Ilcaster wrinkled his brow. “Used it? Did he use the magical power within it to destroy the golem?”
“No. He brought it close to Karn, where its power turned off the machine that was the golem. But just before his consciousness faded, Karn reached out and clutched the Touchstone, pulling it away from Vuel. All the latter’s efforts were insufficient to pry it loose again, and Vuel was forced to flee the village, whose inhabitants had turned against him. In fact, the villagers believed Karn had liberated them from Vuel, and as a reward they placed the immobile statue of the golem in the village square, where it remained for years.”
Ilcaster laughed delightedly, and the unexpected sound seemed to momentarily push back the gathering shadows in the room.
“A statue. That’s wonderful. But what happened to the Legacy?”
“Vuel took it with him and scattered it, piece by piece, throughout the lands in which he traveled. Gerrard was left with only a single item of the Legacy, a necklace with an hourglass pendant. See, here’s a sketch of it.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, but that was all Gerrard retained of his birthright. Meanwhile, Vuel, having scattered the Legacy far and wide, launched a war against his father.”
There was another rumble of thunder. Rain rattled against the windows. The librarian moved to one wall and checked the fastenings on the panes before resuming his story.
“Gerrard left the warclan. He did not know what had happened to Karn, his guardian from boyhood. Perhaps he felt abandoned, having lost both Karn and Vuel. In any event, he took up magical training under the tutelage of a maro-sorcerer named Multani. There in the caves where Multani lived, Gerrard met Mirri, a cat warrior, and Rofellos a Llanowar elf. For many years they were his closest friends.”
“I don’t understand,” interrupted Ilcaster. “Why did Vuel still hate Gerrard so much?”
The librarian steepled his fingers. “He’d become obsessed—some might say he was mad. He was determined to blot out Gerrard and all who were near to him.”
“Vuel, in his envious rage, pursued Gerrard. Multani learned of the threat in time and sent Gerrard, Mirri, and Rofellos away from the cave. When they returned some time later, they found the cave in ruins and Multani gone.”
“Dead?” Ilcaster’s eyes were wide.
The master shook his head. “None know for sure. Certainly the three companions did not know. But worse was to come. When they returned to the warclan’s encampment, the site of Gerrard’s youth, they again found a scene of ruin and slaughter. The warlord, Gerrard’s adoptive father, was dead, and Gerrard’s last tie to his past was broken.
Gerrard knew this must be the work of Vuel. The three companions left the cave and tried to make the best lives for themselves that they could, traveling the land as hired fighters. At last during their travels Gerrard, Mirri, and Rofellos met Sisay, a Jamuraan native and captain of Weatherlight.
“Sisay! But I thought you said Gerrard was the captain—”
A frown from the old man silenced the boy’s eager outburst.
“I’m sorry, Master.” The boy subsided and huddled close to the old man’s feet, his eager face turned upward.
“Sisay was able to persuade Gerrard to join her. In point of fact, she won a bet against him; his payment was to join her crew.”
“What was the wager?”
The scholar snorted contemptuously. “It was thoroughly foolish. Apparently the three companions were throwing knives in a low tavern of some sort. Sisay watched them for a time, then challenged Gerrard to a contest of skill. He accepted confidently and rejoiced when his knife struck the very center of the target. But Sisay, whose warrior skills had been honed by long years of training, split the haft of his knife with her own cast. Gerrard was humiliated before his friends, and sullenly he agreed to fulfill his part of the bet and enlist with her.
“Once he and the others were aboard, she revealed to him that she’d been searching for the pieces of the Legacy ever since Vuel scattered them. She asked for Gerrard’s help, and he reluctantly agreed to give it.”
Ilcaster’s brow was wrinkled. “I must be missing a piece of this puzzle,” he said. “Why was Sisay searching for the Legacy? What did it have to do with her?”
The librarian nodded. “Well you should ask that. In fact, Sisay herself had a mysterious birthright. Like Gerrard she was an orphan; her parents too had died under strange circumstances. Before they died, they had told her stories of the Lord of the Wastes.”
“But you said earlier that was just a myth—”
“I know I did. Be silent, boy!”
Once more Ilcaster dutifully subsided, but his lower lip stuck out defiantly.
“It’s true that the Lord of the Wastes is mythological,” conceded the librarian. “Had they lived longer, I think Sisay’s parents might have told her that. But they died too soon, and Sisay did not know the entire truth. In any case, her parents warned her that the only force that had the power to defeat the ‘Lord of the Wastes’ was the Legacy. They passed to her their most precious possession—Weatherlight—and charged her to go forth and seek out the scattered pieces of the Legacy. Sadly, during one of her many journeys on the ship, her parents died. But meanwhile Sisay had accumulated many of the bits of the Legacy and stowed them on board the ship.
“This, at any rate, was as much of her history as Sisay told to Gerrard and his companions. Gerrard sensed there was more, but she was not yet willing to reveal it to him.
“Weatherlight’s crew included a good many strange characters whom Sisay had picked up in the course of her adventures. Tahngarth, a Talruum minotaur, was first mate; the navigator was Hanna, an Argivian artificer. Then there was Orim, a Samite healer, Crovax, a nobleman, and Squee, the goblin cabin boy. Of course there were many more, but these are the figures who play particular roles in our story. Gerrard, Rofellos, and Mirri joined this band.
“They searched for some time before an urgent message drew them back to Crovax’s home in Urborg. It seemed his estate was under attack by strange creatures from a plane called Rath.”
“Rath!” The boy bounced excitedly. “Master, that’s the very word written at the top of this paper. ‘The Rath Cycle’!”
“Of course it’s the Rath Cycle! Isn’t that what I just told you?”
“No, Master. You said—”
“All right, all right! Never mind that.” The old man rose and stumped about the room, his feet beating out an indignant rhythm on the stone floor. Just be quiet and listen.
“Weatherlight arrived just in time to turn back an attack by these creatures—Gallowbraid and Morinfen their names were. But during the fight, Gallowbraid slew Rofellos the elf. As Rofellos lay dying in Gerrard’s arms, Crovax drew on the power of a cursed artifact that had belonged to his family for generations, and summoned Selenia, a guardian angel in the service of Crovax’s family. With her help, Weatherlight’s crew beat back the attack. But when the battle was over, Sisay and Gerrard quarreled. Gerrard wanted to abandon the search for the Legacy, a quest he blamed for the death of his friend Rofellos. And nothing Sisay said to him could change his mind. Taking the hourglass pendant and Mirri with him, Gerrard left Weatherlight.”
“Left!” the boy almost shouted. “But you told me he became captain.”
“So I did. And so he did. The story doesn’t end here. Now are you finished sorting that stack of papers? Good.” The old man tied the bundle with a string and thrust it into a cabinet. “Now do the same for these two stacks.”
The boy began gathering scattered packets, stacking them neatly by the old man’s feet, and then paging through them. The master, glancing around the room as if to assure himself they were still alone, went on with his tale.
“Undoubtedly there was much bitterness on both sides in the quarrel. To Sisay, it appeared that Gerrard was simply abandoning his destiny in favor
of his own selfish interests. To Gerrard, it seemed Sisay put some abstract commitment to the Legacy over the lives of those nearest and dearest to her.
“Other crew members were affected by the quarrel as well. Over the years he’d served on Weatherlight Gerrard had grown close to Hanna, the navigator who probably knew more than anyone about the ship. Her feelings were strong indeed, but she hesitated to speak them aloud to Gerrard. When he left, she felt hurt and betrayed.
“Tahngarth, on the other hand, seemed almost pleased to see Gerrard leave, as if the young man was confirming some estimate the minotaur had formed of his character. At any rate, Gerrard and Mirri left, and the ship sailed on.
“While Sisay and the rest of Weatherlight crew were continuing their journey in search of the Legacy, Gerrard traveled to Benalia, where he joined the Benalish infantry and became a master at arms. Mirri returned to Llanower to inform Rofellos’s kin of the elf’s death. And so the two friends parted.
“Meanwhile, Sisay had discovered a key part of the Legacy, an artifact called the Thran Tome. From this magical book she learned two things of tremendous importance.
“First, the Tome told her that Weatherlight, itself a part of the Legacy, could actually move between different planes of existence. This ability to planeshift was made possible by the crystal that powered the ship’s engines.
“The Tome also told Sisay of a plane called Rath, the very place from which Gallowbraid and Morinfen had come to attack Crovax’s estate. Though the Tome’s entries were not entirely clear, Sisay concluded from them that Rath had some great importance for the future of Dominaria.
“Sisay also recovered Karn from the village where Vuel had hidden him, and the silver golem became a valued part of Weatherlight’s cargo of artifacts. Along with Karn, of course, she also found the Touchstone, still clutched irretrievably in the golem’s grasp.
“And then Sisay stumbled onto a piece of terrifying information. Vuel, the sidar’s son, Gerrard’s deadliest enemy, had left the plane of Dominaria for Rath. In that dark place, he had become the ruler and had changed his name to Volrath. He brooded there in his great fortress, the Stronghold, planning Gerrard’s destruction.
“All this Sisay learned from a native of Rath, Starke—”
“Wait a moment,” the boy interrupted. “Wasn’t Starke the same one—”
“That’s right. Starke, the same man who had corrupted Vuel.”
“But why would Starke help Sisay?”
“Because, although he’d helped Volrath to become the ruler of Rath, he was horrified when he realized for whom Rath had been constructed and who its rulers truely served.”
“Who?” The boy’s voice sank to a whisper, as if he feared the answer.
“Phyrexia.” The old man’s voice trembled, and as if in answer the light flashed outside and the walls of the library shivered. The old man cleared his throat and continued his story.
“Starke had undergone many changes over the years. Now he was trying to play both sides against one another. He’d tried to corrupt Crovax, playing on the love the young nobleman felt for the angel Selenia. Crovax—who had returned to his family estate after the death of Rofellos—freed Selenia, smashing the artifact that summoned her. He did this out of his great love for her, but in doing so he doomed both her and himself. Soon after she was freed, the angel was snatched away from Crovax through a kind of portal. The wiley Starke persuaded Crovax to rejoin Weatherlight, hoping to shape Sisay’s ship into a weapon with which he might oppose Volrath’s power.
“He had a more personal reason for his hatred of Volrath: the ruler of Rath had taken Starke’s daughter Takara prisoner and held her as insurance against her father’s good behavior.”
“Hmpf!” the boy snorted. “Would have served him right if Volrath had got wind of his plan.”
“Starke’s plot was even more complicated than that. He knew that Volrath’s great enemy was Gerrard. He needed a way to lure Gerrard to Rath where the young master-at-arms could confront and destroy Volrath. So he performed one last bit of treachery.”
“What was that?” The boy, his packets forgotten, sat open-mouthed on the floor.
“Starke betrayed Sisay to Volrath. The evil ruler kidnapped her and stole the bits of the Legacy she’d so painstakingly collected. Then Starke revealed to the crew of Weatherlight who had kidnapped Sisay and begged them to find Gerrard, to force him to accompany them as they departed on their greatest mission: to travel to Rath and rescue Sisay!”
The morning the minotaur arrived, Gerrard entered the training yard in time to see Torsten, the heavier boy, bat Javero’s blade aside and drive the smaller boy down to the sand on the other end of the yard. Javero’s sword flew from his hands, landing well out of his reach, and Torsten moved over him, between him and his weapon. Both young men were breathing hard under the blazing sun. Torsten’s blonde hair was dark with sweat and grime, and Javero’s hands were spotted with sword oil and blisters. Gerrard was silently proud of both of them for practicing while the others slacked off. It was still hours before exercises, yet here they were, devoted to the art of war. He remembered that feeling quite well.
“Good move,” he called as he took his heavy set of keys from the belt below his vest and moved to the war chests along the wall, “but you want—”
“Master!” Javero cried out in terror.
Torsten kicked Javero once in the head, just above his ear—the sound of his boot heel on the thinner boy’s skull made a hollow thock! that carried all the way across the open yard—before slashing down with his sword at his foe’s throat. Javero rolled, and the blade cut sand, knicking his ear and drawing blood. Torsten stepped back, regaining his balance and bringing his sword back to attack position as Javero struggled to get to his feet. Blood bubbled from his wounded ear.
“It’s too late. He can’t save you,” Torsten said, raising his sword again. He glanced across the training yard toward Gerrard. “No one can save—”
The keys caught Torsten in the throat like a claw, tearing open the soft spot of flesh beneath his Adam’s apple. He staggered backward, one hand to his bleeding wound.
“Easy, Torsten,” Gerrard called. From nowhere he had produced a longbow, and an arrow was already nocked on string and aimed at Torsten. The arrow’s point glittered in the sunlight flooding the training yard. “It’s six steps back or six feet under, whichever you prefer.”
Torsten looked over at Javero, then back at the arrow pointed at him.
“Don’t make me kill you, too, Master Gerrard,” he rasped. He took his hand away from his throat and looked at the blood on his fingertips. “This is a private fight between Javero and me.”
“It’s ending publicly,” Gerrard said, “with a corpse, if need be. I could kill you twice before you could even get to me, Torsten. You’re a good student, but education isn’t the same thing as experience. You should’ve been quick enough to catch those keys. Now take six steps back.”
For a moment, Torsten hesitated, sweat beading on his forehead. Then he raised his blade and, with a defiant shout, turned on Javero.
Gerrard dropped his aim and let the arrow fly. It took Torsten just behind the left kneecap as his leg bent, driving through the muscle and carrying the arrowhead and shaft out the other side until the fletching caught in the wound. Torsten howled, falling forward; the shaft snapped behind his legs as he went down. He dropped his sword, and as the blade knifed into the sand, Javero grabbed its hilt. Raising it triumphantly as he stood over the heavier boy, he looked up in time to see Gerrard nock another arrow.
“It’ll be the right knee for you,” Gerrard said. “A shameful limp and no service in the Benalish army. I’ll change your entire future with one easy shot if you don’t put that sword down, Javero.”
“He was talking to Lord Kastan,” Javero protested, “the assassin recruiter. The albino. I saw them together at the bridges
this morning.”
From the ground, where he was already working the arrow out his leg, Torsten snarled, “You’re a corpse.”
“I don’t care if he is Lord Kastan.” Gerrard began to move forward, his arrow still at the ready. His dark beard itched from the sweat that ran down his face. “I could be Lord Kastan, and it wouldn’t change this mess you’re in. Now put down the sword.”
Javero relented, tossing the sword into the sand and stepping back afterward. Gerrard let his breath out slowly. “Great. Now we’re all in better shape. I’m armed and you’re not.”
He put his arrow back in his quiver then picked up both swords. “Did Kastan try to recruit you, Torsten?” Torsten said nothing, but Gerrard held back and let the silence drag on until it became as hot as the sun above. Finally, Javero said nervously, “I’ve heard that some of the others were approached, too, not just Torsten.”
“Lord Kastan will sew your eyes open before he kills you,” Torsten snapped at him, then looked at Gerrard. “I must see a healer, Master.”
“You’ve got it,” Gerrard said. He held up Torsten’s blade. “Your sword stays, of course. You’re out—you tried to kill Javero, you threatened me, and, if I were a gambling man, I’d bet you took gold from the assassins. That’s not what I trained you for, Torsten. That’s not what the Benalish military is about. You’ve shamed the nation, and you’ve disappointed me.”
Torsten managed to get his weak leg under him, throwing to the sand the arrow that had struck him. He grimaced as he put weight on the leg and nearly fell. When he found his balance again, he was forced to lean heavily to his right, for the wounded leg refused to carry him. The blood from his throat wound was already drying to a dark red splotch like a birthmark. He glared in fury at Gerrard. “Then there’s more disappointment in your future. You’re not the only instructor in Benalia who can teach a man to fight, you know.”
Rath and Storm Page 2
