The Redemption, Volume 1

by Clyde B Northrup

  In the globe, Thal stood facing a bipedal creature with sea green skin and black eyes, and a large, bulbous, squid-like head. The creature had no mouth that he could see, but what looked like dangling tentacles where its mouth and nose should have been. “A morgle,” he whispered to himself. Flash-flash red-eyed ponkola kortexi black-haired straining bonds sapling bent gyrating hips flash-flash. On Thal’s right, the curly haired kailu stood. Beyond the kailu, a tall, black haired wethi stood, flaming sword brandished and clad in gold chain mail with a white surcoat–a kortexi of Karble. The morgle waved one two-fingered hand and the darkness before them lightened and revealed the kailu’s twin brother, chained to a bench, the outline of a ponkola straddling him. The kortexi lunged forward, his sword flashed, and the head of the ponkola flew from her shoulders, landing in a pool of light and becoming the head of a wetha with golden hair, causing the bound seklesi to howl with rage. . . . Flash-flash grinning gheli sword curved flashing slicing head red falling lurch flash-flash. Thal’s dual perspective ended, and he saw the large kailu facing a group of ponkolum in a misty, lightless realm. The kailu held a staff topped with what looked like a green star shining in the dimness, and was surrounded by unmoving bodies of seklesem; a second kailu stood beside him. The ponkolum circled the kailum, apparently on their large leathery wings, which meant they must all be in rumepant. Flash-flash pale haggard face tattered rags rain-soaked dripping ghelem grinning flash-flash. The skin of the ponkolum was deep, dark red and hairless; two curved horns protruded from either side of their heads. The kailum were large but appeared small before the ponkolum floating horned-head and winged-shoulders above them. The fiends raised their rods and blasted the kailum from several directions, knocking both from their feet with beams of red light; the green, star-like light of the kailu’s staff winked out. The ponkolum grinned wickedly, the light sparkling on bared fangs. The images shifted and Thal again saw from a dual perspective. With him stood the twin brothers and the kortexi, golden flames licking the blade of his sword; an awemi with a round, innocent face and curly brown hair with red highlights, brandishing short sword and dagger, both glowing with cold, blue light; flash-flash round face twisted fear misshapen monstrous spider-shape puri face tearing flesh flash-flash. He also saw a second seklesi, built similar to the first, who appeared to be related to the twins, and his face, like the seklesa, was half-covered in shadow, whirling a pair of curved blades that also glowed with cold, blue light. Flash-flash pale haggard face tattered rags rain-soaked dripping ghelem grinning flash-flash. They faced a huge, rust-colored aperu on a smooth black island surrounded by red-orange light and smoke. The aperu lifted its head when one of Thal’s companions, the sandy-haired seklesi in armor as red as the aperu, with a sword whose blade was licked by flames the color of the aperu, strode forward to face the beast alone. Flash-flash pale haggard face tattered rags rain-soaked dripping ghelem grinning flash-flash. The aperu appeared to laugh before a thin jet of flame shot from between its clenched teeth. The seklesi disappeared in the flames. . . . Flash-flash leaping seklesi red sword fire exploding purgle ashes dust ashes flash-flash. Thal felt himself flung to the floor. He looked up and saw a skeletal figure wrapped in a black robe. The purgle, raised a bony hand surrounded by red light. Just as the purgle released his fire against Thal, the sandy-haired seklesi jumped between them, thrusting a sword into the purgle’s rib cage, and Thal noticed that the handle of the sword was in the shape of an aperu, reminding him of the beast of the previous vision. The red fire surrounded the seklesi, who arched in pain; flash-flash whirling black door void thrusting void evil empty time space screaming silence flash-flash the sword exploded. . . . A handsome wethi, with curly blond hair and deep blue eyes, clad only in a loincloth, lay tied to a black stone altar. Raised red welts covered the skin of his chest and thighs. A red-robed figure stepped into view behind the altar; the figure’s face was overshadowed by his hood. Thal only saw the glitter of his eyes, their color shifting across the spectrum and turning ruddy when he stood next to the altar. Flash-flash pale haggard face tattered rags rain-soaked dripping ghelem grinning flash-flash. He raised a black dagger, held in both hands, over his head and thrust the dagger with all his might into the heart of the wethi bound to the altar. . . .

  Thal’s dual view ended, and he looked again on the globe of whirling lights. He nearly released the orthek when images formed again in the globe. Flash-flash pale haggard face tattered rags rain-soaked dripping ghelem grinning flash-flash. He saw a glade he recognized, just to the west of the tower, where a wethi, who looked familiar to him, lay under a tree at the edge of the glade. Lightning flashed around the wethi in unison with the lightning flashing around the tower. Flash-flash pale haggard face tattered rags rain-soaked dripping ghelem grinning flash-flash. Thal released the orthek and looked up at Kalamar. Thal somehow knew that the wethi in the last image, repeated as an interruption in the latter part his vision, was wounded and that he, Thal, must rescue the wounded wethi.

  Kalamar nodded. “Your eyes and heart begin to see as one.”

  Thal looked west, seeing as Kalamar had seen, past the rain blurred crystal and the wind lashed pines. “I sense . . . many eyes upon the wethi . . . ghelem approaching . . . he knows but is weak from long toil and a recent injury.”

  “The test is yours, my son,” Kalamar noted, “and you must face it, alone.”

  Thal turned his eyes upon his master. “You knew,” Thal noted, “why didn’t you act?”

  “I knew when the image appeared in your vukeetu;” the old maghi replied. “I see past externals into the heart of the storm; I know this is your test.”

  Thal lowered his eyes; his cheeks colored. “I’m sorry for presuming. . . .”

  “Needless apology,” Kalamar interrupted, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “you saw more than I could have when I was your rank.” Kalamar smiled warmly upon his son and apprentice. The old maghi drew a symbol in the air between them with his platinum rod. He mumbled a word and touched Thal’s forehead with the tip of his rod.

  The red-haired apprentice leapt to his feet, feeling a tingling surge of energy running from the center of his forehead down along every nerve.

  “Sprint while the orthek holds!” Kalamar exclaimed.

  Thal shot from the room and flew down three flights of stairs to the tower’s ground floor. He touched the door latch and was blown back by the storm’s fury. Drawing deeply upon his master’s orthek, the young, gangly maghi sped out of the tower, wrenching the door closed behind him. Lightning flashed directly overhead and Thal saw the evil force driving the storm, heard its laughter in the thunderclap. He lowered his head into the wind, legs pumping, enhanced by his master’s orthek. Sheets of rain lashed him; gusts of wind pummeled him, but neither slowed his teka augmented pace. He crossed the threshold of their teka fences, passing through a wall of water held there by the wind, as the force driving the storm sought in vain to breech the dome of protection surrounding the tower, but the water slid off harmlessly, streaming from the ends of his wind-whipped hair; his robe and lanky frame cut through the wind like a knife through water, leaving hardly a ripple. As Thal approached the glade, the rain ceased, the wind slowed to barely a breeze, and the clouds lifted. Sensing a change in tactics, Thal slowed and dodged off the path, hiding behind the trunk of a large cedar. Lightning flashed, revealing the ghelem stalking cautiously toward the unmoving figure of the wounded wethi.

  When the tower door slammed shut, Kalamar stood and walked to his study’s west window and watched the red-topped white smudge that was Thal streak toward the west. He turned from the window and pulled a talisman from his robe. His hands whispered drily, as he rubbed the small round object between his aged palms. Opening his hands, the old maghi breathed upon the object, spoke a single word, and watched it rise from his hands to float before him.

  “Perepod-Myron,” Kalamar said in a clear voice. The small talisman disappeared with a snap, like the sound of two flat boards slapped togeth
er. The old maghi left his study and turned away from the stairs toward the ladder leading to the tower’s roof. “Rumandu!” Kalamar cried and the door above flew open. “Steighud-me!” He pulled his white, silver-trimmed hood over his head and, pointing the tip of his platinum rod toward the opening overhead, began to rise slowly. Passing through the opening, he stepped lightly upon the wet stones. All the storm’s fury did not touch the frail-looking maghi standing on the roof. Kalamar held out his rod and spoke a single word, “kresko.” The rod grew in his hand until it was as long as the maghi was tall; the rod’s tip glowed with orange light. He hummed as he drew a symbol on the stone. When the circle was complete, he rapped the roof once with the rod; a symbol of power flared to life where before there had been only wet, black stone. Kalamar leaned on his rod and waited for Myron to finish his own fiery symbol many miles to the north in Shigmar, connecting their two present but separate realities to a future hypothetical reality in which the two occupied the same point in space. A kind of doorway would open and remain so until one or both of the symbols were erased. It was teka he and Myron had invented. Kalamar turned from his glowing orange symbol and looked west, seeing Thal pass easily through the dome of protection. He looked beyond his apprentice and saw the force sent to test both his teka fences and his apprentice. The old maghi sighed and cast his gaze around the teka fences looking for weaknesses and other threats. To the east, he saw, but didn’t see, something lurking, hovering at the limit of his view. He could only see it at the edge of his vision, like a shadow that flitted out of sight when directly confronted. Kalamar reached out with his mind, trying to discern what he saw and didn’t see, but each time he tried to touch whatever it was, it disappeared, as if nothing had ever been there. Finally, he purposely looked from where it was, pretending to reach away but suddenly turning upon the shadow. He got a glimpse of black horns tinged with flames and a whiff of sulfur. He started to reach a fourth time, but stopped when orange light flared before his eyes. He braced for a mental blow before recognizing that the light came from his symbol as it joined with Myron’s symbol, and the kailu of Shigmar appeared within the circle.

  The green robed figure, of medium height and build, stepped from the circle of orange power and clasped Kalamar’s hand. The old maghi looked long at his friend before speaking, noticing his blue eyes as bright as ever, even if his kindly face was more worn than before.

  “You received my message?” Myron brushed rain from his prominent, hawk nose.

  Kalamar’s smile went limp. “Message . . . , no.”

  “Then why did you. . . ?”

  “The sign was given . . . , I sent for you.”

  “I received no sending,” Myron said. “I came because Klaybear went to the sacred glade this morning, which is my half of the sign.”

  Kalamar nodded; his rod diminished to its normal length. “You sent it in the normal manner?”

  Myron nodded.

  Kalamar walked to the west edge of the roof and looked over the parapet. The black stone telepad, carved with arcane symbols was bare but for the rain. “Nothing,” Kalamar said.

  Myron’s forehead wrinkled. “Odd . . . it has never failed before.”

  Kalamar pointed in the direction Thal had gone. “Tell me what you see.”

  Myron closed his eyes. “I sense the evil force and its purposes. Thal approaches. The storm is lifting.”

  Kalamar lowered his voice. “Now look in the opposite direction . . . , suddenly.”

  Myron nodded, keeping his eyes closed. He turned quickly around, casting his thoughts to the east. “I sense . . . , nothing?” his voice rose as he questioned his own declaration. “There was something, but it disappeared before I could touch it.”

  “Exactly what I didn’t see.”

  “Does it have anything to do with our messages?”

  “What else could intercept and prevent teka that has not, before today, failed?”

  “And, it happens on the day the both our apprentices choose to act.” Myron sighed and shook his head. “Does Thal understand what he does?”

  Kalamar shook his head and sighed. “Not clearly.”

  Myron frowned. “I was strongly told to reveal nothing but the essentials to Klaybear.”

  “It would not matter if I had told him all,” Kalamar said. “Thal is headstrong,” he sighed, “he believes in nothing but what he can verify by his own senses. If he cannot see and touch it then it does not, for him, exist.”

  “Yet, he uses elemental power that cannot be seen or touched by most. How does he respond to that criticism? Since I’m sure you have mentioned it.” Myron smiled at Kalamar.

  The old maghi nodded. “He would say that because he wields the power himself and knows of its existence, what others say is irrelevant . . . for his belief.”

  Myron laughed and clapped Kalamar fondly on the back. “He is certainly your son!” The kailu’s laughter stopped suddenly; his voice lowered to a whisper. “That may cause some problems later on.”

  Kalamar nodded sadly. “It is something he will grapple with . . . in time. We have, Nelle especially, tried to instill some doubts in his mind, some cracks in the fortress of his logic that will allow for . . . faith.”

  The Headmaster smiled crookedly. “It’s going to be interesting when the logician meets the others!”

  Kalamar smiled and let another sigh escape. “I sometimes wish I could be there.”

  “I know what you mean, my friend,” Myron said, laying his hand on the maghi’s shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. “I fear I will only see the first encounter.”

  “We will be standing with you, though you see us not.”

  Silence fell upon them as they waited for Thal’s return. The storm lifted, and only a moderate drizzle continued to wash the walls and roof of the tower. Red beams of light pierced the clouds as the sun sank slowly into the western sea. The west wind, heavy with salt and moisture, barely ruffled their robes. A gull cried in the distance marking the end of the unnatural storm. Myron broke their silence.

  “Are you certain?”

  “We have known since we were joined . . . when the kortexi comes. . . .”

  Myron looked at him and drew a sharp breath. “He is not supposed to leave for the Mountain until fall . . . ,” he protested.

  “Plans change,” Kalamar interrupted, “and his arrival is overdue. Were you not as surprised as I was, this morning, when your Klaybear and my Thal chose–on their own–to act as they have, giving the first sign?”

  Myron looked away.

  “Sir Blakstar the kortexi is not far away. In fact, we think he should have been here by now.” Kalamar sighed, shook his head, and then pointed to the west. “Part of the reason they are here is to probe our teka dome.” He jerked a thumb toward the east. “And there is a shadow hovering, waiting. I did not tell you I got a glimpse of him, complete with a whiff of sulfur!” Kalamar shrank; his voice crackled as he spoke. “Our time is nearly gone.” He sighed. “Did you find anything in the secret histories?”

  Myron turned slowly to face his friend. “A single note at the end of Shigmar’s record,” he said, “but what it means, I don’t know. I’ll make sure my apprentice gets it at the proper time.”

  Kalamar frowned, his entire face wrinkling. “His words may not make sense to you or me,” he said, “but they will to the chosen.”

  Myron shook his head slowly. “I really thought I’d find more, something useful, anyway, not just some cryptic comment about a house,” he fell silent, shaking his head again.

  “There is one other thing,” Kalamar frowned, breaking the silence after several slow minutes had passed, “Thal’s vision was . . . interrupted. I’m not sure how to explain it, but his vukeetu was split during his seeing by lightning that opened a second window filled with images: images smashed together and so compact, it was difficult to distinguish one from another.”

  “Did Thal see these interruptions as out of place?”

  “No, and I nearly stop
ped the vision for fear that he was losing control of his orthek, but his mind was undisturbed, calmer than when he began.” Kalamar looked to the east. “I have never heard of the orthek behaving in this manner.”

  Myron twisted his staff in his hands. “I might be surprised, under other circumstances, but that I had the strangest desire, about the time Klaybear would have entered the glade, to fly there instantly and rescue him from some peril.” Myron gently tapped his staff on the floor. “I even tried to open a teka window to view the glade.”

  Kalamar looked at his green-robed friend and smiled. “What did you see?”

  Myron laughed. “Nothing,” he replied, “the window opened to nothing! Whatever has happened I could not–was not allowed–to interfere.” Myron smiled crookedly. “Perhaps, had you tried to stop the orthek, you would have been thwarted. Yet I fear, for all our planning and preparation, that things have gone awry.”

  Kalamar shrugged. “Perhaps this is the way it was meant to be.”

  Thal melted into the shadows of the trees as the setting sun broke through the storm. He saw that the ghelem outnumbered him six to one.

  “If only I could cast an illusion orthek,” the young maghi mumbled to himself. “A red aperu, flaming and swooping down upon them would send them running all the way to Melbarth!” However, illusory aperu were far beyond his present skill. He reviewed his list of offensive ortheks, an act that took half a breath, and discarded them as ineffective against so many. He cursed his lack of experience, but stopped, mid-curse, when he suddenly remembered the old peddler who had befriended him as a child. The old wethi taught him many things and left him in the nearby village of Artowgar, a village that would look kindly on an orphaned child. The wandering outcast taught him a simple air orthek that would cause the sounds around his person, including his own voice, to echo and multiply, making his single horse and cart sound like a herd of horses, his voice like the voices of an army.

  “Jaylethe! Robero! Garik!” Thal shouted. “Attack from the left! Markelle! Brian! Erik! From the right! We four will move in from here. Remember, anyone we capture will be staked in the sun!”