The Redemption, Volume 1

by Clyde B Northrup

  A breath of air circled the room, causing things around the room to move slightly; a low whispering sigh came out of the ground, moved around the circle, then entered the green shimmering dome, then the corpse, causing the dead captain’s chest to rise, as if he were taking a breath. As the chest fell, the sigh came out of the corpse’s mouth, forming words: “the kortexi’s sword, I drew the kortexi’s sword.” The magluku lighting the room winked out, plunging them into momentary darkness before winking back to life; the sound of two boulders slamming together shook the floor of the room, causing the five masters surrounding the corpse to sway.

  Storga asked a second question. “How did the others die?”

  Again, a breath of air circled, followed by a whispering sigh; the chest filled, then emptied slowly, forming the words: “the sword exploded.” The magluku winked; the sound of boulders slamming together shook the floor; the five masters swayed. Myron lifted his staff, ending the orthek.

  “He has been dead many hours,” Myron said, “we dare not risk further questions.”

  “We did learn something important,” Avril added, “the kortexi’s sword is genuine: artifacts of great power generally take care of themselves.”

  “We did not learn the sword was genuine,” Storga protested, “only that it is an artifact of great power; the kortexi is still a renegade, in my mind.”

  Wegex nodded his assent; Ghreis looked puzzled.

  “Let’s try the others,” Storga suggested, “perhaps we can get more from them, since they have been dead only a few hours.”

  Avril shook his head. “We must be very cautious,” he said. “Ghelvon was powerful in life; if we question him too long, he could return as a powerful purgle.”

  Myron nodded. “His behavior during the trial was odd, unlike his normal self.”

  Storga snorted. “Only odd because he accused your apprentice. We know of the rivalry between your two apprentices, involving Avril’s apprentice.”

  Ghreis rubbed his gray stubbled chin. “Yes, but Klaybear won that contest, so reason for revenge would have motivated Malkonik, Ghelvon’s apprentice, rather than Klaybear.”

  Myron looked up at Ghreis suddenly, pieces of a puzzle falling into place, but still not enough to detect the pattern, or what it meant; he looked at Avril, then frowned.

  Avril shrugged. “A few questions only, I think,” he said.

  The others nodded, then all moved out of the guard chamber and down the dungeon hall to where Ghelvon’s body lay, head turned in an odd angle. His apprentice lay a few yards away, his bloody heart nearby. As they had done before to the captain’s corpse, so they surrounded Ghelvon’s body, Myron at the head, Avril at his feet, Wegex and Ghreis to his right, and Storga left. The five staff heels clunked against the stone floor, circle of green fire flaring to life, completing and creating a dome of shimmering green light that surrounded the corpse. “Mortiswera,” Myron commanded, and a breeze raced down the hallway, became a low sigh that entered and filled the lungs. As the chest rose, Myron asked, “how did you die?”

  The chest fell slowly, the moan becoming words. “I do not know. I remember Malkonik coming to my study, a red haze, then I stood beside my broken body as you see it.” The words trailed into a sigh; the magluku lighting the hallway winked out, followed by the sound of boulders crunching together; the magluku winked on; the five masters swayed.

  “When you saw your body lying here as it is,” Storga began, “did you see anyone else in this hallway?”

  A breeze slid down the hallway, becoming a low moan that filled the corpse’s chest; the chest fell, and the moan formed into words. “Malkonik lay where he is; I saw his beating heart hit the ground.” A breeze became another moan; the chest rose, and the moan formed words. “I saw a kortexi flung into the wall, limp. Then I saw others coming down the hall; Myron’s apprentice went into this strange room.” Another breeze, another moan forming words. “He came out of the room leading Avril’s apprentice, then all went back down the hallway toward the cells.” The chest fell, the magluku winked out, boulders crashed together, and the magluku winked on; the five swayed.

  “How long, Ghelvon, since your apprentice came to your room, and you saw the red haze?” Storga asked.

  The breeze came howling down the corridor this time, and the low moan became a howl of rage; the corpse twitched, hands clenching, head turning, dead eyes opening, and a snarl beginning to form on the dead lips.

  “Release the orthek!” Avril shouted.

  “No!” Storga countered. “We must know!”

  Ghelvon’s corpse started to sit up. Myron lifted his staff and broke the orthek, but the corpse continued to struggle to rise. Avril leapt forward, feet crashing into the corpse’s chest; his staff in one hand, and the symbol of Shigmar in the other, both brightly glowing with green light, thrust toward the corpse.

  “Remoryet!” Avril commanded.

  The snarl turned into a wail, sailing away from them down the hall; the magluku went out; the sound of mountains crashing together shook the hallway, hurling the five masters from their feet; flakes of stone and dust fell around them. The magluku stuttered, then grew from dim spots of light to their normal brightness. The dust was lit suddenly by a bolt of green power, shot from Avril’s staff toward the ceiling.

  “What are you doing!?” Wegex spat; he knelt next to Storga, examining her. “Are you trying to bring the ceiling down on us?”

  “Kwalu,” Avril hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Here?” Ghreis coughed.

  “I saw it hovering above us,” Avril said, “as I fell, watching us.”

  Myron got slowly to his feet, then reached out a hand to help Ghreis stand. “That would explain much,” he noted, reaching out to help Avril get up.

  Avril nodded as he stood. “Particularly, why he could not remember what happened to him after his apprentice arrived, so he must be the traitor.”

  Wegex’s hands glowed green over Storga’s head, then she coughed and opened her eyes. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she replied, “just knocked out from the concussion.”

  Above them, the other three continued to speak.

  “I caught a glimpse of something as we fell,” Ghreis was saying. He looked at Avril. “Are you sure it was a kwalu?”

  Avril nodded. “I am fairly certain.”

  “That would explain the heart,” Ghreis said, “since that is a kwalu trick.”

  “Ghelvon said he saw a kortexi nearby,” Myron mused. “Isn’t it odd that he did not recognize Sir Blakstar?”

  “How do you know it was he?” Ghreis asked.

  “There was no other kortexi in the school,” Myron replied.

  Wegex was helping Storga to her feet. She brushed the dust off her robes before speaking. “How do we know it was not another kortexi, who entered the dungeon from the sewers and released the traitors, causing all this devastation?”

  Avril laughed. “Can you honestly imagine,” he began, still chuckling, “any kortexi sneaking anywhere? It is against the kortexi creed!”

  “All right,” Storga replied, “I was reaching.”

  “Ghelvon also said,” Myron went on, “that he saw Klaybear lead Klare out of this strange room; what was she doing here?”

  Storga pointed to the lifeless form of Ghelvon’s apprentice. “I’m sure he can tell us.”

  “With a kwalu floating around,” Avril snorted, “you want to try again? Have you lost all sense?”

  “He was only an apprentice,” Storga said. “Four of us could make him speak, while the fifth keeps the kwalu at bay.”

  “We need to recapture the renegades,” Wegex said. “They will answer our questions before they are punished.”

  “Have you been asleep, Wegex?” Avril retorted. “They are not renegades! Their trial was orchestrated by a kwalu possessing Ghelvon; are Myron and I the only ones who noticed how odd his behavior was, how he out-thought the son of Kalamar? Ghelvon was never that smart!”r />
  “How dare you accuse another member of the Council!” Storga exclaimed.

  “Are you all so blinded by fear,” Avril went on, “a fear woven so neatly together by one of Gar’s most trusted servants? Open your eyes and see what is right in front of you!”

  “Enough, Avril,” Myron said softly, but firmly. “We will solve nothing by bickering. We must enact the aneksaro again to have our answers.”

  “No, Headmaster,” Avril began, but stopped when he looked at Myron.

  The Headmaster held his friend’s eye for a time before releasing him and turning to the others. “Avril will guard against the kwalu. The rest of us will enact the orthek.”

  For the third time they surrounded the body, with Myron at the head, Storga took Avril’s place at the feet, Wegex to the left, and Ghreis to the right. The four staves clunked on the floor, green circle of fire flared, completed the circle, and a green dome shimmered and surrounded the corpse. The Headmaster spoke the word, and a breeze moaned down the hallway, circled the dome, then filled the corpse’s chest. The Headmaster opened his mouth to ask the first question but stopped suddenly, hearing the corpse’s choked laughter. The corpse was raising both arms, holding a ball of red power, a ball that was humming and growing. Disembodied laughter came out of the ceiling, then trailed away, covered by the growing sound of the ball of pure elemental force.

  “Run!” Myron shouted, and felt himself pulled away by Avril, who was pulling them into the strange room. They both barely erected shields before red light filled their vision, and the wave of force slammed into them, hurling them against the wall of the small room.

  Chapter 2

  In our collaborative research on the creation of artifacts of power, Headmaster Shigmar and I have discovered how these special artifacts can be brought into a sympathetic relation with each other, enabling subliminal communication between; it is our belief that this communication might, by prior design, become conscious, opening many possibilities. . . .

  from Annals of Melbarth, Seventh Series, Early Lectures of the Hierarchs

  Lecture by Sedra Melbarth

  “Put these on,” Delgart said. “And you must always wear them; they are artifacts created by the founders of the elder orders to protect each of the chosen from the mental manipulation of Gar. They are called verghrenum, which means ‘hider of thoughts.’”

  Rokwolf looked puzzled. “The chosen?”

  Marilee stood off to one side, her face overshadowed by her hood. “Have you forgotten the prophecy of Shigmar?”

  Rokwolf looked toward her, while slipping one bracer on. “Do you refer to the prophecy by Shigmar concerning those who will end Gar’s realm and rule?” When he slipped on the second, a flash of white light surrounded Rokwolf, focusing on his head; the seklesi’s eyes went blank, then rolled up into his head, and he started to fall. Delgart grabbed and held him up, then dragged him over to his bed.

  “What happened?” Marilee asked, “I was looking away.”

  “When he put on the second bracer,” Delgart replied, “there was a flash of light, and he started to fall.”

  “That did not happen when we put on ours,” Marilee noted. “Do you suppose it means something?”

  “I’m sure it does, but what, I do not know.” Delgart shook his younger brother gently, seeing if he would wake. “It’s like Tevvy and Klare.” He looked at Marilee, who now stood next to him, looking down at Rokwolf. “You don’t suppose he also could be under some sort of mental compulsion?” Delgart stooped to tighten and tie the laces on Rokwolf’s verghrenum.

  Marilee shrugged. “Those who might tell us are sixty miles away.”

  “There are no kailum here in Holvar?” Delgart asked, finishing the first and moving to the second.

  “There are,” Marilee replied, “but I’m not sure we could trust them; we are, after all, outlaws.”

  “But the One said that we would be alright,” Delgart began, then stopped when someone knocked on the door; he looked at Marilee. “Isn’t it a bit late for visitors?” he whispered.

  “Holvar never sleeps,” she replied, as if it were a maxim.

  The door opened, and a messenger in royal livery stood in the doorway, a small wethi with stringy brown hair, narrow face, and long nose. “The Fereghen, Wothgart, requests the presence of Rokwolf and his guests.” There was a simpering quality to the messenger’s nasal voice, owing to the perpetual smirk the small wethi wore.

  “Rokwolf just fainted,” Marilee pointed.

  “Ah,” Nuwenty, the messenger, said. “He has been waiting to hear his sentence and was overwhelmed by guilt and fear when I knocked. . . .”

  Marilee interrupted him. “He fell before you knocked; what sentence?” she ended, changing directions.

  “He was suspended for the fiasco in the forest,” Nuwenty continued, “in which much of his command was lost, including the fatal wounding of his second.”

  Marilee threw back her hood, although she kept the wounded and bandaged half of her face away from the messenger. “I appear to be alive and in good health,” she noted wryly.

  “Yes, well,” Nuwenty stammered, “your condition was unknown, and your miraculous recovery will do little to change his loss of command.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Marilee replied, pulling her hood back over her head. She nodded to Delgart, who pulled his brother into a sitting position. Each took an arm, stooped, and placed it over their shoulders, then lifted the fallen seklesi to his feet.

  “Very good,” Nuwenty said, his smirk widening. “Follow me.”

  In a room off of the audience hall, Skerapi, the Fereghen’s kailu, examined Rokwolf. The Chief Kailu was shorter than the Fereghen, thin, with a wrinkle across his forehead that made him appear to frown constantly; his dirty gray hair fell in sheets across his face as he bent to examine Rokwolf. Wothgart, Marilee, and Delgart stood by; the Fereghen had silver, curly hair, a tall and well-muscled body, and a deep, rich voice when he spoke, contrasting Skerapi’s higher voice. Skerapi’s hands glowed green as he moved them over Rokwolf’s body. As his hands passed closer to the fallen seklesi’s head, white light glowed brightly, preventing the kailu from actually touching Rokwolf’s head. Skerapi’s hands fell to his sides.

  “You say he fainted after he put on these bracers?” Skerapi asked.

  Delgart nodded.

  “Something prevents me from examining him more closely,” Skerapi said, “and I must conclude it is the bracers, but I cannot touch them.”

  Marilee stepped forward and tried to unlace and remove Rokwolf’s verghrenum. “I can touch them,” she said, “but I cannot remove them.”

  Skerapi frowned. “That is odd. Can you remove your own?”

  Marilee reached for one of her verghrenum, untied it, slid it off, then replaced it. “Easily.”

  Skerapi turned to Wothgart. “My Fereghen,” he said, “there is little I can do for him, although it does look as if something positive is happening.”

  “I think we should send him to Shigmar,” Wothgart noted. “Let Headmaster Myron deal with him, since my instructions were very clear: release Rokwolf from punishment and send him to Myron at once.”

  Delgart and Marilee exchanged a glance. Marilee turned to Wothgart. “My Fereghen,” she began, “that was one message we were instructed to give to Rokwolf.”

  Wothgart nodded once, then spoke. “Show me your faces.”

  Surprised by the abrupt request, both hesitated before lowering their hoods and unwrapping the bandages covering the marked half of their faces. Skerapi looked sidelong at Wothgart, then moved forward, hands glowing green again. Wothgart put a hand on Skerapi’s arm and stopped him. A look of irritation flashed in Skerapi’s eyes.

  “My Fereghen,” Skerapi began, “let me heal them.” He stopped speaking, seeing steel in the Fereghen’s eyes.

  “They both just came from the best healers in our kingdom,” Wothgart said, “do you think to do something they have not?”

  Skerapi fl
ushed. “My Fereghen!” he protested. “I saw their wounds . . . I acted out of habit, since healing is my job.”

  Wothgart smiled. “That is why I stopped you,” the Fereghen said, “part of my instructions,” he added.

  Skerapi relaxed and let his hands fall; he gave the Fereghen a half-smile.

  Wothgart looked at Marilee and Delgart. “You two wisely hide the marks on your faces, particularly noticeable when you are together.”

  Marilee nodded; Delgart inclined his head.

  “Marilee,” Wothgart continued, “you will return to your former company for assignment; you will temporarily be reduced in rank and take charge of a squad. Rokwolf has other work to perform.”

  “Thank you, my Fereghen,” Marilee stammered, her face coloring, surprised by her reduction and his words. She bowed to the Fereghen.

  Wothgart turned to Delgart. “I understand that you have been a slave to pirates?”

  “Yes, sir,” Delgart replied, “for more than twelve years.”

  “What sort of work or training did they give you?” Wothgart asked.

  “I first worked in the galley, then I was a cabin boy for a time,” Delgart said, “and my first owner,” the word came out filled with bitterness, “gave me some careful training in the use of pirate weaponry.”

  Wothgart raised an eyebrow. “That is an odd move, for a pirate.”

  “He did not trust his men,” Delgart explained, “so when I grew tall enough, he trained me as a sparring partner, that way he did not have to spar with his men.”

  “How did you end up on the benches?” the Fereghen asked.

  Delgart laughed. “I was first a galley slave to a lazy cook, and because I was a great organizer, I came to the notice of the captain, who took me for his own and trained me, as I said. I was a great sparring partner to him, until the crew mutinied, killing the captain. They locked me in the hold for several days, and I think they would have let me starve there, until the new captain ordered me to the benches; I was there until the storm, and the wreck. . . .” Delgart’s voice trailed off.