Heroes of Time Legends: Murdoch's Choice

by Wayne D. Kramer

  Jira returned with a tray and two steaming teacups. “Here we are,” he said, lowering the tray toward Zale.

  He placed the tray upon a low table and sat in another chair, facing Zale. “So, within my humble abode, the great Zale ‘the Gale’ Murdoch…or Macpherson, I should rather.”

  Jira knew one thing about Zale known to no one else outside of his immediate family: Murdoch was not his birth name. Zale had been adopted at an early age, and he never knew his real parents. It was Tomescrubber who later helped him track down his original family name, Macpherson, on a curious whim.

  Murdoch took a sip of his tea. “Zale will be fine, good sir.”

  “And what is it that brings you here, my old friend? Have you taken up an interesting new quarry?”

  “An opportunity has come up, but my crew and I haven’t exactly jumped at the chance.” Zale shifted in his seat to the sound of creaking wood. “I’ve been approached about an object known as the Grimstone.”

  Jira gave him a good, long stare. “Grimstone, you say? What about it?”

  “A…potential client is asking after it. He spoke of it as an item of great significance, although he associated it with the mythical Shadow Age.”

  Tomescrubber rubbed at a twitchy eye. “‘Mythical,’ you say? Historical would be more accurate, although who can trust half of the history we have on record, anyway?”

  Zale nodded politely. Academics generally fell into one of two camps: some believed the Shadow Age occurred and some did not. Kingdom history tended to support the latter. Those who believed one way often scorned those who believed the other.

  Zale, as many others, kept a mostly neutral stance on the matter. Although, if the Shadow Age came up in meaningful conversation, such as when discussing a job, he typically chose to side with kingdom history.

  “What do you know about the Shadow Age?” Zale asked.

  Jira shrugged. “Who knows much of anything, really? It’s a relatively short period, as history goes—just over four centuries— characterized by a darkness so powerful that it could replace the life-sustaining energy of the sun, albeit in a very unnatural way. It was started by a great object which fell from the heavens, what we refer to as the Dark Entry. Its impact brought about the Darkness Cataclysm, which ended the Foudroyant Age.”

  Zale took another sip of tea. This was a refresher for him. Eliorin’s history was marred by several cataclysmic ages that left gaping holes in the records of ancient history. Some suspected there were entire cataclysms that went unrecorded. It was easy to fathom how an age of evil sorcerers, cold fires, and other mystical elements could have found its way into the mix. Zale remembered Vidimir’s strange fire in the tavern.

  “It’s how grimkins get such a bad rap, you know,” Jira said. “They became associated with sorcerers and darkfires and energies of the Void, the use of which seemed to come quite easy for them. Even our children hear stories about grimkins and mages that are rooted in the Shadow Age.”

  “This man I met,” Zale said. “I think he might have conjured some of this darkfire you speak of. It was a purple flame, from which I felt a chill rather than heat.”

  Jira bolted upright and nearly spilled his tea. “You don’t say? That is an energy of the Void, specifically conjured by using the mineral known as byrne, something else which is believed to have its origins in the Shadow Age.”

  “And what of this Grimstone?”

  “Now that is a thing of legend.” He hopped up from his seat and made his way around to a shelf of his privately scribed books. He tapped at their spines, peering at each one, and finally stopped with a triumphant “Ah!” Jira pulled the volume and leafed through its pages. The old man grunted and hummed in thought, flipping page after page.

  “Here we are! Grimstone!” He brought the book back to his seat. “As legend has it, when the Dark Entry arrived, it soared through the atmosphere as a ball of blackness. There was no fire—no light of any kind. It was as though a chunk of outer space itself had broken the sky. As it fell, and its darkness swept over the land, the Entry was struck.”

  “Struck in midair?” Zale asked. “By what?”

  “Bursts of light, essentially—the ethereal power of Aether, the antithesis of Void. It was a counterattack—one that, unfortunately, failed.”

  Zale worked his mind to see if he could piece any of this together. In the more esoteric history, the Dark Entry’s arrival marked both the start of the Shadow Age and the end of the Foudroyant Age, which had been characterized as a period of strange electrical turbulence throughout the land. Scientists and historians couldn’t argue about the age’s existence, but much disagreement existed about what actually happened. Ancient accounts included everything from random flashes of light in the air to bolts of lightning from the ground to fires so bright they were like looking directly at the sun.

  “Would this be lightning still present from the Foudroyant Age?” Zale asked. “But a counterattack—by whom, the planet?”

  “Some might say that,” Jira replied. “But, if you give any credence to certain legends, the blasts came not from the planet but from a being. A being of the Ethereal Realm, to be exact.”

  This was not something Zale had ever gleaned from history. “An angel?” he asked.

  Jira nodded. “An astral. An archastral…formerly, that is. By the time this Dark Entry arrived, the archastral Zophiel had already given up her immortality to save the world from the deathly cold Albedo Age.” Jira cleared his throat. “I should tell you, Zale, that this legend is generally…rejected… by kingdom officials. Our history—our faith—is to be placed in the Patriarch, Birqu Umis, who established the Throne of Light. The Throne channels the blessing of the divine through Metsada Palace, thus giving us the Light of the Land. So, what I’m about to tell you is according to certain legend. Don’t stab the messenger.”

  “Fair enough,” Zale replied.

  “By this legend, the Throne is among the ‘gifts of Zophiel,’ and Birqu Umis was but a man chosen by this former archastral. Zophiel, after she became mortal, chose Birqu as a husband, and this is where the lineage of the Throne of Light began.”

  “What legend is this?”

  “It’s a legend of legends, really—the legend of the Heroes of Time.”

  “And how does this relate back to the Grimstone?” Zale asked.

  “Oh, well, that’s simple!” Jira said with a laugh. “When the blasts of light hit the Dark Entry, a piece of it broke off. That is what has come to be known as the Grimstone.”

  Zale scratched at his chin, seeing the parallel between this account and Vidimir’s. The object Vidimir sought supposedly carried the power of this Dark Entry which had, according to legend, overpowered the Light in days past.

  “You learned all this from the university, did you?” Zale asked.

  Jira waved him off. “This is research of my own volition. The university course was always watered down. You should see the pale stalk of a man they’ve got running it now. Gives me the creeps!”

  “Has anyone ever found this Grimstone before?” Zale asked.

  “Never. That it exists in legend only makes it purely that… legend.” He spun the book to face Zale. “Look at this. ‘Within the land where none may land, the Grimstone lies between what has been and what will be.’ That’s our only clue about where it might be located…and it’s a load of gibberish!”

  “My prospective client indicated it might be in Gukhan.”

  The old man paled at the name. “Well…as it’s forbidden to outsiders, I suppose that is a ‘land where none may land’…sort of…but I’d hardly call that conclusive.”

  With all this talk of legends, Zale agreed. This hardly seemed conclusive. “My crew thought as much,” he said, “that it’d be a fool’s errand. If I may ask, Tomescrubber, if someone wanted you to find this thing, would you do it?”

  Jira sat still for long moments, staring into the space of his hut’s living area. Finally, he answered, “I think you’re
right to avoid it. For one thing, it could be a fool’s errand. And Gukhan…” He shivered. “Who wants to deal with that? I might believe that Zophiel truly did attack the Dark Entry with the power of Aether as it fell, but there’s no historical proof that the Grimstone—a broken shard of the Ni’shan-qa Til’la-ni’tha—actually exists.”

  This all seemed to support the decision Zale and his crew had made not to pursue the Grimstone. He still couldn’t help but wonder…

  “What if it does exist?”

  Tomescrubber’s eyes hardened. “Then it’s a powerful relic of the Void, part of the thing which brought us the Shadow Age once before…and that, my friend, makes it very dangerous.”

  Starlina Murdoch sat in her nightgown within her Warvonia apartment, running a brush through the tangles in her long, straight hair. Its woody brown color shone in the light, highlighted by strands of pale blue, a relatively unusual color combination known as sky-wood. It played delicately about her tall, oval face. Her skin was lightly tanned from ample time outdoors. She loved going to the beach, even though she despised the ocean.

  “Guess what I heard,” Starlina’s long-time friend Amira cooed.

  Starlina looked at Amira through her vanity mirror. “Are you going to torture me with secrets?”

  “I’m torn,” Amira said. “You might want to know this… but, then again, you might not.” She flung her white-blonde hair back around her thin neck.

  Starlina narrowed her eyes. Amira was her roommate and coworker, and naturally they shared much of life together. It had already been a long day for them at Friendly Oaf ’s Taproom serving meals, busing tables, and cleaning dishes.

  Certainly the work was not glamorous, but it would suffice until the opportunity for better work. The hope was that they could pursue their chosen career disciplines at Rocknee Vocational. Amira had hopes of running her own shop, such as a cobbler or tailor. Starlina hadn’t yet decided—perhaps a jeweler or a beautician. She still had time to figure it out. Amira, assuming she earned final admittance, was set to head off at the start of Agust. Starlina wouldn’t be able to join her until the next term, nearly eight months later, because of her seventeenth birthday occurring too late in the year.

  Starlina gave a threatening wag of her hairbrush. “Then you’d better come out with it, or you might be off to Vocational with a teacup lodged in your throat.”

  “It’s about your dear Jensen.”

  “Jensen? Well, he’s already left university. I’m supposed to see him before his next departure with my father.”

  Amira seemed fit to burst. “Oh, I can’t tell you. I really shouldn’t. His shipmates are far too loose of tongue.”

  Starlina glared at her. “Not telling me now might be quite hazardous to your health.”

  “This could be misreading the hearsays, mind you…but, Starlina…Jensen means to propose to you!”

  Starlina felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. This was not something she felt prepared to deal with. “Oh…I see.”

  “‘I see.’ That’s your response?”

  Starlina turned back to the mirror and resumed her brushing. “I don’t suppose this rumor came with any intention on his part to change careers, did it?”

  Amira scowled. “You’ve still not accepted that he’s a seafarer, and yet you continue fawning over him.”

  “I do love him, you know.” She managed a wry smirk. “It’s just that, if he really loved me back, he’d become a fisherman or a dockhand instead.”

  “Oh poor, poor, conflicted Starlina.” She worked her hair into a loose braid above her neck. “I wouldn’t half mind it if a sailor called on me. Their arms all contoured with muscle, their hands rough from the ropes…and all that pluck and grit from their time at sea. That’s not to mention the exotic gifts you might get from foreign lands.”

  Starlina picked up Jensen’s lilac-colored gemstone from her nightstand. She ran her thumb across its smooth, glossy surface. “Yes, they do come with such gifts.” She clenched her fingers around the stone. “But then they’re gone again, missing your life…missing your children’s lives. At night a cold, empty bed awaits you, and the warm embrace you desire is an ocean’s distance away. Is that really a life to be excited about, Amira?”

  “You despise his occupation, and yet you keep his hopes alive. It seems you might finally have to make a choice, Starlina Murdoch.”

  Starlina opened a drawer and dropped the stone inside.

  “I dearly hope you’re wrong, Amira. Because if you’re right, I fear I shall be forced to break his heart…and mine in the process.”

  A steady breeze caressed the ships and sailors of Warvonia’s harbor. Zale stood tall and proud in the morning air, sipping a fresh brew of coffee and overlooking the newly scrubbed hull of the Queenie with a deep sense of satisfaction.

  There she bobbed with a sense of calm, a single-masted beauty, her planks fashioned of deep, woody-red roastwood from the Monarch Mountains. Furled was her fresh, new sail, its yard wobbling lazily in the breeze, oozing with anxious anticipation to be drawn taut and absorb the wind’s thrust. Soon its wish would be granted.

  Zale harbored great excitement to be back on the water. He watched from the wharf as the men aboard the ship scurried about with their final preparations. All throughout the Queenie, provisions were being double- and triple-checked, ropes were being set, pumps were being tested, bolts were being tightened, and quarters were being readied by the ship’s crew of nearly thirty men.

  “Good morning, Captain,” a man said.

  Zale nearly choked on a sip of coffee. The man’s voice was lilting and strong but not overpowering. Zale quickly wiped his mouth and turned to face a well-tanned, middle-aged man with a perfectly smooth head. He was lean and nearly a half-head taller than Zale, dressed in a long, black, double-breasted frock coat with patterned material and buttons from neck to waist.

  This was the same bald man Zale had seen in the tavern the night he met Vidimir.

  After a suppressed, sputtering cough, Zale managed to respond. “Yes?”

  “I pray you’ll forgive my intrusion. She is a beautiful ship.”

  “Much obliged, sir.”

  The man extended a hand. “My name is Fulgar Geth. It is my understanding that you are short some vital crewmen.”

  Dippy, Zale thought, believing his first mate must have arranged this meeting. He had also been there, in the tavern. Zale shook Fulgar’s hand. “Are you offering to fill a role?”

  “I can fill many roles,” Fulgar said, “but chief among them is healer and spiritual guide.”

  Zale frowned. “Then you’re a physicker and a…chaplain?”

  “If you prefer to title me as such, Captain.”

  “I have to admit,” Zale said, “that neither charge is our top priority. Having a physicker onboard suits me well, but our upcoming voyages are expected to be short ones. Your share would be no more than our general deckhands. Should your services save anyone’s life or limb, I suspect we could discuss further recompense. I offer no promises.”

  Fulgar gave a short bow. “I offer no expectations, Captain. The honor of sailing under the great Captain Murdoch is payment enough. Call it…a bolster to my career.”

  “I’ll have nothing outlandish—no bizarre Dualist rituals or Zunist sun worship.”

  Fulgar stiffened his back. “No, Captain. I believe many religions have hints of truth, but my devotion is to Eloh.”

  “Do you also have a loblolly boy or some such assistant?”

  “No, sir. I offer only myself.”

  “You must bring your own tools and supplies,” Zale said. “We have some of the basics, but my quartermaster lacks the time to muster additional inventories.”

  “Exactly as I prefer it.”

  “Very well, sir. We’ll add you to the ship’s roster. Welcome to the crew of the Queenie.”

  Dippy had beckoned Captain Murdoch to Warvonia’s canals, a few miles up the coast from the harbor, and to the calm-water docks a f
ew miles inland. Long canoes sporting rowing teams darted up and down the canal with men standing at the helms, shouting commands. These canals were popular for watersport in Warvonia, as well as for seafaring professionals to stay fit and well-practiced between jobs.

  When Dippy summoned him here, Zale had demanded to know why. His first mate insisted on waiting until Zale could see for himself. Their impending voyage in mind, Zale reluctantly obliged and tried to keep the detour from vexing him too much.

  “What’s all this about, Dippy? More than lollygagging, I should hope.”

  He left open the implication that Dippy should be with his crewmates, finalizing preparations aboard the Queenie.

  Dippy squinted down the waterway. “With our talk of recruiting a coxswain, sir, I got to thinking. There’s one such soul who happens to be between jobs—none better, I’d say, in the art of steersmanship. Been in my sights a good while now, actually.”

  Zale swelled at this good news. “Well, that’s encouraging! A few able rowers would be a nice boost, but a skilled coxswain could prove especially advantageous. Is this gentleman known within the guild?”

  Dippy cleared his throat. “Not exactly, sir. I shall have to pull some quick paperwork to transfer from the aquaculture guild, but I believe Chief Pratt’s office will process forthwith the request.”

  “I suspect so. Aquaculture—that’s intriguing. Leader of fishing boats, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When can I meet this strapping new seadog?”

  “Be along shortly, I expect,” Dippy replied. He seemed quite determined not to look at Zale, still watching only the waterway.