The Redemption, Volume 1
By Clyde B. Northrup
Chosen of the One: Book 1
The Staff of Shigmar: Book 2
The Morgle Unmasked: Book 3
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2016 Clyde B. Northrup.
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Table of Contents
Chosen of the One: Book 1 of the Redemption
The Staff of Shigmar: Book 2 of The Redemption
The Morgle Unmasked: Book 3 of The Redemption
Glossary
Dictionary
Fokortheku: Book of Ortheks
Maps
About the Author
Chosen of the One
Book 1 of The Redemption
2nd Edition
By Clyde B. Northrup
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 Clyde B. Northrup.
To my brothers, who started, unknowingly, this train. . . .
Author’s Preface
The novel that follows, an epic fantasy and first in a series, contains the beginnings of a long and complex story that takes place in a world very different from our own. Some elements will feel familiar; the characters & situations should also be familiar, although the names and professions sound alien to our contemporary world. This work, like all works of fantasy, requires an extra investment on the part of the reader, and the learning curve is steep in this first volume, introducing a new world, new races, new professions, new creatures, and a new language with its own quirks. I beg the reader’s patience and encourage the reader to ‘press on’–the reward in the end will be worth the investment. This volume has gone through many different iterations, all of them critiqued by readers of fantasy, and their suggestions have helped increase both clarity & access; note also that this book includes a glossary that will aid in understanding these new elements. I have also posted a searchable version of the glossary on my website at http://clydebnorthrup.webs.com under the “Documents” tab that can be downloaded and searched at the reader’s leisure (perhaps while reading the story), along with other information relevant to this (and other future stories). Please visit the site and enjoy what has been (and will be) posted there for the reader’s benefit.
The story that follows could have taken place on our world, in the far distant past, perhaps before the last ice age, or on another world, or in another dimension; it is a reader turned scholar turned author’s attempt to tell an epic story, a tall tale, a “lie breathed through silver,” an exercise of the “noble art of lying,” a reflection of the one true ‘fairy-story’, to whom I owe everything and express my undying gratitude for the gift, the means, and the opportunity to share this story. May the reader find as much joy in the reading as I have in the creation!
Clyde B. Northrup
December 2012
Prophecy of the Chosen
At the center of the ages come those chosen of the One, they who will end Gar’s dominion; two from my own order: one more powerful than all others, doubled of another; one who opens the forbidden way, sprung from my home; one from Karble, myth reborn, dear to the people, bearing the living waters; one from Melbarth, fire of logic burning in his mind; three from the new order, one king, one queen, mirroring each other, one aperu slayer, sacrifice for another; and the cunning mouse, who penetrates all secrets; all maimed and marked by the burden of their choosing.
Darkness and evil go with them, light guides them, rumor precedes them, destruction and disturbance follow them; choose to aid them to suffer, choose to oppose them to die. . . .
Prophecy of Shigmar
Prologue
. . . and Gar went forth with a servant
taken from the corrupted wedoram
stealing thought-giver, ranging across time
to inscribe his mark, his sign of evil
upon hands, hearts and minds
of the CHOSEN OF THE ONE. . . .
from “The Great Year,” a song cycle by Sir Kovar, written Atno 3553
Atno 3500, Spring
The old peddler pulled sharply on his reins, calling loudly to his mule, needing to shout to be heard over the pounding rain. He set the brake on his cart when his mule staggered to a halt, its iron-shod hooves clattering and slipping on the cobblestones, slick from the downpour. The old wethi lifted one arm to shield his face from the rain, his head turning this way and that, his bright blue eyes trying to pierce the darkness and find the source of the sound that had caught his attention. He found the boy hiding behind an overflowing water barrel, his too large feet, along with his sobs, giving him away.
“Come out of there, boy!” the peddler called above the sound of the rain.
The bare, and filthy, feet shifted, as if he were trying to pull them out of sight, but the boy did not rise or answer.
“Don’t be foolish, boy!” the peddler called again. “I know you hide behind that water barrel; come out, and I can help you!”
The dirty, overlarge feet finally disappeared; a smile quivered on the old peddler’s lips.
“Fine, then.” the peddler said. “I’ll be leaving town now, and I’ll leave you to your fate. A pity, truly, since I could have helped you.” He grinned to himself, then released the brake on his cart, preparing to shake the reins.
“You can’t leave town now,” a piping voice spoke from behind the water barrel, “the gates are closed!”
The old peddler ignored the boy, shaking his reins; the mule started to move, its hooves clopping loudly on the cobblestones, the motion of the mule jerking the cart forward. When he felt the boy jump onto the back of his cart, the old peddler smiled widely, revealing the hint of a much younger wethi.
“You better get out of those wet rags and dry off,” the peddler called over his shoulder and under the tarred canvas covering his cart. “I left out some clothes that should fit,” he went on, “better than those rags you’ve been wearing, along with some sturdy shoes, and some bread and cheese–I expect you are hungry–little boys are always hungry.” The old peddler smiled again, then raised his right hand. An archway of white light opened in front of the mule, an archway large enough for both the mule and the cart to pass through; the mule plodded through, stepping off the cobblestones and onto the hard packed dirt of a country road, out of the downpour and into a night free from rain, the sky clear and the stars shining brightly overhead. Rolling hills surrounded the country road, hills that were neatly plowed and covered with new shoots. The peddler lowered his hand once the cart had passed through, closing the archway, and lowered his hood, revealing shoulder-length, wavy gray hair that glittered in the light of a quarter moon.
The boy poked his head out of the canvas, revealing an unruly mass of dark red hair. “The rain st–” he began in his high, piping voice, stopping as suddenly as the rain, his eyes widening in fright. His mouth fell open. “How did . . . but we were. . . ?” he twisted his head around, trying to see behind the cart.
The peddler turned and smiled at the boy reassuringly. “Now, what were you telling me about not being able to leave at night?” he asked.
“How did you get out?” the boy asked, and then went on, not able to wait. “Did you make the rain stop? Are you a . . . maghi?” he asked the last in a hushed, almost reverent voice.
The peddler laughed, a musical, boyish sound. “Have you g
otten dressed yet?” the peddler asked.
The boy nodded, looking with new awe on the peddler.
“Did you get something to eat?”
The boy shook his head, still staring at the peddler.
The peddler sighed and shook his head. “You won’t listen very well if you are starving,” he said, “so grab the bread and cheese, and jug of water, a blanket for warmth, and sit beside me while you eat, then we can talk.”
The boy did as instructed, returning with food, water, and blanket, climbing out of the cart and sitting down beside the peddler then beginning to wolf down the bread and cheese, occasionally drinking from the water jug.
“Easy, boy,” the peddler said, “you’ll make yourself sick, eating like that!” he exclaimed, then he laughed and waited for the boy to finish. The boy’s hands were as large as his feet, and he had a gangly build that promised he would someday be tall; he looked to be about four years old, maybe older, but he had a mind that was sharp for his age, always asking thoughtful questions.
“Feel better now?” he asked.
The boy nodded.
“Why weren’t you with the other urchins?”
“They threw me out.”
“Why?
“Cuz I got caught–we’re not supposed to get caught,” and when the peddler looked quizzical, he added, “it’s one of our rules.”
The peddler sighed and fell silent for several moments. The mule plodded on, winding among the brown hills, the scent of newly turned earth strong. The peddler’s cart creaked only a little; the boy finally broke the silence.
“You never told me how you left the city,” he said, “or how you stopped the rain, or if you’re a maghi.”
The peddler chuckled. “Little boys have an insatiable curiosity,” he quoted a popular saying, then smiled down at the boy. “Do you have a name, boy?” he asked, not answering his questions.
“Everyone calls me Tam.”
The peddler shook his head. “That’s not right,” he replied, stunning the boy.
“But I don’t have any other name,” the boy protested.
The peddler laughed, the boyish, musical sound that belied his apparent age. “Not yet, boy, but soon you will,” he continued to laugh, and the hint of a much younger person was clearly visible on his face and in his laughing blue eyes, “and soon you will be found by your true parents, who will raise you to be who you were meant to be.”
The boy’s face wrinkled. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said to himself, then spoke louder, “I don’t understand,” he admitted.
“No,” the peddler replied, “nor will you remember this conversation, but you will remember that an old peddler brought you to the village up ahead, taught you some minor ortheks, and left you in the care of those who will look out for you.”
“So you are a maghi,” the boy concluded.
“No, not in the sense that you think,” he replied, “but I know a few tricks I can teach you, like how to make a root rise up and trip someone, or how to make your voice sound like a hundred people.”
The boy’s face wrinkled again in thought. “But I never forget anything that happens to me,” he said.
“Really?” the peddler replied. “Do you remember your mother’s name?” he asked.
The boy opened his mouth, then closed it suddenly; his small, oval face colored brightly.
“You see,” the peddler went on, “you can forget things, and you will forget our conversation, remembering only what I have told you. Now I think you should get some sleep.”
“But you haven’t taught me the ortheks,” the boy protested.
The peddler grinned but did not look down at the boy. “I already have,” he replied, “but you will not remember that I have until you need to, which will not happen for many years yet.”
“But how will I find my parents?” the boy protested again.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” the peddler answered, “they are my servants, and they will find you, soon.”
“But . . . ,” the boy tried again.
“No more buts tonight!” the peddler interrupted the boy. “Now, crawl back into the cart and get some sleep!”
The boy yawned widely, a look of surprise in his eyes that was quickly replaced by sleep; he shook himself, then crawled through the flap and disappeared inside the cart. The peddler smiled to himself. “They really are wondrous,” he whispered to himself, glancing over his shoulder and knowing that the boy was already fast asleep.
Atno 3524, “The Great Year,” Early Spring
The central hall of the school of the white maghem was dark and silent but for the soft glowing and humming of the protective ortheks surrounding the artifacts displayed around this large, airy chamber. Pillars of white marble supported the vaulted ceiling, high overhead; the night sky was visible through the many narrow windows high in the walls, and one shaft of moonlight fell upon a single display case at the precise center of this wide, round room. Gems glittered, reflecting the thin shaft of light, but the platinum rod appeared dull gray, the satin cushion cold silver in the light of the moon. The crystal case pulsed and hummed, the many elemental forces that surrounded and protected it just visible, evidence of the complex ortheks securing the rod that lay within, and only the sedra knew how to remove them all. The rod belonged to Melbarth, the founder of the white order, after whom the city, school, and order were named, a maghi who lived more than three millennia before. All the students and masters of the school passed through this room and passed by this crystal case many times each day, a reminder of what they could achieve, but it was also a reminder of what they had lost, for none today could make a rod or a staff that was its equal, the knowledge of its making lost. At this hour of the night, some two hours past midnight, nothing stirred within the hall.
In the shadows of a nearby marble pillar, an archway of deeper shadow, like a piece of the elemental Void, silently opened; two hooded and cloaked figures stepped out. Had anyone been in the hall to notice the strange manner of their arrival, this student, master, or hierarch would have only noticed that one of them walked on booted feet, for the hard sounds of boots stepping across the marble floor, and that the other did not wear boots, or shoes of any kind, for the sound of its footfalls was like the sound of hands gently flapping on stone. The two figures stopped in front of the crystal case, pausing for only a moment.
“Pathetic,” the taller, booted figure whispered in a voice filled with derision. He waved one hand carelessly over the crystal case; the pulsing light and humming sounds ceased at once. The figure made a lifting gesture with his hand and outstretched arm, and the case opened; the ornately carved platinum rod rose out of the satin cushion and into the outstretched hand of the second figure. The hand of this figure, however, was nothing like the first: the skin was pale green, and the hand was narrow and longer, with only two fat fingers and a thumb, and all three digits were lined with round indentations, like some kind of sea creature. The rod started to glow with an angry red light, the huge diamond atop the rod lit with bloody light, but the figure now holding the rod spoke some words in a voice that hissed and bubbled, with an oddly muffled quality, causing the angry light to fade slowly and finally wink out, becoming again its former dull gray in the strange, green-skinned hand, with only a tiny pinpoint of red light still visible at the center of the eye-shaped diamond that formed the platinum rod’s apex.
“Hold up the rod,” the first figure growled. He waved his hand again, and an exact copy of the rod appeared on the white satin cushion within the crystal case. The figure waved his hand across the crystal case, the case closed, and the humming, pulsing protective ortheks re-activated. “We must go,” he noted, “there is work that we must perform now that we have that rod.”
“Yes,” the second hissed, a note of exultation in his strange voice, “there is nothing I cannot do with this rod.”
The first figure whipped around and grabbed the second by the neck, lifting the second off the grou
nd. “Never forget,” he growled, “that you would not hold that rod without me! If you ever betray me, Motodu, I will destroy you!” Two points of red light flashed from inside the shadows of the first figure’s hood, and the eye-shaped diamond atop the rod flashed red in response. His voice, nearly a shout, quieted as suddenly as it had risen in volume. “I am your master: never forget that.” The first figure dropped the second back onto the marble floor, the feet slapping hard, the sound echoing around the chamber. For one brief moment, when the first figure turned and stalked away, the second raised the rod, the light in the diamond turning a sickly green and glowing brightly. “Are you certain, Motodu,” the first asked without turning, as he reopened the black archway, “that you have sufficient command of that rod to face me? Only the chosen with all three keys could hope to do that, powerful though you think you are; I suggest you stop courting oblivion so that we can take care of what we need to before the rod rejects you.” Gar cast a half-glance back over his shoulder. “Unless you’d like me to leave you here, in the middle of Melbarth’s school? I could set off all those alarm ortheks and remove the duplicate rod: you’d be trapped here, caught with Melbarth’s Rod in your slimy hands, not even knowing that the rod itself could have allowed you to escape.” He stepped into the black archway, grinning smugly to himself when he heard the sounds of Motodu’s feet slapping across the marble floor as the morgle ran to the black archway before Gar let it close.
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