Chronicles of the Planeswalkers

by B. T. Robertson

  Benafor moved slowly between the towers of books, making his way toward the hooded figure sitting at the desk. The other was clothed in a black, hooded cloak that masked the rest of his features. A quill pen moved quickly across a piece of parchment paper, pausing only to drink from the ink jar. It was seemingly guided by thought alone. Benafor paused with a chattering jaw, barely able to utter words.

  "Keeper, I bear news from the North,” he stammered.

  The pen stopped writing, and returned to the ink jar to rest. The figure raised his head slightly, and rose from his chair. He turned calmly. Benafor swallowed hard, trying to cure his throat of the lump.

  "I bear news from Merchindale, Keeper,” he repeated.

  "I heard you the first time, you halfwit,” shouted the wizard. He withdrew the hood and his features became more apparent to Benafor.

  The wizard's facade was cold and unwelcoming. A few large warts had taken residence on his cheeks, and his eyes were like those of a snake, narrow and green in color. His disheveled hair was black with strands of gray running throughout, and his overall appearance was unkempt and worn. He called himself Haarath, but to the elves he was Gannündir, or “Servant of Evil.” It was told that he appointed himself ruler of Resforian by using the people as hostages. He would protect the city from destruction—his own, no doubt—in return for safe haven from outsiders who would try to overthrow him. This kept the people at a loss for choice, thus his dark dealings were tolerated.

  Benafor fidgeted and rubbed his hands nervously together at the insult, but remained where he stood as the wizard approached.

  Haarath folded his hands behind his back and, with a scowl on his face, asked, “Well let me have it then ... What of Merchindale and the Fortress of El-Caras?"

  Benafor stuttered, “M-m-my lord it is as it has been said, closed off and sealed by a containment spell of high potency that bars any entrance to the grounds of the Fortress even from above. My tests of this barrier have proven vain in finding a way inside. However, the barrier is invisible. I took note of every inch of ground within the forbidden section so that my eyes would not be fooled by the spell."

  "Indeed, they may have been. It takes little effort to fool the weak,” sneered Haarath, cracking a smug smile. The sight of the stained teeth almost turned Benafor's stomach. “Was there anything else?"

  "Yes. Along my travels I came upon an old house set into Mernith Forest. It was one hundred paces or so and about two days’ walk from the Fortress, dwelling in the depths of a shallow valley. I ventured to take a peek, but I found no one to be at home, nor could I find evidence of a resident. The house was in good repair, but that was all I could tell given the urgency of my current mission. There was also a stable, with fresh hay and clear water."

  Irritated, Haarath huffed, “That is the domain of that fool of a mage, Aeligon. He travels abroad mostly, but he does call that place his home from time to time. That confounded forest aids his cause.” He rubbed his long chin with a skinny finger that was tipped off with a protruding nail. “Never mind that for now; you have told me all that I need to know. Go to the stables tonight and make ready my horse. Clad him well, for it may be to danger I ride. I will be ready to ride out in one day's time."

  "But Keeper, the stables are all the way back down the lifts. How am I to fool the guards again?” moaned Benafor.

  "Leave that to me. Now go."

  Haarath bade Benafor away with a wave of his hand, and returned to his desk. After some time the pen once again withdrew from its ink bath, and began to scratch its impressions into the paper.

  The sorcerer's trance resumed.

  * * * *

  The day passed, and not another word was heard from Benafor, who raced to do the bidding of his master. Far below the surface of the floating island, Haarath prepared himself for the inevitable journey. “I must search the ruins of El-Caras,” he spoke aloud to himself. “It has to be there, for the clues spoken to me whisper as much. The Mirror of El-Caras ... none have seen it nor have any searched for it since the Great War. It is no longer a rumor!"

  A haughty laugh echoed throughout the hollow chamber as the wizard donned a leather satchel filled with the rolled paper that was sealed with an energy field spell, other tools, and vials. He also clutched his finely crafted staff and slung the hood of his cloak over his head, masking his face once more. Up the hidden staircase he flew, then crept through the narrow passage. Once in the alley, he waited for the cover of darkness before piloting the streets to the lifts. No guards were aware of his presence, foiled by a mere motion of his hand. He descended the lifts, and found Benafor asleep. The man sat on a stool in the stables next to the stall where a foul-looking stallion awaited. Haarath thwacked the snoring man with his staff, abruptly waking him.

  "Your horse is ready, my lord, and has been well fed as you wished. If you will not be needing anything else, I will retreat to my home to catch shuteye,” said Benafor, as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

  Haarath snapped, “More shuteye than you have had already? Be gone with you and speak nothing of my leave, lest your mouth be shut permanently with my wrath."

  He saddled up, and led his horse quietly to the gate. With a move of his staff and a hush word, the guards fell fast asleep. The gate opened, and Haarath set out with a purpose. His horse was fast. Beneath the dim moon in the sky, he set out northward toward El-Caras.

  Benafor quickly retreated to his home, where his service to the wretch remained hidden from all.

  * * * *

  Haarath sped across the Farrin Downs, and reached the edge of Mernith Forest in less than a half day. His path was the same as Benafor who came before him, although Haarath's black stallion was much swifter. It would be about a day's journey to the other side, where the Tunin River split the great forest into its two parts. He rested along the edge of the woodland that night since it was not wise, even for a sorcerer, to wander alone in the dark of the wood.

  When dawn came, he set out on the road. Though it took him the better part of daylight, he reached the place Benafor had described. The house of Aeligon, set in a small valley, was little more than a divot in the fairly flat ground there. He knew that he had traveled far to the northeast, with the Tunin River no more than an hour's ride away. The resonating roar of the falls could be heard. Cautiously, Haarath dismounted and tied his horse, Drez, to a nearby tree just inside the edge of the forest wall. Light had faded to dusk, and the sun was now little more than an orange firelight hidden behind the horizon line. The season was growing late, and the air carried a cold that smote his face and hands until he had to at last throw his hood over him and wrap his hands in his cloak as he crept along. The grass in this land grew in clumps and was long and soft. The brown color told of the encroaching winter. Through the trees ahead, smoke rose from a brick chimney jutting up from the sagging roof of the small house. There was not much visible, but the scent of burning wood would have given it away had he not seen it. Aeligon was very wise, and Haarath knew he could not pass here without the Healer knowing. Fighting with the mage would have proven futile. It would be a waste of time to try and circle around it, for it was growing darker with each passing moment, and Mernith Forest was just as unforgiving as the Forest of Spirits to the southeast.

  Clutching his staff tightly, he continued slowly toward the shack. Drez stood behind in the distance, still as a statue, a becoming task for the stallion. He did not even take to grazing the plentiful stock of honeysuckle nearby. Haarath reached a wooden fence and hurriedly climbed, setting his feet down into the mud of the stable area. There was no horse or creature present, though fresh tracks were apparent in the mud leading from the gate. He crept to the window on the west wall that held the last reflection of the last golden rays of the sun as it sank hopelessly down behind the mountains. Gazing in, Haarath could see little. There were no candles or other light sources present, except for the hearth bearing the glow of a dying fire. Not a soul was inside, but it looked as if someone had been
there not long before.

  That was enough for Haarath. Now was his chance. Quickly he made for Drez, who was still standing as if dead on his feet. Haarath did not kick his mount for fear of startling him, so he leaned down and spoke some command in a different tongue that Drez understood. Cantering lightly, they made their way past the uninhabited house of Aeligon. It looked as if it guarded the entire edge of the forest that overlooked the vast swamps of the Cursed Glades, named for the festering creatures and drab interior. Stars had awoken from their slumber, and shone brightly in the darkening sky. The moon was little more than a slice in the sky, resembling the squinting of a great eye. With the house of Aeligon behind him, Haarath made for the Bridge of Fwalin. Made of stone, the bridge connected Anwarna with Merchindale over the Misty Falls. After the waters plummeted over the falls, the Tunin gathered them up swiftly. Vast and wide, it was rapid, and the current pounded against stone and bank. Though many folk of the day visited the falls for their might and beauty, Haarath could not help but scowl as he approached. “One day,” he said as he looked upon the moonlight mists, “I will have the power to withhold even your mighty force.” The river seemed to pay him no mind.

  Haarath dismounted and lead Drez across the bridge, despite the horse's unwillingness. Once on the other side, Drez's hooves touched the solid ground. They sped off again with the inundation of the river behind them. They traveled along the southern edge of Merchindale. Far to the east, the Dragon Mountains rose up and touched the sky with their black tips. Clouds shrouded the summits, but as the mountains fattened toward their bottoms, the caps faded and the dark green tree lines formed. The land was green with life at the foot of the mountains, but Haarath knew that this was nothing more than an illusion. The forest contained a hollowness that had crept down the mountains near El-Caras during the time of Hydrais’ dominion. It was now his target. El-Caras lay just beyond the line of trees in front of him.

  It did not take Haarath long to make his way through the brambles of the Hollow Wood. No creature was seen, nor did any impede his approach. A force that he was completely unaware of laid his path before him. Now that the last remaining obstacle was far removed from his path, Haarath targeted El-Caras with even stronger will. The evil stirred in the dark recesses of his mind and voices called to him, giving him speed that was not of this realm. Impatience grew in his heart as the line of the forest started to move east, gradually. It cannot be much further, he thought to himself. Haarath had ridden non-stop since the crossing of the river. The night, though long and frigid, started to wane away, and a new dawn was creeping slowly up in the east ahead of him. As the sun broke the horizon, its rays painted the smooth landscape with golden color that burst upon the landscape and torched the chilled air. A warmer wind whirled about.

  Haarath forced a grisly smile at the sight of the shattered shell looming ahead. The trees thinned out to his right as the line of the forest cut drastically south. Eastward, the land flattened and became barren. The grass retreated and the dark, rich soil turned sandy. Clouds of wind-swirled dust carried a stale aroma. The few remaining trees of the Hollow Wood stopped a good fifty paces from the border of the ruins, a stout reminder of the spell that held all within in its grasp. The wind blew particles of dust and sand. Haarath saw them striking something wildly in the air, rolling down an invisible incline of power. Leaves were cast against the barrier, and stuck there until another wind picked them from it and whisked them away again.

  Haarath clambered from Drez, and walked slowly toward the fallen fortress. A rock was lying at his feet. Picking it up, he hurled it against where he thought the barrier may have been, only to have it repelled sharply. A rippling wave, similar to one shaped by a stone cast into water, formed. It twisted and writhed with the force, the sun catching the different angles of the invisible field causing the light to refract. This cast an array of colors wildly about that faded just as quickly as the subsiding ripple.

  Haarath grinned. The field held strong, but it seemed of little concern for the sorcerer. He stepped back a few paces and drew out from his leather satchel the small sealed piece of rolled parchment. After dispelling the energy field that bound it, he unrolled it and gazed upon the runes. His voice started in a low chant, barely audible at first. The wind hushed and died down. Suddenly, his voice grew more intense and loud, and the wind whipped across the land recklessly. Two trees were cast down in its violent path. The force field barrier started to glow with a hot red tint, which revealed the full outline. A dome shape, large enough to encompass the entirety of the ruins and high enough to cover even the tallest of towers, was now molten. The echo of Haarath's fallen speech shredded the very fiber of the powerful barrier, and cleaved it in two from the top down. With a violent shake and a coughing gasp, the barrier gave way, crumbling into pieces that crashed to the earth. Once they struck the ground, they dissipated as if the air itself had consumed them. The wind died down and the ground ceased its trembling. The ruined city of El-Caras breathed the fresh air again, despite being torn by destruction from forces of long ago.

  All fell quiet on the land. Neither bird nor beast could be heard. Not even a rustle of leaves by the breeze was present. Haarath stood spellbound. His eyes were still wide with awe and power, for he had done it. He had broken the containment spell. How he conjured up such force, he did not know. The spell was written not by his hand, but by his will, which seemed to have its own mind and purpose. He did not question it any longer. The promise of power was within his grasp, and he could feel it pulsating in every thread of his being. He had a new quest to undertake. “The mirror is here! It must be here, for why else would I have been called to this cursed place?” he said aloud.

  Haarath paid no mind to Drez, who finally decided to wander off and graze, since his master had found that for which he had so tirelessly searched. The sorcerer entered through the remnants of what used to be a great gate barring the passage inside. It was shaken to the ground and the huge iron hinges and bars were twisted and bent, as if they had been bashed in with great force. The wizard stepped carefully over and between thick pieces of wall and debris. The air was able to touch this cursed place and whispers could be heard occasionally whipping by with the wind. An uneasy look fell across the wretch's face and his eyes moved about rapidly, searching with an ever-growing urgency.

  Something was calling him, almost moving him methodically through the wreckage with memories of war vividly lying at his feet and beyond. He was near the core of the city, the axis point where a great tower once stood with bulwarks surrounding its might. It was there that Hydrais stood and fought his last battle, his last stand. He saw his army crushed under the might of the elves and giants and Enath-Hüdain, or “Earthbound.” The very thought of those creatures caused Haarath to shudder and grit his teeth together in torment.

  Haarath made his way to the fallen tower that once seemed to touch the sky. It stood in a heap no more than twice his height altogether, but lay twice as wide as it once did. Haarath stopped before it, and stared into the open air. The sun could no longer be seen; clouds rolled in, eager to squelch it. His mind started to race; he could not tell why. Whispers urged and tugged at his psyche to continue on, to find a way beneath the rubble.

  With a renewed vigor, he emerged from his mindless stupor and raised his staff high. His eyes grew wide and wild, his staff aglow at the tip with the soft green light as it had done so many times before unsuccessfully. One by one, rocks and boulders were tossed this way and that, hurled with a mere motion of his outstretched rod and hand. A grin etched into his face that drooled with pleasure; his own might astonished him. He took one small step at a time on a path opening into the heap. He finally stopped cold in his tracks and the staff was put to rest; he had reached the heart of his journey. He thought he heard a sigh tickle the air, as if something was let out from the hole in the earth before him.

  It was not a large hole, barely wide enough to enable him to squeeze through with his loose-fitting garment. He
had to take off his leather satchel and lower it into the hole after it caught on the edge when he attempted to enter. Drez, most likely, heard the curses from where he stood grazing. Eventually, Haarath entered the dark hole. His feet touched barely a few feet below the surface, and he had to crouch down low to move along the narrow and musty tunnel. He only had to suffer for a short distance before he came to a staircase leading downward. All the while, the only light provided was a faint emanation coming from somewhere down below. He pursued it. He was not afraid, but kept his staff ready and unsheathed a small dagger hidden inside his robe. He plodded down the stairs. The ceiling had risen slightly, so his crouch turned into a stance that he was accustomed to. He went seeing little detail of his surroundings, save for the dim light that kept him company, leading him forward.

  He finally reached the bottom, and the passage widened. A few more steps produced a room. It was not as great as his own space, but great nonetheless. Candles were everywhere, casting a golden glow across his beaming face.

  "I have done it!” he shouted in reverence of his own greatness. From deep within, laughter emerged, while his snake eyes jittered back and forth with excitement.

  In the middle of the room stood a stone pedestal, a podium of some kind that looked as if sermons could be given from it. Haarath made his way over to it and blew the thick layer of dust off that covered its flat top. He coughed and choked in the cloud, but finally it cleared. Nothing was upon it, but there were runes emblazoned across the surface that read: Gaze into the mirror and your eyes will be opened. Haarath had not noticed it before, but it was there. He looked up from the pedestal, and found his destiny. Hanging on the far wall, in the direction the pedestal was facing, was a large mirror. He could have sworn it was not there a moment ago, but here it was, reflecting his own image within. Its oval shape was set in a beautifully crafted frame. The designs were like rolling ocean waves and billowing clouds; brilliant were the images. Haarath stood in awe of the artifact; all his doubts had culminated into this one moment of clarity.