Ja’tar stared at the door, waiting for Menzzaren to enter. The minutes dragged on. The old mage finally made his appearance, walking slowly and yawning as he entered the room. Menzzaren looked around the room, snorted, and then descended the stairs.
Ja’tar handed the staff of Din, holding the dragon’s eye, Bat’zeer, to the Floormaster, his long time friend, Rua’tor. The dragon’s eye had been taken from the dragon while it still lived, as a living sacrifice, by Ja’tar, as penance for violating one of the Wizard rules.
Ja’tar had eventually taken the Dragon, Voltaire, to be his familiar. Ja’tar had not known at the time that the dragon would grow a new eye. As time passed, the earth turned and with it, the races aged, but he did not, at least not perceptibly. He and the dragon bonded and, in due course, became good friends, almost inseparable.
Then, he had forgotten his friend. Voltaire did not find it altogether strange, but assumed that Ja’tar had become preoccupied with the Keep and the petty affairs of men, which was at least ... partially true. Truth be told, Ja’tar and the Keep had fallen under a heinous spell, a vile and devious glamour, which made them forget their heritage.
Of course, he was much younger then, and more foolhardy. The head guard of the Keep whirled the staff in an intricate pattern and slammed the floor thrice with the blunt end of the twisted staff. The loud whacks echoed around the room, breaking the eerie silence.
The cave crackled with yellow light, fingers of power springing forth from the eye, formed into a flame faerie that floated across the room and seduced the door to close. The radiant rays from her hands danced over the surface of the huge stone doors as she caressed the rock. They creaked and moaned on old iron hinges, which had seized from the centuries of waiting. At first, they began to move slowly, but as they gained momentum, they sped until they sealed with a resounding crash that forced many of the wizards to cover their ears. Ja’tar dismissed the faerie when her work was finished.
The cracks sealed with magic, as a blue tongue of flame licked the open sore, and in a blink, the rock wall was healed. There had never been a door there, or had there? The cave would remain sealed until the ceremony was completed, successful or not. The wizards could not open it from the inside, or the outside. Only the Guardian of the Gate could release the door. All would leave together, or none would survive. Many looked at the space where the doors had been. There was fear in their eyes. There should be, the wizard thought to himself. There should be fear.
He looked around the room at his old friends. Someone was missing! A chair stood empty. He made mental note of who was there and found Bal’kor was not in attendance. Too late, the door was sealed. He would have to deal with this later. He shook his head, thinking to himself, now, how was he going to conduct the ceremony with only twelve wizards? Bal’kor was more trouble than he was worth. Three full months here and he still didn’t know the rules, or follow them. If only he had not made the promise to his Mother, he thought to himself.
Bal’kor stepped out from behind the column and into full view of Ja’tar. Ja’tar noticed him almost immediately. Good! Maybe he had been wrong about the boy. Now they could start the ritual.
This was an unpleasant task and Ja’tar watched solemnly at the faces of his fellow wizards. He dropped his eyes and turned once more to the tabernacle. He sighed and continued his entrance. His heart was heavy.
Ja’tar walked to the center of the room and stepped inside of the ten-pointed star, a double pentagram that was etched on the floor. In the room’s center was a table and his chair. The orb sat on the table in a tripod, fashioned of gold, ornately figured. Behind the points of the star stood the other twelve wizards, waiting patiently for the ceremony to start.
The chamber guards stood at attention, dressed in their polished battle armor, and snapped their long lances forward to form an arch as he approached the center of the room.
Ja’tar made a motion with his hand in acknowledgment, but his gaze was empty. He passed by the wizard’s and entered the circle. The Floormaster pulled back the chair, made entirely from one tree, and helped the gangly old wizard sit. His knees popped and his hip ground as he fell back into the chair. A puff of dust sprang from the small pillow, causing him to sneeze and sniffle. The Floormaster pushed the chair up to the table, and the wood grated over the rock as the chair reluctantly slid forward. Not a word was spoken. He sat for a while, stroking his long white beard, gathering his strength. Now, the real show began!
“It is time,” he said quietly, raising his eyes to meet the room and lifting his hands to the sides.
The others waited anxiously, Ja’tar still had not made his selection. Dragon’s blood! Who should he pick? Hammergrip? Menzzaren? Who was strong of character and would not falter; Stargazer, Zen, perhaps Piledriver?
Maybe Staven? No, too slow, he was a Vork! All Vorks were methodical to a fault, they were an extreme faction of the elf society, the perfectionists. Methodical, and slow; and that ruled out Raven too. Maybe he should use Ktoe’ky. He looked at Ktoe’ky and saw nothing but fear in the burly man’s face. Fear! A three-hundred-pound son of a troll and a sorceress, filled with fear. He shook his head.
He looked at Zedd’aki. Good man that Zedd’aki was, fought in the Mage Wars, good friend to boot. He scratched his palm. His palms always itched when he was about to make a mistake. He wondered about Qu’entza. He knew the ritual and he was Grand Wizard status. He flicked his fingers causing tiny flames to dance on each digit. They popped as the flames were dispensed back to whence they came.
Bloody Dragon’s Blood! He knew damn well that Qu’entza only knew the ceremony because of the class. He doubted the mage ever practiced any real magic unless forced! He looked around the room again, suddenly feeling very alone. Truth be told, he didn’t want to trust any of them. Nevertheless, a choice must be made.
He opened his mouth, shut it, then spoke. “Zedd’aki, you take the Roceye. Qu’entza, you take the altar.”
There! He made his choice.
“Let’s get this vile ceremony done with!” he commented under his breath to nobody in particular.
The two wizards, shocked at their selection, left the circle and descended the circular stairs from the ceremonial platform to the floor of the chamber.
Zedd’aki cocked his mouth and uttered to Menzzaren when he passed by, “I thought he would call on you.”
Menzzaren shrugged ever so slightly.
They took the two items from the niche in the wall and placed them on the gold tray sitting on the table in front of the cave. They nervously paced, awaiting further instruction, though they knew what was required of them. Ja’tar could see that neither one of them wanted the job. He didn’t blame them. Nobody wanted to be that close to the Guardian, even if it was under control.
Hellfire! Qu’entza was already shaking. The remaining ten each took a site on the star and stepped into the markings that centered on each point. The all grasped hands and began chanting. The chanting increased in tempo until it drowned out all other sounds.
Ja’tar pushed up the sleeves on his simple white robe and adjusted himself in the chair. He pulled his long white hair back and fastened it behind his head. The chanting had become a dull roar. They watched in awe as the old man gently crack his knuckles, laid his hands on the crystal globe, and begin the caress.
It had been a long time since they had been gathered for a Closing, let alone closing of a Gate. The orb began to gently pulse and the interior filled with a milky haze as the wizard began a series of chants. Ja’tar estimated that they were only thirty now. There were so many lost to the battle fought to seal the last world before the Warvyn could poison the magic.
Of those thirty, Ja’tar could only find the twelve. Twelve! Counting himself, and the twelve made thirteen, thirteen needed to conduct the quest for Closure. Unlike the last Closure, now they were wiser. It was clear that this was the occasion to act, it was time for a Closing. It was the moment for a new wizard to be assigned as Custo
dian.
“En otium bastar porta se’ toh!” Ja’tar slowly spoke, weaving the intricate patterns with his hands. He rolled his eyes up into their sockets and spit smoke out while he spoke.
It was only for effect. Showmanship was half the battle of maintaining control. He liked to see them squirm in their chairs. Good, now he had their attention!
Ja’tar raised his hands, and lightning arced between them and into the air as he spread his arms. Look at the weasels shake, he thought to himself. Everyone shook but Menzzaren. He saw the old wizard’s expression.
Odd, Bal’kor hadn’t even batted an eye, wasn’t even sweating, and even looked calm. Of all the wizards, he would have thought that Bal’kor would have been the most frightened of all. After all, he had the most at risk. He was the only member of the ceremony who was not a full wizard, but only a sham, barely a wizard in training, unable to cast spells. His magic was stuck, prevented from coming to fruition by some unseen or unknown force.
His demeanor was a complete change in only a couple days. Why, it was just yesterday… No! ...two days ago, he had asked for an audience to complain about the risk he would face in the up and coming ceremony. And now… here he was acting like he had the world by the tail.
Ja’tar added a couple of colored smoke bursts for added flare. Time to get down to business! This wizard business could be funny. The path that took him to this point had been as convoluted as any imaginable. He thought about the decisions he had made that had altered his fate and future.
Each wizard was given one chance, and only one realm to mold. Take it or leave it! He had never had that chance. He had made his choice before the choosing, sacrificed his opportunity. He chose to be the Keeper, master wizard, like his father before him. Of course, the decision was not entirely his. The Guild had denied him ascension and called him back to serve. The gods had been furious. He hoped they got over it before his time came to pass.
He had accepted, so the choice had ultimately been his, but if he hadn’t made it, his Father would have had to choose someone else, someone less qualified and not of the house Kandor’a. Now, he wondered if he had made the right choice. The globe glowed purple and flickered.
“Do’ se’ meta fabrica el’torntas,” he said, setting his palm flat over the top of the sphere. His right hand wove symbols, one after another. Why did the blasted magic always have to be so difficult? As always, the quickest way was the hard way!
The globe changed colors again and became blood red. Sweat appeared under his lip, but he didn’t dare remove his hands from the El’batar. He wasn’t using the orb like a watcher. This was different. El’batar was special, the original orb of the ages, infused with the power to control the gates and the beast by their creator, some unnamed mage from the times long before Ror.
Zedd’aki and Qu’entza came forward to the shrine, carrying the ornate golden plate. It was time.
The realm of Naan was in trouble. The magic to the Gate would be cut off, the links removed. That simple! A new wizard would eventually be assigned, after it was deemed safe to return.
He shuddered at the thought of being neutered of the magic. He thought about his sister, trapped in the bal’achar. What could be worse than death? Being without the flow, that’s what! She would never feel the flow again; it was like losing a spouse or the ability to mate. He could think of nothing worse, except perhaps death itself.
To’paz was lucky, if you could call it that. Her quick thinking had saved her, but at what cost? These things always had a price. The council had decided that her name would not be stricken from the Book of Worlds, and she would retain her seat in the Chamber of Light.
Of course, all would remember her, but probably not for all the good she had done—only that she was one whose world had to be purged, and that she had sired a bastard son with one of the un-chosen races. Moreover, if she were to ever return? A single tear slid down his cragged cheek as he continued his chants. No one noticed they were so focused on the ceremony.
The two wizards set the tray down and looked at each other, mirroring the terror that each felt. They each took a key. One was shaped like a twisted Roceye branch, thorns and a single bud all made of silver. The craftsmanship was so fine; the branch appeared to be living, a perfect casting of the plant. The other was shaped like an altar, but cast in bronze. The altar showed two wizards on either side with a Guardian of the Gate trapped in a web of fine silver wire.
The two carefully carried the two keys to the ornately carved cave opening at the far end of the room. The opening contained dozens of unique markings, intricately carved in the rock itself.
The cave beyond the carvings was dark, no light escaped. Zedd’aki took the first key and set it into place in the space provided. It slid gently and seamlessly into the intertwined vines. Zedd’aki began the Dance of the Vines. His body undulated, twisted and turned as he chanted the dance. The vines, carved into the cave itself, began to change, move. Soon, there appeared to be a living wreath surrounding the opening. Still he danced, sweat dripping on the cold rock floor.
Ja’tar continued his chant. A heavy mist formed at the base of the cave entry, flowing into the nothingness, the void in the cave. The rock was glistening, and a hazy smoke filled the mouth. The room got very dark; a chilling wind blew from nowhere. Lightning struck out from the rolling cloud forming over the top of the cave. There were haunting sounds, howls and cries of anguish coming from the cloud while the spirits of ephemeral beings faded in and out, their faces contorted in agony. The mist undulated and solidified, taking on a featureless manlike shape. Only the creature’s yellow bloodshot eyes and gaping sharp-toothed maw were visible.
Ja’tar chanted, sweat pouring from his brow. He didn’t look up, he concentrated on his task. His hands shook causing sparks of magical energy bounced from the orb to his hands and back again. His eyes fluttered in his head. He was consumed with the task.
Qu’entza, the wizard on the right, took the second key and carefully set it in place, shielding his eyes from the creature appearing in the mist. He flung himself to the floor and began furiously weaving symbols with his hands, never looking up.
Zedd’aki was on his knees wailing and chanting; smoke poured from his robe. Thin strands of light began to weave about the Guardian of the Gate. Soon the Guardian of the Gate was surrounded on all sides by the silvery light. Slowly the noose tightened and the Guardian of the Gate saw the trap, but it was too late.
The color of the Guardian changed from the deep smoky white to a fiery red. The Guardian of the Gate struggled to escape, tearing at the strands of light with all its might, pushing well into the room as its teeth gnashed at the strands and its clawed hands pulled at the thin streaks of silver magic.
Its roar was ear shattering and it grasped the strands with its claws, trying to rip itself free. Throwing itself from side to side, it stretched the strands of magic that bound it. Finally, the room fell silent. The Guardian had given up, realized it was trapped and surrendered to its captors. It recognized the magic that contain it, and knew it to be his master. It had been here many times before, but not for such a long time. The Guardian of the Gate turned to Ja’tar spreading its smoky arms wide and bowed low, keeping eye contact with the old wizard.
The two wizards collapsed on the floor, spent from their contribution. Even though they were drained of all their strength, the two dragged themselves to opposite sides of the entry, moved into their respective circles, and joined the chant.
Ja’tar stood in front of the beast and yelled out his arcane words, making sure to clearly articulate each syllable. He could ill afford to make a mistake here. Each was met by a deafening guttural grunt by the translucent beast that seemed to shift in and out of solid form. He stared into the eyes within eyes, within eyes, that echoed back to show those lost and trapped, forever under the command of the one on the other side, wherever that was.
Zedd’aki was still shaking and on his knees when he knew it was time for him to cont
inue the rite. He crawled over to the rock and clawed his way to his feet. Qu’entza did the same. Each went to symbols along the edge, searching. Zedd’aki placed his left hand on the symbol for water, his right on a symbol of a man. His body arched and shook as his eyes quivered. He was held rigidly in place, his hands welded to the rocky symbols. His fingers glowed with green and yellow light.
In the blank area near the center of the entrance of the cave, next to the steps that led into the void, carvings began to appear, rearranging themselves and morphing into being from the rock. These were the realms known to be under the guidance of the Guild, where magic flowed. Qu’entza touched one of them and it began to glow orange. The Guardian of the Gate looked down at the glowing carvings. It was bound by the magic that had created it to obey.
Then Qu’entza walked to the right side of the cave. There were three symbols there, open doors, closed doors and a dragon in flight. He reached for the symbol, and then hastily drew his hands back. A vast vile smile filled the Guardian’s maw and the strands of light flickered. He reached again and fear filled his mind making him retreat a second time. This time the strands of light weakened even further. The Guardian threw its head back and roared a spine-chilling laugh, throwing its body against the strands and reached for the cowering mage.
“Yoooouuu are not wooorthhhhy!” It looked at Qu’entza and hissed, “You wiiilllll diiiiie.”
The net was collapsing! Qu’entza looked around stunned and wide-eyed. He lost control of his bodily functions and soiled himself. The Guardian of the Gate was coming after him and was half-free of the net. Ja’tar’s body convulsed when the crystal throbbed. Cracking sounds could be heard coming from inside the orb. The orb was being destroyed.
Qu’entza screamed and threw himself at the rocky symbol. The Guardian’s claw swept the air, reaching for him as he dove. He felt a tug as his face was grazed by the beast’s clawed hand. The skin split away, melting as if touched by acid, the bone showing through. He pushed himself upright working through the pain and placed both hands in the imprints of the symbol of closed doors. His hands began to glow orange, then yellow.
The Third Sign Page 48
