The Enchantment of Time. Volume Three: The Enchantment of Time Volume 1, Volume 2 and Volume 3, #3

By Niccolò Gennari

The third volume in a fantasy saga in the epic genera.

A thief enters the Temple of Destiny, under a false identity and takes part in the mission to recover the First Powder.

An ancient forest contains a terrible secret, and leads to the madness of any who dare to venture into it.

The abandoned abode of the Enchanter hides an evil mystery in its depths.

Xinti must confront the will of the First Drop, while attempting to carry out the rescue mission that has been entrusted to her.

Meanwhile, on Crow Mountain, Io Bracht makes a fragile pact with Àchenar the 46th, in the presence of a dark creature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781071519356

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

Part Six

The Storyteller

Berard Clam're

The prince

The meeting

The trip

The destination

The climb

The afternoon

Bhorogast the 44th

The High Council

Part Seven

The Forest

The afternoon

The Mission

The departure

Elenyas

Mherlyn

Simple hallucinations

Intermediate hallucinations

Complex hallucinations

Critical hallucinations

Divergence

The heart of the forest

Irreversible hallucinations

The Return

Orthoc

In the forest

Inside the mountain

The trapdoor

The Door to the Beyond

Alone

By sea

Water

By earth

Conversations

Cherry

We are only what we remember

Rose quartz

Orthoc

Crow Mountain

The two girls

The meeting

Glem-Nar

The oracle

Anchj-On

Jor Estièn

The second meeting

The last Greoyr

The Dery-Var

The premonition

The escape

The sorcerer of Glem-Nar

In the beyond

Shadows in the darkness

The opening

The bridge

The premonition

The Labyrinth

The reunion

Intuitions

In the depths

Separated

Sensations

The center

Amìida

The cube

The escape route

The third event

Glem-Nar

The bottom

The abyss

The Genesis Elemental

The unexpected

Gravity

Forgotten

The army

The return

The awakening

The nightmare comes to life

The premonition of Àchenar the 46th

The crisis

Crow Mountain

Appendix A: List of names

Appendix B: Chronology of the events mentioned

Appendix C: List of premonitions

Prologue

At an unspecified time, between the 116th and the 117th Long Night, in the Lands of the Above an unusual creature was born that was never given a name.

That evening everyone in the village expected to see a normal infant, the son of humans, but a goblin had marked the mother during her pregnancy, prompting her husband to flee, leaving her to herself. And she, along with a few other confidants, knew very well what she would see coming out of her womb: but even this would not prove to be correct. Because no one could really predict what would happen next.

The creature was born deformed, and was a male. The village received the news with deep sadness but without fear. Because it was not female, and therefore could not in any way survive the touch of ancient demons. They threw the infant into a crevasse, convinced that his sex, and his mark, would kill him before he fell.

But the infant was unlike any other. And he didn't die. His cries attracted some animals from the nearby forest, which saw only a helpless and defenseless being, and showed him more pity than had his fellow creatures. So they pushed him into the undergrowth, and there they warmed and fed him, as well as they could.

Months and years passed. And so the infant grew, until he was able to walk; at that point he left. Without a name, without knowing a language, and without any legacy from the civilization that had given birth to him, he wandered alone for years, unable to die. He could not be confused with his fellows because of his deformed appearance, but he soon found a way to be close to them, disguised, to assimilate their customs and their habits. Thus he learned their language, and learned humility and sacrifice. He learned patience and tenacity. His only friend was solitude, only partly alleviated by the voices he had soon begun to hear in his head. He learned the peculiarity of his existence from them. He was not the only one who possessed that dark gift, but he was the only male. And, since his birth, this news had echoed throughout the Underworld.

More years passed, until in his long aimless wanderings, he neared the dangerous and hostile mountains, where the figure of a gigantic ogre stood out, carved into a rock wall. He stared at it for a long time, with the eyes of a boy, on the threshold of his adolescence, then he passed by and continued undisturbed towards the highest peaks. He left the path, fearing he would meet someone, and continued for days, not knowing what he was really looking for.

On a day like any other, he was walking, lost in that mountain massif, with a clear sky and a dazzling sun, high in the sky, when the Lands of the Above experienced their last great earthquake. It was extremely violent and was felt on all ten continents. Its epicenter was in the north, beyond the Black Lands, and came from the heart of Kardùm. The Plague had, for the last time, just tried to free itself from its chains, reminding the world that it was still alive, and causing all the magma that flowed in the bowels of the earth to boil. On the horizon, further east, the young sorcerer saw a reddish glow and a column of black smoke rising into the sky. It was an immense volcano that was bringing death and destruction, reshaping the ground over a vast area. Thousands of years later, that place would become known, everywhere, by the name of the Red Wood. The mountains around him vibrated, and suddenly there was an inferno. The snows separated from the peaks, producing landslides and avalanches, while the same peaks fell, like broken branches. Chasms and fissures opened up everywhere.

When it was all over, the boy was unharmed. His powers had saved him, but he was in shock. He would have liked to go back, but it was now impossible. The road had become impassable, and the landscape around him was unrecognizable. He went on towards the west, where in the distance he had noticed some mountains had remained immobile during the earthquake. They had appeared immune to those vibrations, protected by a powerful Enchantment. Surely, he thought, they had to hide something important. However, those places were no longer safe for him. Two days later, while he was nearing those enchanted peaks, a blanket of fresh snow betrayed him. He had seemed to be supported by solid rock, like everything around him, instead it hid a newly formed abyss. The sorcerer sank down, then slipped along a plane of inclined ice, and finally fell into a crevice in the mountain.

When he recovered, he didn't know how many hours had passed. He was wedged, a few tens of meters deep, in the heart of a mountain, which had just split in half, with the recent earthquake. He was surrounded by ice everywhere, as if there had been an aquifer at that point, which had then frozen. The only faint light came from above and he struggled to make his way there, but the young man was not afraid. He belonged to the Underworld, and he feared neither darkness nor the abyss. Nor the intense pain he felt in his limbs. From his hands were generated wispy fires that dimly lit up where he found himself. He was about to start climbing, when he realized he was not alone. The sleeping body of a young boy lay a few inches from him. Perhaps he could even be his own age, from the way he looked. He lay in an upright position, with his eyes closed. The young sorcerer noticed that the heat given off by his hands had begun to melt the ice and he let it continue. If he had noticed that the stranger was holding a wand in his right hand, perhaps he would have acted differently, but it was too dark to see and, at that moment, he only saw the harmless body of a young man. He had never been able to look at a human being so close, and he was intrigued at the idea of being able to see him well, without that veil of ice that blurred him. But when the stranger's face and chest were free of ice, he had a spasm and opened his eyes and mouth to breathe. The sorcerer immediately screamed in terror. The stranger did the same.

After the initial fear, the two boys calmed down and soon realized they had nothing to fear from each other. They were both stuck in that crevasse, and even before they knew each other, they tried to help each other to get back to the surface. Once they had saved themselves, they lit a fire to keep warm. The stranger asked for the name of his savior, but the young sorcerer did not know what to tell him. No one had ever given him one. He briefly told his story, and in so doing he revealed his dark nature. When it was the stranger’s, he replied that he did not remember who he was. The last thing he remembered was the earthquake. The earth had collapsed under his feet and then he had fainted. Probably the blow had caused him temporarily to lose his memory. He knew he was a wizard and remembered the word ‘Klef’ (meaning ‘in front’, in Elen'fhedi), because he had written it in the fresh snow, just before falling.

The two boys both seemed to have been deprived of a past, and the common solitude drove them to make friends. The young wizard decided to call the unknown ‘Klef’ because it was the only memory he had of his past, while he remained without a name. The young wizard seemed disoriented and occasionally complained to his friend about some voices he heard in his head. He didn't even remember how he had come into possession of that ash wand, and he repeated that he was convinced that there were no others made of that particular wood.

At first he had been tempted to return to Crow Mountain: he certainly knew that he would find the answers he was looking for there, and maybe someone was waiting for him, worried about him. Perhaps, after the recent earthquake, they had even organized a search to find him. But the truth is that he felt indebted to his new friend, the one who had saved him from an eternity spent in the ice. Returning to the temple would have meant not only abandoning him to solitude, but probably also betraying him, because he would have been asked countless questions, until he was made to confess. His friend would be found and eventually imprisoned, if not killed, because of his dark nature. For the first time he continued to have doubts about what to do, postponing the decision from day to day, until he slowly stopped thinking about it: in his mind devoid of memories, Karp-Thu was just the name of an unknown place, while he had felt comfortable there.

Klef was immensely intrigued by the fact that there could be a male sorcerer, and he soon asked permission to conduct a small examination, explaining that it involved the risk of feeling an intense but brief pain, in case he was wrong. So saying, he wielded his wand, making it emit an intense light, and invited his friend to touch it. The sorcerer did not understand, then, but still decided to trust him. He felt no pain, and that was how he learned from Klef that he was, in turn, a wizard.

Later on they would understand that his dark nature allowed him to safely wield the branches of the Tree of Light, but not to cast Enchantments with them: he could still have recourse to the Enchantment of Passage, his friend assured him, and transfer his essence to another body. He was a one-of-a-kind creature, Klef explained, neither wizard, nor witch, nor man, but he had something from all three races. The awareness of being both wizards brought them even closer together. To repay this precious information about his origins, the young sorcerer decided to reciprocate by offering to read his future.

The young wizard willingly accepted, but when the sorcerer came to his senses, a shadow had appeared on Klef's face. The message was far more serious and burdensome than the two young men had ever been ready to hear. The prophecy was calling them to an arduous task, a mission they had not sought or desired.

They were just two naive young men, but those few words would mark their future forever, by setting out what would become a very long and sincere friendship.

"A common future, two wizards without a past will bind,

to an army of dark shadows, guided by avid and obscure creatures.

At their service, a river of gold, between the Devil’s Teeth, will bring

since, without the savior, only they will be able to prevent the eternal tortures."

Extracted from

Chronicles of the Ancient World

––––––––

Of the Three Plagues, only one remained imprisoned in the Lands of the Above,

it bears the name of Kardùm, and still struggles in its eternal cage.

A sarcophagus created from the same material as the bones of wizards, by forces that are unknown to us,

with a single passage, on a human scale, left as a warning, of what is concealed within.

But nevertheless we must fear the Nerolume, father of demons, and Lord of the Underworld.

An abyss never found, without light and without end, hides the border between the two worlds,

Black Ocean it is called, from the bottom of which the Plague watches and listens to us all.

Black Ocean it is called, which ensnares those who lose their sight in it.

Part Six

The Storyteller

Berard Clam're

The sun was now high in the sky, when Berard Clam're came in sight of Mefàs, a modest village, lost in the westernmost regions of the continent of Elenyas.

It was hot and the air was imbued with moisture. The thicket had protected him for several hours of walking, giving him pleasant shade, but now he saw no new shelter.

An endless valley opened up ahead of him, filled with flowering meadows and cultivated fields, alternating with numerous streams and constructed irrigation canals.

Berard was a young man of thirty-four, thin and rather short, but with a certain charm. He wore his hair short while he had let his mustache and goatee grow.

He snorted. He hated sweating, and the pompous clothing he wore didn't help him to prevent the problem. He was a professional storyteller, and as such, the role required him to wear particularly flamboyant and colorful clothing, which could remind anyone of a Circus Master.

But Berard was first of all a thief.

He was dishonest: to the bone. For him, cheating others was not just a way to survive and to get rich; it was first and foremost an art form. Numerous skills were needed, which could not be learned overnight, and he was particularly proud of them. He had learned everything from his father, and even more from his mother. They had trained him as best they could, and finally saved him, taking the blame for his mistake.

They had been imprisoned in the impregnable fortress of Hauryn, and had never again come out.

On that occasion he had been reckless and imprudent, and from that time on he had promised himself that he would honor their memory, promising himself that he would never be found out again.

Their sacrifice had only partly compensated for the wrongs he had suffered for years. His parents had perpetually and constantly taunted him, never missing an opportunity to remind him of his limitations and his incapacities. Their intentions were to protect him, urging him to do better and better, to become a cleverer trickster than they were, but in reality they had given him a profound sense of inferiority, which, from a very young age, often led to outbreaks and tears.

In those moments, the phrase he always loved to repeat to his parents was always the same.

One day I will accomplish an extraordinary undertaking, something unique, and at least once in my life, you will be proud of me!

After the death of his parents, things had improved, and over time he had achieved great results. He had become increasingly more skilled. However he had never overcome that sense of inadequacy, which he had gathered in his youth, towards his father and mother.

Everyone knew how to cheat, he loved to repeat to himself, but few knew how to keep their reputation intact.

To do this, Berard had cultivated his passion for music and singing. He knew that going from one village to another would not be enough, and that a profession could be used as a cover. Thus for years he had traversed the continent of Elenyas, on foot, with his stringed instrument, a cross between a fiddle and a lute, which he had built himself, at the beginning of his career.

In the distance, a faint mist prevented him from seeing the horizon, and he wondered if the great mountains that marked the border of the continent were really there, hidden by that whiteness, or if they were far more distant. That detail escaped his memory.

He had already visited the village of Mefàs once, several years before, and he remembered being liked by the local community. But it was small, and its walls seemed almost ridiculous, compared to that of the many cities that rose in those lands.

He had always preferred to keep a low profile, and to avoid the centers that were too large, for the same reason he had never shown that he owned any luxury goods. He had never even bought a horse, to avoid drawing attention to himself, and always passed for a penniless boy, and the vast patrimony he had accumulated, over the years of fraud and deception, was kept safe in his secret lair, in one of the many forests of Elenyas.

However he would soon have to deal with the dark shadows.

Every day that passed, spending the night outdoors became ever more dangerous. He had never had to face one of them yet, but the stories of sightings and clashes multiplied more and more, and it terrified him.

He was afraid of being forced to choose a city where he would pass the imminent Long Night, and that he would have to live locked up for nine months, which would have marked his end. Cheating was an art but also a need. And not only for any economic reason; he needed to steal in the same way that he had to breath the air. He was good but not to the point of living with the same people for nine months, constantly robbing them without being discovered.

He followed the path, crossing the small stone bridges, all the same, under which flowed the numerous rivers of that valley, surrounded by greenery, and finally reached the village.

The walls, seen up close, were not so bad, at five meters tall.

He remembered seeing them being constructed when he had passed there years before. The inhabitants had taken their time, but the small size of that community would not have guaranteed their survival during nine months of siege. They would certainly have problems with the supply of primary goods, and in the event of an epidemic nobody would have been saved. Not that it mattered to him, he reflected as he entered the city, passing through a large oak door. He certainly wouldn't be there to see it.

––––––––

He followed a few alleys, relying on his memory, and reached the ‘Old Well’ inn, where he remembered having made some friends. The hanging sign appeared motionless and reminded him of the total absence of wind, while the letters imprinted on the wood were almost illegible, now completely faded by the sun. On the ground floor of the tavern, guests and patrons were welcomed. Funny how some places changed radically from night to morning, Berard thought, as he crossed the threshold. The last time he had been there was at night and he had a totally different recollection. It was the light, especially. Paradoxical as it may have seemed, a tavern looked so much darker as there was more light outside. In the morning he had to struggle to adapt to the shadows that reigned inside, while in the evening it shone with its own light, like a star in the sky.

He took a few steps and then smiled at the innkeeper behind the counter, who immediately recognized him. This shook his hand as he would an old friend, unaware that he had, standing in front of him, the one who had stolen his wife's three gold rings.

Berard rented a room and stopped to exchange a few words with the innkeeper then he went out and took a seat in the little square in front, next to the well that gave the inn its name, and began to attract the attention of passers-by.

He was a well-dressed young man and played his instrument quite well. When he saw a sufficient number of onlookers around him, he began to sing his story. He had one for all occasions, but he preferred the stories told by ordinary people, with a beautiful moral instead of the more classic about the Ancient World or the Enchanter. His audience identified more easily with the protagonists and in the end he received more tips.

––––––––

It was only late at night, several hours after he had finished his show, while he was intent on drinking with the last clients in the tavern, that he came to know who would arrive in the village the following day.

Who did you say will be coming? he asked again, to make sure it wasn't a joke.

But the burly old man in front of him, met less than an hour before, seemed very serious.

"I have said that here, in Mefàs, a true prince will come, in flesh and blood. One of those covered in gold and precious stones. His caravan was seen crossing the Bardi Mountains, at Death Pass."

Berard was impressed. He was rather naive, as far as politics and power plays were concerned on the ten continents. The Gorth nomads? They’ve hardly ever ventured out of their immense desert. Not a promising sign!"

Relax young man. They carried diplomatic insignia. It must be the visit of a representative or something of that nature.

And do you know, where they’re going?

No, we only know that their journey will take them straight to us, but they will certainly, at most, stop for one night, and then leave again for who knows where.

Berard smiled, And tell me, old man, were you serious even when you were talking about gold and precious stones?

The other laughed, loudly, in turn and a third man took the floor, suddenly becoming serious, "Young man, maybe you don't know who we're talking about. Those you call 'nomads' are ruled by the Rha'hel, who are one of the oldest and richest families in all the Lands of the Above. They are not just nobles; they are almost demigods for their people. And it is said that the riches they’ve accumulated in their underground coffers are second only to those of the Enchanter."

What do you mean 'underground'?

"The people of Gorth have nomadic roots, and they move constantly in that boundless desert, but there is a city, or so they say. A capital, called the City of the Sun, with immense temples and statues that reach the sky. And then there's The Temple, as I heard it called. An underground realm, a palace built in the reverse, wedged into those sandy abysses, where the Rha'hel have accumulated their possessions for centuries. It is said that it is located near the capital, hidden from the marauders and buried under the great eternal dunes."

Berard wrinkled his nose, I think there's too much imagination here. It will certainly be fruit for the imagination, as well as the treasures of Oregon the 21st.

That's not true, the old man croaked, banging his fist on the table. The Enchanter's treasure exists. Mountains of gold; a boundless ocean made of gold in perfect spheres. The fact that no one has ever found it means nothing, except that the wizard was smarter than all the thieves in this land!

Why perfect spheres?

Because we talk about Oregon the 21st, and he accepted only perfection!

The other two laughed, and the evening ended with a final round of beer.

The storyteller didn't know how much truth there could be in the stories told by those two individuals, but certainly that prince had aroused his interest.

The prince

––––––––

The following morning, the storyteller lingered for a long time in his bed, before going down and out into the street.

A short distance from the inn was a very large square, where the grand market was set up twice a week. He understood that this was one of those days, from the loud shouting and the sounds of cattle, which were crammed into tiny enclosures.

Forgetting the conversation of the night before, he walked around in that crowd for more than an hour, looking for someone to pickpocket.

Normally a thief tries not to be noticed too much; instead he had staked everything on the exact opposite. His garish story-telling garments attracted a great deal of attention around him, but at the same time they distracted those present, allowing him to rob them right under their noses. He had never hesitated to make fun of the weak and the wretched, and he seemed very sure of himself, in dealing with them, while he had always preferred to keep a low profile with the powerful and the strong. He was convinced that he was not intelligent enough to challenge those types of people, and was calmly content with the crumbs.

He was about to leave the market, when suddenly everyone was silent, and a great silence fell in the square, broken only by the sounds from a few suffering animals.

People slowly split up, leaving the main road free, and causing an unusual caravan to become visible in the distance, with insignia that Berard had never seen before. Someone mentioned they were the insignia of the Rha'hel.

As he remembered the words he had heard a few hours earlier, the young man stood in front of the others, staring at the show that slowly slipped by a few meters away from him.

First a dozen knights passed, all in full uniform, on the back of colts with black, thick coats, caparisoned to perfection and adorned with majestic plumes.

Then he saw two large carriages pass by without windows, probably, he thought, to transport the baggage.

Finally came a third carriage and it was not difficult to understand that it was carrying the prince. It was surrounded by another half-dozen riders, and was considerably larger and more sumptuous than the previous ones; though in its form and appearance Berard could not recall any of those he had already seen in his life. It looked like a house on wheels.

That detail confirmed the idea that the Gorth nomads had been isolated for too long from the rest of the world. Large white sheets covered part of the sides, probably in correspondence with the windows, preventing any detail inside from being seen.

The shouting in the square increased, when people realized that the prince was a few meters from them, and the enthusiasm encouraged them to huddle towards the caravan, shouting and calling his name. The storyteller was no different, and while being pulled and pushed from all sides, he thought he saw a shadow among those immaculate veils. At that point he shouted in a loud voice Everyone stop! Here he is. Look over there!

Immediately the whole caravan stopped. And the next moment the crowd fell silent, not understanding what had happened. The guards on horseback looked around for a moment, disoriented and stunned, and then focused their gaze on him.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Berard shifted his gaze to the prince's carriage, which had stopped about ten paces from his position, and it was at that point that he saw a hand appear between two sheets, and move them slightly apart.

Someone was looking outside the carriage.

That hand was adorned with a ring on each finger, three of which covered them from the tip to the knuckles. And from how they glistened in the sun, he convinced himself that they were all made of pure gold.

A few seconds passed, then the hand withdrew and a strong voice rose from inside the cabin.

Move on!

The storyteller did not notice anything strange when the caravan started moving again.

Instead, a young girl next to him explained what had happened. She pulled at his jacket to make him bend down, and then she said, That's why they all stopped when you shouted! You have the exact same voice as the prince!

That evening, at the Old Well they didn't talk about anything else, as was probably the same in many other places in the village.

That child was not the only one to have realized that unusual resemblance, between the voice of Berard and that of the prince, and the episode, in which a simple storyteller had caused the entire escort of horse guards to suffer a crisis was already being talked about in all the houses.

He had suddenly become famous, and it made him very uncomfortable. He wanted to be inconspicuous; he had always been that way. With all eyes on him, in that way, he felt suffocated. And certainly, so nervous and anxious he would have been incapable of any trickery or theft.

Between a joke and a fake smile, surrounded by clients who had no qualms about criticizing the following of the prince, or praising his improbable ability to imitate the tone and timbre of the voices of others, Berard became convinced that the next day he would have to leave. Now there was nothing left for him in that village, and the chances of leaving with a nice nest egg had faded.

Among many other things, he learned that the prince, as a member of the Rha'hel dynasty, was obliged to travel around masked. No subject could see his face, and no one knew what he looked like.

The meeting

The following day someone knocking at his door awakened him abruptly.

When he opened it, he found the innkeeper who had a grim expression on his face. He had never seen him so glum, not even in the hours following the theft of his wife's rings, and for a moment he feared he had been discovered.

But that doubt left him as soon as he opened his mouth.

Get dressed and come down right away. The prince's guards are waiting for you. I don't want any trouble in my place!

Berard obeyed and dressed as quickly as possible. He was anxious but not too much, after all. He wondered if they could accuse him of something, but in truth he had done nothing different from the rest of the crowd, and it was unlikely that they had anything against him.

He went downstairs quickly, and slowed down towards the end of the staircase, as if he never wanted to reach the last step.

Three guards were there, at the door of the tavern, waiting for him, as the innkeeper had said, submerged by the morning shadows.

One of them took a step towards him and then motioned for him to follow.

The storyteller took one last look at the innkeeper, who returned his gaze coldly. Neither of them knew if he would ever see the other again.

Without speaking, they went out into the sun, where in the meantime a small crowd had gathered, intrigued by this unusual presence.

Berard was escorted through some alleys, surrounded at a safe distance by a feeble but annoying shouting.

The small villages were all alike, he thought, as he continued to walk, without saying a word.

He would have kept a low, submissive and obsequious profile: after all, his motto had always been one.

Strong with the weak and weak with the strong.

Only then could he survive in that hostile world.

He was led into a house that looked deserted, and was finally left alone in a windowless, unadorned room. The only furniture was an old light, wooden table and some rickety chairs.

Wait here, in silence. Speak only when asked! was the last order he received from the guards.

Several minutes went by, which the storyteller employed by increasing the lighting present, doubling the number of lighted candles.

Suddenly the door opened and a stranger entered the room, while someone else took care to immediately close the door behind him.

Berard could not be certain, but it was very likely that it was the prince himself.

His clothes were finely embroidered with gold details, and the bright colors recalled those of the insignia he had seen traveling with the caravan the previous day. Over them he wore a very short red tunic that was closed at the front with a diamond, used as a button. His head was wrapped in a white cloth that completely covered his hair and the nape of his neck; while on his forehead it ended with a sort of thin visor, from which tiny gold threads hung to cover his face.

Without saying a word, the prince slowly took off the hat, revealing the presence, below, of a real mask, which Berard found quite disturbing.

He had black hair, and he wore it very short, about two centimeters long.

Finally he introduced himself, "I am Ghal Rha'hel, heir to the throne of the Sun, son of the Great Yellow Sea and leader of the nomadic Gorth people."

Berard listened to almost nothing of that introduction, because