The Summoned

NOTE: This fantasy I have been writing on and off the last 3 years. I will post here a few chapters and would love to hear your comments! This is not a long, drawn out fantasy, but actually a short novella.

Chapter One

The sandervines cracked like whips in the howling wind, snapping harshly at the three dark figures who guarded their faces with their arms, thrusting them away without thinking.

The sandervines which, in this storm would have kept any normal hiker away, were but the least of their problems. Having ridden the length of the Median Mountains for weeks, they were now leading their mounts in the Great Forest in an area too populated with trees in order to ride. In almost complete silence, facing the wild animals and elements of that area, the three wizened faces inside their black cloaks marched resolutely as if they were decades younger. Even having slept so little, barely an hour here or there, they maintained a hardy pace as if these were just the first steps of their journey.

The grey clocked figure that was some distance behind them did his best to keep up, and if he couldn’t do that, at least to keep them in sight. They knew where they were going and had been in these parts before. He hadn’t, and knew that should he lose his way, they wouldn’t stop to find him.

Looking towards the heavens, he saw it was starting to rain. In truth, he felt like sitting down and crying, but this was not an option. Instead, he hunched his shoulders, hefted his pack, and jogged on to catch up. He was 52 years old, a young man in his prime. The three wizards before him were at least double that, but then, they were Mages of Magic and had gone through rites which had kept them robust. With all his years of study and, he was still just an apprentice.

Slapping at the hated sandervines, he recreated in his mind the secret meeting of The Brotherhood of Mages which took place not in Hi Town, the capital, but in the Mages’ Keep, hidden away in the Forest of Handle, some 250 leagues south, far away from High King Malden and his spies.

There the three Mages, headed by Reggen, had pleaded with their Brothers of the Cloak and had been rebuffed.

Being an Empath, he was able to conjure up the minutest details as if he was now standing there, and he shivered at the somber mood the Meet had been held in. The High Mage sat above them like a mountain cat, he eyes burning with passion.

“I allowed you three to force open what should have been left closed. I bowed to your arguments, those 10 years past. Not only did I permit you to do what no High Mage has tolerated in known history, but you have also failed! Your failure brought around the terrible events we witness today. Do you take me, and your brothers seated here as fools, to indulge you once again?”

He remembered seeing many heads nodding, but Reggen and his arrogance was not to be stifled.

“Failure? Do you put at my feet the deeds which bring us to this pass of events? Our need was dire before we attempted the Rites. It is all the more dire now! None of us”, he said and scanned the circle of seated Mages that surrounded him and his two supporters, The Brother Mages, as they were known, Wolc and Tormos, who stood with him on the floor of the Rotunda, “Not even Cadif whose glimpses of the future caused us to decide to use The Summons, foretold the bizarre effect of what we were all decided on doing!”

The High Mage looked to his side at Cadif who grimaced and rung his hands, and then nodded. “True as this may be, and even the high regard we, your Brothers, all hold for you all, Reggen, and you, Wolc and Tormos, we cannot dare use the Bloodmagic once again, especially now that Malden, our “High King” is tainted and corrupted by this very same Bloodmagic!”

Many of the Mages were startled by the High Mage’s specific use of the word, some of them looking up as if demons would fall from the sky, but Reggen was unperturbed and resolute. Wolc and Tormos blanched, both knowing what awaited this Meet, but both fully willing to support Reggen, come what may.

Curiously, Reggen’s demeanor became calm, unbecoming to what he would say next. He took several moments to look from Brother to Brother seated above the Rotunda, and mayhap some of them thought he would relent.

“It pains me deeply”, he finally said, eyes down, embarrassed almost, “That you do not fully understand the real choices we stand before. “Then Reggen’s eyes lifted, and one could almost see the flames flashing in them, “But I, together with Wolc and Tormos, few that we may be, recognize that our choices are in reality but one, and though it be fraught with danger - we will set out now to do what needs be done!”

And with that the three Mages left the Rotunda and made their way to the Gate leading out into the Forest of Handle where the rain fell more like mist than a proper shower like they were under here in the forrest. Just as he was doing now, Reggen’s apprentice hurried in their footsteps, none of them heeding the beginning of the High Mage’s Excommunication Rites upon them.

He found himself torn from these thoughts as he bumped into Wolc, not realizing that they had arrived. They stood at the edge of a small clearing in the forest, inside which he could make out in the moonlight a black alter-like stone, maybe three spans tall towards the center.

“Emet”, Reggen called him without even looking back to see if he had arrived, “Bring your pack and get ready the rite.”

Chapter Two

Haven slowly eased his aching body into the hot water, savoring the sensation of being enveloped in warmth and safety. The weather had been hot and dusty, the ride long and hard, and the fight at the end of that ride even harder. He didn’t want to think about it, but the images came unbidden; the grunts and the curses of men and women being reduced to beasts, the slashing of blades accompanied by screams, the sighs of a dead man’s last breath, feet slipping on blood and guts.

Before he knew it, a sharp Erubian double blade nicked his throat, a strong arm held him across his chest and a hiss brought hot air into his left ear. Tensing, he tried to move, and the blade lifted up his skin, and a trickle of blood ran down over the arm holding him. This was not the time to ask questions. He knew he had enemies, many of them which would love nothing more than to cut his throat. He prayed that the guard he had stationed at the entrance to the bath was somehow alive.

He forced his body to relax, signifying surrender, and waited for any movement, even the smallest of his foe’s blade arm. When finally that slight movement came, he was ready. His right arm shot up and in a split of a second, slapping the knife away, and with his left, pulled from behind. His attacker’s body went flying over him into the hot water, head first. Jumping up he grasped and held the head below water while it jerked back and forth, doing its best to get free. Haven smiled grimly as the woman’s naked body thrashed under his hands, and when he deemed she had had enough, he pulled her to her feet.

Sputtering and gaging, she smiled proudly. “I got you!” She yelled. “I got you and you know it!”

Sitting back down into the water, his eyes lingered on her naked body, small, lithe but incredibly strong.  She was smiling as if she had done the impossible, and he didn’t have it in himself to disappoint her.

Whipping the blood from his throat, he bowed his head towards her, “Now there is blood in the bath water. At least sit in it with me”, he laughed and reaching out slapped her soundly in the ass.

“Ouch!”

Pulling her down, he kissed her and ran his hands up and down her sides. “I love when you say ‘ouch’… it sounds so foreign.”

His hands were all over her, but she pushed them away. His eyebrows shot up arrogantly. She moved her head back, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

“Be serious a moment, and maybe you will get lucky.”

“Lucky?” Haven pronounced with a heavy tongue.

“Another foreign word. Forget it. First tell me. How did I fight today?”

He moved back against the side of the bath, got himself into a comfortable sitting position, and tried to bring up those first images of her. He had attempted to teach her how to fight, to use a long blade, a dagger, a bow. She wanted so much to learn, and for months, trained his way and did all he told her. He had yelled, he had insisted, he had beaten and bruised her, hitting her as a Castle WarMaster would a young recruit, but the results had been more than disappointing, she had been terrible. She couldn’t remember the Seven Layers of the sword, the Eight Holds of a staff, nor the Secret of the Bow. She couldn’t seem to grasp the essentials of becoming a warrior, even if Cadif had “seen” she would become legend nor the insistence of Reggen that he keep at her training. It just didn’t work.

She tried, oh, yes, she tried. He had never seen anyone so small who could be so headstrong, so willing to follow his every command, so adamant to excel. Day after dogged day, she would get up early and bath, don her uniform, and stand before him.

Even so, he refused to give in and promote her. He rejected all her entreaties, all her pleading; sometimes she resorted to using violence, sometimes even using sex – damn – she wouldn’t take him to bed for a month once!

Even so, this redhead of a foreigner, stubborn as she may be, had met her match. Haven would not allow her into battle. She wouldn’t survive.

When she had been brought to him, that first day, the Mage had told him she was a Dancer. It was strange, since at first, Haven had thought that Reggen had brought him a whore. He should have known, Reggen was no pimp, and didn’t bring ‘presents’.

But he didn’t know that then.

“A Dancer? Is that her Magic?” he asked, smirking.

“No”, Reggen told him sharply, “She can communicate with animals. But she Dances.”

Haven was taken aback. He was used to Reggen being reticent, but this was taking things too far.

Ah, what an arrogant fool he had been back then!

“A Dancer. So, Reggen the Mage”, he baited him, “brings me a dancer”. When he saw that Reggen did not take the bait, he turned to the girl. She had red hair. Was it colored? He tried to think of where in this world do women color their hair red, but could not come up with an answer.

He waved his hand at her and sat down, “Please, dance!”

At first she looked at Reggen, her eyes squinting into what looked like a threat. Now that was unique! But when Reggen nodded to her, she stood straight, arms down by her sides, and looked at Haven.

Without music she moved, and the concept itself was so startling, it took him some time before he realized he was not breathing. At first, just an arm, her right arm, gracefully lifted, her head tilted to follow it. Bending one knee she moved out her leg so gently that Haven was sure she would fall over. That was the last thing he could remember, before she again, minutes later, stood before him, and he had to force himself to close his mouth, which hung open.

He had, of course, seen all sorts of dance from the East to the West and beyond, but this was magic! He felt like a young boy, he felt like crying, and could feel a slight pain in his chest. Clearing his throat, he turned to Reggen, but found that the Mage had left him alone with this woman.

“My Lady”, he said full of admiration, “I have never seen anything like this in all my life. What is this Dance called?”

She looked at him. She knew she had him. She knew he knew it also. She knew he knew that she knew.  What he did not know is that Cadif, the Seer Mage, had told her it would be. ‘So’, she thought to herself, ‘these Mages know their magic!” Looking at Haven her heart pitched.

Smiling, she told him. “We call it Ballet.”

Then came that fateful day, the day that changed lives; his, hers, and the lives of The Kingdom.

He awoke that day feeling terrible. She had not slept in his bed at night, not a good sign, but whatever could he do? He would not allow her to join battle. Even if she wasn’t the love of his life, even if she had been a trainee, one that he didn’t even know, he could not allow it. Katya would never make it through a day of true fighting. She could get mad. She could get violent, she could leave his bed forever, but he could not permit her to fight. Reggen would be enraged at him, but he would have to understand.

Going to wash his face at the pump, he looked up towards the sun, and shielding his eyes, he could see her on the near hill top. He thought she was Dancing, but then he thought that maybe she was practicing with a sword. It was hard to see.

People in the world did not have red hair. Finding out that her hair was not colored, but was, in truth, red, was, like many things about her, very disturbing. She told him that red hair where she came from was not “just” a color. It was, she explained, a character. Red hair meant temperament. Red hair meant fire. Red hair meant stubborn. Red hair meant passion. Red hair demanded. It demanded a mate who could be strong enough to hold on.

“I promise you”, she told him after they had first made love and he lay on his back not understanding what had just happened to him, “If you can hold me, you will never want to let go” .

Taking one last look at her on the hill top, he left for the town, where he had some business.

The next morning, Katya was standing outside of his tent when he emerged.

“Go wash, but hurry” she told him impertinently, “I want to teach you something.”

Haven washed and came back. As always with Katya, he was intrigued.

Returning to his tent, Katya was still standing as he had left her. “Get your sword!” she ordered him.

Standing at first position, he nodded at her to begin. He expected her to use, or try to use, one of the usual moves, but he was completely surprised. She moved gracefully to the left, arm and leg coming out straight, and then she turned a full turn, her sword coming dangerously close to his neck which was still attached to his body only because he shot out his own sword at the last moment. Darting away, he soon found her going this way and that with moves he had never seen before from a swordsman. It was like fighting the wind, swaying back and forth, and no matter which way he thought she would move, he was constantly stymied. Just keeping himself alive took all his concentration when he realized that he had seen those moves before.

“You’re Dancing that Ballet!” he yelped and parried another thrust to his midsection. Panting he put up his hand in submission.

“You cannot do that!” he yelled. “That is not done! That won’t work! That… is ..amazing!”

Katya smirked at him and sheathed her sword.

Chapter Three

Under the watchful eyes of Reggen, and The Brother Mages, Emet set the Tools for the Rite on the altar of stone. Using a simple Magic, he dried the stone itself, and then went about making the intricate symbols he had learned from Wolc. At a gesture from Reggen, Wolc moved closer and noted each move closely. Emet finished making the summons symbol and looked up. Wolc nodded solemnly, but Emet hesitated. He must not fail them like he had in the past. He motioned with his hand that he needed a minute more. Apprentice he may be, but he knew so much depended on him. He took this minute to do a “Cleansing”, an Empath meditation to clear himself of all ego and desire. This meditation was difficult, but Emet knew from his past experience to be essential to what they were about to do.

Emet opened his eyes and looked at the Mages around him. Reggen nodded his encouragement, and it all began.

Settling into a trance to keep his work pure, Emet insulated himself until he could not see anything but his work; not the wind and rain, and not the close scrutiny of the Mages. Just as he had trained dozens of times, his hands deftly moved the Tools into their place which constructed the complex design. He could feel the darkness hovering, but any doubts he had about participating in a rite of BloodMagic were long past and had no place in his heart; he was more than able to keep the darkness from penetrating further.

Emet’s Empathy allowed him, of course, to reconstruct each word, each nuance, each warding that his first Instructor, the Mage Galen, had used in one of his first classes at the seminary.

“BloodMagic”, Galan’s voice boomed out, “Is the source of all Evil. Those who use it, even those who contemplate using it are cursed. In simple cases, excommunication from the Brotherhood of Mages is mandatory. Severe cases means death. “

Emet went on to fill a Chalice with a liquid from the small bottle he carried. Slow minutes slipped by while he held the chalice in both his hands, the three Mages circling him, chanting. Feeling a drop of water on the tip of his nose, he breathed slow and deep breaths which helped him to keep motionless, knowing that even the slightest move may harm the rite.

At length, the Mages stopped their movement and turned towards the Chalice. Tormos looked up to the heavens and waved a slow hand. A bluish aura surrounded them, and all inside became sheltered from both wind and rain. Without hesitating, Reggen procured a small golden dagger from his belt, lifted his left arm and cut along the inside of his wrist. Slightly bending over, he allowed for one drop of his blood to drip into the Chalice. Wolc was next to take the dagger, and his brother Tormos last.

As the third drop touched the liquid inside the Chalice, lightning tore across the sky, the ensuing crack of thunder deafening. The Mages, unperturbed, did not even look up. Joining their hands under the Chalice that Emet held and they again began to chant in unison, phrase after phrase.

Snatches of illumination from the lightning allowed Emet to see their faces, intense and foreboding. Their hearts beat as one, as did their belief that the merit of this act would outdo the BloodMagic, it’s outcome somehow allowing their world to be put back into its’ proper place. There was no other choice.

As the chanting continued, so did the fierce lightning, and Emet began to see a form appear on the stone. When he could just make out the face of a man, it would disappear again, fading into nothing. The Mages’ chanting became louder, and several bolts of lightning directly hit the outer perimeter of the aura; Emet stiffened, doing all he could not to move.

Then, all at once, as if, somehow the lightning conceded defeat, it ended, and the chanting stopped. Looking at the Altar, Emet saw a young man lying down upon it, pale and unconscious. The Mages rushed to his side and left Emet standing, holding the Chalice, his mouth agape.

Tormos gingerly put his hands on the young man’s chest, and Emet could see color seeping back into his slack face. Coughing once or twice feebly, The Summoned began to breathe his first breaths in this world. Emet felt a lurch in his chest, as if his own heart had just begun to beat, and tears formed in his eyes.

While the three hooded Mages exchanged glances, Emet sent out his first empathic message to the new arrival, one he himself could not fully understand, but nonetheless, one of unquestioned loyalty, and friendship. No – not just a message, but a vow.

“Quickly!” Reggen commanded.