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Book One: Prodigy
Prologue: Things That Are But Were Never Thought To Be
The ticking of the metronome and the scratching of the quill on the parchment were the only sounds in the room. They resonated through the small space, echoing in the head of the man who sat at the desk, writing with the quill. He was dressed in red and black finery, was balding and had a gaunt, pale face that was almost permanently fixed in an analysing expression. His grey eyes followed the quill as he wrote in neat handwriting.
Hassildor glanced up at the only door in the room. It was made of grey stone, which was the only building material in the room. It was box-shaped, the walls and floors without a flaw or blemish. Dust or stain were alien to this space. Despite this, it had very little features. No paintings hung on the walls, nor did any rugs or even a carpet vacate the floor. If it had not been for the desk, and the things that were placed on it, and the chair that Hassildor sat on, which were made of the same stone as the walls and floors themselves, then the room would be entirely empty.
As Hassildor projected his gaze at the entrance, it slowly opened, allowing a bright light to shine in (the only other light was a burning candle on the desk). “Do you not knock anymore, Derich?” enquired Hassildor. Anyone would think he would look angry or smirk, but his face showed no change.
“I apologise, sir,” replied a scrawny boy dressed in servant’s attire who entered the room, “Lord Solomon requests your company.”
“If he did, why did he not summon me?” Mild surprise was in Hassildor’s voice, but, once again, his expression did not change.
“He told me that he expected you would not be here. He perceived you would be fleeing Apocrypha, what with the Grey Alliance’s assault.”
“Did he now? Perhaps He should think more of my loyalty.” Sarcasm edged his voice. Long minutes passed. The messenger twisted embarrassingly in the awkward silence. “Well, sir, are you going to see him?” he asked nervously.
“Of course. I was just waiting to see if you has anything else to say.” Hassildor hastily finished the letter, slid it into an envelope and stoppered it. “Since you are here, could you deliver this to the House of Nostro. It appears Lord Nostro has something of interest to Lord Solomon and he would like to inform the House that he will be visiting soon.”
“Of course, sir.” The messenger took the envelope from Hassildor’s hand. “No mistakes this time, Derich.” Derich nodded and hurried out of the room. When the door was closed, Hassildor walked back to his desk, cleaned the nib of the quill on a cloth that received no stain from the ink, merely making it vanish, and placed the quill and the spare sheets of parchment back in the drawer of the desk. Hassildor then took out a small, silver key and locked it.
Then, he vanished into nothing, leaving the room silent except for the ticking of the metronome. He reappeared in a hall before a man sat on a throne. “Ah, Hassildor, you have come,” cried the man joyfully. The man stood and descended the steps that led to the throne, walking with a wooden staff in his long fingers.
“You thought I would leave, Your Majesty?” enquired Hassildor, keeping his voice cautiously neutral.
Solomon looked grave. “I am truly sorry for that misinterpretation, Hassildor. I perceived you would have left.”
“I do not fear the Grey Alliance, My Lord.” The statement did not seem to affect Solomon in any way.
“Nevertheless, we cannot be too careful. Sometimes they have greater powers than our own. The creation of the Emulations have been a severe blow to our great land. Yet, do we cower under them? No! We stand tall and fight back!” Solomon’s face twisted in anger.
“Forgive me, My Lord, but may I ask as to why I am here?” Hassildor asked tentatively.
“Hmm? Oh yes, sorry, Hassidlor, I forgot you were here. My rants have been increasing these days, which, of course, will be an annoyance to all of those in my presence. Luckily for you, I did not go on. Sometimes I can drone on for hours at a time.” Solomon’s mouth turned into a smile and his face lit up. Hassildor was one of the few who did not feel elation at the sight.
“Anyway, I am still delaying. Yes, I called you here to learn about something I have wanted for a long time now, but have been unaware of its existence in Apocrypha.”
“How can that be possible, My Lord?”
Solomon seated himself at his throne again. “Indeed, how can it be? You see, Hassildor, it is something of legend, something many have sought for centuries now, but have not found it. I had come to believe that it did not exist, naturally. As you know, I do not believe in anything unless it can be proved or I see it with my own eyes.
“Recently there have been a number of deaths in the Forgotten Hills. Few go there and even fewer go there intentionally. I have seen their corpses, found by the Scouting Guard, and I have reason to believe that their wounds were caused by arcane means. I mean magic, of course.”
“What does this have to do with anything, My Lord?” enquired Hassildor impatiently.
“These wounds were caused by Elemental magic I had thought was lost to myth. Only I have been able to truly wield this power. For, you see, these people were killed with a single spell that used fire, but with no blemish to their physical body. However, the fire struck their minds! Their minds! I have not seen such power before, unless it is b my hand. Truly, the killer of these people must be either divine or of the Ancient Times.”
“This truly fascinates me, My Lord. But what does this have to do with me?”
“I want you to gather together a group of warriors and mages and get them to find this… thing that is killing these people. I would much like to find out what it is.”
“Yes, My Lord. It shall be done.”
Hassildor turned from his master and walked from the room, out into the Palace Courtyard. As Chamberlain of Deilstar Palace, he always answered to Solomon’s whim. Centuries of hard work had drilled discipline into every inch of his body. He had perfected his physique, showing barely any emotion nor anything that may be happening in his mind. He was almost like one of the Undead, except he was much more intelligent and clean.
When he had crossed the Courtyard, he was at the door of the Barracks. He knocked casually but firmly. The door opened to reveal a man clad in a cuirass, greaves, boots and gauntlets with a helmet upon his head. The cuirass had the crest of Solomon emblazoned across its front; a white hand, palm facing to you, surrounded by purple fire. “Yes, sir?” said the soldier, saluting Hassildor.
“Lord Solomon requests that a battalion of ten to twenty soldiers and, if possible, battlemages be assembled immediately in the courtyard. Will that be possible, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it right away.”
“Very good.”
With that, the Captain turned away and rushed into the inner parts of the Barracks. Hassildor turned smoothly on his heel and, hands clasped behind his back, strode back to the Palace to inform Solomon of his success. If there were no battlemages, it would be no problem to ride to the Arcane Academy and squeeze them for a few of their finest mages.
Hassildor halted at the statue of Solomon. His eyes passed over the statue for what must have been the ten hundredth time. He sighed deeply, showing one of his rare bursts of emotion, and continued on his way to the Palace.
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