Chapter 4
[<<Back]Jorg awakes, disorientated, from the disturbing, disjointed dreams of violence and death. But were they really just dreams?
-o0o- The four-month term in the Academy of the Mind's remote rural retreat could be summed up in one word: boredom. The place was an ancient castle, a defensive structure dating from Guardians-know-when, right in the middle of nowhere. It's tough living and working in a place where the nearest tavern is a day and a half's march away.
Wizards had always been unfathomable to Jorg, although they paid well. And out here they were less diluted by normals than in the bustling city of Calbeyn. So much of their communication was mind-to-mind, that a 'normal' like Jorg sometimes felt right out of things. He had been due to return to the city in just a weeks time, and was already counting down the says. But things had started to go horribly wrong.
It started with several of the mercenary guards suffering from recurring nightmares. Then one night the sentries on the gate vanished. Their mutilated bodies were found two days later. Then Jorg himself was wounded when one of his colleagues, a former legionnaire called Callar Lessim, went inexplicably berserk and started attacking his fellows.
The next thing, Jorg was taken ill with the unknown disease that had afflicted something like half the castle
-o0o- After that, everything was a blur. Now he finds himself dressed, and armed. He's standing in the corridor in the upper level of the keep, where the wizards live and work.
The place is ominously silent.
After a short debate between caution and propriety, Jorg draws his sword and readies his shield. He goes in search of a stairway back to more familiar parts of the keep or someone who can tell him what's going on. If any doors are open along the corridor, he'll check the rooms for signs of life, without entering or opening any doors. The wizards are not to be disturbed.
Only one door stands ajar. Jorg looks cautiously through the crack, but there's no one in the spartan room.
The corridor leads to the circular tower, which contains the only staircase leading down to the lower levels of the castle.
Once in the tower, Jorg is met by a scene of devastation. There has been a battle here; with fire as well as swords; tapestries and wall-hangings are burned, and the furniture lies shattered.
Worse than that, on the floor lies the body of one of the academy's mageguards, Flaryr d'n Zeyranuduir, in a pool of blood.
Jorg realises with horror that there is a lot of blood on his own blade.
Maybe he fought the attackers, not the mages. That's a better thought. Unfortunately, he still doesn't know where anyone is. On the assumption that the attack was launched from ground level, Jorg heads up the stairs looking for survivors or invaders. But as he heads up the narrow spiral staircase, Jorg can hear voices. It sounds as though the owners of the voices are in Aranyr's study in the tower.
He listens carefully, but doesn't recognise any of them.
As stealthily as he can, Jorg approaches the source of the voices, attempting to overhear their conversation. Assuming they aren't standing of the body of one of the tower residents, he decides he should ask them what is going on. After all, he doesn't know, and other people usually do. He reminds himself not to necessarily believe them, however.
Jorg can't quite make out what they saying, but he thinks he caught the phrase "soft blancmange" spoken by someone in a very strange accent. He has no idea quite why they're talking catering.
He enters the room to see the room full of people, several of them armed. At first glance, he doesn't recognise any of them!
One is a man - a human - of average height, slightly built and with neat brown hair. His pale blue eyes somehow convey the impression that what he says is liable to be worth hearing, and his clothing and equipment seem rather well-kept. He's clad in a scarlet tunic, broidered with rather fanciful knot-work, dark russet breeches and soft boots of a deep, rich brown leather; a sleeveless black leather jerkin, sewn with stamped metal shapes of exquisite design forms his armour. A pair of soft leather gauntlets with metal lamellae sewn to the backs protect his hands, which are hovering close to the hilts of a plain soldier's nirvork broadsword and a heavy, basket-hilted dagger.
Dressed in a stark white robe a young girl watches the intruder enter. Her face shows the soft lines of someone who is intently studious. Her brown hair wreathes her face and shows of her brown eyes. Though she wears a dagger at her belt, it is sheathed. Her hands are empty and away from her body as she regards the intruder.
Behind the desk are two further figures, both kandar.
The seated figure is dead.
The standing figure is dressed in a very ordinary brown tunic and trousers, save for the way the sleeves are cut - which is odd but Jorg can't quite put his finger on the oddness. He is just picking up a metallic rod in his right hand. His left hand meanwhile is tucked in the front of his tunic where Jorg cannot see it.
Another human, a man wearing a green-dyed leather hauberk with black-dyed cloth sleeves and leggings, and a brown, conical leather helmet that peaks with a black horse-tail that cascades down the back of his head -- produces a strange looking, small bronze "hammer" from a sort-of pouch on his belt, and points it (backwards; handle first) at the newcomer.
"Halt! Identify yourself!" he says, in a thickly -- and strangely! -- accented Mannish.
This warrior's skin is very pale, that of it that can be seen on his oval face -- with it's cleft chin, and large, dark eyes that dominate the face. He is about average height for humans, perhaps just shy of two tavars, but on the slender side, for his height.
Besides the armour, and the strange bronze "hammer", the man wears a wide-bladed shortsword at his left hip, and a backpack. "Are you controlled by the Kolder?" the young-looking human asks, in his strange accent, as he takes a tighter grip of his 'hammer' and pointing it in a threatening manner at the newcomer, "I said, Identify yourself!"
-o0o- Ryzar had been the first to hear the sound, and turned towards the direction the sounds were coming from, his head cocked to the side, and his eyes closed in listening concentration.
"Does anyone else hear that?" the young Borderer asked, "It sounds like soft footsteps..."
Though he'd served with a mercenary company, Jal's scouting skills were nowhere near as keen as Ryzar's and he'd not heard anything. Now, however, he could discern the approach of ... something.
He flashed a warning glance to the others and stepped quickly to the other side of the door from Ryzar, being careful to be out of its' opening arc.
The young apprentice nods her head as if it was what she expected. She notes the others turning towards the door. She like wise looks. She was not ready for any more mental combat, but she would do whatever she could if it did come to that again. She desperately hoped it wasn't the creature approaching.
Someone comes through the door. He's a giant human male, standing over seven feet tall and at least three feet across the shoulders. Dressed from head to toe in plain brown leather armor, he wields a huge sword in his right hand and carries an equally enormous shield on the opposite side. He seems slightly stunned by the motley crew assembled in the room, but his eyes are drawn to the man behind the desk. Looking at the man, he says, "Sir, what is going on here?"
A cheerful grin appears on Jal's face, and he appears to relax a little. His voice, when he speaks, is not loud, but attracts the attention like a magnet.
"Well, not quite the monster we'd been expecting," he observes.
Reylorna almost laughs at the bard's comment. Instead she answers for the man at the desk, "the man sitting, won't be answering you. We found him like this," she adds quietly.
"So you live, Jorg", says a voice he recognises as belonging to the mageguard Verthes. Jorg had not noticed him amongst the strangers until he spoke. "It seems that we two are the only survivors. For our master here has perished, along with too many others. Have you seen anyone else?".
He motions to the figure sitting motionless at the desk: Aranyr, sitting serenely as if still alive.
"What has happened?" says Jorg. "I cannot seem to remember!"
"That makes two of us!", replies Verthes. "I can remember nothing either. There was that missing guard, and one or two people ill.. Then... nothing. All dead. Except you and me".
Though the Reylorna says nothing, her mind wanders. Why did these two survive? Were they not a threat? Were they better as tools? Or is there something more? She just watched and listened.}
Cocking an eyebrow at the old mageguard, Jal indicates Jorg with a slight movement of his left hand.
"You know this man, Grandpa?" he asks, not disrespectfully.
"Of course I know him", Verthes replies, "Jorg, he's hired from the Union of Guards. Been here for a couple of months".
"I would be more inclined to trust this human", interrupts the tall kandar warrior. "If there wasn't rather a lot of blood on his sword".
Verthes gives Kylar a black look. "I think he must be free from the madness now, as I am".
"As near as I can tell, I'm all right now," states Jorg. "How did everyone end up dead? We didn't kill them, did we?"
A thought strikes Jal, and he whispers to Duplar. "Could you," he wiggles his gloved fingers suggestively, "tell from the blood on his weapon what he's been doing with it?" he asks. The psychometry has obviously taken his imagination!
But Duplar replies equally quietly. "Yes, but not why."
"Ah" mouths Jaldaric, silently. There is more to this magic business than meets the eye, he realises.
"Nevertheless", Kylar the legionnaire says, "Some information is better than nothing at all. Read the blade, Duplar, and tell us what you see".
Reylorna was quiet as the suggestion was made. She wasn't sure that they could trust the pair, but then the monster was asleep for the moment. And they might be able help if it came to another fight.
Jorg looks questioningly at Verthes then shrugs. "Go ahead and take a look, if you want."
Duplar shrugs. He really isn't looking forward to this, but it might be useful. "I need to hold the blade, so please if you would pass it to me?" He holds out his right hand. The left he keeps out of sight, tucked in the front of his tunic.
Jorg hands his enormous sword over to Duplar. As soon as he touches the blade Duplar detects a very powerful and intense feeling of anger, hatred, fear, violence and death. And very recently. This is only to be expected; the bloodstains could have told him that.
The now-familiar mental signature of the monster is also quite evident.
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