“Someday,” Qeunten promised, “when I am free, I will return to you. But tonight, I will stay.”
They talked then, about what had been and what was yet to come. They talked about the great events of the future, and about the small things such as which fruit they liked the best for breakfast or what Uvit thought about girls. They talked through the night, daring the sun to stay hidden and let the night reign.
Sometime before dawn, Uvit finally fell into a deep sleep. Qeunten sat for a moment stroking his son’s forehead, and then left, overcome with emotion. The pain he felt was visible as he met with Uvit’s mother, embraced her tightly one last time, and walked out the door.
He collected his charges wordlessly, and Uvit’s mother watched all three disappear over the horizon through the blur of tears.
***********************
He crouched low in the grass, concentrating on pressing his body closer and closer to the earth. It took a great force of effort to do so, for the earth was repugnant to every sense of his being. The barren wasteland he saw smelled of death, felt like death, and even the air that sauntered up from it tasted like death.
He was out of place.
Although this would have terrified a normal man, the thought barely crossed Latson’s mind. He had come here to do his job, and he found that fear very rarely helped him.
He had at last managed to procure a small boat and enough extra boards, nails, and tar to fix it while afloat. The short trip had still taken him two days. It was slow going as he swept the murky water in front of him for jagged rocks lurking just below the surface. Despite his precautions, he sprang a leak twice, but was able to hold his craft above water long enough to fix the splintered wood and float around the obstacle. When he finally reached the island, he was worried that he was too late or that he had been discovered, but there was no sign of the dark elf or the one who was commanding her.
In fact, the island was deserted.
Or rather, it was deserted of intelligent life. The island was crawling with skull knights. But for the few that were burying new corpses, most were resting, allowing the magergy of the place to seep into their bodies.
Latson waited, not daring to sleep for three days before the two figures appeared. He bit his lip to draw pain to sharpen his senses. As part of his training, he would frequently go for three or four days without sleep, but he had not slept on his boat journey to the island either. At five days, he was beginning to push the limits of even his ability. The Guard had perfected a technique of being ‘half asleep,’ of resting without sleeping, but the chance that he might be discovered kept Latson from being able to recharge his body.
Although his mind was exhausted, his body did not feel as tired as it should. Either his body had failed and was now playing tricks on him, or there was some sort of restorative magical effect to this place that kept recharging his physical energy. Whatever the case, it was not important. The only thing important now was to hear what the two wizards said and to bring the message back to the king alive.
He had never seen either dark figure before, but from what he could guess the larger, more forceful one was the Death Lord, Darhyn, and the smaller one with a green tint was Corizaz of Freeton. It didn’t bother him that Darhyn was supposed to be banished beyond the world and Corizaz was supposed to have been killed in an explosion. These kinds of creatures had a habit of not dying when they were supposed to.
“Who is the master here?” Darhyn said, fire in his voice.
“You are, my lord.” Corizaz didn’t grovel, but neither did his words betray any sign that he wished things were different.
“Then I tell you this is the only way.”
“But what of the others? Surely the boy who banished you deserves to be repaid.”
“In time. But first, we must wage this war. If there is to be any hope of victory, we must wage it with all the force of this world.”
“Can we not close the gate?” Corizaz’s voice was even, calm.
“Fool!” Darhyn scowled. “It is too late. I can feel its presence. Yet it hesitates. It is unfamiliar with this world. This may be our only chance.”
Latson couldn’t tell if Corizaz wanted to argue, but he simply bowed his head and brought his arm across his chest in salute. “Yes, lord.”
Darhyn’s flaming eyes flickered with approval. “Now, about my army…”
Corizaz reached down and touched the earth, held his hands together as if he was praying, and then suddenly stretched up to his full height and thrust his arms out, palms facing skywards. He looked as if he were commanding the trees to grow taller. But there were no trees on the Isle of the Dead. Only one thing grew there.
The earth groaned and shook as parts of skull knights thrust forth from it. They were everywhere, as if the earth were vomiting them out. Suddenly, an arm thrust itself up from the earth only centimeters away from Latson’s face. He could see every detail of the skeletal hand from the wrist still holding a bronze ring, to each of the three bones that made up the fingers, to the packed earth stuck below the sharp yellow fingernails. He felt the earth below him rumble as he realized that he had been lying only inches above a newly formed undead warrior.
He had seen and heard enough. Quickly he backed away, and when he was sure he was out of the sight of the wizards, ran down the hill, back to his boat.
***********************
Water trickled through canals that fed the blooming plant life lining the halls of the inner keep of Tealsburg. Tarthur stared at the simple flowers and wondered at the vastness of life. They grew, bloomed, and died in their turn, never leaving the spot where their seed first touched soil. They never knew of a world outside and never wanted more, or at least he assumed. Since the passing of Zelin, he had pondered the simple lives of most of Daranor’s inhabitants more and more. Animals lived, bred, and died. Even humans, one of the most complicated beings, usually went about their business without a care for how the larger world was developing around them.
Tarthur no longer could afford that luxury. At his age, he was far from being the wisest magician or even the most powerful. However, with Zelin gone from the world he was forced to take up a part of his mantle, to search out the motives of those who would do the world harm and neutralize their plans before they could come to fruition.
He looked up as the small bird he shared the responsibility with swooped down and landed on one of the long, rectangular beds of earth containing the gardens. The bird dug his claws through the fertile ground as it perched on the edge of the box.
He wasn’t usually a bird, of course. Yan changed to the formidable-looking man that Tarthur was just getting used to again. As a shapeshifter, Yan had aged, but his appearance was exactly how Tarthur remembered it.
“Something on your mind?” Yan offered his question to Tarthur. It was no more than a polite way of asking what was bothering Tarthur most at the moment. These days, there were a multitude of things all forcing themselves into his consciousness. He barely even had time to feel doubt after the near disastrous mistake he had made assuming Alahim was the One.
“I was just thinking about Quenten,” Tarthur admitted. “The prophecy said that he is the man with the ‘ultimate power’ but I’m afraid I don’t understand his role. He seems to barely even be present in our world.”
Yan nodded. “I, too have been pondering Quenten’s powers, ever since Uvit was revealed to be the One. I’m not certain if power or curse is a better word, however.”
Tarthur looked puzzled. “How do you mean?”
“I was able to observe something of his conversation with Uvit and speak to him a little on my own. It seems that he is able to travel freely between worlds, through different planes of existence and different times.”
“But we have wizards who can do this. Darhyn can do it as well,” Tarthur responded, looking as confused as before.
“True,” Yan admitted. “We do have limited power to forge connections between certain worlds. However, it appea
rs that Quenten can do this with very little effort. It also seems that he can visit all the other worlds, not just the dozen or so that we know of.”
“How many are there?” Tarthur asked in wonder.
“He wouldn’t say. However, I assume that there are a great many. Hundreds, even.”
Tarthur’s mouth dropped. He had a hard time imagining that many different worlds. Understanding suddenly dawned on his face. “So this is part of what Uvit saw in the Wall of Glass? He must have seen his own insignificance in light of all the different worlds.”
Yan shrugged, “We’ll never really know what he saw, but Uvit being Quenten’s son would certainly help explain why he was the only one able to gaze into the Wall.”
“It must be amazing to visit so many places,” Tarthur remarked, the old gleam of adventure lighting up his eyes. “Why did you call this power a curse?”
“I do not know for sure,” Yan mused, tiredness apparent in his bearing, “but I believe he has a responsibility for making sure things are ‘right’ within all of the worlds. Heroes are born or talismans appear in the wrong places and it’s Quenten’s job to sort them all out or give them help. He never plays the hero, though, just supports them.”
Tarthur knew that Yan felt the weight of responsibility more than most. He had not had a month to rest from his duties in over three hundred years. Was this what Quenten’s life was like? Had he been traveling, quietly fulfilling his duties for hundreds of years too? Thousands? Longer?
“In any event,” Yan concluded his thoughts. “We may find out more later. For now we have a meeting to attend.”
Tarthur looked up at the sky and realized that he had spent longer outside than he had originally planned to. He nodded and walked with Yan into the inner section of the keep.
The mood was strangely somber in the council room of King Garkin. Outside, there was a feast declared to celebrate the return of Yan and the Air Feather. The passing of Zelin and Dalin of the Elves had not yet been publicly revealed. For some reason the king wanted the people to have their moment of celebration before they mourned.
The castle was resplendent in the brightest colors. The king had even commissioned a new standard for the event; a white rectangular banner held a rough outline of the Lands of Daranor and overlaying this was a shield outlined in red. The shield was cut into quarters and one of the four elemental forces resided in each. The message was clear—the Earth Grain, Water Orb, Fire Tongue, and Air Feather all united to protect the Lands of Daranor.
Outside people danced and drank, laughed and made merry. Inside the throne room, the mood was more solemn. Uvit had been able to transfer the Air Spell to Yan. Transferring an element of power was difficult, and if the element was present, usually required weeks or months. There were exceptions, however. Tarthur had been able to transfer the Water Orb spell to the Merwizard Tustor because Tustor was the rightful guardian of the treasure, and because Tarthur had physical possession of the Orb. Similarly, Uvit had been able to give the Air Spell to Yan because he had the Air Feather, and because Yan had intimate knowledge of the Power of Air. After all, he had transformed into it!
It would take Tarthur a long time to get used to a council meeting without the knowledge of Zelin or the clever humor of Dalin. He remembered a time so long ago when he had sat in this very room waiting for Dalin, hoping against hope that the elf had escaped from Marhyn’s dungeons. Now, at least Tarthur knew Dalin was at peace.
Even without his two lost friends, the council chamber was full almost to capacity. With the exception of Garseon, everyone who had traveled to the Wall of Glass was there, along with King Garkin, Addyean, and Prince Ajani. Yvette was there with Latson, a man Yvonne had been amazed to see. Latson had been one of the guards Yvonne had thought lost in the attack by the skull knights. General Cilio had even come out of retirement for the meeting. Tarthur had never been comfortable under the man’s icy, piercing stare. Finally, Polu, the chief Royal Magician, sat in the corner under his hood.
Tarthur was just finishing his explanation of their journey. He told of the prophecy, how they had thought it applied first to him and then to his son Alahim. He told of Uvit’s sudden appearance and the true meaning of the prophecy. He spoke of how when Tivu passed through the Wall, Grandmaster Jeuinem had given the Air Feather to Tivu. Once the feather existed again, the used magergy that Yan had become was able to return to the form of the Power of Air, and finally retransform into himself. He told of the passing of Zelin, Dalin and Kitrina in detail, eyes welling up with hidden tears.
“Tarthur of Krendon,” King Garkin said, his deep voice bellowing out and easily reaching the ears of everyone in the room. “You never cease to amaze me. If there were more than four elements of power, I am sure you would soon acquire those as well.”
Tarthur shook his head. “Your majesty, if this quest has succeeded, it is more in spite of me than because of me.”
King Garkin was a rare king in that he liked subjects to contradict him. Although, people rarely did it, Tarthur knew that the king felt he would never learn anything otherwise. King Garkin sat back in his chair, folded his arms and let his purple robes drape around his knees. He wore only his small jeweled crown, keeping the larger, ceremonial one only for public appearances. “How so?” the king asked.
“I’ve made great mistakes from the start. First, I left my wife and son and put them in mortal danger. Even when I caught up with them, I couldn’t protect them, and when I finally found the One we all thought Alahim was, I almost sent him home. If Uvit hadn’t raced ahead, Alahim might have tried to enter the Wall and…” he couldn’t finish his sentence. Alahim leaned against his mother’s thigh.
“Still,” King Garkin replied, stroking his beard. “Everything has worked out for the best in the end. My father always told me, ‘If you can choose between being good and being lucky, go with luck.’”
“Luck does not exist,” General Cilio said, almost to himself.
King Garkin thanked each of the companions in turn, at last coming to Yan.
“It seems I must thank you twice,” the king said with a smile that was not reflected in his eyes. “For I have not yet rewarded you for your service in the War of the Orb.”
“Good men are alive,” Yan replied. “That is reward enough.”
“Still,” pressed the king, “I must give you something. Name your reward.”
Yan thought for a minute, face still under his mask. Finally, he gave his answer.
“Your majesty, it has been a long time that I have been fighting. There is one thing dearer to my heart than anything else. I would ask for rest. Rest for my soul and my body.”
At this, King Garkin heaved forth a sigh of profound sadness. “Would that you had asked for half the riches of my kingdom!”
Startled faces turned towards the king.
“I had wanted to hold this sad news to myself for as long as I could,” he said, slowly shaking his head back and forth. “It is not good to mix too much sorrow and joy on the same day.”
“What is it?” Tarthur blurted out.
“I am afraid,” King Garkin said, “that the portal between the worlds fell ten days ago. Darhyn has returned.”
Tarthur was almost relieved. “We defeated him once before when we had only two elements of power and he had a large and well prepared army. With all four elements the battle shouldn’t even be close.”
King Garkin’s expression didn’t brighten.
“What’s the matter?” Tarthur asked. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not Darhyn,” King Garkin said. “It’s what came through after him.”
THE END
Coming in 2013/2014
DreamQuest 3: SwordQuest
The last installment in the Lands of Daranor trilogy starts with the companions in dire straights. Loved ones and great leaders have been lost, and the prophecy is only partially fulfilled. A strange and foreign terror threatens the land, more powerful than anything ever seen before.
The only hope may lie in the confidence broken man and the wisdom of a child.
***********************
The room stank of despair. There was just no other way to describe it. Everything in the room seemed only a shade of its former self. Chipped paint barely clung to the walls. The windows provided only the slightest protection against the wind, and did nothing to stop the chill dampness that seeped in through the cracks. Even the long wooden bench that ran along the length of the bar seemed ready to give up and crack as it sagged under the combined weight of half a dozen grossly overweight and sedentary beings. One interrupted his blank stare ahead only long enough to raise his tankard to his lips, the exertion of which caused him to sweat profusely. He wiped his brow and then sighed as if the world had done him some grave injustice. Another stared wistfully in his glass, swirling it around endlessly as if staring at the end of his life. The shabby cat absentmindedly pawed at a mouse who was too disinterested to move away. Searching his mind, Yonathan did not think that he had ever come upon a more pitiable place.
He smiled.
If the rumors were true, this was just the place that he would find what he was looking for.
His calm eyes searched the room, leaving no detail unnoticed. His quest had led him across the Lands of Daranor. He had traveled from his home in Freeton, to a ruined shop in Tealsburg, following the clues that had at last led him to this desolate tavern in Kladden.
There, in the darkest corner of the room, he spied what he was looking for. The man who sat there, if he could be called such in his current state, hunched over in his chair. His unkempt beard could not hide the features that Yonathan knew so well.
“It is time to go,” he said, taking a seat at the table.
“There is nowhere for me to go,” the man replied. “There is nothing that I can do anymore.”
“Kandan,” Yonathan spoke softly. “You were once the most skilled man I knew. What has happened to you?”
Lands of Daranor: Book 02 - ProphecyQuest Page 21
