MITCHELL – MARAGON’S TOWER, NEAR GARET, KLYDOR
[https://i.imgur.com/13l3JXM.jpg]
5TH KENNOVASHAE, SPRING 845 PBM
Maragon had been gone for nearly a month. There was no advance warning that anything had befallen Maragon or his companions. Throughout this period, no alternative tutor had arrived to replace Maragon, although Mrs Lucrellin from the village had visited twice to check in on him. Mrs Lucrellin was a kind widow who brought him food and saw to it that order was preserved—a task she undertook with gentle diligence.
Mitchell had long suspected Maragon and her had a romantic interest of some nature, as she would frequent the tower late in the day, and then stay overnight. Other times Maragon would slip out of the tower at night, and sneak off, usually returning before dawn. Initially they had tried to hide their visits. Then, once Mitchell had clued onto that, they had tried to hide the nature of the visits.
This stage was the most annoying to Mitchell, as he had to give up his bed and sleep in the lounge. And yet he was reasonably sure in the morning his bed had not actually been slept in - just made to appear like it had. Only when Mitchell mastered a sufficiently potent Divination spell could he confirm his suspicions. He confronted Maragon. That led to the chat on the birds and bees. It was clinical and uncomfortable. The way Hawkin described it made it sound a lot more interesting.
In the end Maragon simply instructed him to tell nobody in the village, as the townsfolk would see it as scandalous, when really it was none of their business. After that Mrs Lucrella’s visits were often quite pleasant. The tower would always be made spotless before she arrived, but this really changed very little as Maragon was a stickler for cleanliness most days anyway. But the food when she was visiting would be extraordinary, showcasing some amazing dish which Maragon would explain was from some far off land he had visited. Apparently the key was the many exotic spices Maragon had accumulated in the kitchen. Mrs Lucrella had commented they alone would be worth a fortune. Maragon did not care for their value though. He only wished to enjoy his food.
Mrs Lucrella's check-ins were unfailingly kind. She brought a small parcel of goodies she had baked - usually containing sugary treats that Maragon would not have allowed had he been present. She pointed out a couple of things for Mitchell to tidy to a higher state. But otherwise she stayed overnight, enquired to his well-being, asked if he was keeping up his studies, and then left once she was satisfied all was well. She complimented Mitchell several times about how responsible he was keeping on top of his duties unsupervised.
Mitchell had tried to maintain a strict regime of magickal study in his mentor’s absence. This was assisted by several of the artifacts Maragon had within the tower. The primary aid was “Bossy Owl”, the talking Owl statue which currently seemed to rule his life. In what was now a daily ritual, he stood before Bossy Owl, not for the first time wondering how it worked.
‘A Telepathy enchantment linked to Maragon himself, which allows him to mentally send a pre-standing instruction each day; or perhaps it has a Divination enchantment and it does actually divine what would be the most useful sphere for me to study each day. I hope it is not just a random sphere it picks each day with no meaning behind it at all, but that would run counter to just about everything Maragon stands for, so I consider it unlikely.’
His main concern this morning, and it had been a growing concern over the month, was that Bossy Owl was broken. For the last three weeks the statue had repeated the same instruction every day. He had never repeated training on the same sphere for longer than a week at a time, and even then it was only when he was struggling with a particular aspect of magick that Maragon refused to move on from until he completed it.
That was not the case here. He had been told to just keep practicing Summoning magic, with a focus on the ‘Summon Person’ spell and the intricate ritual circles that accompanied such incantations.
‘The owl could be broken.’ That did not feel right to Mitchell. ‘It is still telling stories. It does not have any left that I do not know almost verbatim, but the stories are changing each night.’
The next option left him feeling a cold sense of dread. ‘Maragon could be dead.’
‘If he did indeed send it instructions on what to tell me, maybe he is unable to send that command, so now it just keeps repeating whatever it was told last.’
There was the 3rd option.
‘Maybe it can divine the future, and it knows at some point soon I am going to have to cast a Summon Person spell, and it is going to be critical that both my Summoning Circle and the spell are cast at the limits of my current ability. Maybe Maragon has been captured? Two of my options could both lead to this conclusion.’
But in the end the speculation was not going to get Mitchell anywhere.
‘I had best keep following the instructions. The Gods know I am totally sick of making Summoning Circles. The attention to detail is intense, and the best circles I know can each take hours to etch out, with each circle and rune seeking mathematical precision to ensure the circle will do it’s job. Some summoning circles amplify the distance of what I can summon. Some amplify what I can summon. The scariest ones provide powerful wards to trap whatever I summon within the circle. Lest whatever you summon wishes to do you harm.’
The circles Mitchell had been practicing were to amplify distance, and containment. He thought he was getting better, so he had also started forming ritual circles with elements of both. When he was finished Bossy Owl would state a simple instruction or comment.
‘Well done. Task accomplished,’ was the one Mitchell wanted to hear.
‘Acceptable. You will need to do better next time,’ was barely acceptable but very much preferable to the others.
‘Not good enough. Please try again,’ or the dreaded,
‘You failed and your focus was lacking. Clean the lavatory and sewage works then come back and try again.”
‘I wonder how the lavatory and sewage systems get cleaned in the months I do not mess up. Does Maragon do it?’ Mitchell laughed at the completely ridiculous image of that. ‘I wonder if he uses an Unseen Servant spell. Assuming he does, then there is no need to make me to do it all. Although it is a very effective punishment. I haven’t misbehaved enough to hear that one in nearly six months.
Resigned to the fact he was going to keep doing whatever Bossy Owl said, he stepped forward and activated the artifact, tapping it on the head while uttering the magickal command word, “Peto a te duce meis studiis[1].”
The Owls eyes opened wide. No matter where you were in the room, it always felt like the owl’s eyes followed you.
“You should inspect the arrival ring. Place your own summoning circle around it. Then continue your study of Summoning, including the spell Summon Person and practice your summoning circles,” intoned the owl in a flat, monotone voice.
‘Check the arrival ring? That is new.’
The crown jewel of Maragon’s tower, and in many ways the reason for the tower’s existence, was kept on the top floor. Locked behind a formidable steel door was a huge mysterious gateway that could create a magical portal large enough for men to teleport through. Mitchell knew that it was guarded by more than just physical locks. Maragon always spoke of the object as both very dangerous, and very powerful. But as to where it lead, he did not know, for he had never been through it.
It was a round arch-like shape with large, strange runes etched into a framework of wood and steel. Maragon had permitted Mitchell glimpses of it only on rare occasions, but he had imparted enough knowledge for Mitchell to operate it should the need arise. Maragon had explained its use as a contingency plan in case of emergencies. Maragon always had contingency plans for everything.
The chamber the gate was kept in was devoid of anything except for the tower’s solid stone walls and a complex web of machinery and gears that operated the roof. At the manipulation of a specific lever, the entire stone roof would unfurl, forming an aperture that pointed skywards. For reasons that had never been completely explained, the gateway required a clear night and a view of the stars to operate. Upon utterance of the command words, the gateway could draw power from the stars themselves, focus this energy, and open a portal to some far off place, where Mitchell presumed the other Saranti Seven would be waiting.
Maragon return had always been the same way, except that the return trip always placed him just outside the tower, in the middle of a circle of small tightly packed rocks. To the untrained eye, the stones resembled a rudimentary firepit, but on closer inspection, one would notice the precisely carved runes on each stone, their exacting arrangement no accident.
Mitchell examined the arrival ring. Everything was exactly as he remembered it. No sign of any disturbance to the rocks or their precious placement. For the next couple of hours he laboriously put his own Summoning circle around the outside of the arrival ring. The soil would not hold chalk inscriptions well, so he spent a lot of time finding new rocks that would be suitable to use to hold the arcane sigils necessary for the circle to function.
Having constructed the circle, he allowed himself a brief reprieve for lunch, savouring the remnants of yesterday’s soup. Post-lunch, he dedicated an hour to swordsmanship, performing a training kata.
‘Maragon always chides me for prioritising magick training over my physical training. A mind and body must be developed together. Each is a tool and each is a weapon, depending on the scenario.’
He looked into the mirrors which were located around the training rooms and took note of the lean form staring back at him. ‘Not as muscular as Hawkin. But I don’t think I need be embarrassed anymore. I am not the scrawny young boy I once was.’
The mirrors had initially seemed an odd thing for Maragon to indulge in. He certainly did not care about his appearance in any vane kind of way. But Maragon had explained they were useful for analysing your own movements, whether they be with a spell or a weapon. They allowed you to be far more critical of yourself when practicing, to help ensure your form was as perfect as possible.
Once he had worked up a good sweat, he washed himself and spent the rest of the afternoon studying tomes on the Summoning sphere, and in particular the machinations of the Summon Person spell. Near the end of the day his mind tired, and he found his thoughts turning to flights of imagination and fantasy. Without having meant to, he found himself role-playing a heroic moment in his mind.
‘The fate of the world is in my hands. Only a greater demon of Tzy’Lord knows the answers we seek, so I must summon him here. But we must be careful. If the Summoning circle is not perfect, the demon will break through its barrier, and kill everyone here.’
‘The circle is complete. I must now summon the demon, its entire essence pure evil. The demon appears. It rages briefly against its magickal bonds, but it is trapped. It answers my questions. But its arrogance grows with each question. To the final and most important question, it refuses to answer. But how can that be; the magick should compel it to answer. The demon smiles, and steps through a crack it has forced in the summoning circle wards.’
‘I must fight the demon one on one or the tower is lost, and perhaps the entire world.’
Mitchell imagined the epic battle between he and the great demon. He jumped and rolled around the floor, dodging imaginary lightning bolts and warding off necromantic tentacles with powerful Protection wards.
‘The demons power is too much and it slowly overwhelms me.’
Mitchell imagined being struck by one of the Necromantic blasts, and his sword fell from his hand to the floor. He crawled backwards towards the wall trying desperately to get away from the demon.
‘The demon follows. Keen to gloat as it casts the final spell it needs to finish me. But, as it stands over me immersed in Necromantic energy, casting its dire spell which will kill me, I summon my sword back to my arm. The speed of my simple spell catches the demon off-guard, and I slam the sword right through its demonic hide, and into its black heart underneath. The demon looks at me in shock. It tries to stammer one final insult. And then it dies.’
Returning to the real world, Mitchell prepared himself a light dinner of sandwiches and retired early. Bossy Owl sent him to sleep with the tale of the Black Knight, and Mitchell dreamt of the silent avenger's triumphs in the service of Klydor.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
****
An immense explosion at the top storey of the tower shattered the night's silence, abruptly waking Mitchell from his tranquil sleep. As he leapt out of bed, he stole a glance out of his window.
‘What the hell was that? What time is it?... I guess about three in the morning.’
Not having the time to give the matter further consideration, he raced towards his door and flung it open.
‘Remember your sword.’ He stopped and grabbed his sword from the wall. As the vestiges of sleep were cleansed from his mind, his rational mind took over.
‘Slow down. Speed could be important, but so too could caution.’
He carefully peered around the corner of his doorway into the hallway. The hallway was empty.
From upstairs a thunderous boom and a piercing scream erupted, followed by a stream of loud curses which drowned out the rapidly weakening scream. Mitchell sprinted towards the stairway leading to the upper floors of the tower and began to hurdle them two at a time.
‘Maragon? Please be okay… Please be okay…’
The doorway at the top of the stairs was flung inwards. Leaning weakly against the doorway was the tattered and scorched visage of Maragon, his once opulent robe lying around him in ragged strips, crimson stains scattered all over its surface.
“Stupid, idiot Priest. Damn Tzy’Lord cultists hiding in the darkness. Always assume everyone is an imbecile.” The stream of eloquent curses coming from his mouth stopped when Maragon saw Mitchell.
“Wh...what happened to...?” stammered Mitchell, as he rushed to his father’s side.
“We do not have an excess of time,” replied Maragon, gently pushing Mitchell aside. Despite his obvious injuries, Maragon spoke clearly and calmly, raising himself up almost to full height as he walked down the stairway. “Follow me.”
Mitchell looked through the doorway for some sign of the events that had transpired. He thought he could see what might have been a charred corpse in the room beyond.
One explosion. One thunderous boom. At least one Exploding Flame spell and a Lightning Bolt were cast. And who knows what else I could not hear.
Not wishing or daring to defy Maragon to investigate further, he quickly turned and pursued his wounded mentor down the stairs.
Maragon lead him down the hallway and into his mentor’s bedroom, quickly going to the cedar desk that rested up against the wall. Mitchell followed behind, the adrenalin in his body flowing as the excitement of the possibilities engulfed him. He drew strength from the sight of the Metamandu rug, as a sign of what Maragon could accomplish, and followed the older man into his room. He had been in Maragon's room many times before, usually when cleaning the place up, but he had never gone through Maragon's personal belongings out of respect for the man.
‘Having Maragon go through them in front of me is another thing altogether.’
With disconcerting nonchalance, Maragon swept the desk clear, scattering loose sheets of paper all over the room, along with books, pens and other instruments of varying value. The most distressing noise was the shatter of crystal and glass as ink vials and other liquids joined the scattered debris.
“I hope you are not partaking in this hasty reorganising of your room just to give me something to entertain myself with tonight,” joked Mitchell unsuccessfully. One of the quirks he had picked up off Maragon was being cynical or funny at all the wrong moments.
“I would not be worrying yourself with cleaning the damn tower if I were you!” scolded Maragon harshly, a severe glare being thrown Mitchell's way before he returned his attention to the desk. “In fact, I would be surprised if the tower exists at all come sunrise.”
That last comment had the exact effect Maragon had intended - a slap in the face. Mitchell sobered up immediately and just stared at Maragon in mute shock. Mitchell had barely even thought the tower penetrable before, and had certainly never entertained the idea of it being destroyed while Maragon was around. He concentrated solely on what Maragon was doing and waited for his mentor to speak, aware that Maragon would likely explain more when he was ready.
Maragon closed his eyes briefly in concentration and intoned a phrase that Mitchell could not quite make out. In response a faint yellow rectangular outline appeared in the top of the desk, its lines slowly expanding in width until, with an audible click, the top layer of the rectangle folded inwards, revealing a vast blackness that was definitely larger than should have been possible considering the dimensions of the desk.
Maragon carefully reached inside and picked out something. When he brought his hand back out he held in it two large, perfectly cut, brilliant red gems, the likes of which Mitchell had never seen. This was apparent all over his face.
“Stop staring like a dumbfounded boy, it is pieces of coloured rock. Now listen carefully.”
“What is that?” Mitchell asked, accidentally ignoring his mentor’s instructions.
‘There is no way those are just coloured rocks! Or for that matter even just a common gem. You would never protect mundane things, regardless of their value, with such a special place. You do need some kind of wealth to support you, but I do not think that dimensional pocket is where you keep your treasury.’
“This stone is one of the most important artifacts in the history of mankind,” Maragon offered, indicating the stone in his right hand, “and it has been known by many names; the Stone of Evronn, the Gem of Inspiration, and it was at one point part of the Crown of the First King.”
‘Most of those names mean little to me, but the Crown of the First King is well known to all Klydorians. It was forged by Chandrilar, with the help of the Llewyr. It is the hereditary property of the rulers of Klydor. Legends say no army has ever been defeated with this Crown at its head.’
“The Stone of Evronn?” Mitchell repeated, as his mind tried desperately to recall something from the annals of lore Maragon had made him learn, “Evronn was one of the Champions of Micronia, and the most powerful mage of the early world. He defeated the Red Dragon, Razilin-Tera. Did he forge this?”
“Good to know you have being paying attention to our lessons,” began Maragon.
‘I think you should thank Bossy Owl. He did most of the work.’ This time Mitchell resisted the urge to say his thought out loud.
“He created this stone just before the Champions of Micronia challenged Razilin’Tera and his forces to a duel outside of the city of Laurabel,” stated Maragon.
“Razilin’Tera’s host had already destroyed the rest of Micronia, the first great human empire,” continued Mitchell. “Their goal was to destroy Micronia and if it fell, then they would have conquered most of the known world as there were no other great civilisations at that time to stop them. If Laurabel had fallen, it also likely would have wiped humans from the annals of history.”
Maragon nodded this was correct. “But the Champions won that day, paying with their lives. The stone was then taken by Chandrilar himself when he began his journey west. It inspired and protected he and his followers, before finally being used in the forging of the original Royal Crown, what we now call the Crown of the First King. Its magick is part of what inspired the Klydorian troops to victory in the First Great War.”
“And the other?” asked Mitchell, indicating the stone in his left hand.
“An exact replica, intended to be used as a decoy in the event that the wrong people ever tried to get their hands on the original,” replied Maragon. “It was one of three replicas made over the years to keep the real stone safe. While I forbid you to ever tell another soul, one of the replicas remains in the current Crown of the First King.”
“What... the Crown has a fake stone in it?” Mitchell asked incredulously.
“Not originally. But it was agreed that it was too dangerous an item to allow to be in a such a public place, so it was swapped with the replica to stop a certain group of people from trying to steal it,” Maragon replied. “So the Saranti Seven created a powerful replica that could in fact provide a similar enchantment for the crown as the original stone, but without some of the other … complications.”
“So you did it?” Mitchell asked. He was more in awe of his mentor at this moment than he had ever been before. And that was quite a feat considering how often a powerful wizard could cause awe in a young boy.
“Not me. The Saranti Seven have been around since the defeat of Razilin’Tera. One of my predecessors did it,” Maragon replied.
Mitchell’s puzzle-solving brain was going into overdrive.
Does the King know? Did the Saranti Seven steal the gem? Who is after it? Why is it safer with the Seven than with the King? Why are the Saranti Seven so old, and yet I have never heard of them in any of the stories?
“Does the King know?” Mitchell asked.
“His ancestors did. Whether King Juvrick Andurian II does I do not know. I have only met the man once,” Maragon answered quickly. “Unfortunately we do not have time to answer all your questions now. I am sorry. I wish we did”
“Why is it so important that you show these to me now? That battle was 845 years ago” Mitchell started, sure that there was something else that he remembered about the historical battle... “And Evronn was defeated by Razilin-Tera early in that battle! It was the paladin, Xarron, who finally killed Razilin.”
“Just trust me that this stone played a large part in the victory,” replied Maragon assuredly. “And the stone has since played an important part in the foundation of Klydor. And now her enemies wish to use the stone to destroy everything that was saved. Suffice it to say that the Seven have dedicated our lives to ensuring this does not happen. I do not have time to explain everything now, so just listen very carefully to what I have to say. I need you to embark on a journey that is going to be very dangerous, but it is crucial to what I will be doing that you succeed.”
“You have completed your training and, although I wish you were further advanced in your studies, I have given you the basic skills required to survive.” Maragon was now only cradling the replica in both hands and looking directly into Mitchell's eyes, as if carefully gauging the reaction. The original was already stuffed into his tunic pocket.
Mitchell tried to say something but found himself unable to find the words to even the most simplest of questions, so he instead remained silent and stared dumbly back at his master, waiting for him to continue.
“For now you must take the replica of the stone to the exact place where the Black Knight saved Prince Ulderan in the First Great War against the Merlos.” The command was so short and blunt that Mitchell waited for several seconds before realising Maragon was finished.
“But...why?” asked Mitchell.
Because there are people looking for it, and I cannot risk them all following me. You will have the advantage that nobody will expect you to have it so you will get a good head-start. But if their magick detects you have one of the stones, even a replica, they will come after you with all their fury. All you have to do is get it to Chandrex for now. I will catch-up with you there and give you further instruction.”
“But…how will I know exactly where he was saved. The whole area is likely buried beneath Fort Ajaxin now,” asked Mitchell, his voice betraying that he felt this task might be impossible.
‘We built a huge military fortress on that site. It remains the biggest victory in Klydor’s history, and the only time a united host of Cthrag Merlo clan warriors has ever tasted defeat.’
“The Black Knight saved him on the right flank of the battle,” replied Maragon matter-of-factly, as though his response should answer all of Mitchell's doubts on the matter.
“The Plains of Victory cover an area of over 100 square miles!” exasperated Mitchell
“But it has only ever borne one fight of this magnitude. How hard could it be to find a site of such scale, where the bodies numbered in the tens of thousands, and the magic ripped the very earth asunder.” Again Maragon's tone held an air of superiority, as though he was teaching a simple student basic facts he should have realised himself.
‘Just ask the question. Maybe a direct approach might actually extract some answers. The God’s know I have tried more subtle means many times over the years and Maragon has always been too clever or too stubborn to give anything away unintentionally.’
“What is going on?” Mitchell asked bluntly, the frustration evident in his voice that he did not have anywhere near enough pieces of this puzzle to figure it out for himself.
“As I have said more than once already, we have not the time for lengthy discussions at the present. There are four bodies upstairs that tried to stop me getting back here and it will not be long before more arrive in an attempt to prevent my ever leaving. You must be gone before that happens.”
The mention of the corpses and an impending attack ended any thought Mitchell had of pressing for more information.
Maragon opened up a drawer and took out a small velvet pouch. He quickly opened up the pouch by pulling on the yellow drawstring and placed the replica Stone of Evronn inside. With fluid movements he resealed the pouch and tied the drawstrings into a simple knot and held out it out to Mitchell with his right hand. Slowly and delicately, as though trying to cradle water, Mitchell scooped up the pouch in both hands.
“Be very careful. It may only be a replica but it is irreplaceable. The amount of magic required to create that stone is beyond your limited understanding. And even as a replica it has power. I will be able to find you, and it will make it harder for others to find you unless they know exactly what to look for.” In response Mitchell carefully placed the pouch inside his tunic, in a small concealed pocket sewed into the inner lining.
“You must prepare your equipment quickly and leave the tower tonight. I must leave you now to make preparations for what is to come. Travel to Chandrex and I will meet you there in three days where I will explain further.” Without giving Mitchell a chance to say anything further he turned his back and strode out of the room, turning and heading out of sight. He heard Maragon’s soft steps as he walked up the stairs.
“Good luck.” Maragon called down.
Mitchell knew he would not see or hear from Maragon again before he left, so he closed the door to his room behind him and began to prepare his backpack for the journey ahead. He ran over what had happened in his head many times as he packed everything, but nothing made it any clearer to him. He tried to build up an anger at Maragon for just expecting him to drop everything and travel to the other side of Klydor without giving him the reasons for doing so. But he could not do it.
‘I would follow that man’s instructions regardless of what they were, or what the consequences might be. I owe him everything for raising me, and for teaching me everything I know. While understanding would be nice, it is not necessary for me to do what he asks.’
He picked up his backpack several minutes later and entered the kitchen, quickly gathering up small quantities of preserved meats, fruits and other rations which could sustain him until he made Chandrex. There, he would pick up some more provisions for the longer journey to the Plains of Victory. As he left the kitchen and started walking down the stairs, passing again from the elegant upper levels to the cold and bare stone of the lower level, he felt a new emotion building up inside of him – fear.
‘I am about to leave everything I have known behind. I am going to cross the entire empire, and travel to places I only know from books. And there is a good chance I am going to be chased by things powerful and evil enough to level a magickally enhanced stone tower in one night. And I will do it alone.’
Yet, as he stepped away from the tower, Mitchell reconsidered.
‘Actually… perhaps not alone.’
Mitchell found himself walking away not towards Chandrex, but towards Garet.
‘I can think of at least one person in the town who would be happy for the chance to set off on some crazy crusade. And I would be happy for the company. If by chance, we do encounter trouble, Hawkin’s prowess in a fight would certainly be very helpful to have around.’
As he walked away from the tower he was sure he heard the muffled sounds of explosions through the walls. He was sorely tempted to turn around and race back to the tower; to help Maragon fight off whatever challenged him.
But then he remembered Maragon’s words – ‘He is expecting this.’
With grim determination he continued on the road to Garet, trusting in Maragon’s ability to protect himself. He deliberately ignored the feeling inside his chest that he would never see his father again.
----------------------------------------
[1] I require your guidance on my studies