FictionPress.com - let the words flow| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
Author's note: Third attempt at fantasy! Do drop a review if you can!
Chapter 1: Flight
This tale is set in the country of Sildune. It is a country bordered by unforgiving mountain ranges, populated by evergreen forests so dense and that it hides the dangerous and sneaky ravines that lie underneath the boughs of its giant ferns, and veined by crystal-clear rivers that twist and turn to the whim of the ravines. It is also a country where the practice of Magic, and even its very meaning and presence, has been entirely forgotten as its somewhat unhappy people look forth to new inventions in machinery and discoveries in Science, except, that is, a small remnant of people who were once renown throughout the land as the Alchemists. The Alchemists are mighty weilders of Magic, wise in thought, quick to their feet, and possessing hearts of gold. In the days of old, the Ministry of the King consisted of only them, these Alchemists. They were revered, never feared, and their stronghold, the ancient city of Lith, is hallowed ground. The Kings of those days turned oft to them for counsel in the administering of the country and also for aid in battle. When the Alchemists were in the height of their strength, the glory of Sildune was at its midday, and for a long, long time, as long as the Alchemists were in power, there was peace throughout the country like never before: barbarians, villagers, city-dwellers and even the Kings' opposition, lived together in harmony.
But all that is good does not last forever.
It all began when a prince of a particular King rescued his royal father's life from drowning during a hunting trip. As a reward for the brave deed, that prince was proclaimed the Crown Prince of Sildune, direct heir to the throne. His angered elder brother, the rightful Crown Prince, sought the support of the Alchemists to dethrone his unjust father, but he was denied that aid, for the Alchemists were faithful to the King and only the King. Eventually, the elder prince managed to unite the King's opposition and majority of the barbarians and overthrew the King. As a payback for refusing to give him their help, the elder Prince seized the throne, slew both his father and younger brother, and ordered for all the Alchemists to be burned to death. Lith was sacked and its treasures confiscated to deck the halls of the new King. In the stead of the Alchemists, the new King established an elite military sect consisting of only the highest-trained warriors in the country who are fiercely loyal to the King, who kill without mercy and permitted to pass judgment for light crimes, called the King's Vanguard. One by one, Alchemists were hunted at the hands of the King's Vanguard and put upon the stake to meet their deaths by fire. The people became haunted and terrified by the mass deaths, terrified to submission. None dared any longer to question the will of their Kings. The rule of Sildune met a new dawn, a dawn that is red with bloodshed.
Nevertheless, by some miraculous stroke of fate, some of the Alchemists survived the onslaught and silently hid themselves deep within the mountains bordering the southern end of the country and the country of the barbarians, where they established their secret laboratories, echoes of the glorious past. But without freedom of movement, the number of Alchemists soon dwindled. For decades, they waited in the mountains, waiting for a chance for truce and hope for the future of Magic.
The chance came, at long last, 100 years after the tragedy. The newly-throned King Enevar was a reasonable and diplomatic man, unlike his iron-fisted predecessors before him. The Alchemists wish to make peace with him, but are wary of the King's policy against their sect. After all, by that time, the name of the Alchemists was barely spoken out loud by anyone, except for bards, and even then, they speak it with much caution. Their attempt to establish contact with the King must be delicate yet firm. The perfect opportunity to do so arose when his Crown Prince, who is also a most valuable Minister of the King and his one and only son, suddenly falls ill with an illness that no physicians could cure. The distressed King called forth to all worthy physicians from around the country to cure the Crown Prince Eneth, promising to reward them most handsomely if they succeed.
The Alchemists set to work at once, for they were great healers in their heyday, and their laboratories in the mountains came alive once more with Magic. However, there is a thorn in their plan for reconcillance. The Captain of the King's Vanguard, Lord Gurmar, receives reports of strange activities at work in the Southern Wall Mountains and sends some of the most skilled and cunning Vanguarders to investigate the matter. The Alchemists' laboratories were discovered, just as the Alchemists have found the possible cure for the Crown Prince Eneth's mysterious illness. The Vanguards set about to shut down the laboratory and wipe out the Alchemists for good, but the use of weakened Magic once more for what might be the last time finds three fortunate Alchemists, the very last of their kind, fleeing for their lives from the mountains, bringing with them their only hope for the survival of the sect: the cordial that will cure the Crown Prince's illness and thus win them the favour and protection of King Enevar.
Curum, the Lord of the Alchemists, led the fleeing trio, just as he had done nearly a century ago when the Vanguard hunted them down like dogs upon deer. He summoned his Magic and sent forth his clairvoyant eye close to the ground and through the ferns to mark out a safe path for them. The other two were Losgar and Moth, both much older than him and more vulnerable to the perils of the hopeless journey.
No! Not hopeless! thought Curum sternly to himself. He dug his heels into the horse's flanks and urged it to go faster. "Haste! Haste to Ilmaren!"
Then, just faintly through the galloping hooves: "Lord Curum! Vanguards!" Just as he heard it, an arrow whizzed past him and struck a nearby tree. His horse leapt, startled, and screamed with such fright that struck a bolt of fear upon Curum. "No! No! Down, steed, down!" He cast forth his Magic to soothe the horse and once he was down, he kicked the horse into a run. Behind him, Losgar and Moth were not so lucky. Losgar had fallen from his bucking horse and Moth was barely hanging on to his frightened horse, which galloped as fast as it could in another direction, where...
"Moth! Ravine ahead!" shouted Curum, but even if Moth could hear him, he could not stop the horse in time. He had no more Magic left in him. Curum leapt off from his horse and ran in Moth's direction, focusing all his energy and Magic to stop the horse till he shouted the command out loud: "Stop! Stop you animal! Stop! Moth!"
"HELP ME! Lord Curum!"
"MOTH!" He thrust his hand and a jet of obsidian blue light shot out from his palm, the same shade as the bright blue oval of light that gleamed upon his forehead: the mark of an Alchemist. The blue jet carried with it pure, concentrated Magic as it sped through fern and tree towards Moth and his panicked mount.
But it was too late. Curum could only watch helplessly as his Magic faded and Moth tumbled over the hidden cliff, bringing the cordial for the Crown Prince with him. Curum dashed to the edge of the cliff and looked down into the deep cleft in the ground.
"MOTH!" An arrow bounced of the rocky ground mere inches away from him and Curum let out a cry of fear. The Vanguards were inching ever closer. "MOTH! The cordial!"
Then out of the abyss came a jet of faint blue light. Teetering on the top of the jet was the blessed cordial. Curum hastily grabbed it and tucked it safely into the leather pouch attached with his belt. Bless the Alchemist! He dashed back to where he had left his horse but found that it had run away. Shadows were looming near among the leaves of the giant ferns; the Vanguards must have been drawn by the bright blue light that Curum had issued. Curum found Losgar lying on the ground, bearing the full weight of his heaving and sweaty stallion.
"Losgar!" He knelt by the side of his companion. "Are you all right?"
"Lord Curum!” he gasped. “My legs - chest - but there is no time! Cordial! Cordial where!”
“I have it with me! Oh, Losgar! Come, let me help you!”
“No! Fly, Lord Curum, fly! Your life is worth more than mine!” More arrows flew by and Curum bent to avoid them. “But Losgar - ”
“FLY!”
With all his Magical strength, Curum brought Losgar’s horse to its feet and quickly went astride it. “Haste! Haste to Ilmaren!”
The horse bore him through the forest, and using the clairvoyant eye Curum managed to dodge the tricky chasms of death. But no matter how fast he pushed, the Vanguards grew closer to him. One was even almost abreast with him and Curum just only narrowly dodged the dagger that the Vanguarder threw at him. Unsheathing his own dagger, he let it fly at the man and it struck his armoured steed in the neck, where it was unshielded. The horse collapsed, bringing its rider down with it. The shoutings of the Vanguards turned from urgent commands to enraged explosions and more arrows flew from their magnificent gilded bows.
One embedded itself in the flank of the horse.
Screaming in pure agony, the horse buckled and teetered dangerously. Curum jerked furiously at its reins and tried to whisper soothing words but the horse was beyond control. In the panic and flurry of the situation, he lost hold of his clairvoyant eye. To his horror, the horse’s hooves buckled at the edge of another hidden ravine and both horse and rider slipped and slid down the steep, fern-covered slope.
All thoughts of hope and courage flew from Curum’s mind. He held on tightly to his horse, yelling in absolute fright and pain as they tore through the curtain of giant ferns and thorny arms of King’s Bane. He dug his nails into the horse’s flanks, not minding any longer for its well-being. As he shut his eyes and tried not to envision the painful death that lay ahead, flashes of his past life swept through his mind: the shining walls of Lith in the sunset; the white halls and corridors of the castle; the strong bonds of friendship that lasted between the Alchemists and the King and his Ministry; then the genocide of his people, a fatal blow for revenge; the shining walls of Lith crumbling from the blows of newly-invented machines called catapults; the young apprentice Alchemists brutally murdered... and after forth, the desperate flee to safety in the mountains. Things were not so different then and now, but this time, he felt the weight ever stronger. His fingers gripped his leather pouch tightly as if he was trying to hold on to the last glimmer of hope that still existed for Magic. No longer for Alchemists, they were all dead save him, but for Magic. The very same force that had brought beloved Sildune to life, the very same power that enriched the land with civilisation. The power bequeathed to them by the mighty Lord Creator.
Curum was abruptly and rudely brought back to painful reality when one of the Vanguarders’ shaft struck his chest. An anguished cry escaped his lips as he clutched at the arrow and yanked it out without mercy upon himself. He was doomed for sure, for the arrows of the Vanguarders were dipped in fatal poison.
Suddenly, the tangling and sliding ended and Curum and the horse was thrown over another cliff, this time a smaller one, and both crashed right through a shock of clay and right into a haystack. Curum’s vision swam as he lifted his head to see where he was. It was a miracle that he had not lost his life when he had flown off cliff, and it was a marvel as well that his horse did not crush him to death. But his whole body was aching and bruised and there were slashes here and there and Curum wondered why had his life not ended earlier so that he would be saved from such cruel pain. He coughed violently from the spasms that the poison was causing to his lungs and heart. In two hour’s time or so, he would be dead. But Curum turned himself over in the haystack and the only thing that he could think about was the cordial in his pouch. He found it and grinned tiredly at the sight of it. The glass vial it had been stored in had been fashioned by Curum himself and he had fortified it so that it would not break no matter what the occasion. The bronze glimmer of the cordial winked and shone at him as he held it up against the light of the moonlight.
“Good,” he muttered to himself before his eyes rolled to the back of his head.
Reviews much appreciated! Gracias.
