by Gwynn White
He rubbed his hand across his lips thinking of her kisses and walked right into the back of a monk. The tonsured man turned and scowled at him, holding a finger to his lips to silence the apology Christol tried to offer. Still, barely away the ambassador’s harangue finally penetrated both the beer hangover and his daydreams about Ellora.
“…it is the duty of every citizen to support Master Vail in his mission to rid Mithlonde of dragons forever. No one understands the sacrifices this mission carries more than the master. Every citizen of Haiwood must answer his call. No matter what your skill, your age, your gender, you must come to Marbeht when you receive the summons.”
The wizard’s ambassador paused, scanned the crowd, his one eye keenly observing those who were not meeting his gaze, or who were fiddling with the edges of their cloaks, shuffling their feet, or in some other way protesting his call for obedience. He mentally noted each individual, some by name, and some simply by their appearance. He might have been blind in one eye, but his good eye never missed a detail and, though humpbacked, and slow in appearance in gait, there was nothing slow or dull-witted about him. Jogli, knew his job, knew his master, and knew the consequences of failure.
Christol’s blurry eyed, half-asleep demeanor did not escape Jogli’s inspection. He knew the farrier by reputation, and it understood it to be worth noting. However, his ale-fogged manner this morning certainly belied the standing the blacksmith held in the community, and his almost mythical way with animals. Jogli suppressed the urge to rub his whiskers as he thought about this apparent contradiction, then cleared his throat and continued, “Those with skills that are especially needed to combat the dragon hoards will be called for soon. As you already know, Wizard Vail must have the use and command over every magic user in Mithlonde. If you know of a magic user and do not report it, you will be punished as will the unreported magician. We also have need of foot soldiers, smithies, cooks and animal handlers.”
“Do not think you can escape your summoning. Our master knows who you are and where you are, and when his messengers appear you must return with them or both you and every member of your family will suffer.” Jogli’s one good eye seemed to grow, expand and almost glimmer as if there was another person seeing through it. “He sees all, knows all, and you will not escape your duty to him and to Mithlonde.”
Jogli raised his arms, a staff topped with a dragon’s head like a scepter held high above the villagers. Its emerald-stone eye cast a green glow which grew brighter the higher he raised it. With an almost collective cringe, the crowd shrank away from it as Jogli raised it higher and higher. The stone’s incandescent light radiated across the top of their bowed heads, sparking and casting an eerie glow, and its cold-heat hissed in the cool morning air. As Jogli passed it over the crowd in a twisted benediction, its light was a burning flash of blindness in the eyes of one of the waiting mounts. Screaming in pain, it rose up, pawing at the air, and jerking its reins from the hands of its groom. Blinded, panicked and terrified it tore through the crowd, trampling anything in its path.
The groom was neither fast enough nor skilled enough to stop its frantic charge. As the sixteen-hand red roan stallion bore down on a blond-headed urchin, he stood and watched in horror completely helpless to stop it. Jogli, unaware and uncaring of the rising panic, continue to pass the dragon specter over the gathered villagers, pausing only when a woman’s terror-stricken cry cut through his trance-like benediction.
“Help! Help, my baby! Someone please….” Her cried trailed off as Christol shoved her brutally out of the path of the charging animal.
“Get the flaming blazes out of the way woman,” he cursed. “I can’t get to her with you standing there screaming like a fool screech owl.”
Using elbows, feet, and boots, Christol shoved his way through the crowd; his beer hangover burnt off by the urgency of the situation and his fear for the child’s life. The crowd parted, not as quickly as flood waters would do, but more like swamp water that slowly recedes and then returns as they all stretched their necks to get a good view of the coming tragedy.
Finally, disgusted by the mob mentality which always feels better about their lot in life by comparing it to the misery of others, Christol began jumping upon their backs and using their shoulders as stepping stones – one to the other – to get the far side of the crowd. If there was an occasional complaint or grumble as he used their backs as a pathway to the girl, he ignored them or returned their comments with a blistering curse. When the farrier could finally see, what he saw filled him with terror for the safety of the little girl’s life. Somehow, she had crawled through the rails of its pen where she sat playing in the hay oblivious to the raging animal bearing down on her.
The animal was magnificent and as Christol finally reached the stallion, he understood its reasons for stampeding and charging around its corral. Jogli’s magical crozier had burned its right eye, and it was weeping bloody tears. The terrified animal was 1200 pounds of charging muscle as it pounded toward the hay pile where the baby sat. A few men and women, kept their wits about them, and tried to reach up for the stallion’s halter to stop the animal's blinding panic, but they were neither quick enough nor strong enough to hold him back. The roan either knocked aside or trod underfoot those that tried to stop it. Christol knew that he was no match for the frightened beast, but he also knew he had to try something, anything
Without a thought for his safety, he climbed the rails and jumped into the corral where he stood guard over the toddler. The roan bore down on him, yet he stood straight, looking both confident and unafraid. “Easy there, boy,” he whispered. “Easy.”
The roan still charged straight down on Christol and the child with only twenty feet between them and its pounding hooves. Yet, the horse heard the quite whisper, and its ears perked forward from their laid-back position. It was a clear sign the animal heard him and was listening.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise, and I can help you see again. I can help you. I can take away your pain.” Again Christol’s words were only a whisper that he and the animal could hear, but the horse slowed, its sides heaving, sweat glistening on its flanks and withers in the morning sun.
“Here, boy. Come here boy. Let me help you.” Christol spoke a little louder this time, and the noisy crowd hushed so they could hear his quiet voice. Awe soon spread through them as they watched the madden animal slowly trot toward Christol, lower his head, and nuzzle his jerkin looking for a treat.
Christol smiled, reached inside a pocket and pulled out a honeyed and barley horse cookie that he always kept handy for the horses he shod. As the roan, chewed happily he reached up and grabbed the animal’s reigns. He pulled the horses head up so that he could get a look at its bloody eyes. The crowd could almost hear his teeth grinding in repressed anger as he inspected the damage caused by Jogli’s specter.
“Someone get a healer, and bring me some hot water, pain salve and clean bandages. And, would someone get this girl’s mother and get this child to safety.”
Engrossed in thought, Wizard Vail pursed his lips while his left hand stroked his short, well-kept beard. In his right hand, he held a clear crystal though which he could see all that Jogli saw with his ensorcelled eye. Given to Jogli the night he rescued the boy, the wizard could not have guessed how useful the magical eye would be. Now, it was an invaluable tool in keeping his kingdom under surveillance. Only he and Jogli knew the secret of the enchanted eye, and Vail knew Jogli would never betray him. He also knew that Jogli was unaware of what he'd witnessed in the village of Haiwood.
Muttering to himself, he bent over a map of the town and its surrounding woods as he planned his next move. “That man has magic. I am sure of it. He could not have calmed that horse so easily without it. I heard the charm in his voice. I heard the power of command as he spoke. I must have him. He may be the key to overpowering the dragons and ridding Mithlonde of their curse forever.”
He traced a route from his palace to Haiwood, figuring out the nu
mber of days it would take Jogli to conscript Christol and return. Contacting his ward would not be a problem. A simple whispered command, whispered in the winds of the land’s magic would tell Jogli exactly what the wizard wanted. The problem was waiting for them to return.
“Even at a full gallop they are at least three weeks from the Halls of Marbeht.” He rubbed his beard again, “I suppose I could meet them halfway…” He shook his head. “No that would be going in the wrong direction. The dragons’ home is here,” He stabbed at a spot on the map. “We have to go to the Catacombs of Porthca as they will not come to us. And, that is in the other direction.”
“No,” he straightened his back, stood tall, and firm. “I will wait for Jogli to arrive with the boy, and then we will leave for Porthca and destroy every living dragon on Mithlonde.”
Confident and resolute, he turned his thoughts inward reaching for the magic that intertwined every cell of his body. It was like the air he breathed, something always there, always assisting and helping him, but something he was never consciously aware of. He let his thoughts trail through it and reached for his apprentice.
“Jogli?”
It was only a brief second or two before he received a response.
“Yes, Master, I am here.”
“Bring me the boy that calmed the horse.”
“Yes, Master, I understand.”
“Bring him back immediately and do not make any more stops to levy conscriptions or supplies. I what him back here as soon as possible.
“Yes, Master, we will be back to Castle Marbeht as soon as possible.”
“See to it then.”
“Yes, Master.”
Jogli turned back to watch the man and the horse. He was smarter than his master gave him credit for, and he quickly recognized the magic in the farrier. It was the most basic, and the rarest of the wild magics of Mithlonde, the ability to control animals with a thought. He also knew why Wizard Vail anxiously anticipated getting hold of this wild magic; with it he could control the dragons. With it, he could finally get the revenge that had consumed him for the past thirty years. Revenge for his young wife’s death, revenge for changing his life forever, and revenge for the pain that never ended.
With a mental shrug, Jogli began plotting how to capture Christol, for he also knew the young man’s name. There really wasn’t much that escaped his notice in whichever town he happened to be in. And Christol would attract anyone’s attention with his shoulder-length hair that was as dark as raven wings, and eyes the same blue-black color that flashed like benitoite crystals in the sun, and then turned black as a moonless night with anger or passion. He had been watching the young man for some time, and Vail's request for him did surprise him in the least. The only surprise he experience was that it had taken this long for Christol to come under the magician’s scrutiny.
Jogli knew Christol’s routine, and it didn’t take him long to devise a plan to capture him and bring him to the Halls of Marbeht. Vail’s servant also already knew it was useless to ask the farrier to come willingly for the young man never bothered to hide his opinions at the local pub.
“Why should we support Vail’s war against the dragons?” Christol would ask anybody who happened to be in the vicinity. “It’s not our war. Those dragons live three hundred sun downs to the west, and they haven’t ever bothered us.” About this time, the very drunk blacksmith would begin slurring his words. “He’s shuss wants sheeshs power. Shats all, shush more and more power.” When his head would start to droop and he was in danger of falling out of his tavern chair, the barmaid would motion to his sidekick and best friend, Stephye, that it was time for him to drag his friend’s drunken butt home.
“Get him out of here before his ranting get us all in trouble, “she would hiss. “ When is he ever going to grow up? This isn’t going to help, and he knows it.”
“He’s just drunk,” Stephye would reply.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s drunk every night.”
And that is what Jogli was counting on. It would be a simple matter to ambush Christol and Stephye on the way back to their rooms over the smithy. Done silently, under the cover of night, his disappearance would go unnoticed, as did all the other mysterious disappearances. A shrewd and calculating gleam intensified the eerie light that radiated from his magical eye. “There are no mysterious disappearances. Everyone knows why people disappear and where they end up,” he smirked. “Vail’s will, will be done with or without their cooperation.”
Ellora shrugged back into her high priestess collar, adjusting it around her neck and flipping her long hair out of the way. “Flame blasted, thing,” she mutter, with a glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t overheard. It wasn’t that she minded serving the Goddess, far from it. It was her heart’s desire. It’s just that all the rituals, trappings, and other rigmarole that went with it seemed unnecessary and pompous to her.
“That’s going to change,” she said, a little louder this time. “The Goddess knows us, knows our hearts, our needs, and no amount of bowing, scrapping, chanting or sacrifices is going to make any difference to her. She’s going to do what is best regardless just because that’s who she is.”
She tugged at one of the folds of the cerulean blue gown its flowing folds draping and hugging her curves and its color picking up the green sparks in her hazel eyes. Riesa entered with her diadem, and seeing her Ellora could only grimace in disgust. “Is that flame curse thing really necessary?”
Riesa’s rolled eyes were her only answer, and kneeling before her best friend Ellora allowed her to place the coronet amid her flowing locks. Ringed with emeralds, green diamonds and jadeite and set in silver refined to its purest state, the circlet was more of a crown than symbol of service to the Goddess, and Ellora hated it. She hated being displayed on a pedestal before her people as the High Priestess. Her job, as she saw it, was to serve them in service to her goddess. It was not to be honored, pampered and worshiped. Those things belong to her Goddess.
“Ready?” Riesa asked.
“I guess.”
“It goes with the position, you know that. Why do you keep fighting against things you can’t change? You are as bad as your friend Christol, and if you both keep it up, you are both going to end up in the dragon’s fire.”
“Hmph! I am not afraid of dragons, wizards or priestesses. Come on let’s get this over with.”
Riesa picked up the gown’s train and followed quietly behind her friend unable to hide the worry in her eyes. Goddess keep her safe. Bad times are coming. I have seen it. You have shown me. Keep them BOTH safe.
Ellora raised her arms to bless the offering, the animal’s spirit had long since crossed over, and all that lay before her was its abandoned shell. She no longer felt either its dying pain or its peaceful arrival in the Goddess’ arms. She stared at the carcass and wondered about her calling. She'd born for this. It had been her first love as she played in the folds of her High Priestess mother’s robes. She had listened to her mother’s melodious voice chanting the rhythmic prayers and watching her call the purifying fire.
She thought of this as she also chanted, waiting for the fire. As her fingers began to tingle, and the warmth of the Goddess’ presence filled her, flames enveloped her hands covering each finger and her palms like shimmering gloves of fire. She extended them over the doe’s lifeless body where it lay on a bed of grain, hay and first fruits.
“For this morning of waking, we thank you. For another day of life, we offer this life. For this day’s bounty and blessing, we bless you with the gifts of the forest and the field.” Fire arose from her outspread hands. It was not a holocaust, searing and burning all that was before it. Rather, a gentle, comforting blaze quietly consuming the fuel beneath it, and leaving only ashes as a remembrance. She lowered her arms, her face blank as she stared at the ashes at that had once represented life and all the joys it could offer.
Riesa stood to her side, her eyes narrowing at the look on her mistr
ess face. She had been Ellora’s playmate, schoolmate and now aide to the high priestess to be, and she knew her well enough to know that something was not right with her mistress. However, she could not read Ellora’s mind or the doubts that plagued her.
Ellora turned, stepped down from the altar with Riesa beside her. However, the priestess’ thoughts remained behind with the ashes. “Is that all there is? Is that the whole meaning of our lives? To become nothing more than ashes in the end?”
“Shh, now. It’ll be okay. There’s no need to fret and carry on.” Christol stroked the piebald mare’s golden mane as he whispered to her. She cocked her ears forward, listening intently and lowered the leg, which had been posed hammer away at the stall door. “Aww…see there lass, it is well.” He ran a hand down her withers and back up under her chin. Like a giant dog, she leaned toward his touch, her anger and being corralled and caged, allayed for the moment. The farrier slipped her a piece of apple and the crunch of her teeth on the ripe fruit followed him as he checked on the next horse in the stable.
He rather bounced from one wall of the stable corridor to the next, his beer consumption making him more than a little unsteady, but it never deterred him from checking in on his chargers before bed. He wasn’t sure how he knew, and wasn’t even aware that his knowledge was unusual, but he knew the moods and feelings of each horse in his care. He could tell if they were frightened, weary, or like the mare simply angry at being cooped up in a stall. He knew if they wanted to be next to a specific stall mate or if they wanted just a peek at the sun. It was knowledge based on observation of their body movements like laid-back ears or tail swishing. A soul-deep communication that was both instantaneous and mutual. It was also consensual. If the horse didn’t want to “talk” to him, he respected their privacy and moved on. Likewise, they respected him. More than that, they loved him, and again, he couldn’t tell anyone how he knew this, but it was an awareness that he felt so deeply within him that even penetrated the foggy miasma caused by his nightly beer indulgence.
