The Azure Wizard

by Nicholas Trandahl

  Ethan’s parents had died returning from a storyteller’s festival in Lumberwall when he was only two so he didn’t remember what they looked like or the sound of their voices. When he was old enough his grandparents, who had taken the duty of raising him as a storyteller like his father and grandfather, explained to him that his mother and father had been robbed and murdered by brigands in the pine forests of the Vhar Mountains. That should have encouraged Ethan to stay in North Ridge, safe and comfortable from the things cruel and dangerous that roamed the Three Baronies.

  Instead the seed of exploration and journeying grew in him from an early age. That seed could be accounted for as an effect of the tales that he had been trained to catalog to memory. Perhaps that was why many storytellers set off from their quiet little villages in the Barony of Vhar when they came of age, to learn new legends and tales and congregate among those that the tales were written about. Also storytellers were less useful and adept in the very rural settlements where manual labor was much more appreciated than history and legends.

  After feeding their three old goats plenty of grain and spring water Ethan got to work cleaning up the small goat pasture. That task, while dealing with the periodic attacks from the foul-tempered old goats, took him the better part of the afternoon, and by the time that he was finished Ethyl called him inside for supper.

  Ethyl and her storyteller grandson sat together at their table and enjoyed a meal of fresh bread, venison, and milk. Even more than the delicious meal, they enjoyed each other’s company, Ethyl imparting grievances over the stubbornness of their goats and barley crops and Ethan conveying bits of the legends of the Ancestors and their realm where all good souls journey in death, the Ancestor Lands. Ethyl listened to Ethan’s animated storytelling with a seeming reverence, and eventually tears welled in her eyes. Becoming uncomfortable Ethan cleared his throat and became still and quiet, looking at the scraps left upon his plate.

  Ethyl reached her withered hand across the table and laid it atop her grandson’s. She stated in but a whisper, “Do continue, Ethan.”

  “But Granny, I didn’t mean to make you long for those that are gone,” returned Ethan as he rose his intense amber gaze to Ethyl’s, as intense as his own.

  “Do not be ashamed, dear. A storyteller has immense power over the people of the Three Baronies. The right tale at the right time can instigate rebellion or topple a barony. Cherish the gift you have. It was the gift of your father, and his father, and his father’s father back until the dawning of the Three Baronies at the end of the Ancient Age. It is the gift of the history of the land, the gift to bring a listener to the forgotten days of which you speak, to invoke emotion and passion in your audience. Outside of Vhar books are the way of hearing information and tales. Sadly, the gifts of storytellers aren’t respected as they are in our barony. They serve only to fill taverns and make merry sodden revelers. Ethan, you would do good to stay in Vhar. In these mountains you will always be accepted and you will always be happy. If you desire something more exciting you could always sojourn to Lumberwall and you could make your life there.”

  “How do you know of what it is like in Greenwell and Wendlith? The stories of our kin?” inquired Ethan, a thin eyebrow arching up in query.

  Ethyl sighed and drank the last of her milk. “Before I ever met your grandfather I dwelt in the Barony of Greenwell. I ended up journeying here to the Barony of Vhar, and I met your grandfather here. Eventually I decided to stay.”

  Ethan didn’t take his eyes from her as he downed the last of his own milk. After the tense moment she answered his unspoken inquiry, “I was a Forester of the Three Baronies in my younger years.”

  Ethan coughed in surprise, the remnants of his milk spattering from his mouth. When he recovered he choked, “You, Granny, a Forester?”

  Ethan knew numerous stories of many of the heroic Foresters of the Three Baronies such as Gentle Thyen who roamed alone in the forests of Greenwell completely at one with nature, and Jasper Fielderson who single-handedly hunted a circle of assassins deep into the most untamed wilds of the Barony of Vhar, and of course he knew all of the tales of Lady Quinn who heroically founded the order and martyred herself to the Wizard Emperor, initiating the mythic Battle of Greenwell City that ultimately destroyed Illumis and ended the Ancient Age. Ethan had even seen a Forester of the Three Baronies about a decade previously who had passed through North Ridge while on patrol in Vhar. The Foresters served all of the Three Baronies but it was well-known that they were based and primarily operated in the Barony of Greenwell. But sometimes the Foresters of the Three Baronies were assigned or took it upon themselves to patrol the other two baronies of the Three Baronies.

  After a steady deliberate nod from her, he continued, “Why would you give up being one of the acclaimed Foresters of the Three Baronies for the life of a housewife in the most rural region in the entire land? You must have had such adventures and seen such wondrous things.”

  Ethyl shrugged slightly and gathered her tattered grey-green shawl about her shoulders before replying, “I was a member of the order for only half a decade, but yes, I have seen the sunrise throw its golden radiance through the thick, fern-cloaked Forests of Greenwell and the blue light of the moon turn the sea off of the shores of Wendlith into a million sapphires. I have faced a multitude of brigands alone, my fine silver hand axe laying them low. But I have received my share of wounds as well. I have faced a Blood Bear single-handedly and lived to tell the tale and I have seen opposing Woodfolk tribes slay each other in battle to the last man. I had been in love, Ethan, even before I met your grandfather.”

  Ethan sat across from Ethyl, his grandmother and friend yet suddenly a stranger, and simply stared at her. She became uncomfortable under his measuring gaze and stood, her old joints audibly creaking. Ethan then whispered in a hushed tone brimming with awe, “Will you tell me more, Granny, more of your tales?”

  She yawned as she nodded. Ethyl then turned and shuffled towards her bedroom leaving behind naught but a single tired statement. “Tomorrow.”

  Ethyl never woke up from her sleep that night. She died without pain, and when Ethan discovered her body she seemed sincerely at peace. Her burial was a public affair of mourning as they usually were in the small villages of the Barony of Vhar. Ethan recited a few prayers to the Ancestors, ensuring a hasty arrival in the Ancestor Lands for Ethyl, and she was buried in the earth a little farther up Whitethorn Mountain from North Ridge where the village’s cemetery lay. The storyteller was bestowed a handful of condolences, tears, and hugs from the community and everyone went back to their homes. And that was that.

  For a couple of days Ethan attempted to get on with his life. He took over running the household, keeping things clean, making himself meals, minding the goats and crops. He never spoke a word to anybody and his movements were dulled, slowed by grief and shock at the sudden death of the only family that he had left. He was now truly alone in the Three Baronies.

  It thus did not take long for Ethan to fall back into the habit of dreaming, dreaming of leaving the Barony of Vhar, not just going to the town of Lumberwall but truly leaving. He dreamed of leaving the Vhar Mountains behind completely and entering the Barony of Greenwell with its abundant deciduous woods and cities. Before Ethyl’s death these notions were dreams and nothing more, but now with nothing left for him here the prospect of departing seemed a very logical decision.

  Ethan wasn’t going to let these dreams die with his grandmother, taking upon himself the yoke of a wasted life and of a meaningless lonely existence. He was going to act on them. Thus it was that Ethan Skalderholt packed a few extra pairs of trousers and shirts into a satchel with some oats and dried venison, put on his rarely-used leather boots and patched up grey woolen cloak, and left North Ridge behind, putting one foot in front of the other on his journey southward towards the Barony of Greenwell.

  Chapter Two

  The House of Chronicles

  Summer had arrived by the time that Eth
an reached Lumberwall, and it was already sweltering, causing the storyteller to shed his cloak and roll the sleeves up on his woolen shirt. Though warm, summers in the heights of the Vhar Mountains never reached true hot temperatures, such as those in southern Greenwell and the Barony of Wendlith. Wool clothing was the norm in villages like North Ridge, but at the base of the southern flanks of the mountain range, where the town of Lumberwall laid, the summer heat was among the worst that Ethan had ever experienced. And he knew it would only get worse once he passed the border into the Barony of Greenwell.

  The first impression the storyteller got from Lumberwall was that of numerous villages built together into one community of about twelve score structures. The people behaved and acted like the people from North Ridge, very personable and energetic, but the town had much more to offer commercially than a village could ever hope for. Ethan entered the town after exchanging some standard pleasantries with a couple of town guards, distinguishable by the dark brown tabards they wore. The guards manned the open gate to the timber stockade built around the community, and he instantly could see a well-run and maintained smithy overflowing with workers in their sooty leather aprons and customers with their dull or dented tools and weapons. Across the muddy dirt lane from the smithy was a ferrier’s shop. The clanging of hammers and the nickering of horses spilled its way out into the busy lane. Just ahead Ethan could see a store of traveling supplies and beyond that was a two-storied tavern. Near the tavern was a three-storied inn with a large stable attached. Business and commerce was everywhere.

  The dirt lane Ethan strode upon ran from the north gate of the town, that Ethan had entered through, all the way through town before leaving out of the south gate where it meandered down the foothills into Greenwell. Numerous people rode horses, sat upon wagons, or simply walked about on the muddy street, and the scent of horses and manure overpowered the more repulsive odor of the nearby tannery located somewhere on a close by side street. Everyone had smiling faces exchanged greetings and partings and went about their daily work and errands content with their lot in life. In the center of Lumberwall Ethan could see the large timber and stone keep of Baron Ruauld, the hereditary ruler of the Barony of Vhar whose line had reigned since the dawning of the First Age.

  As he passed citizens of Lumberwall going about their responsibilities Ethan wondered to himself how many were storytellers, and he wondered how many of these people had been into the Barony of Greenwell or perhaps even the Barony of Wendlith. His thoughts were interrupted by his rumbling stomach and the pangs of hunger. Ethan had been through only two villages during his twenty-five day trek to get to Lumberwall, and though their rural inhabitants were more than willing to offer Ethan food and shelter during his journey, the long stints following deer trails and footpaths to the south out of the highlands quickly expended the oats and dried venison he had brought with him.

  For nearly two weeks he had been forced to live off the land, consuming raw mushrooms and what few berries he came across. More than the hunger, though, Ethan was plagued by thirst. He hadn’t brought a water skin, and he kind of just assumed that he could make due by finding pools of pure mountain water or springs like the heroes in the tales he knew. But Ethan soon came to realize that he wasn’t as outdoor-proficient as the heroes, and water was harder to find than he had ever imagined.

  He swallowed in an attempt to wet his dry puffy throat, but to no avail, and he began a sore hike to the tavern just up ahead. En route Ethan sighed as he came to the realization that he hadn’t brought any silver coins, much less any gold ones. This was going to take some finesse.

  When he reached the tavern he saw that it was actually connected to the inn and stables by a short, stout, oaken bridge that arched over the side street between them. Hanging from the side of the bridge was a weathered, dark, wooden sign that faced the main avenue through town, and painted upon it in bright peeling yellow paint was The House of Chronicles. Ethan let out an anxious breath and strode to the open door of the tavern. He could hear the music from outside and he could smell the aroma of pipe smoke, but upon entering the song became clearer, sung in a hauntingly-beautiful voice thickly accented.

  A merry old sod

  Told a tale one day

  To a lad who ever dreamed.

  A sweeping yarn

  Of a terrible price

  Paid for price of greed.

  Long ago

  In the Ancient Age

  Was a girl and an evil Lord.

  The Lord took what he liked

  With nary a shrug

  He wanted it all and more.

  Then one day

  He saw the girl

  The girl of another man.

  With long rosy locks

  Bright blue eyes

  He nabbed her before she ran.

  He forced the girl

  To do his will

  And she dwelt long in sorrow.

  Then one day

  She had enough

  It would end on the morrow.

  Next time the Lord came

  To have his fill

  She knew she wouldn’t fail.

  She pulled a knife

  And she jabbed it forth

  And he lost what made him male.

  The girl then took flight

  And she fled the keep

  Reuniting with her true love.

  It was then that they

  Escaped the town

  By the Ancestors above.

  The Lord suffered the price

  Of cruelty and greed

  But he became a darker Lord.

  What came then

  We all know

  But that old tale makes us bored.

  The audience roared in laughter and applause, smacking tables and backs at the minstrel, a tall, athletic woman in a burgundy linen dress. She possessed dark-bronzed skin that contrasted her long, pale-blond, flowing hair, and she smoothly took a bow to the crowd with a smile. Ethan clapped enthusiastically as he strode toward the bar, a long dark wood counter lined with various-sized and colored bottles and stools, some of them occupied by socializing patrons. Behind the counter was a stocky, thick man with shaggy, blond hair shot through with white. As he served the customers his long beard and moustache of equal coloring swayed to and fro and his intense brown eyes continually scanned his common room for signs of trouble. They settled on Ethan as he came forward.

  When Ethan reached the bar he leaned forward, and he placed his palms flat on the sticky counter top. The bartender met him there with a wooden mug in his left hand. His other hand remained beneath the counter and out of view. When the bartender urged the mug in Ethan’s direction the storyteller waved it off stating, “I'll take no mead, Sir.”

  “Not mead, lad, water. I can see plain as day that you’ve been traveling and are dry of even your own spittle to drink,” returned the man with a grin beneath his bush of a moustache.

  Ethan thanked him with a nod and took the mug a bit too eagerly splashing some of its contents onto the counter. “Sorry,” Ethan whispered sheepishly as he wiped the spilt water with the side of his hand.

  “No harm done, lad. The counter’s needed a wash anyhow.”

  Ethan gave a slight nod and gulped down the cool pure water slowly, letting it moisten his throat and clean the grime out of his mouth. The bartender watched intently the entire time until Ethan finished the last drop and set the empty mug on the counter with a contented sigh. “Thank you, Sir. That was needed.”

  The bartender shrugged and took the mug and began to turn, meaning to refill it, when Ethan caught him by the sleeve. “I was wondering, Sir, if there are any rooms available for the night?” he inquired.

  “Aye, I’ve got a couple of rooms empty. Three silvers a night they are,” replied the bartender raising a bushy eyebrow.

  Ethan nervously scratched the short growth of his red beard and responded, “I have no coins, sir, but I am a storyteller. Would it be possible for me to enlighten the crowd with a
tale, and if they take to it in a good way, get a plate of food and one of those rooms for the night?”

  The bartender sighed with an exasperated chuckle mingled with it, and he explained, “Lad, did you by chance see the name of my place? This is The House of Chronicles. We have plenty of minstrels, storytellers, and troubadours performing nightly. As the owner of this establishment, if I was to give all of them a room and meals for their performances I would never be able to serve any other guests. We are in the Barony of Vhar, you know. Storytellers and the like are a silver a score. The best I can do is pouring you some more water.”

  The man meant to turn again, but Ethan held fast to his sleeve. The barkeep turned slowly back to Ethan, his brows furrowed and he had an ominous air about him. But Ethan met his gaze with that penetrating amber gaze of his own. The stare down was ended by the barkeep whose face broke into a happy grin and he said, “The name’s Eikjard. Who are you, lad?”

  “Ethan Skalderholt.”

  “Well, Ethan Skalderholt,” began Eikjard as he pointed past Ethan to the stage where the minstrel had been performing, “the stage is yours. I hope that I’m impressed as well as everyone else.”

  Moments later Ethan found himself onstage. He had asked that the environment of the common room be changed for his tale, and thus it was with curtains pulled across the windows to keep out the afternoon sun. The tavern was then illuminated softly by candle sconces upon the walls. Ethan sat alone on the stage on one of the rickety stools from the bar counter and a single candle burned on the floor of the stage right beside him. The audience expected a tale of tales, and thus the entirety of the common room gathered around the stage as close as they could, all leaning forward and sipping their wines and meads.