Tomorrow Man – Part VI

The journey between the witch’s hovel and the great city of Morjia had been an uneventful two days, thankfully. They had picked no quarrels with other mages, and the witch had not returned. It had been easy travelling amid the fields and cart tracks, all the while the great pyramid looming towards them. As they neared the city, the great temples of the other gods became visible, and they were numerous. Ever since the Founding in the aftermath of the Mage War, the peoples of Asamor had worshipped numerous Gods, and the number had only grown with the centuries. The Citadel of the Gods, with Morji the Father at its top, formed the old religion, which had been heralded within Asamor since before the Founding of the New Kingdom over a thousand years before. Around the Citadel, countless lesser Gods were worshipped, but all were welcomed. More recently, temples to the Circle of Ten, Gods that were believed to rule all the worlds, had been built in the outskirts of Morjia beside the other temples of the Lesser Gods, but they had not spread far beyond the city.

The Great Temple of Morji dwarfed all others. It was the biggest structure built by the hands of man, at least without the use of magic. The five-sided pyramid was much wider than it was tall, and could easily contain the whole city of Artella within its walls. The temples were well staffed with monks, druids and various men and women sworn to the service of the Gods, and the city was the greatest site of pilgrimage for the entire kingdom and indeed beyond. The population of the city swelled and depleted with the many religious celebrations spread throughout the year, and the trade and hospitality that came with it made Morji the largest city in the kingdom both by sheer size and average population.

They had found warm beds at a large resting house owned by a big, round and very friendly man called Happy Sarl. The building was nestled between an alehouse and a bakery in the shadow of the giant obsidian spire of the temple of Flying Szion, the Messenger of the Citadel and God of Wings. They had found their wounded being seen to in the Temple of Greshia, the Mother and Healer of the Citadel.

Numerous men of the troop had been allowed leave to attend the temples and pray to their various Gods.

Harold wandered the cobbled streets staring in wonder at the mismatched buildings and the temples as he wandered past them. He had walked a fair way, coming all the way out to the rim of the city in search of the Temple of Miniia the Farseer, a Goddess of the Circle. He had asked directions three times and not got far before he got lost and had to ask again each time. Eventually he found it, a simple dome of stone with a circular hole in its top, through which rose blue-black smoke. Around the dome were four black pillars of stone that rose above the dome, atop each was a burning fire. At the front of the temple there was a circular doorway, above which was a carving of an eye with a glowing purple gemstone at its centre, seeing all.

He ventured inside, and saw a great circular room filling the inside of the dome. The floor was a great swathe of images in patterned tile. At the centre was a circular wall surrounding a hole through which the smoke rose up and out through the hole in the top of the temple. Around it were four circular pits, two of which had fires burning within, their smoke, a simple grey, rising up to meet the rest at the centre and go out into the sky. Around the burning fires sat small groups of people, each with a servant of the temple leading them in meditation. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he saw a woman walking over to him. She was shorter than he was by a foot, but she wore fine silks and felts sewn into a robe and gown of white and purple. In the centre of her chest was embroidered the all-seeing eye like the one above the temple entrance. Her hair was hidden under a silk scarf of the same white and purple.

“Welcome, my child.” She said, although she looked scarcely older than he was. “Have you come to seek the Farseer’s wisdom?”

“Not as such, no.” Harold replied.

“Then you have come to make an offering?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here, my child?”

“I’ve come here because I think I have the sight.”

“You speak truth?” She asked, seeming concerned.

“I do. I’ve had funny feelings all my life, and dreams, dreams which come true.”

“If the Farseer has bestowed upon you her gift then I must take you to the Seer at once!”

She took him by the hand and lead him down a set of stairs to the rear of the temple. They descended to a second circular set of chambers, each walled off from the rest like cells. Within each was a circular pit, at the centre of which was a circular stone that burned with an eternal flame, and below each fire stone the pits were filled with ash. She took him to the room at the centre, below the chimney. There was a greater fire there, burning purple and blue, the source of the blue-black smoke. On the opposite side of the fire sat a large dark-skinned man, wearing white and purple silk trousers, but his chest and arms were bare, and his round head was bald and glistened with a sheen of sweat. In the centre of his forehead was a tattoo of the all-seeing eye. He spoke as soon as Harold entered, his words long and dreary, his accent foreign to Harold. His eyes remained closed.

“Welcome, Harold Baywater of Artella. Be seated.”

Harold sat down by the fire opposite the Seer, facing him. The fire was hot, uncomfortably so. The lady left as Harold spoke.

“How do you know my name?” He asked.

“There are no mysteries in the Farseer’s Eye.”

“You knew I’d come.”

“I know much.”

“I’d have come sooner, only I couldn’t…”

“You came when you were meant to, Harold, not a moment sooner, nor a moment later.”

“Then you know if I have the sight?”

“By Her grace I have glimpsed your path, both to this place and from this place. The sight you have, Harold Baywater, but your path from here is your choice still.”

“How do you mean, I either have the sight or I don’t, surely?”

“The sight you have, but the Farseer bestows no blessings, only curses. The sight is first bestowed, then chosen. It has lead you here, but two paths lie before you, and it is in your sole power to choose the one you tread. If you choose to leave here, your sight will fade, and you will live the life Fate has declared for you. Choose to stay, breathe of the Dream Smoke, and your sight will be awakened, and you will lead a different life. Choose now, Harold Baywater, but know this: One path is laden heavy with burden.”

“Which path do I choose?”

“That is the question I have asked you, I cannot answer it.”

Harold thought for a good while, the Seer waiting patiently, as if he knew when he would answer. Two paths, but which to choose? He supposed the path of a Seer was laden with burden. Glimpsing the future had been bad enough, to see and know it would surely be a curse. Yet if seeing the future could allow one to change it, if futures could be chosen like the two he chose between at this instant, the sight was a gift he dared not refuse. If a God had seen fit to choose him, who was he to turn the gift aside?

“I choose to stay.” Harold said finally. The Seer opened his eyes, they were bright green, almost luminescent, and they locked Harold in an almost mesmerising glare.

“Then be Welcome, Brother Harold.” The Seer reached to his left and, without breaking his gaze on Harold, picked a ladle from amid a basket of dark blue leaves. He scooped some up and dropped them over the fire. They burst into deep blue flames instantly, releasing a plume of thick blue smoke that expanded toe engulf them both.

“Breath deep, Brother Harold, and dream. Dream of things that are yet to pass, and awaken with New Wisdom.”

“What if you’re wrong, what if I don’t have the sight after all?”

“Fear not, Brother. If the sight you do not possess, you shall not dream at all.”

***

Sir Allian had wandered the streets of Morjia for little over half an hour. He had been here several times before in his memory, when the Lord of Ganiathwaine had made pilgrimage to the Great Temple of Morji when his sons and daughters had been born. He was headed for a shop he had been to before, when he had needed the enchantments on his armour renewed. His enchanted dragonsteel sword was stored at Gania, enchantments being magic and outlawed in Artellathwaine.

The Magic Bucket was not the most well-decorated building in Morjia. It was simple stone, seemingly raised by magic. The store-front was old wood coloured black, with the name in silver letters, some of which were still glowing.

The Magic Bucket: Spells and Enchanted Items for the Everyday Tasks

The sign that swung above the shop bore similar words, and the symbol of wizardry, the isosceles triangle with an extended base. One window was being cleaned by an enchanted sponge and bucket of water that hovered below, catching as much water as it could. The other window was a display of various enchanted household items for sale. Inside was a partially organised mass of various magic items, purification stones, fire stones, self-heating pots, cleaning sticks and all manner of other bits and pieces. In one corner of the room was a harp playing all by itself. A glass orb, small enough to be held in one hand, flew up to Sir Allian and hovered a few inches from his face for a few moments, before glowing white and spinning back into the main space of the shop, making a long Weeeeeeeee sound. From the back of the store a wizard wearing yellow-brown robes and hat walked, stumbling over a magic broom that was sweeping the floor near the back of the shop. He looked about forty, his mottled face partially hidden behind a long brown beard that matched his longer hair.

“Oop!” He said as he stumbled over the broom. “Bloody thing, always gets in my way!” He turned to the knight.

“How can I help you? Got purity stones, they’re a thumb apiece, fire stones are always good for the home or travel, they’re two thumb each. You look like a man of combat, I don’t normally do magic weapons or armour, you’ll need to go to the Flying Sword for that, Wise Brakken’s place, personal friend, highly recommended. Of course I can do enchantments myself, but that costs more depending on what you’re wanting. I do have some magic rings in the back, proper dragonsteel, lifetime guarantee on them, will re-enchant them myself if they ever fail.”

“Hello, Wise Fazmir.” Sir Allian said. The wizard finally looked at his face.

“Sir Allian! Oh it’s been far too long, old friend!” Fazmir said as he extended his open hand. Sir Allian’s hand felt a force that pulled it into the handshake.

“Usual, is it?” He asked, releasing Sir Allian’s hand. The wizard noticed the hilt of his sword, and the weapon leapt from its sheath and into the wizard’s hands.

“Mm.” Fazmir remarked. “Not your usual blade.” He sniffed it. “Common steel. Won’t hold magic anything like your dragonsteel sword, but I’ll be able to get one enchantment to stick to it, maybe two. Could do you a nice simple self-summoning job? Useful if you ever drop it, you have to admit. Three thumbs. No, two, considering you’re a loyal customer.”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh come on, one thumb then.”

“I can’t.”

“By the Gods, since when did you start driving hard bargains? Okay, twelve pennies, that’s as low as you’ll find anywhere in Asamor, that.”

“I’m not interested in enchantments today.”

“Ten pennies, and I’ll throw in a healing amulet. Not my own work but elven made, so good quality!”

“I’m only here because I need to get to Gania. Do you still have a port?”

“Oh yes, of course. It only links to Maktus’ place in Methda, but I think he still has a Gania port there.”

Sir Allian held out a small brass coin. It leapt from his hand into the Wizard’s.

“Good, good.” Fazmir said. “Tell you what, I’ll throw in the enchantment for free. It’ll only take two minutes, I swear.”

He lead Sir Allian through to the back of the shop, where set against the wall was a dragonsteel archway with a torch set either side.

“How’s life in Gania, then?” Fazmir asked. “I’d only kept a handful of customers since I left, and they don’t visit often.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve been serving the Lady Jalice in Artella these past eight years.”

“Ah.” The wizard said. “That’ll be why you won’t be wanting the enchantment on your blade, then.”

Sir Allian nodded, and the wizard sent the blade floating slowly back to him. He grabbed it from the air and shoved it back into its sheath.

“Are you likely to be coming back this way?” Fazmir asked.

“I don’t know.” Sir Allian replied.

“Well, if you do, I can get psychic enchantments done, they cost a bit more, but concealed enchantments are less likely to get caught.”

“I can’t.”

“Of course, yes, I understand.” The wizard conjured a small orb of flame in his hand and sent it at the archway. The fire burst harmlessly against the dragonsteel frame. The engraved lines and markings in the frame began to glow with the green light of nexic magic. After a few moments, the two torches burst into flame with green fire.

“Ah, good, that means the way is clear. You’re good to go, just walk into the archway.”

Sir Allian bid the wizard goodbye and walked into the dragonsteel arch. He felt a queer sensation of the space around him contorting, and the green magic of the nexus surrounded him. He felt a sharp upwards force as the magic consumed him and transported him across a vast distance in a split second. He was deposited in another dragonsteel archway, identical to the first in every detail, except now he was in a different place. From here it should be only one jump to the city of Gania, he hoped.

***

The big brown cart-horse planted one firm hoof in front of the other, faithfully drawing the canvas-topped caravan and its master down the rough cart track. It was a wonder the old creature could see where it was going, as its long white mane drooped down over its eyes. Wooden wheels turned and bumped over stones and dug into pits and troughs in the track, but always the horse’s strength pulled it free and over all obstacles. The old man in green wizard’s garb rode at the front of his caravan, guiding his horse and smoking his long pipe. The two companions came upon the standing stones that marked the boundary between Morjiathwaine and Artellathwaine, one great stone standing either side of the track. They were old, older than the man knew, and weathered to a shadow of what they must once have been. Beyond them, he knew, magic was outlawed, punishable even by death.

“Take care and tread true, Simmion, these lands are not safe.” The old man said to his horse.

Simmion whinnied in reply.

“True, that has rarely stopped us before.” The old man said, smiling beneath his grey and white beard.

Before long they came upon a small village, within which sat an inn with stables. The old man brought the caravan to a stop in front of the stables, safely off the cart track. He dropped from the driver’s seat and reached into his robes. He produced four large triangular wooden blocks that were large enough that they should have been visible under his robes, yet they had not. He placed them around the back wheels of his caravan and set about detaching the horse’s harness from it. He was leading his horse to the stables when the innkeeper came upon him.

“Can I help you?” The innkeeper called. He was a squat and round man, with a bright red face and not much hair to speak of. He wore commoner’s clothes hidden behind a cotton apron that may once have been white but was now a canvas of grease, oil and old blood stains.

“I have need to keep my horse in your stable for a night.” The old man replied. “I also would have any meat or mead you can spare, I will not require a room. I have coin to reimburse your trouble.”

When the innkeeper saw him, his eyes went wide with fear.

“Your coin is not welcome here, wizard. Be gone before I call the town guard on you! Your kind is not welcome here!”

“My my.” The old man replied. “And I had heard so much praise of the hospitality in these parts. I must say I am disappointed.”

“Be disappointed somewhere else. Back behind those stones be my suggestion.”

The old man saw the innkeeper’s wife poking her narrow, pointed head out of the window to look at him.

“I think not.” The old man replied. “If I am not welcome, then I shall not come under your roof or expect to be fed, even in trade. However my horse and I shall remain here until the break of day tomorrow, and I shall trouble you no longer.”

“You’ll be gone from my damned house, you will!”

“You’d turn away an old tired man and his horse after such a long day’s travel. What must the Gods think?”

“I say I’m right enough with the Gods. Now be moving on!”

“Alas, I must rest here this night. I shall offer to pay you, indeed more than you are owed. Take my coin or refuse it, makes no matter to me.”

The old man turned and took his horse to the stable.

“I’ll not be having it, you turn and go or by the Gods I’ll make you leave, and it won’t be pretty when I do, mind.”

“You’re more than welcome to try.”

The innkeeper had no answer to that. He turned and stormed back into the inn.

Night had fallen, and the innkeeper and his wife had watched the old wizard retire to the inside of his caravan.

“I won’t have it, I won’t! Wizards in my house!” Thos the innkeeper bellowed.

“He not in your house though.” Parsey the large and heavy stable-boy replied.

“Shut up, you dull-witted oaf!” Thos screamed.

“What are you going to be doing about it, though?” His wife, Vaya, said. She was a woman as tall and slender as he was short and fat, with a mop of dark brown hair and one front tooth larger than the other.

“I should take his bloody head, he’s no business being this side of them stones.” Thos replied, indignant at his wife’s lack of faith in him.

“Might be a sound idea.” Slink, a black-cloaked regular and reputed thief said. “Lord would pay a nice price for a wizard’s head, I’d wager.”

“He’s got a point.” Vaya added. “Could do with a bit o’ good coin around here.”

“What do you want me to do, woman? Kill a wizard?! You’re half mad!” Thos replied in a whisper.

“He’s most as like asleep.” Slink said. “Wizard or not, sneak up on a sleeping man and he’s good as dead.”

“And if he wakes up?” Thos asked. “He’d burn me skin off, or worse!”

“My nan told me wizard turned her husband into dog.” Parsey said. “Then cook and eat him.”

“I heard there are wizards that can pull your soul out of your body.” Vaya said. “And stuff something else in.”

“I’m not doing it. Might as well slit me own throat.” Thos said.

“We do it together?” Parsey suggested.

“Not a bad plan. Four against one, even a Wizard. Could split the bounty, nice and even.” Slink added.

“Better than sleeping with a wizard out there doing gods-know-what.” Vaya said.

“I don’t believe this.” Thos said. “We’re actually going to go out there and…?”

“Think of the money, love.” Vaya said.

“And horse.” Parsey said. “I like horse.”

“Okay. Parsey gets the horse, and we split the rest three ways.” Thos said. Parsey smiled agreeably.

“Two ways, seeing as you two are husband and wife.” Slink responded.

“Done.” Thos said. “Now, how exactly do we…?”

“Knives as good as anything.” Slink said. “Sneak into that caravan, open his throat. Then we can hack off his head, slow as we like.”

“You scare me, sometimes.” Thos said.

They each took a knife, Thos, his wife and Parsey from the kitchen, whilst Slink slipped a jagged blade from between his leathers. They went outside, as quietly as they could, shielded by the dark. They crept up to the back of the caravan, the wooden door sealing the inside away from view. There was no light coming from inside.

“Maybe he not in?” Parsey whispered.

“He’s asleep.” Vaya whispered back. “Open the door then.”

“You open it!” Thos hissed.

“Cowards, the lot of you!” Slink whispered, and reached out a hand. He opened the door slowly and silently. Their eyes stared into the empty inside of the caravan for a few seconds, still adjusting to the dark.

“The gods spare no wrath for the man who slays a guest under his own roof.” The voice of the wizard came from behind them. They turned on their heels, startled half out of their wits. They found the wizard addressing them whilst leaning on a staff half as tall again as he was.

“I never invited you in, so you’re no guest, Wizard.” Thos said, feigning defiance and almost pulling it off.

“You not under roof neither.” Parsey added.

“Good point.” The old man replied. “And I am no wizard.”

“You ain’t foolin’ no-one with your wicked tongue.” Vaya said. “I knows a wizard when I sees one, and you be a wizard.”

“Wizard or no,” Slink said, “there’s four of us against one of you. Our blades against your stick.”

“It’s a staff.” The old man replied. “And I’d count those again, if I were you.”

The four of them had not noticed that their hands were empty, their blades vanished. The realisation sent a cold shiver through Vaya.

“Oooh, that’s magic that is, dark power!” She managed in no more than a whisper.

“The Lord’ll have your head for that!” Thos shouted. “I promise you, he will!”

The old man said nothing, he stood before them, his face unchanging. An inexplicable tension filled the air, until eventually, after what felt like an eternity of apprehension, he raised an eyebrow.

Parsey shrieked, turned and ran for the stables, screaming and crying, until he dove into a pile of soiled hay and hid. The other three remained where they were.

“The half-wit has more sense than the rest of you combined!” The old man said. He raised his staff above his head, and Thos and Vaya turned and fled off up the track towards the distant castle. Only Slink remained.

“Just you and me now, Wizard.” Slink said. “And you won’t be scaring me off so easily.”

“Indeed not.” The old man said in reply. Slink stared at him and he at Slink, until the thief blinked. When he opened his eyes, the old man had vanished.

“It’ll take more than that to scare me!” The thief said. “I know you wizards and your games.”

“Do you really?” The old man’s voice came from somewhere to his left, but by the time he turned he saw nothing but the dry-stone wall.

“Yeah, I been across the border a few times. I met wizards, even killed a few.”

“I doubt that.” The voice came from behind him, but again, he turned and saw nothing.

“I have. And I know that you wizards take an oath, you have rules, things you have to obey.”

“True.” The voice came from his right, but there was only the vacant caravan there.

“And you have to obey the laws of the land.” The thief said, slipping another knife from his sleeve. “So, you can’t use magic here.”

“There’s one problem with your reasoning.” The first half of the sentence came from his right, and as he turned the second half came from the opposite side. He spun on the spot, feeling slightly dizzy.

“What’s that then?” He asked.

The last sentence he heard was a whisper, directly behind him, and he could feel the old man’s breath on his neck.

I’m not a wizard.

The old man’s face was behind his right shoulder. He thrust the knife at it, only to find his hand was empty once more. The fear took him then. He felt a strange feeling wash over him, a sensation of twisting and stretching. He tried to kick away from the old man.

Then there was only darkness. The thief felt a moist cold pressing in around him and above him. He tasted the cold, damp earth filling his mouth. He tried to breath, he fought to breath, but there was no air here. He tried to move, but the earth around him held his limbs in place.

Oh Gods. I’m buried.

Buried alive.

He tried to scream, but had no breath with which to do it. What little sound he made did not even reach his ears, except by his own bones. He struggled as the life left him, he tried to think, he didn’t know where he was, or even how deep. He wondered if anyone would ever find him.

The old man watched as the form of compacted soil held its shape for mere moments before collapsing into a mound. He looked to the soil, then to the blade.

“What a pity.” He said to himself, before wandering back to his caravan, closing the door, then opening it again and vanishing into a cavernous illuminated interior. He closed the door behind him, and an eerie calm fell upon the village once more.

Part V | Contents | Part VII

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