John’s hand dug into the steep cliff face. His nails bled as chunks of rock cut beneath them. Despite the mountains apparent staccato, it lacked quality handholds.
His staff was tied securely to his pack, and his sword was dangling, but secure, on his belt. He wore nothing but an undershirt and slacks, for heavier clothing would only get in the way. The protective charm he had put on his fingers to help him climb had long since been canceled by the mountain.
John’s hand caught an easy handhold, and his feet gripped a chunk of rock, and he rested for a few minutes. Not even a fifth of the way up the mountain, and he was already exhausted.
He wiped his hands clean, one at a time, upon his scuffed pants, and continued upward. The sun set completely, and cool air upon John’s neck helped him pick up the pace. Soon, his arms were covered in blood from his raw hands and he was forced to take another break.
‘The blood would surely attract the parasite,’ he thought,
‘lets hope tonight isn’t the time to feed.’
A blazing light shined into his eyes. A large hand was thrust through it, and proffered to John. He took it, and was pulled into a small cave. A young man, no older than nineteen, stood before him. John recognized him immediately, and bowed; touching his forehead to the ground.
Darco Stari; eleventh mage of the elemental regions. One of the greatest wizards of all time.
‘Of course!’ John thought,
‘This is his region!’
Darco looked John up and down, then gave him an awkward look, as though expecting him to say something.
“Why are you here?”
“Well, I-”
“Silence.”
“But-”
“Sh…”
“Stop telling me to be quiet!”
Darco stared at John for what seemed like an eternity. His eyes bored into John’s harder than would seem possible. Cold, dark eyes; yet kind at the same time. John was forced to avert his gaze and stare at his scuffed sandals.
“You must learn to respect your elders,” Darco said.
“But…you’re not much older than me.”
“Looks are deceiving. Wizards are…immortal. I am, in fact, older than your Grandfather Michael,” Darco said.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Do you not want my help?”
“That’s not what I said. Why are you here? Is there some
reason you’re helping me?” John asked.
“Not really,” Darco shrugged, “I just thought this cave might be useful to you, as it is now raining and you would have fallen off from exhaustion if you had continued climbing.”
“I must hurry,” John said, “There is a man who will reach the mountain’s summit if I do not get there first.”
“Sh…” Darco said quietly. John was about to object, but noticed the seriousness of Darco’s face. “There are people out there…” Darco pointed lazily out into the darkness. John was sure he could hear the clanking of metal on stone over the loud whine of the wind and the swishing of the rain.
He tightened the grip on his staff, and saw Darco quietly draw his short sword. A hand gripped the ledge of the cave, and tried to pull it’s body up. As soon as a head peered over it, a blast of red light burst from Darco’s staff, and the man fell to the sharp rocks below. Immediately, a dozen more people attempted to climb through the opening at once. John stood frozen as Darco hacked at them with his blade.
“What are you doing?” Darco yelled, “Get over here and help me!”
“But…how do you know they want to hurt us?”
“Maybe it is because they have their swords drawn?”
“Well, so do you-”
A throwing knife imbedded itself in the cave wall three inches from John’s ear. He ran to the edge, drawing his sword, and helped Darco fend off the attackers. Far below, a man with one hand could be seen making slow progress up the mountain.
John lifted his staff and sent a bolt of electricity toward the Wizard. John gasped as the bolt struck the man’s head, and bounced off as if a shield had deflected it. The Wizard was only fifteen feet away from the cave now. He sped up, and John could see his severed hand bleeding profusely because of the sharp rocks.
The man reached the ledge of the cliff, and climbed over it. Darco was busy blasting the other climbers to notice as the man lifted a dagger and brought it down upon his back.
The dagger clatter to the ground, with a hand clamped firmly around it. John held his long sword to the man’s temple
There was a flash of light, and the man disappeared.
“The storm has passed,” Darco said, “I think you should continue your climb.”
“Thank you.”
Swinging a rope around his head, upon which was a small grappling, he hooked it to the upper ledge of the cave. He then climbed up the rope, and out into the cool morning air.
After a good night’s rest in the cave, the climb didn’t seem so exhausting. It seemed only a few hours, however, before the sun sank below the plane, and the world became dark. A glint of gold above him showed that he was close to his objective. His vigour renewed, John was soon lifting himself onto the smooth peak. The ground below his feet was smooth and golden. Before him was an altar, taller than he. A short set of stairs led up to a pedestal, upon which sat an Orb.
It glowed a dark, blood red; Fire seemed to burn at its depths. As John reached to pick it up, a tall ring of fire burst from the pedestal surrounding the Orb. John, however, kept his hand where it was. It didn’t burn, but rather gave him a funny, tingling feeling.
“Jonathon,” a deep voice said.
John turned quickly, pulling his hand out of the fire; behind him stood a tall figure. The voice was easily recognizable as the person from the capital, who John had not seen. The person wore a smooth, metal mask, that hid all facial features. A long cape dragged behind, and an awkward red outfit covered every inch of his body. John gripped his sword hilt tightly.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“You know who I am. I am Aramonde,” the person said.
“You cannot reach the orb. It is…blocked,” John said, biding his time.
“Ah, of course,” the figure said with a laugh, “Though I already know that the fire there is for decoration, not to injure or protect.” Aramonde lifted his staff, thrust it before him, and sent John flying sideways. Aramonde simply walked toward the altar and put his hand through the fire.
A terrible searing sound, and the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air, and Aramonde was sent flying backwards. As his head hit the ground, the mask flew off, skidded a few feet, and dropped down the side of the mountain.
Underneath was a woman. Pale in complexion, but quite beautiful. John only had a second to look into her eyes before she disappeared.
Pitch black eyes, as if they had taken all the hate in the world into their depths.
“That orb is your…soul.”
“Wha-?”
“That,” Darco said, from behind him, “That Orb is your soul,” Darco said, “The most important object to all wizards. One will appear only when its destined owner is strong enough to wield it.”
“What can I do with it?”
“It can simply be carried, or used as a particularly strong weapon,” Darco said, “But most Wizards carve them into their staves.”
John noticed that Darco himself had such an orb in his staff, though it was a dark blue, and looked like ice.
“It is very rare for an orb to appear on Mount Altarone,” Darco said, “Only a few of the great Wizards had there’s here.”
“So…I’m special?”
“Yes.”
“Cool, I guess,” John said, shrugging, “What do Orbs do?”
“Orbs amplify magical ability,” answered Darco, “One who has their own orb shall prevail over their enemies almost always.”
“Does Aramonde have one?”
“No,” said Darco, “She left before she finished her training. There is much she does not know, and it is because of this ignorance that you can defeat her.”
“My training is not over yet either…” John said, looking ashamed, “I most likely know
less than her.”
“There is one thing…I may teach you…”
“Stop, traitor,” Darco said.
Aramonde, who no longer wore her mask, stopped in place as she passed the threshold of the door out of her throne room. She turned, he cloak blowing dramatically behind her; John scoffed at the unnecessary flourish, and recognized immaturity.
He wore a new outfit: A smooth, dark blue vest, over a blood red shirt, with his normal black cape. His sword was affixed to his belt, and his staff was gripped tightly in his hand; the orb was infused in its tip.
John had matured in a simple few weeks that he had trained under Darco. He wore an air of authority, and it was hard to take one’s eyes off of him, for he could dominate a scene with ease.
“I am no traitor, Jonathon,” Aramonde said.
“But you are. You took the oath, and broke it.”
Aramonde dismissed this, and addressed a different topic. “How did you get by Hashite?”
“Gods do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards.”
“You are no Wizard. You have not fulfilled your right of passage!” Fear crept into her voice, though she tried to hide it.
“I am fulfilling my right of passage right now. And it
will be fulfilled.
You are not a Wizard yet.”
“I am the greatest Wizard that ever
lived!” She yelled, “Feel. My. Strength.”
The girl lifted her staff and muttered a series of words. John laughed.
“You still have to speak the incantations?” he taunted, “You are weaker than I thought!”
Though his insults were misplaced. A second later, he was blasted off of his feet by a bolt of light. Without even getting up, he sent a red stream of energy toward Aramonde. It hit her in the stomach, and she started to twitch violently. John stood up and observed her.
He had not meant to send a spell so powerful. His orb glowed wickedly.
He raised his hand, palm facing outward, and sent a stream of fire from its center. The fire hit Aramonde in the forehead, and she fell to her knees. John broke the spell by lowering his hand slowly.
From three doorways at the other end of the throne room walked a group of soldiers, followed by two of the three dark wizards. At the sight of John, they all raised their swords. Aramonde got up, a look of triumph on her face.
“You hid behind those who follow you out of fear,” John said, “You think them worthy of your trust? They will abandon you at their first chance.”
“These are my servants,” Aramonde said, “They do what they’re told.”
John saw each of the faces twitch as she said this, as if they were her slaves. At that moment, he knew he was right.
Aramonde continued to walk backward, placing her soldiers between her and danger. A look of disgust flashed across their faces. “Kill him.”
They strung their bows and brandished their swords. There was an almost deafening war cry; the glass room above them shattered, and seven soldiers fell down between John and Aramonde. They were immediately swinging their swords, and within seconds the room was a confused riot.
John didn’t move, but simply stared at Aramonde, who whore a look of mingled fury and astonishment. He stepped forward and drew his sword. She did the same.
They clashed in the center of the large fight. Her lack of prowess in magic didn’t affect her sword skill, and she was very deft. John was forced to roll and duck to avoid vicious swings. Each swipe of his sword was parried skillfully. It was only a few seconds until he had a dozen cuts and bruises and sweat dripped down his back.
He ripped off his cloak and gloves, for they restrained his movement. The hilt of his sword was soon slipper with sweat as he weaved in and out for both offensive and defensive maneuvers. Aramonde was almost untouched.
After twenty minutes of battle, all of Aramonde’s soldiers were dead or had fled the scene, except for her wizard disciples. The small group of seven still stood. The Wizards through spell after spell at the group; knocking them constantly off their feet and throwing them into seizures or worse.
John was tiring, and he bled from many places. He felt his health slowly draining away. Then, to Aramonde’s astonishment, he backed away. Kneeling down and closing his eyes, a red, transparent ball of energy formed itself around him. His skin seemed to pulse with light.
Then he stood, with not a single cut upon his body, breathing smoothly.
“What the h-”
But she was cut off as John lunged at her again. Their swords clashed and slid off each other.
Then it was all over. Aramonde looked down to notice two swords piercing her stomach and chest at the same time. John pulled his sword out of her heart, while a silver short sword, which had gone completely through her, was pulled from her back.
She bled from the mouth and stumbled backward, horrified. Then she fell to the ground and moved no more.
“Jonathon?”
“Yes?”
“Welcome to our ranks.”
“I am honored,” Jonathon, son of Rhian said.
