Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  “No!” she screamed, loosing a flurry of knives. Two blades struck the man who had blindsided Juliam, while two others sliced into the attackers in front of the man.

  By then, Stanlin had reloaded and fired two more bolts. Rhoa scanned the area from beneath the wagon and noticed two pairs of boots sneaking around it. She scrambled over and slashed out with her fulgur blades. In a spray of sparks, the tips tore through the boots, then the flesh and bone beneath. The men screamed and fell to the ground. A moment later, Rhett’s and Willem’s arrows struck the men, each causing a jerking reaction.

  Shouts and cries echoed through the camp as the remaining bandits ran off, disappearing into the night.

  The flames from the torches had spread from the grass to one of the supply wagons. Crew members hurried for shovels and began digging and tossing loads of earth onto the fire, dousing it in moments. Black smoke still swirled in the air as Rhoa climbed from beneath her wagon and surveyed her surroundings.

  Eleven bandits lay dead, and three more moaned from their wounds. Of the performers, only Juliam appeared injured. The gash in his side had soaked his shirt in blood. With Sareen’s help, he pulled it off and she began to clean his wound.

  Unfortunately, Greggor and Karl lay dead. The first was a crew member, the latter the band’s drummer. Both men had been with the menagerie even longer than Rhoa.

  Someone stepped from between two wagons, startling her. She held her blades ready, then noticed the rope tied around the man’s torso, his hands secured behind his back.

  The man appeared young, not much older than Rhoa. More surprisingly, he stood no taller than she did, around five feet. Unlike Rhoa’s lean build, his shoulders were broad, his chest thick, and his physique stout. His left arm was bandaged, the cloth tied around it bloodstained. He wore an odd cap on a head that appeared bald. In fact, he didn’t even have eyebrows. Beyond all of this, his eyes were the most remarkable feature – the pupils oversized and irises purple. Rhoa was enthralled, having never seen anything like him before.

  “Who are you? Are you one of them?” she asked, transfixed on his eyes.

  “I… I am Rawkobon Kragmor, son of Bawkobon.” His purple eyes squinted, and he flinched away from the light of the fire. “Those men… They captured me one day past. I swear by Vandasal, I mean you no harm.”

  Rhoa gasped upon hearing the name. Vandasal. Unbidden, it sparked a memory she had buried for years.

  15

  Storyteller

  Twelve Years Ago

  Rhoa dodged the hollow wooden ball and laughed. It hit the ground, bounced, and rolled to Thom, who scooped it up and threw, hitting Honey in the back as she tried to turn away. Rickard, Honey’s teammate, grabbed the ball and threw at Rhoa, who made a successful dodge once again. Dodging was among the things she did best and was one of the reasons the older kids let her play.

  The ball rolled across the square until it hit the fountain. An old man dressed in brown robes with patches of various colors bent down from his sitting position on the fountain wall, picking up the ball. Rhoa froze and glanced at her friends. They gaped at the old man, as if he were a monster.

  She gathered her courage and walked toward the man. “That’s our ball. Can we have it back?”

  “Hmm,” the man replied. “It seems I have something you value, but you give me nothing in return.”

  Rhoa’s mouth twisted into a frown. “We have no coin. Even if we did, it isn’t right for you to charge us for something that’s ours.”

  The man smiled. Rhoa thought it was a friendly smile. She noticed how long the man’s eyebrows were and wondered if he might be able to braid them. The silly thought made her grin.

  “Very good, my girl. Charging you coin to reclaim something you own would indeed be unfair.” He held the ball out, turning it in examination. “This is a very nice ball. I suspect there is a story behind it.”

  Rickard sidled up beside Rhoa as she replied. “My father made it for me. He makes furniture and such, so making a ball wasn’t so difficult.”

  “Yes. But what was this ball before he made it?”

  Rhoa snorted. “It was wood, of course.”

  “And wood comes from what?”

  “Trees.”

  “Yes. But what kind of tree? Where did this tree grow? How old was the tree?”

  “Why bother with such inconsequential things?” Rickard asked.

  Rhoa frowned at Rickard. He was older and often used words she didn’t know, as if to make sure she knew he was her elder. The boy stood a full head taller than Rhoa and everyone else in the group. Yet he constantly found ways to build himself up in front of the others. She wondered why.

  “Why?” the old man asked. “Those things you call inconsequential are often the most important. There is a story behind all things. To discover the true importance, you need to ask the right questions.”

  “You seem to like questions,” Rhoa noted.

  “Oh, we storytellers adore questions. They open the doorways to the tales we seek.”

  “You are a storyteller?”

  “Yes. My name is Salvon the Great.”

  Her brow furrowed as she looked him up and down. “If you are so great, why are you dressed like some beggar?”

  Salvon laughed. “Unfortunately, the life of a storyteller is not one of vast wealth. In fact, the job seldom earns more than a meal and a roof for the night.”

  “Then why do it?” Rhoa asked.

  “Because, my dear, it is my calling.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Crafting stories is what I do. Sharing them with others is what I love most.”

  His response made sense, and Rhoa nodded. She noticed the other kids gathering around the man and an idea formed.

  “Can you tell us a story? If you love to share them so much, we might listen.”

  The man’s eyes brightened as he grinned. “What a lovely suggestion. Please, sit. I’ll come up with something you have never heard before.”

  Rhoa and the other children sat. At seven years of age, she was the second youngest in the group. Rickard and Honey were both the oldest at ten years.

  “Let me see.” Salvon gazed at nothing while tugging on his beard. He then held up a finger. “I’ve got it. I am going to share a tale of magic and betrayal, a tale that begins before time itself.” The man bent and picked up the lute leaning against the fountain wall.

  “How can a story begin before time?” Honey asked.

  Salvon glared down at her. “It is poor manners to interrupt a storyteller when he is performing.”

  Rhoa nudged Honey with her elbow. The girl, whose hair was as fair as her name, frowned while rubbing her arm. Her lips pressed together, she appeared determined to remain silent.

  Salvon began again, his voice taking on a lyrical quality as he strummed the lute. “Before time began, there was nothing but the universe. It came into being of its own will, and with this creation, time began. The universe is vast, you see, and contains all things. When staring into the evening sky, people see so many stars, all part of the universe. There are even other worlds, not so different from our own, out there somewhere.”

  As the old man nodded toward the heavens, the children’s gazes followed, his fingers continually strumming the lute. Rhoa found herself trying to see beyond the blanket of pale blue above her, and she wondered how big the universe might be. Just thinking about it made her feel smaller than the smallest ant.

  “While the universe was vast, it was also empty, lacking life. To change this lonely existence, it willed other beings to join it. Our story revolves around two such beings, both bound to this world. You might think of them as brothers, but describing them as two sides of the same coin might be more appropriate.

  “These beings were known as Vandasal and Urvadan.”

  As one, the children gasped. Urvadan was a name scarcely used outside of hushed whispers. More commonly, people called him the Dark Lord.

  Salvon nodded. “Yes. I s
ee you have heard of the Dark Lord. Do you know of Vandasal?”

  Silence. The children turned toward each other, shrugging.

  “As I thought.” The man shook his head. “So sad. This is why stories must be told – so people remember the whole of it.”

  His voice shifted again, resuming the lyrical recitation of the story. “These two beings crafted the world you know and everything within it. You might think of them as gods, but they had limitations. Each brother was equal in power to the other, which created balance in the world.

  “Vandasal’s source of power was bound to the sun – mighty during daylight, yet weakened at night. Urvadan’s power was connected to the moon, waxing and waning as it rose and fell.”

  Rhoa peered up at the moon, a globe hovering in the blue sky. She frowned at his words. The moon never moved, at least not that she had ever seen.

  “I can see you are wondering about the moon,” Salvon said knowingly. “Don’t worry. My story will explain it all.

  “Urvadan held his magic to himself rather than sharing it with the world. Taking a different approach, his brother, Vandasal, chose to create, giving birth to beings of nature, such as bears, rodents, cows, horses, birds, and man. Also from Vandasal rose creatures of magic, including the Makers, the Cultivators, dragons, gryphons, and other beasts of legend.”

  In Rhoa’s head, she imagined these creatures of legend roaming the wilderness and filling the skies – massive, mighty, majestic.

  “The land was different back then, quite vast and stretching far beyond Hassakan. Across the land, there were twenty great cities, each built by Maker hands. For centuries, all was well with the Makers, the Cultivators, and man living together in relative peace. The magical creatures were rare, some even unable to reproduce, but they coexisted with the animals you know today, fitting into the circle of life as intended.

  “The intelligent races and creatures worshipped Vandasal, their prayers feeding him, giving him power that surpassed his brother – power Urvadan envied. Many times, Urvadan attempted to give life to those who might worship him. Each time, the tainted influence of his power made his creations insane. Goblins, trolls, ogres, and even darker, more twisted creatures came to life under his power, every one of them mad and warped by his influence. Frustrated but determined, Urvadan devised another means to surpass his brother and make this world his own.

  “With the combination of devious magic and the lure of great wealth, Urvadan convinced a tribe of Makers to join his cause. Over time, these Makers changed to something else, something dark. These twisted Makers constructed a great city far to the east. The very design had a singular purpose. Not as a place to live, but rather as a giant device to augment Urvadan’s power.”

  Salvon leaned forward, strummed a deep, twisted chord while flashing wide eyes. “He called this city Murvaran!”

  Rhoa and the other children jumped with a start and leaned away from the man. As he said the name of the city, a thick cloud passed before the sun, darkening the plaza and sending chills down Rhoa’s spine.

  Salvon’s eyes closed and he sat back for a moment before resuming his tale. “Hidden in this city, in his center of power, Urvadan unleashed a great spell that shook the entire planet and the heavens above. With this spell, he captured the moon, locking it in place. Sadly, the moon would no longer wander across the sky as the sun does today, but instead would remain directly over Murvaran. With the moon, his very source of power, forever shining down upon him, Urvadan’s strength increased tenfold. When Vandasal appeared to confront him regarding this affront to the natural order, Urvadan smote his brother and cast him down, leaving Vandasal a shell of what he had once been.”

  Salvon’s lute filled Rhoa with sadness as the old man stared at the ground.

  “Of course, such a shift had cataclysmic consequences. With the moon locked in place, the gravity of such a large object pulled the oceans and seas to this side of the world, flooding the lower lands to the north and creating seas that had never before existed. It also disturbed the balance of the world, triggering a series of volcanic eruptions beneath where the moon now resides. These eruptions lasted for a century.”

  Rhoa’s eyes widened as she imagined the seas rushing in to drown the land, massive volcanos bursting forth lava and darkening the sky with smoke.

  “When the shift was complete, a range of impassable mountains, many thousands of feet high, split the eastern lands from the west. In the heart of that mountain range, the ground had cracked, forming the maze of chasms known as the Fractured Lands."

  When the man resumed, the energy in his tale had faded, his tone one of loss. “With the rise of Urvadan came a new age, for the balance had shifted. The races and creatures of magic faded to legend, while mankind rose and claimed rule. With the rise of man, new gods came into power. Along with Gheald, Farrow, Pallan, Bal, Hassaka, Oren, Kyra, and Cora, the gods you know today, came the birth of the wizard race, each god claiming one of the eight remaining great cities as their own. Backed by the power of their gods, wizard lords now rule the lands and govern mankind.”

  The man fell silent, his face reflecting a profound sadness. Rhoa wondered about the story, what was true and what was not.

  As if reading her mind, Honey said, “I have never heard such a tale.”

  Salvon blinked, almost like he had been sleeping. “Um…. You see, this story is quite old. History prior to the current gods is seldom shared. Most people would call the tale a myth. Some might even call it blasphemy.”

  His gaze swept over the children. “Who is to say what is fact and what is fantasy? Perhaps this was nothing but a tale of fancy. Perhaps it was something more. Regardless, I suggest you do not speak of it when you are around a wizard. They will view it as an affront against Gheald, or whichever god they worship. Repeat it to the wrong person and you could find yourself in serious trouble.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “The gods of today, such as your own Gheald, demand your allegiance. Perhaps someday, those gods will be replaced, like Vandasal was in our story. I cannot say, for I won’t pretend to know the way of the gods.”

  Something that had always bothered Rhoa prompted a question. “Did Vandasal require a sacrifice, too?”

  “You refer to the lottery for the Immolation of Darkening?”

  She nodded.

  “I have never heard of Vandasal requiring such a sacrifice, but as stories are passed down over time, much is lost, and this tale is from centuries before recorded history.”

  The old man picked up his lute and rose to his feet with a grunt. “That is all for today, children. I must go and rest, for I have a performance this evening.”

  Rhoa did not wish him to leave, so she reached out and grabbed his lute. “Will you come back tomorrow with another story?”

  Salvon looked at her hand on the instrument, his eyes displaying shock. “You are touching my lute.” His tone was odd, filled with disbelief.

  “Sorry,” Rhoa said as she jerked her hand back.

  The man recovered and flashed a friendly smile. “Don’t worry, my dear. I would love to come back again and again.”

  He turned and walked away with the children watching, the old man’s story replaying in Rhoa’s mind, stirring wonder. She turned and gazed toward the moon, finding it partially blocking the sun. A full eclipse would occur in just a few weeks, as it did every year.

  She wondered if the moon truly did travel across the sky many, many years ago.

  16

  Welcome to the Family

  Rhoa rode on the back of the wagon with Pippa at her side. The odd young man who had stumbled into their camp the prior evening rode with a crew member named Cradley, who drove a wagon loaded with massive tent poles. Unsure about the stranger, she watched him from a distance. Cloth covered his eyes and much of his face after declaring the sun too bright for him to bear. That statement alone stoked the fire of Rhoa’s curiosity.

  It had been a long day that began with a dreary, overcast morning. The
gloom had been fitting as the troupe said farewell to two of their own. Stanlin said a few words before lighting the funeral pyres for their fallen comrades. The troupe caravan then departed, following the winding road down to the next valley. The hills and the pass where they had encountered the bandits were soon miles behind them as the road turned northwest. The tree-lined road leveled, and they came upon a small bridge, the wagon train stopping so the troupe could refill water barrels and waterskins before resuming.

  By the time the sun was beyond its apex, the forest was behind them and grassy plains covered the land beside the road. Farms appeared and faded into the distance as they continued toward Starmuth.

  When the sun was low in the sky, Stanlin pulled his wagon off the road and headed toward a lonely outcropping of rock jutting above the rolling plains. The other wagons followed and formed a circle beside the rock to camp for the evening.

  The task of searching for firewood fell to Rhoa and her fellow acrobats. She and Pippa went in one direction, Willem and Rhett in another.

  “It feels good to stretch my legs after sitting all day. Come on.” Pippa waved Rhoa along. “Let’s run.”

  Both girls burst into a sprint, racing toward a cluster of trees a quarter mile away. Even with Pippa’s longer legs and head start, Rhoa passed her and reached the trees first. Giggling, they began searching for fallen branches. When they came across a dead pine, Rhoa drew her fulgur blades and jabbed at the splintered wood until the trunk broke free from the stump. She then picked up one end while Pippa hoisted the other.

  The walk back to camp took much longer than the trip out, the girls having to stop numerous times to rest. As they reached camp, Willem and Rhett appeared from the far side of the rock pile, each of them carrying an armload of branches.