by Pedro Urvi
“Good day, gentlemen, welcome to Mirkos Tower,” he said, bowing courteously to the officer. “My name is Froitin, valet and personal advisor to the illustrious Mirkos. How can I be of service?”
“Good day to you,” the officer replied. “I’m Captain Jorgen of the Second Regiment of Royal Lancers of the Army of Rogdon. His voice was rough and military. “I have orders to deliver an urgent message to Mirkos the Erudite.”
“Wait a moment, please. I’ll announce your arrival to my lord.” The servant turned and disappeared inside the polished tower.
A few minutes later, Mirkos the Erudite came slowly out of the majestic structure, without showing any apparent interest. The fact was that the old Mage did not appreciate interruptions or unannounced visitors to his residence of more than forty-five years. Froitin, the faithful assistant in charge of his property, followed him in silence. Mirkos looked at the proud soldiers in the tiled courtyard in their shining armor and helmets, all mounted on their coursers expectantly except for the young officer, who was looking back at him with a determined expression. Twenty soldiers in shining armor bearing the colors of Rogdon. He eyed them an instant longer, and a feeling of unrest filled his heart. Soldiers rarely brought good news.
“Mirkos the Erudite?” the Captain asked without preamble as he stared at the Mage like a hunting dog.
“That is what I’m known as in this kingdom.”
“I bring you orders from His Majesty Solin, King of Rogdon.”
“Orders from the King? Has anything serious happened?”
“My orders are to hand you this message and escort you to the capital,” the Captain said as he handed over the document, sealed with the stamp of the Royal House of Rogdon.
Mirkos opened it warily and read its contents. The note was brief, written by King Solin himself:
My dear Mirkos,
It is with great sorrow that I must request your immediate presence in Rilentor. War is imminent. The Kingdom is in grave danger.
As King of Rogdon and your lord, I request your services as the King’s Battle Mage.
For Rogdon
Solin
King of Rogdon.
Mirkos read the ominous message several times. The King was asking him to hurry at once to the royal castle in the capital. The situation had to be really serious. Mirkos remained standing for a moment, thinking about what the note really meant, deeply worried. The King had mentioned the dreaded word: War. At the prospect of death, misery and destruction, his natural optimism vanished like mist scattered by the breeze. He thought for a moment longer, trying without much success to come to terms with the bad news. During his long and busy life he had found himself immersed in numerous battles and wars; he knew them well, unfortunately. He stroked his long thick white beard, which together with his long hair and bushy eyebrows of the same wintry white showed the more than seventy winters his thin body had endured. He knew very well the horrors of war, he had witnessed evil, destruction and pain perpetrated on innocents, and it made his stomach turn…
So once again he had to leave his studies, his beloved experiments and mystical research, to attend to the requests of the Crown, with the shadow of baleful atrocities hovering overhead and stalking his beloved kingdom. The Court had demanded his presence on many occasions; Mirkos and Haradin were the only two Battle Mages of the King since Golmar had died in combat several years ago. The situation must be very complicated indeed. Ill winds were about to blow over Rogdon, as though in a summer storm, bringing darkness to the now beautiful blue sky. A presentiment of evil ran through his body, like a freezing draught from the cold mountains.
“I need some time to arrange all my personal affairs before I leave for Rilentor,” he said to the officer, without taking his eyes off the letter.
“My orders are to escort you back to the royal castle immediately.”
“I understand your orders, my young Captain, but I’m sure that despite your youthful dash you’ll understand that I need to take care of my duties and my estate before I leave,” the Mage replied condescendingly.
The officer did not flinch.
“You have a couple of hours, until noon,” he said curtly. “I can’t delay any longer. The way back to the capital is long, it’ll take us more than a week to get there, so we must leave as soon as possible.”
“Till noon? It’s not enough time!” the old Mage protested. “I have a thousand tasks to organize, people to arrange my personal business with. I foresee a long absence. I need to leave everything clearly laid out and in good order.”
“I’m sorry, it’s all I can do. Orders are orders.”
The Mage waved his arms agitatedly. “By all the gods of heaven and earth! There’s nothing more irrational than a soldier with orders!”
“I’m perfectly rational, and that’s why I say we must leave before sunset,” the Captain replied. He turned round to look at his men, who were waiting on their tired mounts.
“Attention, column! Dismount!” he ordered sternly. “Tend to your horses and set a perimeter watch on the road to the tower. I don’t want any surprises while we’re resting.”
“My good Froitin, give them whatever they need: water and food for them and their horses,” said Mirkos to his assistant. “Also, would you please prepare supplies for the return journey?”
“I will, my lord,” he replied with a small bow.
“Don’t dally too much. We’ve got all manner of subjects to talk about and many things to prepare.”
Mirkos looked at the young officer once more, realizing that asking for more time would be useless. He knew military logic well. For a moment he thought how easy it would be to set fire to the man’s clothes, and how much he would enjoy it; a small incantation, a sphere of fire the size of a cherry, and how he would laugh at the sight of the hapless officer running around with his backside burning. Ah… that would be a sight I’d enjoy, oh yes! I can just see it. Thank goodness that with age comes good sense. Time was when I would’ve laughed till my sides ached while the smell of burnt pride filled the patio! But no matter how powerful the Mage is, and how much the subject deserves it, one shouldn’t take advantage of the power of magic. He grinned mischievously, turned his back on the officer and went into the tower to prepare the untimely journey to the capital of the kingdom.
When he walked into the building, he saw the two apprentices he had been training for the last five years. They were waiting for him, concern showing on their young faces. His eyes rested on them, so young and innocent, so much to teach them still… so many things to enjoy in life still… and a war was lying in wait at the very gates of the kingdom.
His heart filled with sorrow.
“Master, what’s going on?” said Jofer. “Is everything going to be all right? We saw the soldiers from the study window.” He was the oldest of the two, a bright, quiet boy of sixteen. There was anxiety in his tone.
The Mage sought to reassure them. “Don’t worry, boys, it’s nothing serious. The King has summoned me, that’s all. I must leave at once for Rilentor.”
“But…but…you can’t leave now, Master. Who’s going to take care of our studies, and of us? Magic is too complex, and without your help and guidance we’ll never make any progress,” said Felton. Serious worry showed on his round freckled face. The restless, lively apprentice, two years younger than Jofer, rarely showed anxiety or worry. But today was different, and even he realized the presence of the soldiers meant only trouble.
“You’ll have to go on with your studies without me until I come back. I want you to promise me you’ll go on learning, even though I’m not here to supervise you.”
“We’ll try, Master, but without your help I don’t think we’ll get very far,” Jofer said gloomily, lowering his head.
“I may not be here, my dear boys, but Froitin will help you. As you well know, my old comrade possesses something of the Gift, and has studied long years alongside me. Although his power is not remarkable, his knowledge of the materia
l is, and he will be very valuable in your development. You’ll be in good hands.”
The two apprentices nodded reluctantly. The old Mage went up to them and ruffled their hair affectionately.
“Come on, you young rascals, let’s go up to the library. I’ll select some books for you to study and give you a list of what to do. I don’t want you idling for a single moment while I’m away, you hear me? Don’t let me find out, or you’ll soon learn what’s good for you!”
Both boys looked at their Master, somewhat taken aback by his stern tone. Then Mirkos winked at them and smiled broadly beneath his snowy beard.
The apprentices smiled in their turn, and hugged their dear Master.
They went up to the third floor of the tower, where Mirkos had patiently created an impressive library of priceless volumes. There were hundreds of them, perfectly ordered and catalogued on a number of shelves which covered the walls of the tower entirely. In the center of that solemn hall were two magnificent desks of carved oak. It was an intellectual and spiritual environment in which to feed the soul and the mind. Mirkos had spent all his spare time in acquiring and collecting this private library: his treasure of arcane knowledge, he called it. He selected and arranged the books which his apprentices would have to study in his forced absence, since however much he might dislike the fact, there was no alternative. He changed and reordered his selection a number of times, but at last was content with what he had chosen. Though the bulk of the studies involved were concerned with magic and the occult, he also added other books, mainly of geography and history, to complement the education and preparation of these two young men. Man must be aware of his past mistakes in order not to repeat them in the future. Unfortunately, many are the mistakes committed in the past by this kingdom and others.
He called his pupils and showed them his selection, laid out in order on top of one of the large desks.
“These are the books of knowledge I want you to study in my absence.”
“There are so many of them! You’re going to be away for as long as that, Master?” the youngest asked.
“I hope to be back soon. Unfortunately it’s possible that my services may be needed for a longer period of time than I’d like…That’s why I want to make sure you’ll continue your apprenticeship if I should take longer.”
“What will happen when we need help with spells we can’t manage? With magic we can’t either understand or control?” Jofer said.
“As you well know, my dear pupils, the secret of magic, as well as many other disciplines in life, is practice. Practice, practice and more practice. That’s the key to success! If a spell or incantation resists you, practice day and night until you master it. Your inner energy is sensitive and attuned to the instability of incantations. Always let yourself be guided by your inner instinct. Embrace what your intuition tells you! When you feel you’re close, don’t give up, keep on practicing. In time you’ll learn to control that fickleness of the incantation and make it yours. Once that’s done, you’ll adopt it and it will be easier to invoke. Feldon, do you remember how long it took you to master the first spell, the one for the creation of a beam of light? We practiced for more than three months without rest, until at last you managed it.”
“Yes, Master, I remember. I was so convinced I would never get it. Day after day, nothing, only failure after failure. I nearly gave up in despair. But thanks to your insistence and advice, Master, I finally managed it. It was the happiest day of my life. I created light out of nowhere. My first spell, something only a privileged few get to accomplish. I will always remember, Master.”
“Your parents brought you to me to check your potential, to see if you really possessed talent, Magic. Remember how I tested your possibilities, and how I found out that you were gifted? That Magic, power, lay within you? Every year parents come to see me so that I can assess their children: some hopeful, most scared. Some come of their own volition, most are forced by circumstances. Unfortunately the Gift is quite rare in these lands and almost always I’m forced to give them bad news, which much to my chagrin, most receive with relief. You two are extremely lucky, and so I told your parents.”
“We know, Master,” Jofer said with a roguish smile, “we’re aware that we’re privileged. We do understand how fortunate we are, being blessed with the Gift. You have told us so many times.”
“It’s true, my dear boys. You do possess the Gift of Magic, and you must learn to master it and use it for the good of men. Always remember that, it’s your destiny, your obligation. Keep learning, so that in the future you may help your fellow men with your talent and power. And always, absolutely always, use your power in a sensible and responsible way!”
“Don’t worry, Master,” Feldon said, visibly moved and trying not to shed tears in front of Mirkos. “We’ll make you proud of us. I don’t know how long it’ll take us, but we’ll do it. I promise!”
“Don’t give up in the face of the difficulty of the tasks. The dominion of the Gift requires many years of constant study, and thousands and thousands of repetitive exercises, in order to gain control of spells and incantations. In these volumes you’ll find everything you need in the form of knowledge. You’ll have to put your soul into hard work, tenacity and constancy. If you don’t seem to be making progress, if you find yourselves at a dead end, ask Froitin for help. He’ll guide you past the crossroads. You can always count on his help and knowledge. Follow his advice as if it were my own, and little by little you’ll feel you’re making progress; your confidence will become stronger. It’s important that you always keep studying, for the rest of your lives.”
“We will, Master,” Jofer said, very seriously. “You’ve taught us well, and we won’t disappoint you. One day you’ll be proud of us.”
“I haven’t the slightest doubt of it,” Mirkos said as he put his arms around the boys. The three melted together into a warm hug.
The old Mage could not help tears coming to his eyes. He loved his two pupils with all his soul, and having to leave them broke his heart. There was nothing he would have liked better than to see them grow and to prepare them, to help them become good men, powerful Mages at the service of the kingdom of Rogdon.
But he had to march to war.
To serve his King.
And perhaps he would never see them again.
Water and Chasms
After a few moments of doubt the surviving soldiers, absolutely exhausted, fell back against the wall beside Lasgol. The Ranger, overwhelmed with sadness, contemplated the desolate scene after the battle. Mutilated corpses, torn horribly to pieces by those giant crocodiles, were strewn all over the shore in a sea of blood. They had lost practically the whole of Captain Toral’s group, with only the officer and one of his men still standing. Of Lasgol’s group, five men had survived.
The Ranger slung his bow across his back and went over to the soldiers to try to use his talent in the healing of the wounded, although he barely had any energy left to draw on. Unfortunately, not being a Healer, his skill as such was very limited, so that there was little he could do with wounds so severe. They all tried to recover from the horror of the brutal fight. Lasgol did whatever he could, but without much success. The veteran soldiers were used to sewing up battle wounds and appreciated his effort, since they were aware of the complications ugly wounds like that could lead to. When they had recovered somewhat, the few survivors were unable to follow the Norghanian tradition as they would have wished by building a pyre and burning the bodies of their fallen comrades. All they could do was leave them in that cold cavern.
“Let’s honor the fallen, comrades,” Captain Toral said solemnly. “Today brave men of the white mountains have given their lives for the motherland, fighting against ferocious beasts. But nothing can defeat the Norghanian soldiers, sons of the snow!”
“Nothing!” responded the remaining men as one.
“Today Jorac the Bloodthirsty will be satisfied. Many brave men have died in combat, and soon they will a
rrive in his kingdom to serve at his side and enjoy the well-deserved afterlife of the warrior.”
The survivors chanted the solemn ode of the Voyage of the Snow Warrior, with deep voices and heartfelt intonation, taking their leave of the brave fallen.
As the tribute ended, Toral came close to Lasgol. He took him aside into a corner and whispered: “We’ve lost most of the men. Do you really believe the fugitives are still alive? Is there any sense in going on? They can’t have survived these devilish beasts.”
“They might have got through without attracting the attention of these monsters. The Assassin is very skillful. We have to go on and find out if that’s what happened. I must make sure, those are the King’s orders. The two fugitives are to be captured and taken into His Majesty’s presence alive. It’s imperative that we catch them, and that we do it urgently.”
“Well then, so it shall be. I’ll follow my orders, Ranger. Have no doubt on that score.”
“They’re responsible for the death of Great Duke Orten, King Thoran’s brother,” explained Lasgol. “The war with Rogdon is about to start for that very reason. His Majesty believes the murder was planned and carried out by agents from Rogdon, and he’s mobilized the army to take action in reprisal. A great invasion force is on its way to the border with Rogdon at this very moment.”
“Capturing these two enemy agents will only justify this coming war…” Toral said, not fully understanding.
“On the contrary, Captain. I’m convinced that the murder wasn’t carried out on Rogdon’s orders. And only these two can corroborate the fact. We need this information in order to avoid the war and the atrocities men will commit in its name. A war with Rogdon will bring thousands of deaths and years of suffering to both kingdoms. I’m trying to prevent that by all means possible. That’s the other side of my mission: not just capturing two fugitives, but avoiding this war at all costs.”
