Young Writers Society

Rangorn woke to a foul stench surrounding him. Wherever he was, death was everywhere. He looked to his left and saw a rotting corpse. To his right, rusted iron bars weary from the hands of countless innocent men. The soldiers had thrown him into Whiteholt’s jail: the pit of Uthdore. Rangorn sat up against the wall of the jail and attempted to push the corpse away from him before his last memory returned to him. Uncontrollable tremors took control of the old Mage. The pure hatred of his actions caused his hands to fly to his stomach. A strange sickness seemed to fill his frail form and weaken him to the point of not being able to hold his body up. He fell sideways; his head slammed hard into the prison floor. Hoping for a moment of solace as his mind and body turned to shambles, his eyes shut closed.

His eyes were blue. The soldier that Rangorn had killed had blue eyes, and Rangorn could see them. In a panic, Rangorn opened his eyes to escape from the look of sheer terror that filled that soldier’s face in his final moments. But, to no avail. Whenever Rangorn blinked, even slightly, the commonplace blank darkness replaced itself with the poor soldier’s eyes. Rangorn screamed in pain, his hands clutching his forehead and digging into his white, thin hair.

“Dratia! Forgive me. My brothers of Vorad. Forgive me. Vorad. Forgive me.”

The prayer did not relieve the pain inside Rangorn’s heart, but his strength of body began to recuperate. Rangorn sat himself up against the jail’s filthy walls and breathed deeply, as the Elves had taught him. Each breath returned a portion of Rangorn’s sanity and allowed him to think clearer. However, thinking clearly also brought profound hatred to Rangorn’s mind. Hatred of himself.

Rangorn raised his hands and looked at their pathetic, shriveled form. The vestiges of their last spell seemed ingrained into his hands as if to remind him that he had committed the ultimate act of defiance and blasphemy against Vorad. He considered ripping off his hands and burning them as an apology to Vorad, but his thoughts ended when the door to the jail swung open and a fat, balding soldier, who could not catch Rangorn let alone an enemy in the midst of battle, walked into the cell.

“Baron Uskban requests an audience with you.”

The presence of another person temporarily swept away Rangorn’s weakness and instilled within his voice a power and boldness that had given him fame in Uthdore.

“Ah, I see. Well, as you can tell, I am already engaged in thoughtful discourse with that moldy, decaying body over there. I am sure the Baron would understand my denying his audience in favor of far more intelligent conversation.”

The soldier, whose stoic features were clearly not amused by Rangorn’s haughty retort, unlocked Rangorn’s chains, forced him to his feet, and dragged him out of the cell. He took Rangorn down a long hallway filled with other jail cells which were just as vile as Rangorn’s had been. The smell was unbearable; many had died in these cells. Once Rangorn and the soldier had passed the last cell, the soldier brought Rangorn to a spiral staircase. The old man could barely step up each of the stone steps, partly due to his age and partly because he did not aspire to go anywhere near where the stairs led. He had been to the Castle many times in the past and he knew the halls all too well.

Once they had reached the top of the stairs, the soldier dragged Rangorn into another hallway. This hallway was far more familiar to Rangorn. The prideful Nystheris had lined the walls with animal heads and swords still bloody from the famous persons that they had killed. The merciless Nystheris were famous, rather infamous, for their unadulterated barbarism. Rangorn remembered studying the Nystheris as his eyes glanced up to find the mighty Sword of Magnak on the long Wall of Triumphs. Magnak had been leader of the Nystheris during the time when they were powerful enough to conquer the fief of Dragonfield, but a powerful Knight of Dragonfield had defeated Magnak in battle before their invasion could take place. The armies of Dragonfield quickly pushed the Nystheris to the outermost borders of Uthdore without their fearless leader to rally behind and there they have remained.

When the fat, heavily breathing soldier dropped Rangorn to the ground before Baron Uskban Nystheris, Rangorn nearly laughed. Uskban had not changed. He was still a wild, barely human looking bear of a man who belonged on the battlefield, not in a chair. He wore only the fur of animals he slaughtered and gutted personally. His untamable black hair matched his stubborn, uncompromising personality with surprising accuracy. Slung lazily around his shoulder was his great battle-axe, Woraugh, the mighty Hand of the god of Death: Skelar. The Dwarves had forged Woraugh solely for the purpose of committing genocide on a scale only the Nystheris could hope to achieve. As Rangorn’s eyes passed over the Baron’s mighty form, they barely noticed the figure slinking behind Uskban.

“You!” Rangorn yelled, wheezing as he pushed himself to his feet.

“My old master,” Alder said, stroking his long, black hair down with one fluid movement. “You have been quite naughty.”

Rangorn glanced to the soldiers surrounding him and noticed their spears. He took a deep breath and, having gained some of his strength back from the ritual, raised his arms. The spears of the soldiers flew out of their hands and straight at Alder’s snakelike visage.

Blue eyes flashed for a brief second in Rangorn’s mind. The spears stopped midair in front of Alder’s face. The young Mage smirked with a crooked smile meant to provoke only hatred.

“You would never kill a student, would you? You haven’t changed, Rangorn.” Alder said, stroking back his hair with slightly shaky hands.

Rangorn flinched and the spears fell out of the air and onto the ground. Uskban let out a hearty laugh at the scene transpiring before him.

“You Mages! You are far too powerful, aren’t you?” Uskban said. “I would have to guard myself well if I were ever in battle with one of you.”

“We exist to amaze you, my lord.” Rangorn said, regaining his composure and bowing mockingly.

The soldier’s surrounding Rangorn quickly ran to Alder, collected their spears furiously, and then forced Rangorn to his knees in front of the Baron once more.

“Come, come now, Rangorn. Control that fiery tongue of yours,” Uskban said. “You aren’t in Whiteholt under the same circumstances as before. You are no longer a legal Mage, are you? You were thrown out of the order.”

Rangorn looked away from the Baron, ashamed. Without the robes of a true Mage, Rangorn was simply a rogue. His tattered clothing only acted as a beacon of his banishment.

“And you seem to be under my power since you broke the law in Whiteholt. Using death magic is not tolerated here and you happened to have killed one of my soldiers by ripping his soul out.” Uskban said.

“Don’t you mean under his power?” Rangorn said, gesturing towards Alder.

Uskban’s face turned red with anger and he stood from his chair.

“I am the Baron of Whiteholt! I am the leader in this fief!” Uskban yelled, his hands grasping Woraugh and his immense arm flexing with animal-like anticpation.

Alder placed his hands on Uskban and the Baron calmed down. Rangorn smiled. He always knew what to say to anger someone into a fit of rage, a skill that had gotten him thrown into many prisons.

“What do you want with me, Alder? I strongly doubt that you want to reminisce with me. I am old and tired of you and your evil. If I broke the laws of magic, I should be handed over to the Mages’ Council. Torbel will deal with me as he sees fit.” Rangorn said.

“Torbel is no longer the High Mage, Rangorn.” Alder said.

Shock threw itself on Rangorn’s face, which put a pleased look in Alder’s face. Torbel had been the High Mage for decades. When Rangorn was just starting as an official Mage, Torbel took him under his wing and taught him all he knew. Rangorn assured himself that he would have heard news of this. Even if he had not been in contact with the Mages for some time, he surely would have heard of a change in the Mages’ Council.

Rangorn’s eyes darted towards Alder with an intensity that slapped the smug look off the young Mage’s face.

“Tell me that he died peacefully.” Rangorn demanded.

“He dreamed out of the world of the living.” Alder said, his face briefly reminding Rangorn of the child Alder had once been. However, the snake quickly took control of Alder’s body. The young Mage stroked back his dark hair and smiled. “People die. Torbel was old.”

Rangorn clutched his heart, the pain of so much death being too much for the Mage.

“Who replaced him? Raydan? Wardar?” Rangorn asked.

That evil smile crept across Alder’s face.

“I did.” Alder said.

“Impossible. You were not on the Council. You were not next in line to become the High Mage,” Rangorn said. “You don’t have the experience.”

“You will find that when the Mages’ Council meets in your fief, they will do whatever you say,” Uskban said, his bulbous figure undulating with a hearty laugh. “With some persuasion by Woraugh.”

“I see. Such common Nystheris tactics.” Rangorn said. “What about you, Alder? Are going to act like your Baron? Are you going to kill me, Alder? Are you going to try and surpass your master at last?”

“Although you think of me as evil, I was not the one who called for your services. I was merely the one who found an excuse to capture you. I was told to ask if you wanted to come peacefully, but I rather liked having you in prison.” Alder said.

Rangorn scoffed at Alder’s arrogance. The young Mage had once been curious and kind. However, curiosity was turned to ambition and kindness was changed to ruthlessness.

“Who needs my services?” Rangorn asked.

“King Ordyn Acktur.” Uskban answered.

“You lie.” Rangorn said, incredulously. “What use would the King of Uthdore have for me? He has Darech with him at all times. If he needs a powerful Mage, Darech is more than capable.”

“The King’s Mage is dealing with problems of his own at court.” Alder said.

“Disgusting specimen of a human, that Darech is. The King should be ashamed of himself. To think that someone like that is allowed in the service of the King.” Uskban said.

Ignoring the hateful words of his Baron, Alder continued. “The King requested you, Rangorn. Now that you have learnt the secrets of death magic, as evidence by the very soul being taken away from a man by your doing, he has much use for you. As you know, Sulryn of Osfort has begun a series of attacks on Baron Etmon Almos in Faymont.”

Rangorn looked to Uskban as soon as Sulryn’s name was mentioned.

“I do not wish to be involved in your revenge against Baron Sulryn.” Rangorn said to Uskban.

“He is not the Baron of Osfort!” Uskban said, standing and striding towards Rangorn with frightening ferocity. “The Nystheris ruled Osfort long before that fool and the Rothestwar stole it from us. Regardless, this has nothing to do with me. It is all for the King. I am simply fulfilling his wishes. Go on, Alder.”

The Baron spat at Rangorn and slowly returned to his Throne.

“Thank you, my lord. As I was saying, Sulryn has been attacking Faymont for around three years. The King cannot interfere with his troops because the Ice Beings of the North have clearly stated that any reinforcements near Faymont will be treated as a gathering army outside of their borders.”

Rangorn remembered meeting the Ice Beings many years ago. They were massive creatures of ice and frost, just as the Elves were beings of the trees, the Dwarves were beings of stone, and the Mer were beings of the sea.

“I can’t end wars, Alder. All I can do is start them. What does this have to do with me?” Rangorn asked.

“As you know, death magic is only legal in Osfort nowadays. All death Mages in Uthdore have fled their posts and flocked to Sulryn. The King has no idea what Sulryn is planning. As such, he has decided to send you to become his new Court Mage. You will gather information and then present that information to the King at the Gathering of Dragonfield in seven months time.” Alder said.

“What happened to Dentor?” Rangorn asked.

“I killed him during a Gathering of Mages,” Alder said, no shame in his voice. “We told Sulryn that he was killed by a spell gone awry.”

Rangorn could not breathe. Dentor was a kind soul, far too kind to be killed by the likes of Alder.

“How dare you!” Rangorn said, his frail voice finding some strength through anger. “You monster. You horrid monster. The King will know of your actions, you demon.”

Rangorn began to stand, but the soldiers surrounding him did not intend to allow him to leave.

“Did I fail you, Alder?” Rangorn asked, his throat growing dry as tears began to prod at the edges of his eyes.

“Excuse me?” Alder said.

“Did I fail you? Did I teach you wrong? How is it possible that I allowed you to become this?” Rangorn said.

“You taught me all you could, but I realized there are other things in life that are needed to succeed besides kindness and love,” Alder said. “I changed to fit the times.”

Rangorn shook his head, but refused to think of Alder as lost. But, he could not reform him now.

“The other Mages at the Court of Osfort will know my face,” Rangorn said. “There is no use becoming a spy if everyone knows who I am.”

“Alder already thought of that,” Uskban said. “He asked all of the Mages in Osfort who knew you to come to a room separate from the rest of the Mages during the Gathering.”

“You are keeping them as prisoners?” Rangorn asked.

“Of course not,” Alder said. “I killed them. We told Sulryn that it was some rogue Dwarves.”

“You have killed all of my comrades, Alder. My friends. What is to stop me from destroying this Castle and you?” Rangorn said, his heart growing heavy at the thought of each of the Mages in Osfort whom he had spoken to. Whom he had come to consider his friend.

“Because, Rangorn. We know where he is.”

The tears left Rangorn’s eyes. The pain subsided in his heart. Rangorn rose to his feet. The soldiers around him attempted to stop him, but with a determined wave of his hand and a flash of sad, blue eyes within his mind, the soldiers were blown backwards off their feet.

Uskban laughed. His bloodthirsty eyes seemed to praise Rangorn for his power.

“I thought you would come around. Once you complete the task the King of Uthdore has assigned you, we will tell you where he is. You leave for Dragonfield tonight.” Alder said.

“Why would I go to Dragonfield?” Rangorn asked.

“We are sending a Knight with you to become a part of the Order of Os,” Alder said. “He will act as your companion and give you protection.”

“And you swear, Alder, that if I complete this task, you will tell me where he is?” Rangorn asked.

“I swear that you will be with him again.” Alder said.

“And if I refuse?” Rangorn asked.

“We will torture you and ask you again tomorrow.” Alder said.