Wielder of the Flame

by Nikolas Rex

  Sesuadra, nearest the edge of the booth began to inch out, getting ready to stand up. Marc, in the middle, and Zildjin at the end began to follow suit. The old man’s eyes had begun to widen with a hunger, glazing over almost.

  “Any who have spent many cycles studying the ways of magic, and are strongly attuned to its different auras, can sense the power of the sword, even from a distance. Like a beacon of energy. Just like the sword you have Marcus, JUST LIKE IT!”

  One of the old man’s hands shot out and clenched a large handful of Marc’s shirt in his fist. He yanked the boy forward and tried to tear the belt from off his waist, grabbing at the sword.

  “Get off of me!” Marc yelled.

  A number of those at nearby tables turned at the scuffle.

  “Get off!” Marc grasped at the old man’s hand.

  The old man was impossibly strong, his grip, like iron.

  Sesuadra wrapped his arms around Marc’s shoulders and pulled.

  “Let him GO!” Zildjin cried and punched the old man squarely on the face.

  The old man let go of Marc.

  Marc and Sesuadra fell down in a heap. The old man flew sideways with the force of the punch, knocking a barmaid, who was rushing over to try and contain the commotion, into a man who was taking a long swig from his mug of ale. The ale flew out of the man’s hand and splashed all over a bulky bearded man nearby. The bearded man stood up, furious and punched the man responsible for the mess.

  Things escalated quickly.

  “Let us get out of here!” Zildjin said.

  Sesuadra nodded.

  “Yes, let’s,” Marc agreed, straightening his shirt and sword belt.

  The three boys ducked and crawled through the brawl, able to escape in one piece.

  They raced off back to the Magic Emporium, not wanting to be there when the city guard arrived.

  Marc kept looking behind them to make sure the old man was not following them.

  Marc was relieved that no one had pursued them.

  At least none that he could see.

  ***

  The old man at the Silver Star Inn watched from behind a large stack of crates quite a distance away, as the boys entered the back courtyard to the Magic Emporium.

  When the three young men were out of sight the old man turned and began walking away from the magic district. The night was young, and the city was still alive in many areas. The old man made his way to a dark quiet part of an alleyway where no one was looking. He muttered some choice words of power and moved his hands in a specific way. Immediately after this his clothes began to change as if they were melting and instantly being replaced with other attire of different color and texture. From rough, plain grays and browns to rich blue silk and gold embroidery. The old man’s face changed as well, his bushy beard shortening and blackening at the same time, morphing into a carefully trimmed goatee. The wrinkles in his face lessened, leaving a much younger countenance in its wake, the well groomed visage of Safral, one of the elite of the Overseer’s Hands.

  Now back in his usual appearance, he emerged from the alleyway, his strides quick and businesslike. He desired to return to his office, and quickly.

  The city and its people were as a blur to him as he made his way to his destination. He was furious with himself. What had gotten into him, reacting like that? The magic of the blade was intoxicating to him. He wanted the sword for himself, wanted it badly, but badly enough to ruin his own plans with such a lack of self control? He was better than that! Or so he had thought.

  He was surprised when he suddenly found himself approaching his office. That was quick, he thought.

  There was someone at the door, locking up. It was Nyrith, his apprentice.

  She was young, but had very promising abilities, and she was very impressionable, he had been easily able to steer her loyalties to reside in the right place.

  She turned at his approach, the key still in the door.

  “M—Master?” She said in surprise,

  He pulled down his hood. Nyrith recognized the strong and unrelenting features of her Master’s face. He had eyes so black they seemed able to turn one to stone if stared at too long. His long curly hair was equally black, with streaks of dark brown, almost red, at his temples and in his beard below his chin. His face was very preserved for his age, oily but smooth, aside from a few craggy scars on one cheek and his chin from some childhood blemish.

  “I did not expect your return till the morrow,” She finished.

  He waved his hand dismissively, “I am well aware of the instructions I left with you.”

  She looked at his hands and his belt, expecting to see something there. When she saw nothing she knew then that her Master’s plan had not gone according to his desires.

  He saw her looking for the sword and knew that she knew he had not obtained the weapon.

  “What shall we do then?” Nyrith said loyally, she was already unlocking the door.

  Safral was very pleased to have chosen her out of the others that day. She was quick, and smart. He imagined how a lesser apprentice would have acted. They would have spoken words of encouragement, or boasted of his abilities, trying to appease his anger with hollow flattery. Your next plan will work, Master. Nothing can stop you next time. You are the most powerful wizard in all of Itherin, it was only luck on their behalf that you did not get the sword this night, nothing more. But not Nyrith, she knew he was furious that his plan to retrieve the weapon had ended with him empty handed. Instead of waste time discussing it, she simply moved forward: what was the next plan of action?

  Late at night, near the most important celebration in the Freelands, a city bustling with excitement and a thriving nightlife, and here she was, ready to go back up to the office and help him work out how he was to achieve his personal goals, instead of participating in pleasurable but frivolous activities for her own enjoyment. She was striking as well, black hair pulled back from her face to show her sharp and sensuous features and her hard and determined yet dazzling green eyes. She wore the dark blue grey lined robes of an apprentice to an Overseer’s hand, simple, and yet she gathered them in a way that accentuated the curves of her figure. Yes, he was very glad he had chosen her.

  “There will be much to prepare for the next attempt, come with me.”

  They went inside, locking the door behind them, and quickly climbed the steps to his large workspace. A building constructed solely for him and his experiments ‘in service of the Overseer and Kolima’, it was one of elegant collections of magical artifacts and finely crafted things. There were bookshelves of ancient tomes and scrolls from past ages along one curved wall, towering to the ceiling with a large ladder to navigate through the extensive library. Great rare animal pelts decorated the dark polished wood floor. Long stone arches held up the ceiling. Much of one wall was stain glass windows, all covered for the night.

  “Bring me Summoning of the Ages,” he told Nyrith.

  “As you command,” She nodded, and quickly made her way to the ladder and bookshelves.

  He strode over to his desk and sat down, shuffling through some scrolls he had been studying, clearing the way for what he knew would be a large, heavy, tome.

  If illusions and subterfuge will not work, he thought, then I will have to try a more direct approach.

  He closed his eyes and thought of the power within the sword, of how close he had been to it.

  He wanted it for himself.

  And was willing to kill for it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Library of Kinyrr and Shadowhand

  Soren stood upon the dock and looked up at the view before him.

  The sun was high in the sky, a warm salty breeze in the air. Soren’s stomach growled at him, he was happy to be ashore once more and ready to find something fresh to eat.

  Belwick was the second largest city in Kolima, kept busy with the amount of trade it received by the Tiusk river and the ships that arrived in the harbor. Rocky shores made it not quit
e as accessible as Kolima, however, leaving most business traffic to flow through Kolima.

  Buildings in Belwick were constructed mostly with stone straight from the nearby cliffs, some had tile roofs but most of the smaller houses had thatched roofs. Twelve ships, much larger than Soren’s single mast sailboat occupied the docks that Soren had just tied his boat to. Sailors and shipmasters were going to and fro about the docks, loading crates and barrels on and off their respective boats.

  “Just small fry today, huh?” a nearby young man said.

  “Pardon?” Soren asked. Being a sailor himself he knew the expression meant that a fisherman’s day’s catch was only newly hatched juvenile fish and nothing too good or large. He guessed the boy was mentioning it because Soren was on a small ship all by himself and probably a new face among many that were regulars to the area.

  “You look new here,” the young man continued.

  The boy was dirty and smelled of fortnights without a washing.

  “I could show you around for a small price, only a few koons or so.”

  “It has been a long time since my last visit,” Soren admitted, “but I grew up here, I know my way around.” He knew the boy was a street urchin fishing for coin and would more than likely bolt after Soren gave him the money than actually show him the sights. He tried to seem friendly but really didn’t want to give the boy anything.

  “Things have changed since then.”

  Soren was quickly tiring of the kid’s attitude.

  “I can handle myself, thanks kid,” Soren said, a bit more dismissively.

  “Suit yourself,” the kid replied with irritation.

  A loose bit of dead fish lay nearby and the boy kicked it at Soren, before scrambling away.

  What disrespect. Soren thought.

  He gathered up his personal items and valuables and put them in his shoulder bag.

  Better keep my things close.

  He then shook his head trying to focus on his whole reason for being there.

  He looked up at the nearby cliffs. Near the base of the cliffs stood the grand Kinyrr and Shadowhand Library. It was a grandiose building, even as only a shell of what it once was. The core of the library had been reconstructed over time for safety and because it was still in frequent use, but the outer portion had been left alone to preserve history. Massive arches rose up from the ground surrounding the inner part of the library, though most were broken and unconnected at the top save a few of the largest. Equally impressive spaces between the arches were empty but had once housed breathtaking scenes made of multi-colored glass. Legend claimed it that Tasard himself founded the Library during the Illuminated Era, and was why it bore his last name in his honor. It was the Great Burning ordered by Reyxo the Dreadful that spurred Itherin and others to rebel against the Noble Kingdom. Reyxo wanted to destroy all ancient records of the Illuminated Era and magical texts, deeming them aberrations against the Exalted Spirits. The Freelanders, of course, opposed the idea, wanting to preserve as much as they could of the past. During and after the rebellion, Itherin and his followers rescued as much history as they could from being destroyed. Many cycles later, they uncovered the remains of an ancient Library, naturally leading to the founding of Belwick around the building. A record within the library hinted at its origins and they named it the Kinyrr Library. It was the perfect location to preserve everything that had been saved by Itherin and his followers and eventually all of those records were placed within the Kinyrr Library and they renamed it the Kinyrr and Shadowhand Library after the good deeds of Itherin.

  He skirted around the many workers scrambling about the docks and headed up to the city. He stopped by a few food carts on the streets and pieced together a small meal of fruit and fried meat. The Library remained always in sight as he made his way through the city. The streets were busy with the everyday goings on of the city and packed with people.

  Never seen Belwick so full. He thought while he ate. Like the kid said, though, it has been awhile.

  He felt anxiousness welling up inside of him. He had not seen his father in a long time. He was unsure if he would be allowed to enter the library, after what he had done when he was younger. But the appearance of Marc and the two magical beings was more important than old grudges. He would have to swallow his pride and overcome whatever obstacles may come up because of his past misdeeds.

  With his belly full and shoulder bag secured around him, he headed up the path towards the Library.

  The common folk became less present as he walked. Those heading upwards or coming down were the academic type. Scholars, philosophers, intellectuals and historians of all kinds came to visit the Kinyrr and Shadowhand Library and many were there on the road with Soren. He realized how out of place he seemed, with his scruffy appearance and travel worn clothes, nothing like the carefully pressed and fine robes of those around him. He sighed and thought perhaps he wouldn’t go up after all.

  But then he thought of the magical beings and knew that he must go up.

  A single surviving window stood near what was being used as the entrance to the Library. It showed two couples, both each with a male and female. One couple was human, and the other elvin. The couples were standing in unison, the males had their arms lifted up, supporting a large white many-faceted crystal about ten times their size above their heads, called The Summoning Stone. The females had their arms wrapped around their significant others, their heads lifted up to the Summoning Stone. A bright light was coming out of the crystal, dominating the upper portion of the window. It was simply beautiful.

  Two armored guards stood before the entrance of the Library.

  Soren knew from experience that there would be plenty more nearby if needed.

  Knowledge was power, especially the knowledge within this specific Library.

  And the Overseer of Belwick would want to preserve that knowledge.

  Soren approached the entrance, afraid that perhaps his appearance would be suspicious enough to tip the guards off to stop him, and that they would then recognize him.

  Do not be silly. He thought. I was just a kid back then. It has been many cycles, no one will recognize me now.

  Except your father.

  There was a loud creak as one of the tall granite doors opened and a small group of elderly men in robes came out. Soren quickly ducked by them and went inside.

  The Library was just as grand as he remembered it, perhaps even more so now that he was older and able to better appreciate the architecture of the building.

  A long red carpet lined with gold lined the marble floors, centering the room and starting from the entrance. A giant sphere was near the entrance as well. It was magically light, illuminating the nearby area brightly. A large portion of the globe depicted Lyrridia in great detail. There were other lands marked upon it as well but Soren did not believe that anything else listed was accurate as it was only speculated what lay beyond the Black Peaks and past the Great Western Waters aside from the Isles of Kiohopi. Giant ornate pillars rose on each side, supporting massive bookshelves lined with large tomes and scrolls. Everything smelled of parchment and ink and grandeur. A great marble desk was placed near the front to welcome patrons of the Library. The tall ceiling allowed for sound to carry easily, and Soren could hear the chatter of scholars discussing philosophy as they poured over their books. Even so there was a sort of imbued quietness about the place. Large magically lit stones had been placed in holders throughout, since fire was not permitted anywhere near the Library and the windows did not allow for a great amount of light. Soren immediately saw a familiar face near the counter and was pleasantly surprised.

  “By the Exalted! Soren, is that you?”

  It was an elderly man, with white hair and a dark beard streaked with white, dressed in the red and silver robes of the Library Stewards.

  Soren approached the man and grasped his forearm.

  “Steward Warim,” Soren replied, “You are still here!”

  Soren was relieved to
have someone he knew and trusted find him first. Warim was ancient when Soren was a boy, and he was older still now. Warim was a devout follower of Ahvere, and therefore a peaceful man with a very forgiving nature.

  “And going strong!” The old man chuckled, “It is good to see you after all these cycles!”

  “But the exile?” Soren asked. Not that he hoped he would be denied entry, on the contrary his entire purpose on coming was to enter the Library, but he knew it was a thing that would come up sooner or later and he wished to get it out of the way.

  “Exile be consumed! There may be some who will not be pleased by your return, but there are some who welcome it.”

  Soren nodded, “I thought it might be as such.”

  “I must ask you, what brought back here after all this time, after everything that transpired?”

  “The Exalted Spirits sent me here.”

  ***

  An individual stood at the bar of the Tart Fruit Tavern, finishing his drink.

  The figure was cloaked, masking their appearance, but they had the rough size and shape of a young male of twenty or so, with long dirty blonde hair. The person was dressed in a dark cloak colored in various greens and browns that almost touched the ground. His black leather boots were heavily worn with travel. His plain peasant clothes were covered with light leather armor, including shoulder plates, arm guards and a chest plate. His hands were covered with fine black leather gloves and strapped to his belt was an extremely large two handed longsword.

  “You going to get a room for the night?” The bartender asked, picking up the patron’s now empty mug and proceeding to wash it.

  “Just passing through,” the cloaked figure said.

  He placed a gold coin on the counter.

  The bartender picked it up with a grateful nod.

  Besides him and the bartender, there was only one other person there. A young woman, sleeping at one of the tables near the back.