EverMage - The Complete Series: A Fantasy Novel

by Trip Ellington

  Chapter 61

  Shoving ancient Rethbrin aside, Lothar lunged for Mithris. The young wizard fell away from him, throwing up his hands and shouting three words of magic. Even as the arcane syllable passed his lips, Mithris remembered they were useless.

  His back hit the wall. Lothar’s spear-point hovered at his throat. Mithris raised his hands to the sides in surrender.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Rethbrin spluttered.

  Six men with spears at the ready came running into the lodge. They pushed past Melendra where she stood, one hand to her mouth and eyes wide. Two of the men went to stand with Lothar. The other four circled Rethbrin, leveling their spears at the ancient magician.

  “I demand an explanation!”

  “Yes,” said Grimball, coming around from behind the table and descending from the dais. There was scorn in his voice, but also a measure of dread. “You demand. So it was foretold.”

  Rethbrin drew himself up, ignoring the spear-points pressing lightly against his chest and back. He met Grimball’s eyes defiantly.

  “We mean you no harm,” he said.

  “The name of Mithris has been known to us for centuries,” countered Grimball. “We will not be deceived, Old One. I will give you one chance to renounce your dark master Mithris. Avail yourself of this opportunity, or be destroyed at his side.”

  “Destroyed?” echoed Mithris, eyes wide. “Why is everybody always trying to kill me?”

  “There’s been some mistake,” Rethbrin said, a note of pleading entering his tone. “Please, you must listen to reason!”

  “So your allegiance is clear,” said Grimball, sounding almost sad about it. “Very well. Take them away. At dawn, they shall be cast into the Inferno.”

  ***

  Melendra was troubled.

  She sat alone on the rim of the rock-wall, looking outward over the verdant jungle beyond. She had come here often in her nineteen years. When concern weighed her down, this place had been her solace.

  The path up to this promontory was difficult and well-concealed. When she heard the loose rock crunching beneath soft-soled boots at her back, she knew it could only be Lothar. None but her brother knew of this place.

  “Shouldn’t you be guarding the prisoners?” she asked without turning. Melendra was surprised at the bitterness in her voice.

  Lothar came up beside her and took a seat on the shelf of rock. He looked out over the spreading jungle, hesitant. Melendra had rarely seen her brother hesitate. She bit her lip, regretting the tone she had taken with him.

  “I am…worried for you, sibling,” he said at length.

  “I’m not the one who’s going to be fed to the Inferno.” Melendra shifted, turning away from her brother to show him her back. Even so, she softened her tone. “Lothar, it does not seem right.”

  “The Dark One of prophecy has come, Melendra.” Lothar’s tone was firm. “Would you reject our faith in the Great Master?”

  Melendra did not answer right away. This was, after all, the crux of her dilemma. All her life, she had kept the faith as did all their people. She could not doubt the Great Master. He had delivered their clan from savagery and given civilization itself unto them. He had watched over them from the beginning of time. He dwelt on the edge of the Inferno, looking down benevolently.

  She had seen him once, four winters ago when she became a woman. Their mother had taken her on the trek through the jungle to climb the side of the Inferno. There, atop the fiery mountain, Melendra had accepted the blessing of the Great Master.

  Yet now she found herself conflicted. She knew the prophecy as well as anyone. As a child, she had nightmares about the Dark Mithris Who Will Come.

  In those terrible dreams she had seen him lay waste to her people. He slashed them open with his claws, more fearsome and deadly than even those of the raktar. His eyes burned with cold fire, and his grisly fangs dripped with blood and gore. He towered over her people and when he roared, the sky darkened as though the sun itself ran to hide from his awful rage.

  “It cannot be him,” she whispered now. She spoke under her breath, but Lothar heard her.

  “Sibling,” he said, lowering his own voice as if afraid they might be overheard. “You flirt with heresy. The Dark One is condemned by his own words. You heard his servant name him. You heard him call upon the Forbidden Powers.”

  Melendra whirled on her brother. “I heard him speak unfamiliar words, sibling. I saw no lightnings or fires, no demons rushing to aid him.”

  “He was named!” Lothar insisted.

  “I carry the name of our mother’s mother,” Melendra said. “You bear the name of our father’s father. Are we our ancestors, then, or do we merely carry their names for them?”

  “There is only one Mithris,” argued Lothar. “Who would name an innocent babe for the Dark One of prophecy?”

  Melendra shook her head. Lothar was stubborn. When his mind was made up, her brother could not be swayed. But was she any less stubborn herself? No. The strangers came from another world, they had said. The young man’s parents had named him in ignorance. It was coincidence only. It must be so.

  Melendra could not accept that the young man they’d saved from the raktar was the Dark Mithris Who Will Come. He was not the creature of her girlhood nightmares. He was not the monster her people had feared since the dawn of time.

  Lothar saw the determination in her face. “Sibling.” How sad he sounded, and how desperate. “You must abandon this course. The Dark One has ensnared you with his Forbidden Power. You will destroy yourself.”

  Melendra made no answer. Instead, she again turned away from her brother. She felt him hovering behind her, his concern radiating from him like heat, until at last he turned away and left her there. For a long time she listened to the sound of his footsteps and the sliding gravel, and then he was gone.

  She lifted her eyes, looking out over the treetops to the distant mountain with the broken tip. Smoke curled lazily up from the mouth of the Inferno as the sun sank behind it. Elder Grimball had decreed the Dark One be cast into the fires at dawn.

  There wasn’t much time, then.

  Chapter 62

  The path was treacherous in darkness, but Melendra knew the way. She knew also that rushing would serve no purpose. She chose each step with care, and when she had to climb she tested each hand—and foothold before putting her weight fully on it.

  Nocturnal creatures scattered before her. Some hooted angrily. Others retreated silently, watching her with wary eyes.

  Melendra knew they would not trouble her here, not within sight of the Great Master himself. The moment she had reached the foot of the mountain, she had known her path was true. Moving alone at night through the jungle was dangerous; his benevolence had sheltered her through that. Surely he would not desert her now.

  She was more certain than ever that the handsome young man her brother had saved from the raktar could not be the Mithris of prophecy. Soon she would stand in the presence of the Great Master, and plead her case. She was sure the Great Master would understand. And the young man would not be thrown into the Inferno.

  Melendra pressed on in her ascent. Hours remained before dawn, but she would not tarry. If she were to stop and rest, the nagging voice in the back of her mind would catch up to her and whisper its doubts. For the man was named Mithris and he had come from beyond the world, just as the prophecy said. He could not be the monster of legend and foretelling…yet who else could he be?

  And if the prophecies of him were false, then what else might be untrue?

  ***

  “There would be a dungeon,” griped Mithris.

  “I would hardly name this rude cage a dungeon,” countered Rethbrin from where he sat on the bare earth in the back of the hut.

  Mithris turned from the barred gate which took up the entire front wall of the tiny hovel. Wrist-thick branches and limbs from slender, gnarled trees—some still sporting tiny, green leaflets shooting at random—formed a sturdy l
attice which could only be opened from without.

  “It’s the same concept,” the young wizard said. It came out sounding defensive, and he sighed. “Tell me something, Master Rethbrin. You’ve been at this a whole lot longer than me. Does the whole people trying to kill me or lock me in cages thing ever, you know, slow down? Or is that pretty much guaranteed for wizards?”

  “What?” Rethbrin shook his head, chuckling. “No, boy. There are many paths through the worlds, Mithris. Hm? Many paths. Do you know what truly sets a wizard apart, boy? Did your Master Deinre ever tell you that?”

  Mithris shook his head. “Wizards use magic and they live a whole lot longer than normal people, but other than that…”

  “Simply using magic and getting old do not make one a Wizard,” Rethbrin cut him off. “Listen to me carefully, boy. People tend to tread the same worn paths over and over. But wizards always forge their own trail. For a wizard, no two paths are the same. That is what truly sets them apart.”

  Scowling, Mithris turned back to the wooden bars. He gripped one in each hand and leaned heavily against the lattice. Staring out through a diagonal opening just barely smaller than his head, Mithris sighed.

  “I took a wrong turn,” he said bitterly.

  Voices sounded in the street, just out of sight. Mithris pressed his face close to the bars in an attempt to peer out. But that proved unnecessary. The source of the noise came into view. They were, in fact, headed straight for him.

  “I think it’s time,” Mithris warned Rethbrin, backing away from the lattice. The cage door unlatched and swung open. A dozen men and a dozen women stood outside in two lines. They had painted their faces with intricate traceries of black ash and bright yellow sulfur. Half the men and women carried flaming torches; the other half held long spears, butts planted firmly by their feet.

  The ancient grandmaster magician got to his feet and came forward to stand at Mithris’ side. If even one of them could have summoned even a trickle of power, or anything at all from beyond the confines of this foundation, these people wouldn’t have a chance.

  Magic. Mithris shook his head, angry with himself. It was magic that got him into this. Then the power had deserted him. He and Rethbrin were going to die. Without their spells, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d always known wizarding would end up getting him killed. He should never have listened to Vapor.

  The three village elders appeared at the far end of the double-file of people. Grimball was between and just in front. He gestured to the captives. His face remained locked in a solemn mask.

  “Come with dignity,” he intoned. “Go with dignity. Die with your honor intact.”

  The men and women with torches lifted them straight up at arm’s length. Those with spears lifted the butts an inch from the ground and slapped them back down all at once.

  Rethbrin arched one eyebrow.

  “Really?” said Mithris. “That’s it? You didn’t have something longer prepared? I mean, you knew this was coming right? Isn’t that what you said?”

  Grimball’s stoic mask slipped, but held for a moment before he discarded it. Scowling, the elder strode forward until he was only just outside the door of the cage.

  “There are children like you,” he said, contempt dripping from the words. “A sharp tongue and no seriousness. No strength in them. They do not make good adults. Often enough, they do not make adults at all. Their own wit distracts them when they should have been vigilant.”

  Mithris drew back, bemused. “Are you…giving me a lecture? Seriously? Before you throw me in the volcano, you’re going to lecture me? This can’t really be happening.”

  Rethbrin cleared his throat and pushed Mithris back. Drawing himself up to his full height, the ancient wizard locked eyes with Elder Grimball.

  “The boy may have a sharp tongue, and he may belabor under the fool notion that the worlds owe him something better than this, but he is a Wizard. And a powerful one at that, hmm!

  “I am Rethbrin of Orranhall, Grand Master Wizard. This is Mithris, who carries the very stones of Creation. They speak in his mind and he knows their will. We are wizards, and wizards always die with such dignity as is not yours to question.”

  Mithris dropped his jaw in surprise. He felt a sudden surge of pride for the old man, and found himself grinning at Grimball.

  The village elder looked from Rethbrin to Mithris and back again, scowling. At length, the old man shook himself and replied.

  “I don’t care who you are,” he said, spitting in the dirt. “The Great Master will see you consumed in his Inferno.”

  Chapter 63

  The entire village joined the procession, passing out through the narrow canyon into the thick jungle. Young men with spears walked on the outside of the parade, their eyes constantly scanning the shadowed undergrowth for danger.

  Soon enough they reached the foot of the mountain these locals called the Inferno, and began the ascent. It was a long and occasionally grueling climb, but none of the villagers stopped or turned back.

  About two thirds of the way up, they came out over the level of the tallest trees. Mithris could look out over the jungle all the way to the endless sea, but that would take his concentration off the climb. Climbing to his death was momentarily preferable to falling to it.

  Rethbrin struggled along beside him, falling behind when the path became too steep or they were forced to climb over vertiginous, rugged gaps in the narrow trail. The old wizard breathed heavily. His face shone with sweat.

  As they neared the summit, the trail leveled off and led through an orchard of jagged rock spars. The path ended at the rim of the lowest edge of the volcano’s broken mouth, and fierce waves of heat washed up from far below. The sky was turning gray overhead. It was nearly dawn.

  A broad, flat ledge extended around the volcano’s throat just below the rim. Prodded from behind, Mithris and Rethbrin climbed down to it. At one end of the ledge stood a stone hut that seemed to have grown naturally from the mountain. Cured animal hides covered its twin windows and hung also across the narrow door.

  Grimball pushed Mithris and Rethbrin toward the hut, and they marched across the ledge as the villagers assembled behind them. The people would stand gathered on this shelf of rock to witness the holy execution.

  Mithris examined the stone hut as they approached. These people thought their “Great Master,” their volcano god, lived in this hut. He supposed he could see why they might think that, when they discovered this naturally occurring house. They came up here to offer sacrifice, and decorated their temple with skins as though someone actually dwelt there.

  He did wonder how they had discovered it in the first place. Who in their right mind would climb a volcano and stare down into its belly?

  Then the door curtain twitched aside and Mithris drew up short in undisguised shock.

  The stooped figure that hobbled out of the hut, leaning on a gnarled cane of blackened wood, was ancient beyond knowing. Perhaps the Great Master truly had watched over these people since the beginning of time. At least, since the beginning of time on this plane of existence. He had aged thousands and thousands of years, but Mithris recognized him even through the wild mess of white hair, the deeply creased skin, and the hobbling posture.

  Eaganar pulled someone out of the hut behind him, and shoved her forward. Melendra went sprawling on the stony ground at the evil wizard’s feet as his eyes fixed on Mithris and flashed in triumph.

  “Melendra!” It was Lothar, who rushed forward from the crowd of villagers and ran toward his sister. Two of the elders managed to catch him as he tried to run past them, but they struggled to hold him as he reached for Melendra.

  She pushed herself up, and Mithris saw a look of utter despair marring her fine features.

  “What is this, child?” Elder Grimball moved forward and extended a hand to Melendra, pulling her up when she took it. The young woman stood before the Elder with her eyes lowered in misery and shame.

  “I thought th
is cannot be the one,” she mumbled, gesturing at Mithris. “I’m sorry Elder Grimball, but I can see no evil in him.”

  The Elder’s face flushed with anger, and he grabbed at Melendra’s hand again. Seizing her by the wrist, he took his other hand and pressed up under her chin so she was forced to meet his eyes.

  “Child, what have you done?”

  “She sought to intercede on behalf of Mithris.” Eaganar’s voice was thin and weak. It hissed and rasped like a dying snake slithering for cover. The dark wizard coughed then, and Mithris knew Eaganar was dying. Even the most powerful of wizards could not live forever. How long had he been there? Why hadn’t they all arrived at the same time?

  Elder Grimball’s face fell. “Child,” he whispered sadly. Then he released Melendra’s wrist. She stared at him open mouthed. Tears sprang to her eyes as he turned his back on her.

  “Elder!” she cried.

  “Her life is forfeit,” hissed Eaganar.

  “Her life is forfeit,” agreed Grimball.

  “What? Melendra! No!” Lothar broke free of the old men who struggled to hold him back. He ran to his sister.

  “Lothar, no!” she shouted. “Stay back!”

  The spearman drew up short, his expression pained. He hesitated, barely a pace from his sister. If he took that final step, he would probably be condemned along with her. It was obvious he wanted to go to her anyway.

  Mithris decided he may have misjudged Lothar.

  “Eaganar.” It was Rethbrin. He took a step forward, commanding attention. The old wizard got it. He drew himself up and glared at his wizened rival with contempt. “You always did fancy yourself a god, did you not?”

  “I am a Wizard,” countered Eaganar. He did not raise his hissing voice. He sneered at Rethbrin and Mithris in turn. “In this foundation, I am the only wizard!”

  “There’s no magic here,” said Rethbrin. “You are master of nothing.”

  “Oh, but there is magic,” argued Eaganar. He took an eager step forward, glancing over the ledge into the burning abyss below. “It is faint and far away and we cannot reach it, but I’ve heard it whispering to me. For millennia have I waited for this day. Each night, they whisper in my dreams of this day.”