A white tower drew from the mists, it's bead of crown shimmering high in the sun. This was the Towher of Zûrïnaê belonging to the Ruler of White of the Kingdom of Belidora, where, surrounding the growth of ivy and underbrush in this valley, were mountains of white which the sun beat upon harshly and created enough saturation for a warm jungle of forest vegetation to grow freely. The tower had not been used for centuries, since the end of man’s reign in this part of the world.
Many ventured to the tower because it was said that one who sat in the seat of the King of White would rule the lands of the tower and eventually all that surrounded those lands and those after. Soon becoming the ruler of all the lands of the earth. Many perished in search of glory and fame from the legends of the tower that had spread forth through all kingdoms and settlements in the world, for in the lands of the King there were dangers that persisted at all points. Fearsome things, such as poison’d plants and venomous animals, things said to have driven most who escaped alive to little more than shells and empty vessels for Devils and demons of all sort.
It was said that after the War of Myrrhenaë, the Master of the Towher was disappointed so with his victory, that he went mad and threw down his sceptre and cursed the land with all his knowledge of such things so that no man, woman, child, or any living creature that may walk upon two legs could enter his domain and disturb him in his eternal thought.
The legend’s eventual perpetuation gave birth to superstition and promises of gifts of power, for it was said that the King welcomed any challenger who made way to the gate of the castle by force or otherwise, and that should they defeat him in single combat, they should be ruler of all lands and have all their heart may desire.
Armies had entered what was now the Valley of Shadow and never return’d. Kings and knights had fought their way through forest, terror, and death only to turn back with one-tenth the strength with which they entered.
Only one had ever made it to the tower gates.
This had been Zûrthanil the Mad. He was a great ruler among his people in the middle century who sacrificed and starved that his people might have bread and water during famines and droughts. He brought his people to glory in battle against all who would oppose him and embroil his lands with war or trouble. Every battle into which he rode he fought at the front of the van. Among slaves and creatures captured on the edges of the Black Wood that had lain at the westernmost border of his kingdom. He treated all as people, rallied them, and fought beside them all.
However, in the fiftieth year of his rule, the Kingdom of Hûrth, for this was his kingdom, began to rot. Buildings began to crumble, and all creatures, man or otherwise began to fall ill. It is said that their bodies would rot from the inside and their limbs fall to the ground as they were walking. Legs and arms turning to dust in their sleep. People would fall asleep and wake in the night to find themselves lying in black, stinking ooze that was once an appendage, and where the limb once was, there lay a long line of dust in the shape of whichever appendage had fallen victim.
Zûrthanil called to Hûrth-sidis all of those under his rule which he felt could save or cure, but his efforts were in vaine. His kingdom was crumbling and his people were suffering before his very eyes and he felt there was nothing he could do but sit powerless to the inevitable. I'm the end he was left but one option: to seek the throne of the King of White and ask him for guidance, for a version of the story that ran in Zûrthanil’s time said little about attaining thrones and the gift of power, but that wisdom was what the King of the Towher would grant. Tales of power and fortune came much later.
Zûrthanil gathered all the able bodied men and women who had all their limbs and could wield a sword, and called them to fight for their families and friends, their people and their places, and to follow him into the Valley of Shadow to seek wisdom from the King of the Towher. Many agreed to go, few refused, but all were unsure.
They all shakily left the gates, cheered by none, for this war was not fought on an open field and had stricken the heart of the kingdom black, rotting, and left the people in terror. They departed the city of Harenar and headed both to the Central Plaines, where in the center lies the Mountains of White and the Valley of Shadow. Where the only entrance is the Western Gate-Under-the-Mountain, or Nizûl-zaam, one of four grand and tall passages that were tunnels built straight through the mountains by the ancestors of Audurïel, the last King. These had defenses of all sorts for intruders and hidden passages to one another. It was in the mountains where the Last Battle had been fought, for here there were cities and villages inside the mountains.
The gates had all been ruined and caved in with exception for the Western Gate, but it had fallen and crumbled into dismay due to misuse and siege weapons from those challengers of former centuries. This left an opening wide enough for the Ten Thousand of Zûrthanil to enter freely.
They departed Hûrth-sidis from Hûrth-dodos, the northern gate, and after many perils reached the vale within a monthe. Whence the gate was passed, Zûrthanil spoke the words of his people ‘dumûn takhrah shahraän’, ‘Doom shall defeat us not’. To Hûrth ten men returned. Zûrthanil was not among them, for his force had been taken by several of the Dangers of the Shadow within a fortnight of combing their way to the tower. He sent back the remaining hundred warriors, and of those ten return’d.
Zûrthanil by force of will and the desire in his heart to do good by his people many say made it to the tower gate. There the King of White called from the tower for his name and what he desir’d, ‘Be it power or gold?’ He said ‘For I am sickly and old. I have no use for this world or its troubles. Leave me be and return no more.’
‘I come for neither gold nor power. I have no earthly desire in my heart to ask of you save the health of my people and a cure for the disease that has stricken them so.’ The King then paused and spoke no more for several hours, while Zûrthanil waited anxiously at the gate, but in deep thought and encumbrance. Zûrthanil waited and tarried six days for an answer, for he felt that patience would reward him.
At last the King spoke, ‘I have no clea recollection of how long this has been my dwelling or of when the last made it as far as the gate. By my count I should be here five hundred and thirty years, or somewhere abouts. Come to call in the middle most chamber, for that is the feasting hall. Do not tarry! I will be waiting.’ The Gates then disappear’d and the sun seem’d to sink low though the day was only just begun.
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Zûrthanil strode across the courtyard which was floored in a shining stone that seemed as if it were a marble of some sort, but the stone felt natural to his feet as if he were walking upon perfectly flatten’d earth. The courtyard seem’d much less a courtyard and more of a great field for it were a perfect circle around the tower with a radius of three hundred yards from the outer wall to the inner. He pass’d through a peacefully ornate archway into the inner courtyard which was one quarter as long, and led to a lovely laden door of a strange type. The door itself seem’d as if it were marble for it was black with ornate white carvings upon its outer face. The carvings seem’d to be of events that had pass’d long ago and were unremembered by men.
The doors disappear'd and Zûrthanil breach’d the threshold and cross’d it. Inside the tower seem’d large enough for three cities, for the bottom seem’d to be the parlour and a common area as well as an assembly floor. Zûrthanil reach’d the steps and began to climb. His legs felt lighter and more refresh’d with each step. He made it to the bottom of the second floor and found another door. This one too disappear'd and he walkt further up feeling lighter each floor. He finally reach’d a landing that was silver with golden and ebony streaks in the carvings upon the arch and what appeared as pillars carv’d from the stone. In the center of the room was a small, worn wooden table much like a writing desk with a frail, grey figure sitting on one side.
‘Pull up a chair’, said the man. He was dressed in white and wore a circlet about his head. ‘I am the man it seems many seek. My forest protects my solitude but somehow it fails at certain tasks. I believe I am getting too old to command it all.’ The man look’d Zûrthanil in the eye and Zûrthanil did the same for he felt the man to be sizing him for worth and value.
Zûrthanil pull’d a chair from the corner and sat across from the man. The man paid Zûrthanil all of his attentions and with an expression of profound sadness and despair said, ‘That is the very chair in which my son would sit when he was but a child.’
Then with a somewhat more pleasant expression (as though this happenstance had seemed of good fortune or positive significance) spoke once more, ‘Maybe I did wish for you to speak to me after all. It seems I am somewhat out of touch with the world outside of my mountains. I get out little and when I do I roam no further than the courtyard. I watch the outside world from the height of my tower and observe all that can be seen though it seems rather pointless for I am as lockt here in this cell as those of you outside are lockt out.
‘Give me news! You come from the South do you not? I have not observ’d the south for many a decade, perhaps even century. What things are happening, what are people doing, does the shipping remain well?’
Zûrthanil was quite put off at the delight in the old man’s voice, for this was indeed the King of White, but to see one who was so feared as such pleasant company quite disconcerted Zûrthanil. The old man saw the gravity in Zûrthanil’s expression change from gloom to unease and beckon’d him once more. Zûrthanil gave into the old man’s whims and began a rather lengthy tale of all of the happenings in his part of the world, beginning with his lineage in concordance with the propriety of royalty.
The old King watched Zûrthanil’s lips and hung upon his every word. Then Zûrthanil came to the events of present. ‘The seas have dried up and the Rivera that flow no longer live so far for their waters turn dry once they reach the sea-bed. There is no economy but war and I have no people to expend.’ Zûrthanil continued his tale of woe to the frail and whither’d King.
When at last he finish’d the King spoke. ‘You are a wise man are you not?’
Zûrthanil knew not how to answer the question. ‘My people are my heart. The friends of my children and whom I hold dearest in this world. They are why I live because without them this world would be to me but an empty place. Were I born another this maybe would not be so, but as it stands it is my duty to protect and defend them as long as I shall give breath to the world.’
The old man responded, ‘Have you sought the enemy who curses your lands so?’
‘Yes, for more than a decade, but my people have suffered so and our numbers dwindle. There is nought that I can do but ask you as to what shall be done!?’ Zûrthanil seem’d to be in great pain, and could no more bear the thought of his people's’ suffering.
The old man once again skimmed Zûrthanil with his bright eye. ‘I cannot tell you from where this curse hails, but I may give you three options, though they will all bring you great pain.’ He paused for a moment and then continued, ‘The first option for you is to defeat me and gain my throne, but though you are no doubt a great warrior, and I am no doubt out of practice, my blade is of a kind no longer known to the kings of your world and would shatter that which you keep by your side, therefore, you will most certainly lose. My skill is also far beyond that of any mortal. Again, you will most certainly not defeat me.
‘Second, you must surrender your kingdom and yourself to die and a new kingdom shall arise in place for it seems that you are the curse.
‘Third, you must discover the source of the curse, but you are of few in number now and do not believe you have the strength or time to hunt those that you feel wronged you so.That leaves you with but the option of sacrifice. You must sacrifice one of your own blood and fifty more to be rid of whatever evil plagues your land.’
The King spoke more and Zûrthanil listen’d. Zûrthanil then curs’d the King and challeng’d him for his throne. As Zûrthanil began his attack he yelled once more the three words of his kingdom. As Zûrthanil's sword came gleaming down and fell upon the old king’s it shatter’d. The King then replied ‘Shïríth vizíl thutha’. I am but a light.
‘You have tried and fail’d. Take what you have, make your choice, and leave from this place. You are hurt, angry, and disappointed. These things I know, but there is always hope, do not despair. There is a passage through the mountain which you may use as your exit. Once you have reach’d the outside of the mountains however and cross once more into day, the passage will seal and you will not find it forevermore.’
Zûrthanil took his belongings and departed. He walked the freshly lit passage for what seem’d days. He slept upon benches that sat along the walls of the passage which felt as though they were beds of the finest quality. He then came to the end. Night had long since fallen when he once again felt the chill of the outside air and saw the light of the moon.