The Script Of Sages, Episode 1

Episode 1 – A Name Not Uttered A gentle wind blew through the village, chilling the late autumn air. The quaint wooded pastures of Norwood were located in the far northern reaches of the Empire, in the province of Sugauth, away from the gleaming seaside cities. It was a cold land in an empire known for its hot weather, its seaside palms, its flowers and myrtles—the farthest one can go and still be called an Imperial, as the locals said. Near the center were the town hall, Nick Coldwater’s apothecary, the shambled stone church of Terryn, goddess of harvest and home; and the Buckhorn Inn, where our tale begins. A young man named Reev sat at a table, rubbing his hands together by the fire. The oaks, maples and aspens south of the road formed a beautiful mosaic of dark orange, burnt red and creamy yellow; and the leaves still dripped from yesterday’s rain, glowing like crystals in the sunlight. Lifting his ale stein to his lips, he anxiously waited for the innkeeper, Reek, to bring out a tray of his cornbread—known for miles around as the very best in Sugauth. The two Ratling cooks that ran the Buckhorn Inn, Reek and Neek, took care of Reev while his mentor, Gastreel, was away. He had been gone for over two years now—and it would be three in just a few days. “A plate of baked goodness for Master Reev!” exclaimed Reek as he brought out a hot saucer. He slid the plate of cornbread and gravy-drizzled turkey on the table. Nearby, a lute-player sang on a varnished stage. The tune he strummed filled the inn with palpable excitement. Craft me, fairest gypsy lass, A magic spell of arcane pow’r Let my candle brightly glow And when the wick is gone, to hell I’ll go A man in a gray-green cloak with thick black hair and a beard threw a silver penny at his feet. Reev reckoned he had come from the southern coasts; his skin was bronzed, and a button emblazoned with an albatross, the symbol of the island city of Peregoth, pinned the cloak together. Outside, the sky had gone dark and the air grew chilly. Constable Goffins, the porcine chief of police, stumbled inside, breaking Reev’s concentration. His white mustache drooped below his neck. He held a brightly-burning lantern, which illuminated the area around him. “Everything all right, gentlerats?” Neek sprang up from behind the bar. “Peachy,” he said, “Nothing the matter, Constable.” Goffins nodded. “Some people have had trouble coming into town. Be on your guard. 1

There may be buffoons on the loose.” He paused. “Curfew is in an hour. Oh! And a birdie dropped this. It’s addressed to you, Reev!” He pulled a scroll out of his pocket. “From a man by the name of G! You’ve certainly got some funny friends, Mr. Nax.” That’s an initial, dummy, Reev thought. And doubtlessly “G” stood for Gastreel. Excitedly he went up to the constable and grabbed the letter, seeing it was folded up and sealed with cheap red wax. “Be on your guard, everyone!” the constable advised and left. Reev broke the seal and unraveled the folded parchment, reading the meticulous ink writing carefully. Reev… Come to my house at once. Be careful. -G. Nearby, Reek carried a steaming plate of corn and turkey to the man in the gray-green cloak. Reev walked over to Neek. “Can I help you?” said the Ratling. “I’m headed to Gastreel’s house,” Reev said. “Oh,” squeaked Neek. “The old codger is back again, eh?” “He is.” Reev smiled. “I’ll see you soon.” Neek nodded and waved farewell. The streets were dark, even in the light of the flickering lamps. Silence and emptiness reigned. The air was cold in late November, and they expected snow at any time. Throughout the village, once-grassy yards were strewn with colorful leaves. Brown and black squirrels scrambled down trees to harvest acorns, and deer bounded through the colorful forest. Not a single snowflake had fallen yet, though it wouldn’t be that way for long. Turning south from the village green, Reev thought he saw torchlight in the alleyway. And, to his surprise, the glint of metal. He turned down Church Road. Constable Goffins appeared right before him with his lantern. The porcine man stamped his foot, his moustache quivering with indignation. “Excuse me! The curfew is on!” “The bells haven’t rung.” “Now you listen to me! Don’t question my authority!” Goffins spewed, “A constable’s command is law! I’ve been endorsed by Mayor Coldwater, who’s endorsed by the governor, who’s endorsed from the Zaar-taken, gods-forsaken, son-of-Isdar emperor himself!” “I know, Mr. Goffins, but—” “There is no excuse!” “Excuse for what?” “That’s enough out of you! I’m going to fine you two pence!”

“What?” Reev cried, “That’s ridiculous!” Goffins growled. Then a deep-throated, acidic voice bellowed from behind him. “Listen to the boy, porky!” Eyes gleamed in the torchlight—yellow, inhuman eyes. Steel rang as a sword was drawn from its sheath. A blade plunged straight through Goffins’ chest. The fat old man crumpled over and gasped, but found no breath. Reev shrieked and took off like a frightened deer. Gastreel’s home was small, more a pile of stones than a proper house. Reev ran to the door nervously, covered with icy sweat. The wizard’s garden had sunk into disrepair, overgrown with gnarled weeds. The shell of a rotten pumpkin lay within, left over from last year. Besides that, the lot was vacant. The windows, dull and dirty, glowed a bit, revealing the fire that burned within the house. He heard footsteps approaching and turned in terror. A snarl issued close by. Panic gripped Reev, and he wondered hopelessly whether he was going to die. “You Reev Nax?” Yellow eyes gleamed and a blade was pulled from a sheath. “Ansa’ me, boy!” Reev had nowhere to run! He was as good as dead. Then Gastreel kicked open the door and leapt out, a staff in his hand. A strange blue rune glowed with magic light on his forehead, and he thrust out his hand. A searing fire spray consumed Reev’s pursuer, and he burst into a pile of charred bone and ash. “Damned Rokahn,” the wizard mumbled. The man was old, in his late sixties, but still robust. He had a close-shaven white beard, and wore a robe of forest green. “We have little time,” he said, “Come inside, Reev. I must explain and quickly.” Reev felt tears form in his eyes. He embraced Gastreel. “Three years,” he said, “Three years without you.” “I love you dearly, Reev, but now is not the time.” Together they strode in as Reev wiped the wetness from his eyes. Gastreel’s hovel was disorderly. Hot coals smoldered in the stone hearth, filling the living room with warmth. A wooden staircase led up into the bedchamber, while a small corridor led through a varnished door into Gastreel’s private library. Otherwise the house was very small. A half-finished meal of red wine and trout sat on a table before the hearth. “We have a horrid foe pursuing us, Reev,” Gastreel explained as he moved toward a table in the corner, stacked with books. “The darkness thickens. A name not uttered in hundreds of years thunders from the mountains of Galiope, as fierce and loud as a clarion-call!” He picked up a thick, dusty book, dated from the time of the Great Shadow War—before Galiope was founded by the ancient Woodsmen, and before Pereis laid the first brick of the Eternal City. “The name I speak of is Seymus, lord of all that is wicked and cruel—champion of the black abyss, and adversary of the danen. He seeks the Script of the Sage, for only he and one other can use it.” “You speak in riddles.” “Silence!” Gastreel demanded, “You must go to the inn and retrieve the package you hid 3

—the package wrapped in elven cloth and tied with string. Do not unravel it, under any circumstances, and do not let anyone but you or me touch it! That is all you need to know. We are leaving. I will retrieve a steed for you and we will leave promptly for Galiope.” “What’s the hurry?” “As you can see, we are not alone. These Rokahn are only minions—there is another, greater than I…” Reev heard a scream and the faint sound of steel striking steel. “Run to the inn! I will meet you at Meldor Brook!” Reev looked at him nervously. “But I can’t… I’m terrified!” “And so you should be. The whole world should be scared, for the Enemy is not mortal —he is eternal. Run!” “Is that your usual method of encouragement?” Reev hissed caustically as he bolted for the door. As Reev approached the inn, he saw one of the Rokahn for the first time. They were tall, thin and humanoid, with skin shaded from earthen brown to blackish-blue. Most had whitish hair and yellow eyes, with the occasional pair of horns. They slaughtered the townspeople without mercy. The Rokahn were the sworn enemies of humans and elves. Reev had read extensively about them, ever plagued by the common human hunger for dark knowledge. The Rokahn lived in the mountains but could endure any harsh environment, whether scorching desert or freezing wasteland. According to legend, the god of war placed the Rokahn in the belly of the earth, and, after scratching through the rock for thousands of years, they emerged starving, thirsty, and maddened with hatred. Even now, travelers reported spawning pits opening up out of nowhere and unleashing hundreds of slimy young Rokahn. Reev dashed into the inn. Reek and Neek were hiding under the tables as the man in the gray-green cloak crossed swords with a Rokahn. One of the brutes already lay on the floor, beheaded. “Get out of here, Reek!” Reev screamed, “And Neek! You have no chance, hiding there!” Gripped with fear and grief, feeling he had been pressed to do something he was incapable of, he ran up into the hallway and up the stairs into his room. Once inside, he dove under his bed and groped for the loose floorboard under which he had hidden the package. He pried it open and grabbed, feeling the soft elven cloth and the coarse string. With the prize safely in hand, he stood up and spun around to dash outside. But at the door was a Rokahn —fierce and powerful, with small black horns. “That’s what Lord Drayfin wanted,” he growled, “Hand it over nice and easy, and I’ll let you go.” “Liar,” Reev accused, “You’ll cut me up anyway.” “No. I was s’posed to bring the package—the package, and you. You’re around seventeen, eh?” Reev stepped back. The window was open. “Is you Simeon’s son? Simeon Nax?” Reev raised a brow and inched toward the window. Gastreel had never mentioned his parents. He had stubbornly refused to discuss them. He dashed for the window but the Rokahn grabbed him with his oily gray fingers and

threw him into a headlock. “We wasn’t supposed to hurt you so don’t worry.” His captor dragged him into the lobby. The man in the gray-green cloak leapt for them and swung beautifully, severing the Rokahn’s head in a spray of blood. “Run, boy!” the black-bearded man scolded. “Run for your life!” And run he did. End of Episode 1 Continued in Episode 2

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