Chapter 1: The Pool Of Amulon
Alpendaur had received a greater share of life than most mortals will ever know, and yet it was not enough. He was a sorcerer, and sorcerers are known to live for a long time, hundreds of years in many cases. It is said that some of them have even lived to the respectable age of a thousand years or so, which is a long life indeed, by mortal reckoning. Still and all, a long life and immortality are not at all the same thing. An immortal tastes their years quite differently from the rest of us, or so it is said, because their time is never soured by the knowledge that it will one day run out. For Alpendaur, that final day was coming very soon.
Alpendaur wasn’t always preoccupied with death. For the greater share of his life, he was a successful instructor at the Blue College in El-Alarn, a well regarded institution of magical study. Then he received a letter summoning him to the funeral services for his old mentor, who had been an instructor at the Blue College as well. Alpendaur watched the most powerful person he had ever known be lowered into the ground and covered with dirt, and for the first time, he reflected on the notion that someday he would be the one going into the ground. He was never the same after that. While his peers pursued knowledge, or power, the all consuming focus of Alpendaur’s studies became life itself. In particular, his own life, and how to extend it for as long as he could. It was anyone’s guess exactly what it was about a sorcerer’s magical blood that made them live so long. Alpendaur intended to find out. In order to devote himself completely to unlocking the secrets of longevity, he shut his eyes to the affairs of mortals and immortals alike. Alone, he roamed the Greater Realm, following every shred of a lead, or whisper of a clue. He did discover a fair number of magical practices that claimed to offer youth and health, but the benefits they offered were sadly temporary. At last there came a day where he had tried all the potions and performed all the rituals, and they no longer granted him relief from the weight of the years. Death, it seemed, was impatient with his stalling. It was coming, and Alpendaur was afraid. It was that fear, in the end, that drove him to the country of Candoryn, where he found the Pool Of Amulon.
Long ago, the pool had once been a valued place for travelers that ventured over Wolden Peak, or hunters and trappers that plied their trade in the valley below. It was fed by fresh water that flowed from the underground streams that ran beneath the surface of Wolden Peak, like veins. The water of the pool was cool and good, it was said, as fine a drink as could be found anywhere in Candoryn. Local elders even went so far as to proclaim that the water possessed healthful properties, due to flowing through the heart of the ancient mountain before reaching the pool itself. Of course, that all changed when Amulon visited the pool.
Long before the Candorian civil war, before the rise of the Red Ministers, even before Laird Clawdus, Arcen’s great-grandfather, took the throne, the Greater Realm had been assailed by a threat the likes of which had never been seen before: the warlord Amulon. He was a cunning military leader and a sorcerer both, and at the height of his power, he drove the humans, goblins, dwarves, and even the elves before him in fear. Once he had ransacked and pillaged his way through the nations of the Outlands, he set his sights on Candoryn itself. According to local lore, Amulon sought out the pool after destroying nearly every settlement that was to be found in Wolden Valley at that time. Apparently he had worked up a great thirst from the day’s bloody deeds and had decided to refresh himself. When Amulon stooped down to slake his thirst, it is said that his bloody sword dipped down into the water, and changed it for all time. The pure water of the pool became thick and dark, like mud mixed with ink. What had once been prized as a curative was transformed into a kind of poisonous filth, which bubbled like hot tar, and gave off the scent of an offal yard. Amulon was eventually slain before he was able to complete his campaign of destruction, but his effect on the pool remained, and disturbing rumours were spread about the valley from that day to this. It was said that the pool itself had developed a thirst for blood, particularly the blood of the sentient races, such as humans, elves, dwarves, and gobliins.
One such grisly tale was told by a hunter who was known to search the foothills of Wolden Peak for wild game. He claimed that he had once tracked a pack of abnormally large wolves, and when he caught up to them, they had gathered near the pool. According to the hunter, two of the wolves approached the surface of the water, bearing a corpse between them, and dropped it into the water, as if in offering. The wolves were feeding the pool, or so he said. The hunter was always deep in his cups when he told this tale. Some laughed at him and called him a liar, but others felt a chill as he ended the tale with one last detail. When the wolves had gone, and the corpse was left floating on the surface of the pool, he had crept a bit closer to see if he could recover the poor soul, and bury the body properly. When he got within an arm’s length of the body, a grisly looking hand burst forth from the surface of the odious water, and dragged the corpse down with a sudden and violent motion. That was the last time the hunter ever dared to walk the trails of Wolden Peak. He confined himself to hunting in the valley ever since that day. On one particular evening, when he finished his worn out tale yet again, the hunter noticed his hands were shaking, and asked for another drink. An old man, who had been listening patiently, bought the hunter another ale. The old man was rather tall, as humans go, though age had dragged him down somewhat, causing him to stoop forward, as though his head had grown too heavy for him. He sported a long beard, which had once been rather magnificent, though over the past few centuries had grown patchy looking and sparse. He wore travelling robes, the edges of which were stained with road dust, and in his right hand he held a sturdy walking stick. His name was Alpendaur, though he did not mention it to a single soul that he spoke to in the tavern that evening. When the hunter turned to thank the old man for the ale, he was nowhere to be found. He already slipped quietly out of the tavern.
Alpendaur made up his mind to visit the pool that very evening. It was a long and wearisome climb up the switchback trail that led up the side of Wolden Peak, to the cliffside where the pool lay. When at last the venerable Alpendaur laid eyes upon the pool, he was gasping for breath. He could have used a bit of magic to spare himself the long walk, but in truth he was afraid to draw upon his powers, unless it was absolutely necessary. Magic, after all, relies upon a sorcerer’s life force, and Alpendaur’s was in extremely short supply. Don’t be fooled, he was still remarkably dangerous. All sorcerers are, no matter how decrepit. When Alpendaur walked a little closer and inspected the pool, he was somewhat disappointed. It seemed to be no more than a modest sized hole in the ground filled with a disgusting looking liquid. Several strangled trees had managed to grow around the pool, but that was all. There was no one around at all, and no sign that the place was anything more than what it appeared to be. Still, Alpendaur had walked a long way to get there, so with little hope, he approached the edge of the pool.
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“It has been said that certain forces dwell here, and I have come to speak with them.” He said. “If you are there, will you show yourself to me?”
For a time, nothing happened. Alpendaur felt a bitter and hollow feeling in his chest. He didn’t have time to waste on false leads, and what’s more, he had a very long walk ahead of him in order to return to the tavern. Then all at once something broke the surface of the water. It was a woman, or at least something that chose to appear in the shape of a woman. She was clothed by the dark water itself, which draped around her body like a gown. Her face and arms were drained of color, like a corpse, yet in spite of that she was still strikingly beautiful. Her hair was long and wild looking, and it was as dark as the water. She did not leave the boundaries of the pool, but remained within it, standing knee deep in the fetid sludge. Alpendaur just stared for a few seconds, then composed himself. He had learned during his long life that it always paid to be respectful to mystical beings. He badly wanted to know who or what she was, but it would not be prudent to demand anything of her. Instead he bowed deeply, then introduced himself.
“I am called Alpendaur, of the Blue College, in El-Alarn. I present myself as a humble traveler, seeking knowledge.” He said.
“I know who you are.” The woman replied. “You are not the first dying man to make the long walk up to see me.”
“You know of my ailment?” Said Alpendaur.
“Of course.” She said. “But that was no clever guess on my part. Death is the ailment of all mortals, be they sorcerers or not.”
“You have me at a disadvantage, my lady.” Said Alpendaur. “Perhaps you would be willing to tell me who you are?”
“I have been called the Daughter Of Amulon.” She said. “It was he, after all, that created me.”
Alpendaur’s heartbeat quickened at the mention of Amulon. The warlord had been among the oldest sorcerers ever to have lived, and might have been the oldest of all, had he not died in battle. Perhaps Alpendaur had at last found someone that possessed the knowledge that he so desperately needed.
“If you are really Amulon’s creation, then you would know how he managed to cheat death for all those years.” He said.
“I know many such secrets.” Said the Daughter. “But I am not a charitable being. Still, I might be persuaded to make an exchange. Tell me, did the venerable Alpendaur come here to beg, or to deal?”
She was taunting Alpendaur, dangling precious knowledge before his eyes. He rushed forward and fell to his knees at the edge of the pool.
“You have but to name it.” He pleaded. “Name the price of your exchange and it shall be yours.”
“Amulon learned to take the life force of others for himself.” Said the Daughter. “Others have tried to ape his method since his death, but not one of them has ever achieved his mastery of such blood craft. Call it a family secret. I will teach you the blood craft, but I will require a suitable sacrifice first.”
Most sorcerers, even the less reputable ones, considered blood sorcery to be a revolting form of magic. Those who practiced it were considered no better than cannibals. Still, Alpendaur had to press on. His life was at stake.
“That is no obstacle.” Said Alpendaur. "If you give me a little time, I can provide folk from the valley. They are meek and stupid people, but blood is blood, is it not?”Alpendaur knew of several drunkards and wastrels that could be obtained for such a purpose.
“No.” Said the Daughter. “Humans have short lives and short memories. There is always one foolish enough to wander near my pool now and then, and I have grown weary of their blood. The elves, on the other hand, will never forget the horrors they encountered here. They are clever and careful, with memories as deep as the roots of the mountain. As such, I have not tasted of their blood in over a hundred years. Therefore the price I name is three elf children. That is what you will bring to me.”
Alpendaur hesitated when the dark lady offered him the deal. He cared little for the lives of the valley folk, but the elves were another matter. After all, elves had been the original practitioners of sorcery, and it was well known that the first human sorcerers had only become aware of their powers thanks to the teachings of the elves. This would be an act of ultimate shame, and betrayal. Despite the questionable deeds he had already done in his quest for life, Alpendaur wondered briefly if this was a step too far.
“There are hardly any elves left in Candoryn.” He said at last. “The king has banished them this very year, and those that remain are already fleeing beyond the borders.”
“The movements of the elves and the whims of kings are your problems Alpendaur, not mine.” Said the Daughter. “If they are truly leaving Candoryn, then you will have to hurry, won’t you? Need I remind you that you have very little time left?”
“I know, I know." Said Alpendaur. "But must it be elf children? I mean you absolutely require children, for your sacrifice? I could bring you grown elves, what of that?”
The Daughter shook her head.
“Did you not bid me name my price? It has been named. Do you choose to live, or not?” She said.
Alpendaur paused to ponder that vital question. One likes to imagine that his conscience resisted the deal with what strength it still possessed. Perhaps it did, or perhaps his conscience had died out a long time ago. In the end, Alpendaur rose to his feet and nodded his gray head.
“It will be done, my dark lady.” He said.