The End of Heroes

By Kevin J. Herbst

 

            What if all the heroes died?

 

            Malthus Kierin always dreamed of adventuring, of making his mark upon the world of Kalan. After he earns his robe and staff, rewards for passing the tests required to become a wizard, the door to his dreams stands open.

 

            But a nightmare awaits him on the other side, a black-hearted wizard who, along with his vile undead minions, systematically assassinates all of Kalan’s heroes.

 

            The tale of Malthus and his small band of companions begins, as they flee from the Darkener on a seemingly hopeless quest for aid. Who now will become heroes? Or will Kalan fall to an age of darkness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 21, 2006
• ISBN: 9781452038193

Kevin J. Herbst

The Stone of Zoral is the sequel to The End of Heroes, which won the Arizona Author's Association award for "Best Unpublished Novel" in 2004, an international competition. Look for his future book, War of the Merranai, which concludes the trilogy of the struggle for Kalan. A native of Wisconsin, Kevin has worked in various capacities in the banking industry. An avid hiker, he has been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. He lives with his wife, Becky, in Chandler, Arizona.

Book preview

Contents

FROM THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

EPILOGUE

From the Author:

Thanks to Al, Cameron, Chris, Jim, Kelly, Kim, and Pete for your inspiration, to Barb, Becky, Cameron, Kathy, and Larry for your interest and input, to Tim for your help with proper English, and to Becky for your love and your early bedtimes.

PROLOGUE

And in the bleakest hour

When no heroes remain

See Darkness come on wing and horse

Will hope then be in vain?

But fear thee not you fair of heart

New heroes may be made

Zoral has left an Artifact

To give new heroes aid

Yet if Kalan in darkness falls

Through dire calamity

The Darkener achieves his quest:

Immortality.

Nearly exhausted, Rakeen Duvay squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out both the candlelight and the ice-blue runes he’d spent several hours studying for yet another night. He thrust a pale hand through thick silver hair scattered with black, remnants of his younger days. He closed the thick tome with a sigh, then ran his hands delicately over the black velvet cover, tracing its blood-red inscription. According to legend, only one original and two copies of this literary treasure ever existed. One of the copies had been lost many centuries before, about the time the Seven Evils were frozen at sea. Though Rakeen suspected he owned only the second copy, not the original, it nevertheless had required no small effort to obtain. In fact, he still ached from the numerous injuries sustained in taking ownership of the volume. Prophecies, it seemed, had their price.

Rakeen stretched his throbbing back, then rolled his head in circles to remove cramps earned from sitting still too long. His wooden chair’s legs scraped against the stone floor as he moved to stand, but he paid no attention, his mind bent completely upon the passage he’d just read. Though unspeakably valuable, he left the book out on the desk—no one would disturb it here.

He put up a black hood, his head and face receding into the shadows of the cowl. Striding methodically past a line of bookshelves, he slid open a floor-to-ceiling sliding glass door with a mere thought—his hand not coming close to touching the latch. Out onto a balcony he stepped, not noticing the bitter cold or the brisk wind that whipped at his jet-black robes. He glanced up; the clear night sky nearly burst with stars.

Blast her, he swore bitterly, grasping the well-worn wooden railing with a grip of iron. I should have known Zoral would get in my way. He sighed as his gaze lowered from the stars above to the jagged mountains far away to the south. At length, his steel-gray eyes came to rest upon the frozen plains below. But the Stone is long lost, and those few that know of its existence will soon wish they never possessed such knowledge.

He smiled wickedly, an expression unseen even by the stars, covered as it was under the black hood. And Stone or no Stone, my preparations are nearly complete. That stooge Arxis stands in for me at Drayden Tower; even Maldamar cannot anticipate my true power. No heroes indeed. It is time…

I

Malthus Kierin stepped into the arena, only it looked like no arena he’d ever seen. It looked more like a swamp, at least the ten steps in front of him he could see. The glowing portal he was to find—his exit out—hopefully waited somewhere in the soupy muck he’d stumbled into. He slid a dagger out from a leather sheath at his side and gripped it tightly. Beads of sweat bubbled onto his clammy brow.

What I wouldn’t give for an Invisibility spell now, he told himself ruefully. He then shook his head, chastising himself. It was time to focus, to make do with what he did have.

He peered into the murky gloom. No clear path could be seen through the crooked, leafless trees that twisted wretchedly out of the boggy ground like mangled claws. I suppose, he said to no one in particular, there’s nowhere to go but forward.

The fog eased somewhat as he trudged along, though the additional visibility gave him little comfort; there was nothing much to see.

After a good deal of aimless wandering, a dark blur in front of Malthus resolved into a rickety wooden bridge spanning a filthy, winding snake of a river. Churning, nearly black water gurgled along on a current surprisingly fast for such a twisting stream. Froth collected along the banks, perhaps attempting to escape the coursing river’s grimy clutches. Malthus could only guess what might have turned it such a nauseating color.

As he debated whether to cross, a shadowy figure shambled in and out of his peripheral vision, vanishing into the gloom by the time he whipped around to face it.

Great. Now I’m seeing things. He didn’t seem to be as disturbed that he spoke aloud to himself.

The youth scratched his head, lips pursed in concentration. With a gingerly step, he tested the bridge’s strength. Movement came again, just out of the corner of his eye. Whirling around, he faced…something…a man-sized creature the color of the drab swamp. Its mouth, a gaping, toothless pit, opened in a snarl. Lidless egg-white eyes stared forward, seemingly at nothing.

Zombies. Just what I need. As the horrid creature neared, Malthus raised his weapon, arms loose, ready to attack.

The zombie clutched at Malthus’ neck, rags dangling from its sloughing flesh. Malthus plunged his dagger into its chest, then quickly removed the weapon as he took a step backward. His nose crinkled at the acrid, rotten smell of black blood that spurted out of the wound like a geyser. With a shudder, the creature fell dead at Malthus’ feet.

No sooner did the monster fall than another replaced it, the newcomer soundlessly taking shape only a few steps away.

Malthus lunged at it, slicing two gaping wounds into its chest before it could throttle him. He dodged to one side as it collapsed into the swamp with a splash.

The besieged youth whirled, spotting two more shuffling toward him from across the bridge. The creatures moved slowly, a fact Malthus hoped to use to his advantage.

With a well-aimed throw, Malthus’ dagger lodged in one zombie’s stomach. It fell to its knees, but wasn’t mortally wounded, and set itself to remove the cold steel from its chest. Malthus cursed, then reached into his belt and flung a second dagger, his last one, at the uninjured zombie. This time, the weapon found its target—the skulking creature’s forehead—and the zombie fell dead in a heap at the front edge of the bridge.

"Renya Ilin Sabat Ot,

Rega Lemin Ayree Vot."

As Malthus finished chanting the words, a glowing arrow appeared at his side. Not a moment too soon, for the last remaining zombie had removed the dagger from its stomach, flung it into the river, and resumed its mindless charge. Malthus pointed at the zombie, and the arrow sped from his side. It pierced the monster’s soft belly soundlessly. Collapsing backward, the zombie broke several boards as it crashed through the bridge and down into the gurgling river. In mere seconds, the zombie was lost from view, swallowed up by the rushing water.

As Malthus caught his breath he looked around, hoping the attack was over. Squinting into the gloom, he saw no other foes, zombies or otherwise. Not wanting to waste time, the weaponless youth stepped quickly but gingerly onto the bridge, then tried to leap across the chasm opened by the last vanquished zombie.

At leaping, he was successful. The weak, creaky boards that were to support his landing, however, unappreciative of such harsh treatment, gave way, plunging Malthus into the foul water. The current picked him up with malicious delight, dragging him eagerly downriver. The water was almost sickeningly warm, and his nose wrinkled involuntarily as he inhaled the river’s odor: the part-rotten, part-sweet stench of refuse.

After several minutes in the river, he grew concerned. Though Malthus considered himself a good swimmer, he’d not made the slightest bit of progress toward the far side. Instead, he was soaked and a bit frightened.

As he debated whether to try for the near side riverbank, he blinked water out of his eyes, not sure he saw clearly. A glowing blue disc came into view, hovering just above the water’s bubbling surface not far downstream. With a smile, he realized he would not need to move laterally to enter it, just lift himself up a bit at the proper moment. My lucky day! One down, two to go! No one responded to his cheerful announcement.

hourglass.jpg

Had Malthus known his destination, he may neither have smiled nor considered himself lucky, especially with no daggers and no remaining spells, having used them all to dispatch the zombies. Tired, unarmed, and dripping wet, the youth emerged out the other side of the portal, landing roughly on a cold stone floor.

As he wrung out his wet, blood-soaked shirt and traveling cloak, Malthus took in his surroundings. He dripped into a round room perhaps twenty paces end to end. Set into the stone wall were eight wooden doors, spaced evenly apart and more or less identical in appearance. Lit torches hung between the doors at regular intervals. Looking down, Malthus saw a small scroll tied with a red ribbon near his feet.

Maybe, Malthus said bitterly, I can use this scroll to cut something to death. He frowned, then sighed; it was too late to worry about his lost daggers now, and it couldn’t be changed. Instead of moping further, he untied the ribbon, flipping his still-dripping hair out of his eyes so he could read.

"Eight exits round this empty room

Seven of which may seal your doom.

Give thought to which door you go through

A troll awaits in all but two."

Now trolls were nasty indeed, as Malthus recalled from his training. They were half again as tall as a man, smelly, warty, hairy fiends and strong, strong enough to carry gigantic clubs only Warriors could even lift. One well-placed swing could smash a man’s skull, and though taller than average, Malthus still reached only as high as a troll’s chest and would likely not survive such an attack. With a shiver, he remembered, too, that trolls love to gnaw on the bones of their victims—especially human ones. Perhaps worst of all, trolls heal at an alarming rate, regenerating even whole limbs in a few days’ time. Malthus knew he had no chance of defeating one barehanded, and so was justifiably concerned for his safety.

Scratching his soggy head absent-mindedly, Malthus searched for a clue to the scroll’s riddle. By his interpretation, only one door was safe, yet two of them had no trolls waiting on the opposite side. What waited behind the other one? Did he even want to know?

As he went up to examine a door, he noticed a number seven scratched into the stone on the floor just beneath the hinges. Before he could explore further, Malthus heard a loud creak above him, above even the ceiling. Apparently, the riddle wasn’t enough; there was now a time limit, for the ceiling began to collapse.

Alarmed, Malthus quickly estimated he had a minute at most until the ceiling fell too low to open a door. He sped around the room to check the other doors, seeing a number six then five, four, three, two, one, and eight under the others in turn.

Which one? Which one? Malthus cried.

Despite the dangerous shortage of time, he reread the scroll, finally deciding to risk opening a door. At least a troll will be mashed with me if I’m wrong.

He ran to the door marked two, took a deep breath, and opened it just before the ceiling dropped to the door level. On the other side, a glowing blue disc awaited him. The portal! he cried in relief. Above him, the collapsing ceiling smashed the door off its hinges; splinters showered the air. With a cry of triumph, Malthus leaped into the portal, ready for the final test.

hourglass.jpg

Dirt spread all about Malthus’ feet. He found himself in an arena, the arena he’d expected to enter from the start of the Assessment. The tiered stands that held thousands of rowdy spectators for jousting and wrestling matches now stood empty and dark. Above him, the night sky glittered with stars, but he quickly shifted his focus back to more immediate surroundings.

At the other side of the arena stood a group of large figures hidden in shadow. As Malthus crept closer, the shapes crystallized into giant stone statues ten times Malthus’ height. Half of the statues held swords, the other half shields. Those with the swords faced each other in rows of five, forming an aisle that led to a glowing blue portal. To the left, the other ten statues, standing separately, also faced each other in rows of five. To his dismay, these too created an aisle, and a second glowing blue portal beckoned at the end. The final test appeared to present him a choice.

I sure don’t like those swords pointing down at that lane there. The ones with shields seem safer, he said uncertainly. He thought for several moments more, unable to decide.

I better choose something before the Masters drop another ceiling on me. After a final glance at the statues bearing shields, he took a deep breath, then stepped into the space between the stone titans armed with the swords.

All went well, at first. But as he passed the first pair, the stone eyes in each of the ten guardians, previously blank, turned a radiant green. This struck Malthus as quite unusual for statues. He sped forward toward the portal, hoping to reach it before the mammoth creatures used those swords. He only made it two steps before he froze in mid-stride, paralyzed. Apparently not the right choice, he thought grimly. The statues’ swords quivered, and mighty stone hands raised the weapons up. Soon, ten swords pointed directly at the youth. He couldn’t even cower.

But then, to his surprise, the swords vanished. In their place, the statues grasped massive stone shields. Malthus felt himself freed, and his momentum sent him tumbling to the ground. He shuddered, then stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes as he eyed the sentinels with distrust. He could only imagine what might have happened had he chosen the other grouping, thankful he’d heeded one of his teachers’ bits of advice given him long ago: When something seems too obvious, something is wrong. He covered the last few steps to the portal with more than one nervous glance up at the statues. No trace remained of green, or any other color, in their now featureless eyes, and they held the shields at their sides harmlessly.

Malthus leaped through the portal with a whoop of joy; the Assessment had ended. He passed!

hourglass.jpg

On the other side, a golden-haired youth reclined on a wooden bench to the far side of a small room, looking annoyingly dry and comfortable. Several inches shorter than Malthus, with a fragile-looking body that belied the strength and conditioning actually possessed, he looked the part of a wizard more than the muscled, tall Malthus.

You must have found the river, the youth said with a grin as he rose to shake Malthus’ hand.

And the Assessment didn’t fix your lame sense of humor, Stefan, said Malthus in reply. Has anyone come to meet you yet?

No, Mal, said Stefan, shaking his head. But then, who could expect anyone to pass as quickly as I did?

Malthus snorted. How long have you been waiting?

Stefan’s eyes briefly studied the stone floor. A quarter-turn or so.

Malthus raised an eyebrow. I guess you’re not so much better than me as you think.

Stefan only looked his still-damp friend up and down, a smirk playing about the corners of his mouth. With a quick snap of his wrists, two daggers appeared, one in each hand. Malthus frowned—maybe Stefan really was as good in a fight as he claimed. After all, Malthus lost both his daggers in the first few minutes of the Assessment.

But before Malthus could redden further, or make a snide comment, another successful initiate joined them. She stumbled out from the portal and fell to her knees, clutching her throat and wheezing as she struggled to breathe.

I…hate…undead. Why…couldn’t they be…ghouls, at least…

Only one type of being that populate the limbo between life and death, zombies are either animated by a powerful wizard or priest or transformed after being slain as mortals by a zombie. The unfortunate victims rise the following night, slaves to their masters’ bidding, or lacking a master, wander aimlessly, neither alive nor dead: undead. While ghouls are also undead, animated like zombies, they walked through mortal life as elves, and so will not harm living elves.

Aloria! Malthus blurted out, running to her. Did they grab you anywhere other than your throat?

She shook her head. But that’s…more than enough…my skin…feels like it’s…rotting away.

Malthus examined her neck while Stefan helped her lie down. They removed her muddy cloak, propping up her head with one of the few clean portions of the garment. Her neck did, indeed, appear to be rotting away, from one pointed ear to the other. As Aloria fought for air, Malthus checked the back of her neck, tenderly moving aside her long, blond hair. Fortunately, the nape of her neck seemed to have escaped the attack. Malthus paused in spite of himself—even after a zombie grabbed her, she still smelled like fresh spring rain…

Aloria twisted her head, fixing her blue-green eyes on Malthus. A look of surprise? Relief? He still couldn’t tell if her eyes were more blue or more green, but they were beautiful regardless. He lowered his gaze, a bit ashamed of himself for ogling her as she lay injured. She flinched in a new spasm of pain, but then her eyes froze in surprise, focusing on a spot past Malthus’ shoulder.

Congratulations, said a calm, even voice behind Malthus. You three passed.

Malthus whirled, his gaze falling upon a man who looked ageless. Wrinkles around his eyes bespoke his many summers, yet the rest of his face suggested middle age. Bright white hair contrasted with dark skin and eyes. He folded his arms about his chest, hands hidden in the folds of his grey robe. The robe’s hood dangled off down his back so they could see him smiling at them.

Maldamar! cried Stefan.

Do not fuss over Aloria. Elves are a hardy lot. She will recover, at least physically. Won’t underestimate zombies again, I suspect. There was no tone of judgment in his voice; it sounded to Malthus like merely a statement of fact. He caught Aloria shaking off a sudden chill, perhaps from the zombie attack, perhaps due to Maldamar’s words. She lowered her head, cheeks flushing a bright crimson.

Maldamar Malloy was the Head of the Wizards’ Guild. He’d earned that exalted title by virtue of having been a member of the Nine for the longest, in accordance with the tradition. While the title did not always go to the most powerful or most accomplished wizard of the group, in Maldamar’s case both applied. It was whispered that the great wizard had already achieved immortality, but remained on Kalan to finish some task unknown to any mere mortal. He had traveled far and wide, over the known world and many others unknown to most, vanquished and parleyed with creatures whose names would fill a thousand scrolls. And he was the only known living wizard powerful enough to cast the Highspell, as it was known—the Wish.

You have two turns to clean yourselves up. Some food has been prepared, and awaits each of you in your rooms. Bring all your belongings to the Robing Ceremony, for you will depart at its conclusion.

What about Rakelion and Jade? Malthus asked, referring to the two other initiates tested with them. Malthus already suspected the answer, however; it was the only option other than passing.

They were…unsuccessful, said Maldamar. But three out of five is better than normal. Perhaps the Assessment grows too easy. Maldamar smiled as the three shivered. Two turns, he repeated solemnly, then vanished before their eyes.

II

A door appeared along the wall past where the Master Wizard stood only a moment before. I’ve got to find me one of those invisibility rings, Stefan said with a grin as he and Malthus helped Aloria to her feet. Though she grimaced, she did not make a sound. Why does she feel like she has to act so tough? Malthus wondered, not for the first time.

Aloud, he said, You know, I’d like an illusionary wall, myself.

If I find either lying around, I’ll let both of you clowns know, Aloria snapped. She grabbed her cloak from Stefan and slung it around her shoulders.

Where did the Aloria go that almost smiled at me a moment before? Malthus shook his head.

I can manage by myself, thank you, she added, easing unsteadily away from Stefan and Malthus’ supporting arms.

Her iron will returns. Malthus and Stefan shared a brief, wry glance.

Silence enveloped the group as they headed toward their rooms. Malthus used the time to think about what he really knew of the elf: very little, it turned out. She was as defensive as a cornered animal about anything personal. She fought well, perhaps better than Stefan and Malthus combined, although Malthus could hardly call himself more than capable. He also knew that very few elves trained to become wizards, for they must venture outside the elven havens of Sylyvnar, on Kalan’s eastern coast, or the Mirthell Woods to the west. Rejected by their own kinspeople, these elves become outcasts as punishment for their hunger for magical knowledge, no matter the reason for that hunger. Aloria gave up much to become a wizard. But that was not much to know about someone, considering they’d been training together, two in a group of five, for the past six moons.

Not wanting to consider the elf any further, Malthus’ thoughts wandered to bits of information he’d been given about the training he’d just completed—his lengthy apprenticeship. Becoming a wizard took no specific length of time. One advanced in the program only when deemed ready to advance by the Masters. Some took the Assessment after six moons. Others needed more than one hundred.

He thought about Rakelion and Jade, initiates that paid the ultimate price in their quest to become wizards. He wondered which stage they’d failed…

Stefan snapped Malthus from his thoughts with a goodbye shove as they reached the blond youth’s room. Though twenty-two, a single twelvemoon younger than Malthus, he acted half that at times. "See you in two turns. But for now, I’m starving! Abrai," said Stefan. His voice and the password opened the keyless door to his quarters. His green eyes lit up as the smell of roasted meat wafted out into the hallway. He lifted his eyebrows up and down with a grin, then hurried inside.

Aloria and Malthus continued down the curved hallway. The elf walked slowly, and looked peaked even considering her normally fair skin, though Malthus thought she looked better than when she first returned from the Assessment. She glanced up at him, catching him staring at her with a look of concern on his face. She screwed a calm expression onto her own, then stared directly ahead down the hallway.

Are you happy to be returning home? she asked, though her tone smacked of disinterest.

Anything to change the subject. Malthus sighed. I’ll play along. I can’t wait, actually. I haven’t heard from them in six moons. My parents will be glad to know I passed. He immediately regretted the statement, knowing Aloria had no home to return to. His face darkened.

Don’t feel bad for being excited. I asked, didn’t I?

He looked at the elf, debating whether to proceed down this road, aware of where it had taken him many times before. Come with me. There’s plenty of room for you. I’d love for you to meet my parents, and especially Shotspot—he’s gone through some of the same challenges you have… The last Malthus spoke especially gingerly, expecting Aloria to explode and reject his offer as she had several times before. To his surprise no outburst came, only a soft sigh. Perhaps the injury had affected more than her neck.

All right, she replied quietly. I’ll come with you. She met Malthus’ surprised expression evenly. But look, let me decide for myself who’s had the same challenges I’ve had. I don’t need you to fix my problems.

Malthus nodded, taken aback at her acceptance. Maybe those zombies took some of the acid out of her. But did he really try to fix her problems? Why was that a bad thing? He certainly had a lot to learn about females, especially elven females.

Try fixing some of Stefan’s problems instead. That boy has plenty of them to keep you busy. Malthus couldn’t help but smile.

Presently, they arrived at Aloria’s room. See you soon, said Malthus.

Aloria gave him a faint smile. "Abrai." The harsh word sounded musical rolling off her elven tongue, as all her speech did. He sighed as she disappeared inside.

hourglass.jpg

The elf slumped against the door, relieved to be back in her own quarters—away from probing questions and Maldamar’s proclamations of her deficient character. I don’t know who’s worse: Maldamar or those two nitwits that somehow passed the Assessment with me.

With an effort, Aloria stumbled over to a lacquered washbowl set atop a simple wooden table and splashed lukewarm water onto her face. The liquid did nothing to ease the icy chill of the flesh on her neck. I passed, scar or no scar. I will be a wizard. She sighed. May Rakelion and Jade find peace, wherever they are.

Toweling her face dry, she at last allowed herself to inhale the aromas from the food set out for her. As she nibbled at the roast goat meat, goat cheese, and bread provided for her, she considered the wisdom of finally agreeing to leave the school with Malthus.

After traveling alone for long twelvemoons, she certainly did not fear striking out herself again. But she had to admit company sounded good—she remembered the loneliness of moving from place to place with no one to talk to and no one with whom to share her experiences. Besides, she looked forward to seeing Shotspottarrafon again. Aloria smiled—she couldn’t wait to see the look on Malthus’ face when he learned she knew the elf.

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Malthus considered Aloria’s response on the way to his room, trying to determine why she’d agreed to come along with him this time. Did she finally realize she had nowhere to go? Not likely—he knew she’d traveled before arriving at Drayden Tower for training. Had her injuries spooked her into wanting traveling companions? Was she interested in him, even just a little bit? He pictured her gorgeous face in his mind’s eye—beautiful, yet distant. He sighed.

Thoughts of the elf swirled around his head, remaining there even after he reached his quarters. He ate and packed absent-mindedly while he considered things from every angle, over-analyzing as usual. At length, he noticed the timeglass by his bed, shocked to discover the second turn nearly up.

Time to focus on the Robing Ceremony, fool, he told himself, and not on Aloria. After all, there was a three-day ride home to worry about her.

hourglass.jpg

"Abrai."

Malthus stepped into the antechamber of the Great Hall of Drayden Tower. He found it more adorned than much of the rest of the austere tower in which he’d spent the last three and a half twelvemoons. He could touch the blocked stone ceiling if he jumped, and probably take a few crumbling bits of it back down with him. A few torches hung interspersed along the rough-hewn stone of the walls. Benches lined one full wall, and the wall opposite that which he’d entered held double doors of sturdy oak reinforced with iron. They could only mark the entrance to the Great Hall itself.

You’re just in time, Speedy, said Stefan with a mocking grin. He pointed to the wall above the double doors. A glass vial about four inches long, shaped like an hourglass, hung suspended over the doorframe. The purple hour has only a few crystals left.

Stefan referred to a timeglass, an ingenious creation of Father Padempo, a legendary inventor and priest who lived over a century earlier. To this day, only clerics can create the timepiece, and the spell’s words are closely guarded. A different color of crystal dust measures each hour, known as a turn. When the crystals gather entirely into the bottom section, the timeglass magically flips over, filled with crystals of the new hour. The purple hour marks the final hour before sunset.

Wanted to make sure I had everything, Malthus said absent-mindedly, unable to create a clever retort. The three successful initiates eyed each other nervously, not knowing quite what to expect. Each wore a simple shirt, trousers, and boots, for they expected a cloak would be provided for them at the ceremony. Malthus glanced at Aloria as she craned her neck upward—she still looked rather pale, but the high collar of her shirt kept her injured neck well hidden.

A sharp scraping of wood against wood brought Malthus’ attention back to the moment at hand. He exhaled audibly as the ancient doors swung open into the room beyond. Stefan mouthed good luck to his two counterparts as the timeglass flipped over. Its upper half magically filled with crystals of deep violet, which immediately commenced their journey to the chamber below.

Sunset is upon us, called a voice that could only belong to Maldamar, booming out at them from deep inside the room. Enter, for your final lessons.

hourglass.jpg

The three entered the Great Hall, a place they hadn’t been since their first day at the tower. Dwarves built the chamber for Lazar—the final Head of the Wizards’ Guild in the Early Ages—more than two thousand twelvemoons earlier. Upon the tower’s completion, Lazar ordered every dwarf that set foot in the tower during its construction murdered. In his madness, Lazar believed it too dangerous to have dwarves running around with knowledge of the tower in their heads. It marked the beginning of the end for Lazar, one of the many wizards executed during the Reckoning, a time of upheaval that marked the end of the Early Ages. His grisly fate was immortalized in bedtime stories told to dwarven children.

Malthus’ focus was drawn first to the chairs: nine high-backed thrones made of pure silver that formed a semi-circle near the east wall. One for each of the Nine Robes, Malthus guessed. The chairs hadn’t been there when Malthus stood in the chamber last. The hall itself was a large oval, easily a hundred paces across at its widest point. Not a single pillar or any other mechanism for holding up the ceiling was evident. Large velvet curtains covered the north and south walls, obscuring them from view.

Malthus recalled his first trip to the Great Hall. It certainly didn’t seem like as long ago as it truly had been. Yet, at the same time, it felt like forever. Ten bright-eyed students had gathered that day, most of them Malthus’ age (younger than twenty), some already proficient in sleight of hand. Though from diverse backgrounds, all ten held the same goal: to learn true magic. Although Malthus didn’t know it, he was only the second of those ten to pass; three had quit, and two more died during the Assessment.

Welcome to the Great Hall of Drayden Tower, Maldamar told them that day, long ago. I wish you well as you take your first steps on the road to knowledge. It is an extremely difficult road, one most of you will not finish. The neophytes exchanged a few worried glances, but many were absolutely certain they would finish, and become wizards. Those of you that succeed will return here to receive your robe and staff. Then, your journey will truly begin…

Malthus looked more carefully at the chairs. Only Maldamar had been present the day he’d arrived. Now, each of the Nine Robes gathered, sitting solemnly in their respective seats. With a wave, Maldamar beckoned the three initiates forward.

Some introductions are in order, said the grey-robed Master. He motioned his hands broadly to his sides as he continued, Before you sit the most powerful wizards in Kalan. Each is the most powerful of his or her order. We Nine gather all together very seldom—this is our first since the last Changing of the Nine. Every Firstday, the Rock of the Magi held etched in its face the name of the most powerful wizard of each of the nine orders. Any wizards new to the Nine were informed, and given until the first day of spring to arrive at Drayden Tower for the Changing. But exactly how the Nine interacted, and in what deeds they partook, none could say, or perhaps would say, even if they knew.

We are arranged, said Maldamar, in a semi-circle here in audience with you, in a particular order. The three Good wizards are furthest south, toward the sun, toward light. We three Neutral wizards sit in the middle. The three Evil wizards are furthest north, toward the dark. Malthus saw Stefan scowl as Maldamar pointed out the evil wizards. Malthus suspected his friend was disturbed by how matter-of-factly Maldamar introduced them, without the slightest hint of disdain. Maldamar continued, Laws come and go, some just, some unjust, some unfairly and unequally enforced, always open to question. Therefore, we sit grouped by good, neutral, and evil, categories less prone to debate, at least among wizards.

Maldamar turned to his left, motioning to an incredibly beautiful elven wizard standing to the far south. No lines creased her proud, ageless face, and even by mere torchlight, her white robe was dazzling. Bright red painted lips contrasted with her milky white face like a drop of blood on a silk sheet.

I am Jaselle Lynsong, and I represent white-robed wizards. We believe the law is to be obeyed, respected, and revered, whatever its imperfections, else society would delve into chaos. The last word she spoke with distaste, as though she’d bitten a spoiled piece of fruit. Good can be done through the law, through rules, or by altering laws to better reflect the good. She bowed to the three initiates, then settled gracefully back into her silver chair. So fair did she seem to Malthus that he had trouble doubting the accuracy and truth of her words.

The wizard to Jaselle’s right wore a long, gray beard. At his back, waist-length hair was tied in a ponytail. Many lines of care graced his face as he smiled at the initiates, one of the few they’d receive during the ceremony. Congratulations to each of you. My name is Bern Bansik, and I have the honor of representing all brown-robed wizards. We believe that doing the right thing, living a conscientious life, is most important. If that means obeying the law, fine. If not, that is also fine. While our views turn many of us into martyrs, that is how it must be. With an effort, Bern settled back into his chair. Several of the old wizard’s joints cracked as he did so.

On Bern’s right, a tall, slender woman with deep brown skin and dark, fiery eyes rose to address them. My name is Rayad Holvollin, representing blue-robed wizards. In our order are the vigilantes and those with noble causes outside the law. We protect the innocent and punish the guilty, though not necessarily by death. Laws are inherently unfair, and in any case get enforced unjustly. We often must work to undermine the law for the cause of justice: truly noble. Our ends justify our means. Rayad bowed, then took her seat.

A rather short man stood next, bearing a violent scar across the entire left side of his face—a feature said to be earned from a fireball cast at him during a battle. He was also rumored to be the only survivor of that blast—eight of his companions had supposedly died around him that day. My name is Jorin McCain, representing green-robed wizards. Like the white, we believe the law should be respected and obeyed, but regardless of its consequences for good or evil. Sometimes, the laws of society must result in injustice to the individual for the greater good, order, to prevail in the long run. Jorin bowed, then got comfortable in his chair.

The initiates’ gaze turned to Maldamar, the next to speak. I am Maldamar Malloy, and I represent the grey wizards. We believe that the world, to survive, must remain in balance. Absolute law leads to rigidity and persecution. Absolute chaos leads to death and destruction. The grey wizards strive to balance the two. Absolute goodness can lead to righteousness, pride, and haughtiness. Evil is the road to war, death, destruction, and corruption. We grey wizards strive to balance the two. Do not make the mistake of confusing neutral with disinterested or inactive. It is quite the opposite for most of us. No one in the hall was confused in the least. With a bow, Maldamar took his seat.

Next to Maldamar stood a woman clad in blood-red robes, with long brown hair, green eyes, and the fragile beauty that could belong only to an elf. A hint of danger rang in her musical voice as she introduced herself. I am Lanalla, and I represent all red-robed wizards. We believe that laws do not apply to us, so we ignore them. Our first concern is for ourselves, and we will do what is necessary to accomplish our goals. After all, individual goals are more important than those of society. The three initiates glanced at each other in surprise—they’d never heard a philosophy put quite that way before. Lanalla bowed, then took her seat.

A blond-haired, blue-eyed woman that didn’t look a day over thirty spoke next, her silver robes a complement to her ice-cold eyes. I am Zarina Markham, of the silver-robed order of wizards. We believe the law ought to be obeyed, although its interpretation can be varied. However, blatant lawbreakers deserve a harsh punishment. Malthus could not help but shudder as Zarina took her seat, trying not to think about the kinds of penalties the silver-robed Master had likely doled out.

Next in line was a regal-looking man in robes of deep purple. He stood taller than Malthus, a rare height for a wizard, but was thin as a twig, with dark skin and piercing gray eyes. I am Malcolm Salak, and I represent the purple-robed wizards. We believe might makes right. Only the most powerful will ultimately survive. Those individuals have the ability to do as they choose. Stefan and Malthus stole a glance—it was interesting to hear the differing views of life and how it ought to be lived, though Malthus felt certain Stefan would not characterize some views as interesting at all. For his part, Malthus felt there might be a bit of truth in all of them, though it was difficult to decide just which he agreed with most.

Stefan interrupted his thoughts with a quick hiss in his ear, I heard this Malcolm fellow was a stone mason before he came to Drehfal Tower. Built his own tower, supposedly.

Malthus rolled his eyes at his friend. Where do you get this stuff?

At the far north, the last to speak addressed the wizards-to-be. Clad in robes black as night, he was tall and well-built, with dark brown eyes and a brown goatee that matched his shaggy brown mane of hair. And I, he said, surprisingly pleasantly, am Rakeen Duvay. I represent all black-robed wizards. We have a bad reputation, mostly undeserved, I think. He paused for effect, as though putting on a show. We believe that existence is essentially…selfish. Think about it. Every act of every being on Kalan is performed for selfish reasons. We as black robes do whatever we please, however we please, if we can. We have a stark honesty with ourselves, a clarity and consistency of purpose, that no other order possesses. While we hate laws, we do not hate goodness—not exactly. For it serves us well. This last he spoke with a sneering grin. We seek power, no matter the cost.

The three novices exhaled together as Rakeen took his seat. The first phase of the Robing Ceremony ended.

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Maldamar stood, motioning to the curtains. They parted, sweeping open from the middle, revealing not walls but windows—windows to the outside world, now dark as pitch.

Malthus wondered how Maldamar could make curtains move without a spell. His only guess was telekinesis, perhaps using a ring Malthus saw on the Master’s right hand. Maldamar seemed to have collected a number of interesting items in his travels.

After the curtains silently finished their trip to the edges of the floor-to-ceiling windows, Maldamar eyed the three of them. Malthus returned the penetrating gaze with difficulty.

You three have learned much: war, herblore, history, hand-to-hand combat, spell-casting, knowledge of the beings and beasts that roam Kalan, and many other useful subjects. Today, you were tested on your ability to fight; or avoid fights in your case, Stefan. The blond youth turned beet red as Malthus chuckled to himself. That explained how he kept both daggers! But with an effort, Malthus made no outward expression whatsoever for fear of what Maldamar would have to say about his own performance during the Assessment.

"You were also tested on your ingenuity and problem-solving ability under stress. You will need these skills, especially early in your careers, to stay alive. If any of you choose to travel with others, they will need your counsel and intelligence as well.

"Finally, we tested your ability to see the unseen, to use your intuition, and to understand that things are rarely as they seem.

"Remember what you have learned. These lessons will save your lives if you mind them. He paused to make certain the three appreciated the import of his words. What we have not taught you, and purposely, is in what manner you should use what you have learned. How you should live, in other words. No value judgments have been placed on any of you during your training, no good or evil, no right or wrong. This is why grey robes always conduct the training, and why you’ve never been allowed contact with any other Order. Your task now is to allow us to provide you with the appropriate robes.

"All nine of us will delve into your minds, your hearts, your very souls, to determine this. Open them to us. And consider that your actions alone do not determine who you are, although that is what others ultimately see. It is the reasons for those actions that truly determine what robe you wear."

The Nine then spoke in unison, chanting the words to a spell. Malthus couldn’t recognize the phrases—they slipped out of his mind as soon as he heard them. He suspected the Masters cast a Know spell to allow them to see the initiates’ true selves. The wizards might also use a Telepathy spell in order to communicate with the initiates. His musings were forced to a halt as the questioning began, fast and furious.

How much do you love your family? Would you do anything for them? Would you kill them under any circumstances? What might those be? Would you kill others if your family asked you to? When is it acceptable to kill? How would you feel to see someone you loved killed in front of you? Would you seek revenge? Why did you seek this training? Can you see yourself in our chairs? Do you hunger for power? How much control do you think you have over decisions in life? How much do you wish you had? Do you have any true friends? How do you know? Would you help a fallen enemy? How? When? Why?…

The interrogation continued long into the night, covering everything Malthus could possibly imagine. He didn’t ever answer, exactly, not with words, but he sensed that somehow the wizards received responses from him.

When the questions finally stopped, voices mercifully leaving Malthus’ mind, body, and heart, he collapsed to the floor in exhaustion.

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It took a few moments for Malthus to regain control of himself. Admitting nine of the strongest beings alive inside him all at once was an experience Malthus would not soon be rid of. He was amazed he had kept his sanity through the ordeal.

He became aware of Stefan and Aloria struggling alongside him. Aloria seemed particularly shaken, though whether from the lingering effects of the zombie or from the questioning he did not know.

The ceremony is nearly complete. Look, Maldamar said to them, pointing through the windows, even now, the day nears its break. You have all done well, for a night of questions from the likes of us would leave many, no most, quite mad. The three of you are linked, in a way, as a result of this experience you have shared. Please rise now, he motioned, and receive your robes.

Maldamar sat as the three novices stood on still-shaky legs. After a brief pause, Bern rose from his chair, knees, hips, and perhaps other joints as well cracking as he did so. The brown-robed Master hobbled toward the three initiates, finally stopping in front of Stefan. Stefan Anstrom, we have questioned you, and find you will be most comfortable wearing the brown robes. The color reflects who you are; be proud of them. But be aware of how you will be viewed by other wizards and by society at large. Your willingness to ignore rules in favor of people will make you enemies.

With that warning, Bern gave Stefan a brown robe. Stefan hurriedly pulled it over his head, beaming widely as it settled perfectly on his thin frame. Bern then handed Stefan a staff made of cedar, the new wizard’s chosen wood. It was precisely his height, for the youth made it himself during his training, as all wizards do. Bern smiled back, then returned to his seat, his old bones creaking out a symphony in the process.

Rayad, the blue-robed wizard, approached them next, gliding gracefully as a swan compared to poor Bern. "Aloriastalana Wyndellafon, we have questioned you, and find that you will be most comfortable wearing the blue robes. The color represents who you truly are; be proud of them. Be aware, however, of how