man in a tattered uniform from atop one of the landing pads. “Put all a yer belongings on the carts as you board to make sure it gets packed! Come along, hurry now."

  The man agreed only in thought with the officer. Yes, let's hurry it along now. Mustn't upset Keeper.

  Luck was with the man. The boarding went swiftly, and the experienced crew loaded the cargo with equal speed.

  "Hold yer ears!” yelled the buggy pilot as he threw the lever of the power converter. As the crystals combusted, loud pops sounded. After a few seconds, the buggy ascended into the sky along the rope track. The man, having seen these contraptions countless times before, was not overly impressed anymore. He was more concerned with getting to his destination on time.

  Once at the top, the buggy was unloaded and yet another line formed at the main gate to the city. The skinny man purposely remained at the tail end of the line to make sure he drew no attention to himself when he approached the guards. He didn't want his reception by the guards to single him out.

  The man's heart beat swiftly by the time he reached the final gate guards. The sun was almost up when he heard a clanking sound at the front gate. The two gate guards readied their weapons, as they unlatched and opened a small door in the main gate. A weather-beaten face appeared on the other side.

  "Who goes there?” asked the first guard in a sharp tone, the other with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  The voice quaked, “It is I, Benafor, and I come with news to give to Keeper. Allow me to pass now, for the sun is my enemy."

  The small door was shut and latched once more. A louder clang signaled that the gate was opened. Benafor stepped inside, and the gate was quickly shut and barred. The guards returned to their posts without any further word to the gangly man.

  Just as he entered, the sun broke upon the floating mass and ignited the dew clinging to the grass of the knolls. Benafor weaved his way through the crowded streets, an unimportant face amongst the folk. Aside from the large walls of the city, no other structures stood out. The cobblestone streets aligned like slithering serpents throughout the interior of the city. This made navigation difficult and annoyed Benafor. Even at night the streets teemed with people, vendors, and livestock. The markets ran day and night there to meet the demand for the city's import and export of supplies. Citizens were not allowed to leave on their own accord. The ruling body of government placed controls over them; only a select few knew Haarath was solely responsible. With demand higher than supply, the markets stayed open at all hours so people could have access any time to the wide variety of goods when they arrived. Even the jesters, fire-breathers, and entertainers of all sorts paraded up and down the streets performing for audiences of children. Giggling and laughter ricocheted between and around the shops and houses.

  Hastily, Benafor made his way to the center of the city and ducked into a dark alley near the foot of a small, rundown hut—an unnoticeable dwelling at best. Squatting down against the west wall of the alley, he pulled a stone from it, which revealed a small lever. As he pulled it, a small panel slid away in the darkest corner. He returned the stone to its home and disappeared into a dark tunnel, after making sure he was not followed. The panel slid back into place.

  He hurried along the dark and twisting
tunnel. The entire passage was lined with foul-smelling water and slimy mold. The air was moist and hot, making it laborious for the scrawny man to breathe. Oil-fed torches that hung on the walls about twenty paces between each other burned and flickered, casting dim light down the narrow space. It was a difficult place to pass through, but it was better than being seen entering the front entry of Keeper's house. His mission was unknown to anyone but his master. He kept on until at last he made it to the staircase. He sighed, and descended the stairs that wound in a downward spiral.

  Once at the bottom, he no longer wondered why he was frail and skinny, recalling the trip back to the top. He took one more deep gasp of air, and shook his head with displeasure as he left the threshold of the archway leading out of the stairwell. He crossed a short hallway to a door and, after unlocking it with his key, opened it and stepped into a larger room. It was stuffier than in the tunnel, but he was closer to Keeper and his goal. There were little more than some wooden barrels and crates strewn about the stone floor. Benafor cursed to himself when he navigated the maze of debris and stubbed his toe hard on one of the barrels. He hopped a few steps, but soon overcame the pain and continued to the last flight of stairs in his quest to the bowels of the underground chamber. At the bottom he halted, lifted his clenched hand, and knocked on the large wooden door.

  A booming voice came from within the chamber. “Enter, Benafor!"

  The door opened slowly and Benafor stepped inside. After he took a few steps forward, the door behind him slammed shut, startling the already petrified man.

  The chamber was lofty and hollow in the rise up to the apex above. Being void of windows, the underground chamber was lit only by a red glow. It was springing from a large ball of energy suspended between two metal prongs on the far side of the circular room. There were numerous stacks of books on the floor, looking to topple over at the slightest disturbance. Many devices and implements adorned the room that was of the sort possessed by wizards of the age. Layers of dust covered the entire place. Here and there were clean spots carved in the grime, where items had once lain or stood.