The old, muddied road bisected the farthest reaches of what the pagans revered as ‘death’s alley’. No-man’s-land was a stretch of wilderness where wildfires burnt simultaneously with the floods. It was land succumbed to barbarism and butchery, of unconquered mountain tribes and beasts of ungodly nature. Where only the most determined or hapless dared venture. But for a wizard born of fearless nature, it was a path well-worn and needing of a good treading to hold back the dark forces that wished it closed forever.
Even in his decrepit state, it did not deter Burtrew. Wrapped thick with a winter blanket, he rode his old faithful Clydesdale, while Weddle guided and, when needed, carried his father through the various obstacles that hindered their journey to the Solis.
‘There will be no more,’ mumbled Burtrew.
Their nonspeaking terms offered plenty of time for mournful reflection on the good man they had lost and whose ashes they had come to bury.
More so for Weddle, as he replayed the events of that fateful night. Inside, he was questioning what had happened, almost knowing his father knew and still did nothing. ‘Cursed night’, of course, his father knew. How couldn’t he? Was Burtrew, acting out of spite, trying to teach them a lesson or possibly self-doubt? Burtrew hadn’t made an accurate prediction in years, but he saw it. Clear as day. What did it matter now though? Could his father tell real from fake, a prediction from imagination.
Burtrew’s mind was jungle-eating in on itself. He might as well have left this world already, as there wasn’t much else he could offer or gratification to be had from his diminished existence.
Several days later, their arrival at the Solis was met with large bonfires and vacant ceremony.
Not that Weddle desired an audience, in his moping state. ‘Thisssss,’ he said, unable to unbuckle the small wooden chest from his travel pack. The greater the force applied, the less the buckle yielded. It was more a matter of frustration and distraction as every failure compounded how useless a wizard’s son he was. He was unable to complete the simplest of tasks, like undoing a damn buckle. Then, with enough tugs and cursing, the belt prong bent at a left angle, freeing the small wooden chest before it landed safely into Burtrew’s arms.
Weddle looked perturbed at his father. How could have caught that, he questioned.
But before him now stood a finer figure of old age. Burtrew was lean and mean, with a look of violent intent about him.
And then Weddle peered down at his father’s feet to see a broken potion bottle.
‘That will be all, boy,’ said Burtrew.
Weddle shook his head. ‘So, you’ve taken the elixir of a second life. Father, it’ll be the death of you.’
‘That. Will. Be. All … boy,’
‘Nonsense. Do what you want to yourself, but Coble meant more to me than to you. I will present his ashes to the gathering of wizards.’
‘No. This is not a place for disobedient children pretending to know magic.’
‘I have every right to be a part of this gathering.’
‘Boy, I am of mind and body to enact unspoken horror upon you for what you’ve done. To me and to my people. But if you leave now and speak nothing of it, then maybe. Maybe I’ll forgive you,’ said Burtrew, his anger seeping through stern lips.
Weddle’s response amounted to little more than a few seconds of silent protest before breaking into swollen-eyed sulking. His head hung down as his subservient nature took hold. Finding every muddy pothole, he readied his horse under his father’s scornful gaze.
‘Take Sully. She deserves better than to die in this backwater pig whole,’ said Burtrew, carelessly unbuckling his luggage until it needlessly fell to the wet, silted ground.
Once Weddle left, Burtrew removed the sack of ash that encompassed his successor’s last connection with the physical world, and without a second thought, he tossed it into the nearby fire. For a sobering few seconds, he savored the disintegrating bag, and the cathartic feeling of jealousy released. ‘I hope you enjoy being a memory, because I can’t wait to be forgotten.’ Burtrew then loaded the emptied chest with his own fine linen that encompassed an unknown quantity of that which only he knew.
As he entered the narrow granite-cut cave entrance, the heat of the ceremonial bonfires blew dry air that sizzled upon his back and forced smoke into his lungs that brought him closer to the divine, pushing him towards the lyre of Solis. The aroma of frankincense and lavender demystified the perpetual cynicism that had polluted his mind. And he was now able to revel in the nostalgia of his old stopping grounds.
He remembered simpler times, when people, whether right or wrong, treated each other as equals, like humans struggling to make sense of their limited existence. When his knowledge of the future guided a community of misfits into a township of hope. Hope, that was now being eaten away by the factionalism and ideology corrupting his once-beloved institution.
Solis would be the start and end of his journey.
The air suddenly cleared upon the trademark glow of ambient light through fissured cracks in the cave walls, illuminating a rather short but narrow winding path littered with intersections and offshoots. It was claustrophobic to the point of making a graze-worthy journey for those of burlier builds until reaching the internal fires of Solis.
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It was an expansive crevasse, which held the ancient auditorium from which the first order of wizardry was born. Now, all that lay were ruins of slow decay, held together by the overgrown of the natural world that looked to hold together the vestige of pagan unity. The walls were braced by a foreign flora of black roots, purple vines that spawned bulbs the size of fruit. All faced the long rectangular marble firepit, whose flames warped and shifted with the flow of debate across the split auditorium aisles.
On both sides were a mass of smoky-eyed wizards of all creeds and cultures, yelling at one another. The respective group leaders were tracing up and down their respective aisle. The internal flames of Solis were obscuring and parting its blue flame when needed to give a clear sight of whomever held the floor.
‘A bloodless purge, if that,’ said Corbis, the leader of the ‘greybeards’ – the older vintage wizards – who spoke with a dry displeasure, as though every argument was a case of history repeating in all its childish decadence.
Burtrew could tell that they were debating Draconian’s past, as well as his most recent appointments.
‘By the sword of the templars. Under coercion and fear of prosecution,’ said Maratick, the tall, physically dominate and much younger leader of the battle mages. With dreadlocks down to his sleeveless leather coat and bulging tribal tattooed shoulders, every word he spoke was with an undertone of aggression that rallied his many followers to theatrical effect. Antics that rang hollow to those long disposed to such rhetoric.
‘Appointing battle mages of your sensibilities to the Grand Master of Pragian would be an outright provocation against the church. We have no need of your ideals, nor would we risk tearing the entire world apart in search of some delusional utopia,’ said Corbis.
The flame of Solis shifted to its natural blue.
‘Need I remind you of his previous tenure as the Grand Master Wizard of Sajken. The droughts, the famine, dying crops from one dried-up creek to another. Countless thousands forced to migrate in response to Draconian’s inaction. Yet you call me a tyrant,’ said Maratick with a spray of saliva that shifted the flames back to a frantic red. A phenomenon that would persist throughout the whole debate.
‘Those were tough times, and Draconian was young and inexperienced. Yet, despite all his flaws and bad decision, he had the presence of mind to abdicate, knowing he was no longer fit to lead. That is a wizard capable of humility and worthy of a second chance. Who has since dedicated his services to the people of Pragian and earnt the confidence of his predecessor, the late and highly respected Coble. I for one welcome his appointment as the new Grand Master Wizard of Pragian and refute anyone who thinks otherwise.’
‘What fibbery. You honor the man despite his failings, and you erode these blessed institutions by giving him a second chance without judgement or scrutiny. Once again, the old protecting the old – corruption at its finest.’
The heat of the debate stalled upon the sounds of crashing ornamental bronze shields, kicked over by the newly arrived Burtrew. ‘The day you cease to convince me the future lies in ignorance, I might be obliged to agree,’ he said.
‘By the gods,’ said Maratick, ‘could it be Burtrew? Must have heard the twang in Corbis’ coin purse and came running.’
‘What have you done to yourself?’ said Corbis with a sense of curiosity at Burtrew’s renewed demeanor.
‘I’ve come bearing Pragian’s finest: Grand Master Coble. It’s time we complete his journey,’ said Burtrew as he presented the wooden chest to Corbis’ awaiting hands.
The old greybeard, true to his specialty, traced his finger along the fine woodwork on the chest. His eyes were like a hypnotic black hole that sucked in the surrounding light.
‘Last I heard, you were barely lucid, incontinent even, let alone comprehensible,’ said Maratick, his voice amplified and echoing throughout the crevasse.
‘Your confusion is excusable, given I talk reason to the wise and nonsense to imbeciles,’ said Burtrew.
Corbis, on the other hand, fretted with fluttering fingers upon the chest and the realization of its recently added contents. ‘Either Coble’s done a number, or you’ve found yourself a new alchemist.’
‘Would I have shown you if I did not know the outcome?’ said Burtrew, placing the wooden chest firmly in Corbis’ grasp.
‘I guess not, but what outcome do you seek?’
‘Sometimes, we must venture blindly into the unknown than allow evil to rise upon our indifference,’ said Burtrew.
The blood in Corbis’ eyes flushed red and then back to normalcy, at which point, Burtrew relinquished the wooden chest and its contents into Corbis possession. His faith was now placed in the hands of the greybeard leader, and he walked up to the derisive battle mage, Maratick.
‘See the inevitabilities before it happens,’ said Corbis.
‘It must be disappointing knowing you will never amount to anything more than a barely known embarrassment in the history of wizardry,’ said Burtrew obnoxiously as he made himself the centre of attention. It was a distraction that allowed the flame of Solis to obscure the congregation of greybeards gathering at the base of their respective aisle.
‘Given your propensity for error, should I concern myself. After all, you’re the biggest swindler here. A legacy of lies that falls apart the moment people realize you’re a fraud,’ said Maratick. He was not one to look on the defensive, and he strolled with a puffed chest to meet the much smaller Burtrew.
‘Oh, Maratick. You are a weak shepherd in need of a mindless flock. I better you in every way and need no sheep to prove it,’ said Burtrew.
Burtrew’s insult cut deep, and Maratick went near-catatonic with rage. The red-faced hulk grabbed the scruff of the scrawny foreteller’s shirt. ‘You are my inferior, and I could dispatch you without a second thought.’
‘You would not dare, you limp-wristed tissy boy …’ said Burtrew.
The battle mage then flicked Burtrew away with a wave of telekinetic energy, sending the still old but less fragile Burtrew into the thick brush of the intruding flora. ‘Wrong again, old man,’ said Maratick with mocking laughter and a showman bow to his revelling onlookers.
The barefoot Corbis then walked himself onto the cold burning ashes. The harmless flames of Solis whisked around him like a dust devil in the desert. The stocky sack from Burtrew’s wooden chest was cradled in his arms. ‘Here before us is a reminder of our mortality and a wizard who expected more of himself than of others.’
‘Ah hurry, you loose-lipped bullock’s browser,’ said one anonymous battle mage, hidden among the many other loudmouth detractors who had no consideration or respect for sacred cows.
Corbis, breathing deep to hold off his nervous shake, awaited cautiously for the re-emergence of the winded Burtrew. ‘Goodbye, old friend. History praises the feast, rarely the frugal.’ The greybeard leader then released the substituted substance for Coble’s ashes onto the cold burning coals, and with a corresponding clap of his hands, converged the fire onto himself. The explosive energy ignited, unleashing untold destruction throughout the crevasse. With it, a millennium of history was eradicated faster than the eye could render.