Fife placed a small bag in Julie’s palm. Perplexed, she opened it, spying several smooth stones of different shades and colors.
“What is this, master?” she asked, curious.
“Today, you shall learn by feel. Can you do this, apprentice? You will find porting stones within, which will teleport you to random destinations, you understand?” He held up a bright red stone. “This one shall bring you back here. Are you ready to learn, apprentice?” She nodded warily. “This is no fool’s quest, do not be so suspicious, child. Each will take you to a place.” He held up another empty bag. “The used ones shall go into the empty bag, yes?”
Julie nodded her understanding.
“Good, now off with you.”
“What am I feeling for, master?”
“For the magic, for the effects. When the teleport happens, open yourself not only to the granules of the air, but the granules of magic, just so. You will observe how they move and shape and change to achieve the port, do you understand?”
“Yes, master. Granules … again.”
Fife nodded and grunted, he left her standing outside, closing the door to his cottage. Julie’s strides took her to the sloping trail, leading down to Korlin’s Cove. She took out the first stone, pale pink and flecked with blue, rolling it in her fingers. Cool to the touch with a faint inner light, the polished rock was otherwise ordinary. She gripped it firmly in her hand, fingers curling, encompassing, knuckles turning white. The magic swirled around her hand, then her body.
Air granules and magic melded together. Her surroundings stretched before her in a blur, her body moving forward at unfathomable speeds, yet her feet never moved. Stretched scenery swirled, creating a cyclone as she hurtled down the eye of the storm, the light shifting colors. Before she could take a breath, she emerged at her destination.
Dark and sunless gloom prevailed on her first stop, cooled by canopied shade. Moss grew thick, a heavy earth and mulch odor hanging stagnant in the air. The atmosphere was damp, and the world had a muted quality to it. At first impulse, Julie feared that she reached the Corridor of Cruelty, thinking Fife betrayed her, but quickly realized her mistake by the time she drew her wand. The swamplands came next, but the trees that pressed in around her were too thick for the swamp. She arrived somewhere new.
Stray and queer sounds reached her ears, her eyes searching the cloister of trees. Shadows stretched like wisps of smoke, curling, coiling like a serpent. A rustling drew her eyes further into the deep, dark, damp wooded area. Another rustling to her left; she pivoted, her breath erratic as she searched. Grunts, haggard respiration, and a burst of noise like the crunching of dead leaves descended upon her from behind. She turned, a grotesque creature of a green-gray hue rushed her like a gorilla on all fours. It had two legs and four arms, two protruding from its back. The face, marred with gouges, protruding teeth, and three eyes, promised her a grueling death.
Without deliberate thought, she displaced the creature and launched him backward. Julie didn’t care to watch where he landed, it didn’t matter, she only sought to leave. With haste, she dropped the used stone into the empty bag and pulled another stone from her other bag. She heard the rustling again but this time in multitude. Four more creatures of similar build bore down on her. One leaped for the mage, but the scenery stretched, swirled, and changed, ripping her from the heart of the Goblin Forest.
Her feet hit a fine powder. The impact sent a plume into the air, softer than snowflakes falling lazily from the sky, though some continued up, disappearing into the air. Without the unforgiving heat, the premonition of standing in a desert seemed unlikely. Though the new location lacked the deep cold like driven snow, a fierce ache gnawed at her bones. What Julie experienced from this place was unlike anything she had witnessed before, and could only describe it as a void; her breath lacked sound though her lungs filled with air. The air remained still, unmoved. The prior location scared her with the sudden attack, but this place creeped her out. Her breath came quick and deep, her eyes wide, darting around. In a moment of clarity through rising panic, she fumbled for a new stone that would take her far, far away.
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When she cleared her newest teleport, a black ground darker than charcoal rushed up to greet her. The grit crunched beneath her heel, flaking and crumbling away. The clouds billowed above and blotted out the suns, their rays diminished through the aerial veil. Monolith stones and epitaphs littered the way before her, and wisps of an inky blackness twined about like oily smoke. Julie pulled her wand again, the tip illuminating at her thought. She peered closer to the monolith before her:
HERE LIES TARQUIN KOTHLUS
LOVING FATHER, BRAVE WARRIOR
BELOVED BROTHER TO THE KING
Kothlus?
She peered at more monoliths and epitaphs; names flashed across each stone face she passed: Kothlere, Kothlus, Poplu, Dathyr, Nelb, Lakayre, Tyku, Korlin, Lor, Geim, and so many more. Other than the Kothlere and Kothlus names, she couldn’t tell whether they were all from noble houses. She did, however, see an ancestor of Judas within the maze of names.
A shadow skittered towards her in the distance. A soft shriek grated her nerves like the grinding of teeth from a sleeping child. The scarcely discernible noise of gurgling breath sounded from the deep. The sound echoed, impossible for her to catch when the sound began and where it ended.
“What comes?” a deep, rattling breath called slowly.
Julie bolted up from the sojourn among the epitaphs. Her fingers fumbled numbly for a new pebble as the shadow snaked towards her. Through the cloud’s obscurity and light diminishing properties of her surroundings, Julie recognized the entity, her eyes going wide. She had seen one before. A cold sweat prickled her spine, the returning memory felt like a dream. Judas had fought with one from—somewhere?
Gods, where was that? Was it a dream or did it happen?
The cloud of black smoke billowed in and out as it neared. Her scrambling fingers finally found purchase as she backpedaled. The stone’s power rushed up and enveloped her, taking her far from the monoliths of the dead and the approaching shadow.
Her eyes were blinded for a few moments as the suns blazed hot and naked in the cloudless sky. A burnt smell reached her nostrils while she spied charred wood, crushed rocks, and shattered remains of a town. The radius of the town was small, far smaller than Far Point, an insignificant spec on a map next to the grandiose scale of Ralloc or even Dlad City. For a moment, she stood in silent horror, witnessing the aftermath of devastation. Bones jutted out amongst the remains. Someone attempted to clean up the carnage, but abandoned the operation, half completed. Peering closer, the charred remains, broken bodies, and corpses in various states of decomposition filled her eyes. She had seen this place before, she was sure of it. Though destroyed, it was still recognizable.
This is Wizard’s Pass, where the trolls first attacked. I saw this in my Shadowcasting.
And the memory came back, all the death and blood and destruction. Even the exchange she had with Judas returned.
“So much death and violence, I don’t think I can stomach a war!”
“You better get used to seeing it,” he barked, his voice stern.
But she didn’t want to be desensitized. It was madness. Hate blossomed in her bosom, her skin itched with ire, tingling and quivering with malice channeled towards the being responsible for the massacre: Xilor. The building enmity augmented her abilities and sensitivity, the faintest touch of a presence communed with her, strong and radiant, warm and caring. The touch like a memory, faint but familiar.
Judas.
She noted his concern, knowing he recognized her wrath and pain, but she clamped down on her aura, her essence, and withdrew from his touch. She turned her attention back to the scene before her. Seething at the injustice and plotting revenge for the fallen, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was Fife’s true lesson today. Every place she ventured to seemed, in some way, tied to the tyrant; this last stop affirmed the suspicion. Perhaps Fife’s intent was a motivator for her to choose her fate or fulfill the destiny orchestrated by the fairies. She hardened herself from the flood of emotions the evident massacre invoked. For strength, she repeated her vow, her mantra, but with an amendment.
I will never be weak again. I will never be helpless. And if the fairies believe me to be the mage from beyond, I will fulfill their prophecy by killing this fucking son of a bitch or die trying!