Vasileios waited irritably in the town’s meager meeting hall. Torg Uyen was little more than a blip on the map compared to Yaal, and it was truly an affront to all of his sensibilities that he was forced to come all this way. But then, the ancient artifacts were too important to be entrusted to simple soldiers.
At last, there was a sound at the door and Captain Orinaard appeared, flanked by two of his men. He nodded respectfully to Vasileios before taking a seat on the other side of the long table.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice tense.
The two of them had never quite gotten along, but over the years, they had reached a grudging kind of respect for one another in the king’s service.
“Where are they?” Vasilieos asked, cutting straight through the pleasantries.
Orinaard looked at the door and two more men entered, carrying a trunk between them. They set the trunk up on the table and stepped back, taking up a watchful position on either side of the doorway.
Vasileios rose and went to the trunk, hesitating over the lock for a moment as he sensed the power within. With a deep breath, he whispered a word and the lock opened. Then he lifted the lid, peering inside the trunk. His eyes roved over the glittering artifacts, taking them all in in wonder.
He closed the trunk, frowning as he turned toward Orinaard.
“Where are the others?”
The Captain answered cooly. “That is all of them. We searched the whole area.”
Vasileios clasped his hands behind his back, pacing along the length of the room thoughtfully. “Search again. The sword is missing. And Eliara’s rods. We must find them.”
“Search yourself,” Orinaard shot back. “I have other matters to attend to. If those artifacts were out there, my men would’ve found them. I’m telling you they’re not there.”
“And you’re certain nobody else came or went from the tower while you were watching?”
The air in the room seemed to grow icy at the mage’s accusation. Orinaard shifted in his seat, and his soldiers watched closely.
“I am certain,” he answered.
“You know we have been searching for these items for a very long time. It is of utmost importance that all of them are returned to our care.”
Orinaard rose, his eyes tracing the mage’s path. “I am well aware, and I assure you, my men and I have done everything we can here. I have left two of my men to stand guard over the tower. You are welcome to go see for yourself. However, Sariza is growing more bold by the day and I fear there are spies moving through the countryside as we speak. I must locate them before they reach the king.”
Vasileios eyed him cooly. “I understand.”
Orinaard seemed to take this as a dismissal and he nodded to his men, who filed out of the room ahead of him.
Vasileios remained in the room, staring at the trunk for several long minutes. In truth, five artifacts was a good start. After all these years, it was good to have them back. But still, it was puzzling. The sword made sense, sort of. Anyone could pick up a sword and swing it about, he supposed. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that one of Orinaard’s men had taken the sword for himself. But the divining rods… that was harder to explain. Who would want a couple of old copper rods, one of them bent and deformed from the calamity?
Pondering this, he returned to the trunk, lifting the lid once more. Thinking better of it, he paused. With a word, he closed the door of the room and locked it, using his magic to make sure that the hall outside was quite empty.
Then, he reached into the trunk and carefully lifted out the cudgel that had once belonged to Tarynis. Power seemed to course through it, setting off a faint glow that traveled up and down its short length. The weapon was light in Vasileios’s hands, unnaturally light.
“We’ve missed you,” he whispered.
There was a shimmer in the air and then the shimmers appeared to coalesce into a being. The little wyrmling stretched its wings and yawned, blowing out a puff of smoke that dissipated into the air. Then, it settled onto the open lid of the trunk and regarded Vasileios curiously.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Vasileios smiled, reaching up to scratch the wyrmling under the chin, and it made a low purring sound deep in its chest.
Slipping the glowing mace into a loop beneath his cloak, Vasileios closed the trunk once more and secured the lock with another word. The dragon made a loop of the room, enjoying its newfound freedom for the first time in a very long time.
“Shall we?”
The dragon gave a little cry and landed on Vasileios’s outstretched arm. Together, they left the meeting room, and Vasileios placed an enchantment on the door, ensuring that no one else would bother the trunk while he was away.
They made it as far as the foyer before Vasileios whispered a word and stepped through the teleportation spell, arriving outside of Torg Uyen’s barred gates. With a disgusted look back at the town’s unimpressive wall, he turned in the direction of the fallen tower.
He walked a little ways, allowing the dragon to stretch its wings and explore the area a bit. Normally, he would have teleported straight to the tower’s base, but he was enjoying the early morning air and the feel of the power emanating from the mace at his side. He was in no rush to get back to Torg Uyen, or to Yaal for that matter. For now, Vasileios was content to watch the wyrmling wheeling in circles overhead.
As they drew nearer to the fallen tower, the wyrmling settled on Vasileios’s shoulder, the ridge of scales along its neck bristling at the site where it had been imprisoned for so very long.
“It’s all right, little one. You’re free now.”
It made a low chirping sound in response, but still, it remained on alert.
“Halt!” One of the soldiers commanded, striding forward to block the mage’s path.
Vasileios gave the man a withering look.
“Out of my way, sword boy.”
The guard’s mouth dropped open in protest, but before he could speak, the wyrmling let out a shrill cry and snapped at the man. He stepped aside, flustered.
“I apologize. Just following orders.”
“Yes, of course,” Vasileios said dismissively.
He surveyed the scene, wondering where he should begin his search. Despite Geor’s power and the lingering magic left in his wake, nothing about the place really stood out to Vasileios. As he meandered through the piles of rubble, he did not feel drawn toward any particular area, and he could not sense any areas of volatility as he would expect from one of the artifacts.
It seemed that Orinaard had not been lying. The sword and the rods were not here.
“Excuse me,” Vasileios called to the guard as he picked his way back toward the path. “Is the, erm, body still here?”
The guard nodded, tipping his head over his shoulder. “Back there. We put a blanket over him. Don’t know much about magic and all that, but I’ve heard rumors of necromancers and things, and he was giving me the creeps.”
Vasileios gave the man a sympathetic smile, or at least the best he could manage. Necromancy was an old wive’s tale, but he was used to commoners and their silly stories.
“Can you take me to him?”
“Of course.”
The guard led the way around the tower and into a thicket of trees, to a small clearing where a dirty old blanket concealed the body. The guard stopped abruptly at the edge of the clearing and gestured for Vasileios to go ahead.
“Thank you. You may go.”
The guard looked very relieved by this and turned tail, quickly leaving the area to return to his station.
Lifting the corner of the blanket, Vasileios grimaced at the grisly sight. Geor’s body was covered in bruises, scrapes, and burns. No part of him had escaped the collapse. And, as the guard said, the old man’s eyes remained wide opened in a kind of shocked expression.
“I would say Rest In Peace, old friend, but I’m afraid I wish nothing of the sort upon you.”
Shaking his head in disgust, he pulled the rest of the blanket away and then took a few steps back. He pulled the mace from its loop and held it before him, concentrating all of his energy on it as he began to whisper the words of a spell. As he chanted, Geor’s body began to decay, his skin turning gray and brittle before peeling away and exposing the bone beneath. Then, the bone began to turn to sand, whisked away on the slightest breeze, until all that remained of the old mage was a dusty outline in the dirt.
Vasileios dropped the mace back into its loop and then kicked some dirt and leaves over the ashes, glad to be done with this part of his job.
With a sharp whistle, he called the wyrmling back to him and then said the words to teleport himself back to the locked room with the trunk. This was to be the hardest part of his journey back to Yaal, because he dared not bring the ancient artifacts through the portal all at once. There had been legends of the magic they possessed and more than one report that their combined power became too volatile when moved through a simple mage portal.
Fortunately, Vasileios had already arranged for a carriage and an unassuming driver and horse to take him back. The king, of course, had offered to send his very own carriage to accompany the mage, but Vasileios warned him that drawing unwanted attention to their journey was likely to result in the artifacts being lost once again.
Unlocking the door, Vasileios lifted the trunk with the help of a spell to make it as light as a feather. Then, he headed down the hallway, careful to avoid crossing paths with any of the guards, especially Captain Orinaard, and he made his way out the side door where the carriage was waiting.
“To Yaal,” he instructed, swatting the driver’s hand away as he tried to assist with lifting the trunk inside. Then, he seated himself inside atop the trunk and pulled the shaggy curtains closed as the horse’s hooves clopped along the cobblestone drive out toward the long dirt road.