Script Of Sages, Episode 5

Episode 5 – The Sage Indeed That night, as they rode in the frigid air, the trio came to the Dragonteeth highlands and crossed a river that had frozen over completely. Evergreens dominated the landscape—proud spruces, pines and northern cedars. Their smell pleased him as the land rose in altitude. Stands of holly and mistletoe sprouted up from the snow as the land rose in height. At midnight the stone walls of Galiope rose up. The land around the city had been cleared in case of invasion, so that the enemy could not hide siege weapons in the trees and the city’s archers would have an easier time of shooting. After all, the Northern World was a war torn place. South of the city were farms and pastures. The gatekeeper exacted a one-penny toll. Then the great wooden gates creaked open, revealing a vast city of winding cobbled streets. Plaster homes and shops with thatch roofs sprawled into the air, slumping over the street and leaning against each other just to create enough space to house the city’s forty thousand souls. Stone churches and immense stone cathedrals dotted the rest of the city sporadically. Snow began to fall heavily as they got in. Fortunato walked with the confidence of a native, sword in hand, and the streets were relatively busy even in the thick of the night. Reev watched the Town Guard as they patrolled with their flaring lamps. Eventually the trio crossed the Bridge-o’er-Galios—huge and wrought of stone, beautifully chiseled, with statues of gods and gargoyles. Then they arrived at an inn made of pine wood. A scaly red claw was painted on the sign, which, read “The Dragonpaw Inn — All Races Welcome.” They entered. The lobby was small and homey, with a nice stone hearth and a rack of aged wines and ales. Immediate warmth flooded over them like a wave. The patrons were as diverse as the city itself—in one corner sat a dwarf holding a stein of beer; in the other, a few human mercenaries; next to them, an elf in green garb counting coins. The innkeeper approached Fortunato. She was beautiful, with hair like golden silk and deep blue eyes. Her ears were too round, her body too heavily-built to be elven; her ears, too angular and her body, too lithe to be human; obviously she had mixed blood. “Hello, Glenda,” Fortunato said. “Fortunato.” She kissed him on the cheek. Wrinn and Reev exchanged glances. “There is evil nearby.” “That’s what I hear.” “Is Lord Eventide worried?” “The usual. Anything to make sure his hide is safe.” “I must get a room. We are leaving in the morning.” Glenda nodded, going to her logbook. “So you won’t be visiting me?” she said. “Sorry, Glen—” “It’s fine. I have one vacancy. Room four. Need dinner? Potato soup—it might be a little cold for your liking.” “No thanks. Good night, Glenda.” “Good night.” In the middle of the night, Reev awoke perspiring. Someone lurked outside the door. Fortunato drew his sword. Cautiously the Arlom Rider kicked it open, and two dark shapes retreated into the lobby. 1

Fortunato leapt out the window into the cold night air. Reev woke Wrinn and rushed him outside. The Rider bolted down the street, sword in hand. The two dark things were Rokahn; and this was worrying. Had the Ratlings let them in through the sewers? Probably not; they were no friends of Rokahn. And if not, Lord Eventide, weak though he was, hadn’t stooped to allowing them inside. Had he? He was upon them then, slicing off one Rokahn’s head and plunging his blade through the other’s chest. But a group of guards approached with lamps, their faces somber in the flickering light. “Come with us, please.” Behind him, some guards also held Reev and Wrinn. A host of Rokahn—at least two thousand strong—waited by the city wall, holding spears and banners of blood red. At the forefront was Drayfin, riding on his coal-black steed. “That’s them,” the glyrn roared. “His Excellency offers his apologies,” a guard said, “He says the city had no other choice than to obey.” “In damning us you have condemned the world to slavery,” Fortunato said, “Eventide has no idea what he’s done.” And then they threw them, packs and all, into the roaring rabble that was Drayfin’s host. Reev awoke inside a frigid stone room. His feet were cold and numb. A small pile of hay lay in the corner, and the boarded-up window let in little light. Outside, the snow was swirling down from the gray sky. Reev rubbed his arms and began to shiver. How long have I been here? Something had been written on the floor—sigils and runes of elvish design, glowing blue and yellow. Wizardry! Reev— Gastreel speaking. Knock on the wall when you’re ready to escape. There is a Rokahn outside. He stood up, cold. Waiting would be pointless. He knocked on the wall firmly and, in the span of ten seconds, he heard a door fly open, a Rokahn scream, and runefire burn him to ash. Then came the jingling of keys, a fiddling of locks, and his door creaked open, revealing Gastreel. Reev ran to hug him. “Glad to see you, boy,” the wizard said. Reev noticed that the Rokahn’s legs and hands had not been destroyed by the magic. “As you can probably tell, I haven’t my staff, and therefore have little control o’er my magic.” He reached down and grabbed the dead Rokahn’s scimitar and dagger. “Want this?” He tossed Reev the smaller blade, which was forged with a horned skull. “I miss Doomblade.” “Not surprising. Magic swords often form a bond with their owners.”

Together they crept to the door nearby, which was half open. “’Ey, Moke,” said a deep, guttural voice. “What, Filp?” “You hear somethin’?” “No. You?” “Thought so!” said the other. “When’s the big boss want us to take up de kid?” “Skork ‘ll be down here to take ‘im.” “Stupid Skork. ‘E is such a… what’s de word?” “Arse-kisser?” “Yeah! An ar—” Gastreel jumped forward and sprayed runefire in a thick but erratic stream, devouring one. “Filp!” cried the Rokahn. But the wizard shot out his hands and put him out of his misery in a bright flash. “Our weapons are here,” he said. Reev walked in. On a long pine table lay Doomblade, and both Fortunato’s sword and Gastreel’s staff. Across the wall were two jail cells. At once the wizard opened them, and Fortunato and Wrinn walked out. “I have called the other Arlom Riders,” said Fortunato, “They will be here soon. An hour, at most.” “Reev and I will climb the Tower to take care of Seymus.” “What help am I?” Reev asked. “He should stay here,” Fortunato said. “I know what we must do,” Gastreel hissed. He grabbed his staff. “Take Wrinn. Go to the bottom of the Tower and wait for your friends!” Wrinn grabbed a Rokahn’s scythe. “Their weapons are cheap.” “So is their armor,” Gastreel said, “It balances out.” He paused. “Do as I say. Seymus’ army is strong, so you must be careful ‘til the Riders arrive.” “Yes, Lord Archmage.” Fortunato grasped his sword and kissed it, then ripped a torch from the wall. “Ready, Wrinn?” The elf nodded, and the groups split. Reev and Gastreel cautiously moved through the door and out. Winding stairs spiraled up a few stories before reaching the apex. Together they began to climb, Reev with Doomblade and Gastreel with his staff. Alas, as they came to the topmost door, a Rokahn emerged, grasping a large barrel in his arms. He didn’t seem particularly determined to move. “A dwarfish powderkeg!” Gastreel cried in a panicked tone, raised his staff and burnt the creature to ash with runefire. The barrel, which Reev saw was sparking, rolled down the ancient stairs. “Run! Come here, Reev!” But fearing the massive barrel would knock him over, he stayed where he was. When it had come between Gastreel and Reev, it burst apart in a great fiery flash, rending the stones with a deafening boom. “I’ve never seen such magic!” Reev whimpered, covering his ears. “Damn!” Gastreel cursed, “It’s not magic.” A rift now stretched between them, one Reev 3

could never hope to cross. “It’s a barrel stuffed with an explosive substance called blackpowder. The only magic is the dwarves’ ingenuity.” The wizard pondered their situation. “We’re separated. But the task cannot be completed without you!” “Why?” “You are—” Gastreel glanced back. An orb of green flame floated out the door. “Get across at all costs! There is no time!’ But the wizard couldn’t seem to look away. Enchanted, he began following the bright light up the stairs. “Gastreel!” Reev cried, but nothing could be done. Fortunato and Wrinn descended the tower with relative ease, cutting down the occasional Rokahn guard as they did. When they got to the base of the tower, they saw that Drayfin was standing there, baring a keen-edged saber that sparkled in the sunlight. Behind the open door lay an army of Rokahn, of hook-nosed Kehrad and impish red Raltar. Two Rokahn carrying large pitchforks and shields came up behind them. “Kill pointy-ear,” said Drayfin, eyeing Fortunato. “Me and this ‘un, we got a score to settle.” He assumed a fighting stance and stared into the Glyrn’s menacing eyes. Wrinn retreated up the stairs and the Rokahn soldiers followed. Without further ado, Drayfin grabbed a metal shard from the ground and sliced a tally into his bicep. Fortunato noticed several hundred markings had been carved all over his body. “I have killed over five-hundred. You will make an excellent addition.” He smiled devilishly. A bead of black blood dripped from the incision, and the battle began. Wrinn swept aside the pitchfork with his scythe. He had been a gladiator, visiting amphitheatres all around the Northern World, but had always fought against humans, and in teams. Cooperation meant he could work less, but more effectively—now he had to rely on his own skills, like a primitive warrior. He looked into the Rokahn’s yellow eyes. They brought back searing memories. He struck hard at the monster, missing, and leapt back to dodge a blow of its own. Reev searched frantically for a way to cross the gap. He saw no rope, no plank or any other way of crossing. Except jumping, that was, and if he missed, the drop was over twenty feet to the bottom. He heard the padding of feet. Four Rokahn came running up the stairs. He would either break both of his legs, or be slashed to ribbons. Neither sounded worse than the other. But they were almost upon him! There was no time to think! Reev took a few steps back, sprinted and leapt, snapping over onto the stairs and cutting his shins. But whimpering wasn’t an option, even though the pain was excruciating. As the Rokahn heckled him, he crawled to his feet, through the doorway and into the top level. A small walkway led into the main building, out of which jutted a single snowy cliff. An altar sat upon it, on which lay the Script, open to the first page. To his terror, he could hear Gastreel screaming in anguish. Fortunato and Drayfin exchanged forceful blows as sword clashed against saber. The fight exhausted the Rider sorely.

Up and down the stairs they fenced. Drayfin nicked Fortunato’s arm, adding to his many scars; the glyrn had too thick a hide to pierce so easily. In a run of luck Drayfin cut the black-bearded Rider across the chin, throwing him prostrate. He stabbed but Fortunato dove to the side, climbing weakly to his feet. The battle seemed so pointless. Then a loud horn blew and Fortunato saw his friends, the Arlom Riders, emerging in the distance. Drayfin, distracted, turned to look. The Rider drew back his sword and thrust at the glyrn’s back. The stretchy skin resisted but he pushed with every ounce of strength that remained. The blade finally broke the hide-like skin, and the glyrn choked and collapsed. A man in a black hood approached the Script, a quill in hand. The feather dripped with ink. He shuddered, wondering whether it was Seymus. “And then my beloved friend,” the warlord said as he wrote, “Gastreel the Archmage, was ripped limb from limb by harpies!” Reev heard Gastreel cry out in pain as what Seymus penned came to pass. Hisses and clawing erupted until the wizard was silent. Fury seized Reev’s heart. “No!” he screamed. He ran straight for Seymus. “No, no, no!” He bowled the warlord off the cliff, and he fell to what could only be his death. He bolted over to the Script, dripping with cold sweat. He had to save Gastreel, somehow. And whatever was written in the Script came true. The Rokahn lay dead at Wrinn’s feet. Hurriedly he ran down the stairs, seeing that Fortunato was sitting on the ground tired, next to Drayfin’s corpse. His sword lay next to him, bloodied and red. “Come here, Wrinn.” He obeyed. Outside, hundreds of Fortunato’s friends rode astride exotic beasts—great blue lizards and enormous eagles; black wolves and white wolves; giant panthers and great furry oxen. Fortunato smiled as he looked on them. In the distance Wrinn could see Tyra Jade tearing out a Rokahn’s throat, eyes wild with rage. Her fury was insatiable. The Arlom Rider stood up, pointing to a woman archer on great black bird. “See?” said Fortunato, “Up on that giant crow is Alana, our captain.” He took a gulp of his water-skin and wiped sweat off his forehead. “Shall we join the battle?” Wrinn looked at him and nodded. Reev grabbed the quill and began writing. Gastreel came back to life and the harpies died. The winged creatures screamed and collapsed instantly. Gastreel’s flesh came together in the blink of an eye. He stood up weakly. “Reev!” said he, “You are the Sage, as I thought!” “What?” “I will explain later! Hurry, write—wait, look out!” Seymus was flying in the air above the cliff. He descended to the ground and lowered his hood, revealing a tall, lanky man. His face was obscured by a bizarre mask—a hollow goat-skull with curving horns and a jutting mouth. It gave him a strange, demonic appearance, and his eyes glowed red in the darkness. He thrust his hand forward. Reev plummeted backwards against the wall, pinned. “Look at you!” Seymus laughed, “You invalid! Not a muscle on you.” 5

“There is more to life than brute strength,” Gastreel said. “I thought you were dead!” “My magic is stronger than you think,” bellowed the wizard. Reev thought he heard wings flapping in the distance—very faint. But perhaps, he thought in despair, it was just his imagination. “Then I will kill you again, more painfully this time, and neither you nor this cripple can stop me!” hissed Seymus. “He is not a cripple.” “He is not a warrior. He is puny and pathetic. Unappealing. Probably a virgin.” “But he has a good heart.” Seymus laughed, as if it were the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “You may laugh if you wish. But there is one thing a good-hearted boy has that you don’t, Seymus.” “What is that?” he laughed. The flapping grew louder and a giant eagle emerged over the cliff, dropping Fortunato and Wrinn down. The two drew their swords in unison with a crisp ring. “Friends, however few in number, that will lay down their lives for him.” Together Fortunato and Wrinn ran, like warriors of old, and smote Seymus on his back with their swords. Reev drew Doomblade and walked over to the fallen warlord, positioned the blade on his chest, and drove it home. The warlord screamed desperately, flailed his arms, and succumbed to the sword’s holy power. Reev hugged Fortunato and Wrinn in tears. “You’ve done well,” said the Rider with a smile. “Good job,” added Wrinn. Gastreel stood up. “But there is one thing we must yet do. The Script must be destroyed. You are the Sage, Reev—the only person, besides Seymus the Deceiver, who can write in the Script without fear of death. You are l’iarsk v’el daneniad—the Sword of the Western Gods.” Reev nodded, wiping away his tears. He walked up to the pedestal and grabbed the quill. Then, savoring the great relief that was in his heart, he pressed the pen to the paper. The Script was destroyed. The glossy book vanished into thin air, and a great weight lifted off of Reev’s shoulders. Perhaps he was a hero, after all. The End