The Shard of Fire Read online

  Gil stepped forward as the sky brightened. He didn’t know how long he had stood there, thinking, wondering just why he was there, wonder what magic he might use or what spell he could try. He stepped forward, walking slowly, the old mage watching cautiously, carefully. He stepped forward, drawing closer, as Ashfalla stared at him, as Lavos woke his friends and the crowd stirred. He stepped forward, as the cadre jested and the sorcerer mused and a dozen others laughed on their way home. He stepped forward, as the dawn neared, and the night rescinded. He stepped forward, and did what no one before him ever could.

  CHAPTER 4: RAZORS EDGE

  When Gil pulled the shard from the water, the arena was silent. No one could believe it. Even in front of their eyes, as plain as day, the crystal glimmered, sparkling in the boy's hand, but still, no one could believe it. Gil stared at the glassy point, blazing red, its edges sharp, its surface hot, staring in wonder. As he did a chain suddenly grew from its form, looping and weaving into iron, dark and strong and cold. Gil held the pendant, gazing, before placing it over his neck, as many in the stands bowed in worship, prostrate and afraid, they would not look up.

  Yet a moment later everything changed. The sun began to rise as Chap ran forward cheering for his friend, hooping and hollering and jumping his way across the field, but then, falling, tumbling, blood spurting from his mouth, dead. Stunned, Gil blinked in disbelief. Kara screamed. Chap lay at Gil’s feet, eyes closed, an axe stuck through his back. It was meant for him. Shaking, Gil’s eyes darting around the arena. He could see it everywhere, in the stands, in their eyes, the hunger, the desire, the hate.

  The axe was pen-cu. They were the first and the quickest. The cadre moved with unnatural speed, swiftly cutting, stabbing and killing anyone near them. Less competition. The hooded sorcerer stood, and walked slowly, casually, down the steps towards Gil. A dozen knights sitting in the stands attacked the sorcerer, each he touched gently, on an arm or shoulder, and they fell, white, lifeless, and dead. Others in the crowd fought one another, slaying each other, slaying even those bowed in prayer. Less witnesses. Dozens of magi unleashed magics, battling until their energies were spent, their bodies ruined, or their enemies dead. Several warlocks sprang onto the field and sliced their hands, drawing blood runes, as a dozen different spells were heard in the chaos. Gil stumbled backward, afraid, his ribs hitting the statue’s outstretched hand, as the pen-cu leader ran towards him, sword drawn.

  The sound of steel echoed through the arena. Gil opened his eyes, not dead, not yet. The commander of the Silver Order, the one who spoke with the old mage, had parried the blow. The knight stood in front of the boy, guarding him. The pen-cu jumped back, cautious. The knight lunged forward, attacking, his dark indigo cloak swept through the air as his silver long sword cut and thrust and stabbed at the pen-cu’s body. Gil’s heart pounded. His eyes dashed about the arena. Blood. Death. Carnage. Warriors killed wizards, knights killed magi, the whole arena was embattled for the shard, stabbing, choking, burning, killing. The Sorcerer stood above Lavos and the girls, smiling, he stabbed Kara with a long curved blade and slashed at Lavos. A sudden flash exploded from one of the warlocks on the field, as hundreds of tiny swerving beetles raced at Gil, gnashing and biting and gnawing with a thousand tiny teeth, dashing closer, but then, silence.

  The arena was frozen. Not completely, but it had slowed so much, that time itself stood still. The warriors were caught in battle, their movements sluggish, ticking in tiny almost imperceptible jolts. And fuzzy. Everything looked fuzzy. Gil whirled his head about, still scared, still confused. It was dirt. The air was filled with it. Saturated with it. The ground had imploded, lifting, spreading through the aether like a dark cloud, thick, gritty, and fuzzy. Gil stumbled about, unsure what to do, or where to go, but suddenly stuck. He could not move his feet, they were frozen and stiff to the ground. Gil clenched his heart, afraid, looking up, a shadow moved towards him through the dust. It was the old mage.

  “Do not speak Gilgamesh Row, for we have little time, and you … are in more danger than you will ever know …” Gil’s body was frozen as the old mage in brown approached. He could not move his arms, or legs, or anything below his neck as the old mage knelt before him, looking into his eyes. The old mage smiled for a moment, reaching out to touch the shard dangling around the boy’s neck.

  “That’s mine!!!” Gil screamed, though he didn’t know why.

  “Indeed it is young master, though more than you know, and perhaps more than you will ever want … though, we really don’t have time to discuss this now …” the old mage pulled his hand back and motioned with his head. Gil glanced at the two closest, the commander and the pen-cu. They were speeding up.

  “A funny thing fate is …” the old mage nodded, “I have watched this arena for more years than I can remember, and even tried a few times myself, when I was young … yet in all my years no one has ever done what you have … and do you know why?” Gil shook his head. The old mage mused silently, stroking his long white beard, glancing at the pendant once more. “Listen boy, this shard, there is nothing more valuable or coveted in all the world … wherever you go, whatever you do, people will want it. They will try to take it, they will hunt you, hurt you, kill you, and everyone around you, to have it. Look now. See how many have died this night already? How many will die just to have it? To touch it? If they see it on you, or know you have it, they will never stop. Never. If you lose it … gods help us if someone worse was to find it. You were chosen, you and no other. Protect it. Keep it safe, keep it hidden. It is your gift and burden …" The old mage smiled gently trying to comfort the boy. “Now for the hard part …”

  Gil’s eyes widened. The old mage waved his hand in front of Gil’s face, three times, whispering an ancient spell under his breath. As he did Gil felt strange. His face began to pull and twist in various directions, his lips trembled, his eyes wrinkled, his brow curled, and his jaw grew. Gil reached up and felt a face not his own. He was a different boy. His face had changed, his hair had darkened, his eyes had turned grey, and he was older and taller. “You are no longer Gilgamesh Row, choose another name, any other, but never speak your first name again, for when you do, this spell will wear thin and others will see you for who you really are. My spell will protect you, and hide you, for as long as you do not speak your name, for it is a spell which can never be undone. Choose another name, and forget the boy that you were.”

  Gil was speechless. A thousand questions ran through his mind as he glanced once more to the warriors. The world was speeding up again, almost to normal, the commander's sword was now moving like an oar through deep water. The old mage turned his head slightly and smiled one last time. “Go to RavensKeep boy. You won’t be safe anywhere, not even there, but at least you may have a chance. Enter the Keep. Learn magic. Learn how to defend yourself. Learn how to fight and how to live, if you can. Go to RavensKeep and find Master Amas. You must, only you and you alone can do this, you must find him, for your very life depends on it. Find him and give him the shard, for he is the only one that can help you now. Tell no one of the shard, never speak of it, not to anyone of magic, not to friend or foe, not even to the archmages, especially not to them. Do you understand?” the boy nodded though he didn’t really.

  The old mage smiled. Then using the rather long and sharp thumbnail of his right hand, sliced open his palms, and drew a strange blood rune in the dirt. It was more complex than any Gil had seen before and encircled by strange symbols the boy couldn’t read. The old mage stared at Gil once last time then slammed his palms into the ground, activating the rune. In an instant, a tremendous flash of light blinded Gil as his head screamed and swirled and twisted about.

  Several moments later as the darkness faded from his eyes, Gil realised he was laying on his side atop a pile of wet earth and spruce needles. His head still spun, and as the boy sat up he vomited several times. It was some time before he managed to get to his feet. He was in a forest, surround by tall pine, and fir, and covered
in dirt. Lumbering about, confused, the boy walked to the edge of a small clearing shadowed in dim light. Far away he could see snow covered peaks, level at the horizon. Still dazed Gil stared out trying to make sense of what he saw. A flicker of light caught his eye and the boy looked down. Standing at the edge of a cliff, he could see a low plain far below. The flicker of light grew and Gil suddenly realized where he was. The rune had transported him to the western peaks high above the valley floor. Gil realised the flicker of light as well. It was the village of Astal, burning.

  CHAPTER 5: THE MOUNTAINS

  The worst part of being alone in the woods was not the darkness, nor the cold as one might think, but the sounds. The western mountains were filled with sounds. Crickets chirping, branches cracking, cones falling, and silence. Here silence was a sound, an endless empty sound filling space and time, filling fear and dreams. It was broken by the distance howl of a wolf now and again, and Gil wished only for the horrible sound of silence to return.

  The boy sat at the edge of the cliff for a long while watching his village burn. It was a dot, faint and dim along the valley floor, until the sun rose and daylight hid it from sight. Gil wondered what happened after the old mage had transported him into the mountains. He thought of his friends, Chap, Lavos, the girls, even the village folk. None of them deserved to die, not because of him, not now, not ever. He remembered their faces, burned them into memory, and he remember others too. The sorcerer. The pen-cu. Eventually, Gil stood as he rubbed his chin, it felt odd for it wasn’t his. So much had changed. He sighed and stared at Astal one last time, then turned and walked west.

  The western mountains were more or less impassable. Unapproachable. High, steep and thick with forest. The mountains stretched for a thousand miles north and south, a narrow spine of jagged peaks that separate low valleys and high plateaus. Gil had never been to RavensKeep, he had never planned to pursue magic. He wasn’t a noble, nor rich, nor descended from a line of magic. Joining a House would have been a fantasy, joining RavensKeep, a myth. Plans change. Live. Fight. Survive. Lessons Gil knew all too well. Revenge would be a new one for him, but one worth learning.

  He knew the castle lay to the west, that RavensKeep was on the far side of these mountains, somewhere in a narrow valley at the edge of an ancient forest, but that was all. By road, the journey from Astal to RavensKeep would take a year. But now? Gil didn’t know how far the castle was. He didn’t know how long it would take to cross the mountains. The old mage had transported him here, where no roads led and none could follow, but none could help, either. He was alone now and high in the mountains. He was always alone.

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  Gil walked for hours. Days. Weeks. He walked until his feet were numb. He walked as the rains fell and the sun shined and as the winds blew strong and fierce and endless. He walked uphill, and down, and across fallen trunks spanning ravines covered in moss. He walked through patches of bare earth, brown earth, and soggy swampy muck. Always west. Always towards the castle. There were no roads, nor trails, nor any sign that man had ever even once walked where he did now. He was lost many times. Turned back by an impassable rock face, a bottomless chasm, or a slimy slippery bog. Yet he walked on, day in and day out, always west, and always, he remembered.

  At night he camped. Once under a great cedar, wider than a barn and taller than the sky. Once in a cave, a shallow hollow of rain worn rock, when the wolves came. He camped there for three nights, afraid to move on. Hunger drove him. And curiosity. Inside, a deep gnawing gut wrenching need to know, why. Once he camped under the bones of some ancient beast, its white washed ribs hung overhead like crooked fingers, dancing firelight and shadow, but never again. He happened upon dozens of them. Long dead creatures of bone. He wondered if anyone knew they were here. As a boy, a sailor from Aaroe once tried to frighten him, telling him stories of monsters that swam in the deep, hidden in the open sea, waiting to devour curious children who asked too many questions. Leviathans he called them. Whales. He wondered what the sailor would have thought, had he known they were here too, once.

  Some days he walked many miles, some, few. Food was scarce and hard to come by and he was always hungry. Time lost meaning. He sang to himself, and talked, and hummed. Anything not to think. The vast emptiness of the wild grew upon him, and in him, lonely and sad. Somewhere, midway, when heavy rains came and thunder bellowed in the mountains like old voices, he stood under a sugar pine and watched the storm. Drenched, he waited, naked and shivering, as his clothes hung drying as best they could. The storm raged and he nibbled week-old berries from his pocket, soggy, sour-green and precious few. As he did, a little bird with grey wings and glossy black eyes landed on the tree trunk near him. It chirped, faintly, thin and hungry. He watched it for some time, holding the last of the berries to his lips, thinking. The little bird was starving, as was he, but it didn’t matter. He held out his hand, offering the last of the berries. The little bird chirped and flew to him landing on his finger. It ate, happily. When it finished, the little bird paused for a moment to stare at Gil with its glossy black eyes. Gil stared back, and realized the bird was looking at the shard, now dangling from his neck. Gil covered the pendant with his free hand and the little bird flew away into the forest.

  The next day he walked down a steep broken slope covered in broken stones, and heard a strange sound far above him, calling down the mountain. Though difficult, and long, he climbed back up and followed the sound. It took some time, and searching, but soon enough he found the little bird sitting atop a craggy grey rock covered in dust. Gil smiled, and for a moment he thought the little bird smiled back, before it chirped, twice, and flew away. He stood for a moment and watched the bird disappeared into the distance before picking up the rock. Much to his surprise it wasn’t a rock, but a coat. Dusty and crumpled, yet without a scratch or tear or any sign of age at all. He paused for a moment before trying it on, which fit, perfectly. It was long, hung to his knees, and grey. He wondered why it was here and who had lost it. Eventually, he left the broken slope and continued on, west, as the snows came. Heavy snow, and wet snow, and cold. He would have frozen to death, several times, had it not been for the grey coat. It kept him warm no matter how cold it was, and when warm days came, when he descended into the valleys and lakelands of the alpine meadows, it kept him cool no matter how hot it might have been. He wished he would see the little bird again, to thank it, though he never did.

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  Sometime later, Gil crossed a small stream near a meadow filled with yellow flowers and short green grass. Aside the meadow, he discovered faint remnants of what once may have been a wall. Near the wall, he found a large chest filled with gold, and silver, and gems. He laughed for several minutes, sitting on the stream’s bank, wiping tears away. It was more money then he had ever seen, or could even count. He exchanged the pennies in his coin purse with gold, then filled his pockets with gems, in handfuls. Next to the chest he also found many weapons, though all of it ancient and rusted and useless. Bone dust scattered to the wind long ago, left no clues to their owners, or their purpose, though the gold said much. He wondered about the wall, and the weapons, and the treasure, and why there were so many things in the mountains there shouldn’t have been. As far as he knew, as anyone knew, no one had ever been here, but perhaps there was much about the world that wasn’t known. He stood still, thinking, and for a very long time, waiting, before picking up an axe. It was heavy and badly rusted, though not nearly as much as the other weapons which had crumbled apart when touched. Even so, he decided it was too cumbersome, it would only slow him down, so he left it behind and continued on.

  The next day, Gil came across a small deer trapped in a pit. Ten feet down, and twenty across, it was a hollow empty hole. The deer stood silently watching him, as Gil did the same. For a long time Gil stood at the edge of the pit wondering how and why the deer was down there. For a while he thought about killing it, how it would taste, how it would fill his belly in ways the sparse mountain ber
ries and rarely caught squirrels hadn’t in many weeks. But he didn’t. He felt sad for the deer. He felt very much like he did when the wolves had trapped him in a shallow cave not so long ago. The deer watched, still silent, as the boy turned and walked away.

  A few hours later Gil returned, axe in hand, the same he had left in the meadow the day before. Already exhausted, having ran both ways, it took some time, and effort, but Gil managed to fell a long narrow tree. He dragged it to the pit, straining, and dropped the wider end of the tree into the pit, then sat, exhausted. The deer leapt up the trunk in two bounds, and paused for a moment to stare at Gil with glossy black eyes. Gil stared back, and realized the deer was looking at the shard, now dangling from his neck. He tucked the chain under his shirt and out of sight, and the deer dashed away into the forest. Gil kept the axe.

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  A week later, early in the morning, Gil crossed a grassy meadow between two very steep, very snowy, peaks. The patch was pristine and peaceful and impossibly beautiful. The meadow was edged with shadow pines striped with crimson and green, and filled with tiny dots of pink snow flowers, which lapped wantingly at his ankles, though there was no wind, nor sound in the meadow. Near the center of the meadow Gil felt odd, and sluggish. His arms felt heavy, his legs felt thick, and he dragged his feet as if very tired until he tripped on something hidden in the grass. He looked down and saw a glossy black stone, an orb, reflecting his shadow. He stared at it for only a moment, then glanced up at the forest.