Chapter One
The shrouded figure huddled stone-faced against the scarred granite of the deserted building and gazed down the broad, ravaged avenue. Violent winds howled through the alleyways and streets, raising spirals of dust and debris that assumed brief lives of their own before they dissipated and toppled vapidly onto the growing piles of the disfigured and discarded remnants of this once proud city. The air was thick with the powder of disintegration. Steam rose in billowing clouds from the stones that paved the mighty roadways and it sizzled and hissed as it clogged the heavy breeze with its humid mass and pungent smell. The stench of death was in the air, and the hounds of Sedahar were not far behind.
Huge cracks and crevices ruptured the meticulous stonework of the avenues and emitted a caustic and almost liquid flow which covered everything it touched with a clinging, deciduous slime. Terrifying crashes shattered the melodious calm of the heat’s devastatingly silent decimation, signaling another collapse of a once grand and noble edifice. The charred and withered remains of what was at one time lush vegetation littered the sidewalks, entangled amidst the abandoned carts, wagons and other symbols of the civilization that thrived here. Piles of clothing and relinquished personal belongings, only a short while ago cherished by and meaningful to their former owners, were everywhere; a sad and poignant testimony to what erstwhile was.
Premoran tugged on the ends of his cloak and wrapped himself more tightly, a stoic expression etched upon his ancient face, as he mournfully witnessed the final death knell of his beloved Calambria.
“Come, Teetoo. It is time for us to depart. We can be of no more help here,” he said to his youthful, dark-haired companion, heavy-hearted and resigned. “The sooner we are on our way the better now.”
The almost human-looking boy partially hidden in the adjacent alcove, raised his chin sadly and his saucer-like eyes panned the evolving landscape. He stepped forward and nodded to Premoran slowly, clearly disinclined to accept his friend’s suggestion. Teetoo lifted his arm as if to point and the translucent, almost evanescent filament that ran from the bottom of his thumb to a point just above his waist, stretched and billowed slightly, filling with the blowing, acrid air. As he moved to raise his other arm, the older man admonished him quickly but gently.
“It is unsafe, Teetoo. Do not fly again until we are gone from here. Walk with me. We should depart side by side. That would be more appropriate.”
The youth frowned and dropped his arms, the flaps all but vanishing, so fine and delicate.
“You are probably right. I just wanted to look at the city once more from the heights. I desired that memory for myself,” he said, his eyes all the while scanning the skies expectantly.
“It is better that you remember Calambria as it was, not as it now is. Blessed are those who can find what good there is to preserve in that which is lost, rather than vainly seek what is no more and will never be again,” the older man frowned.
“I suppose so,” he responded, still yearning to take flight nevertheless.
Premoran motioned for the boy to join him as he stepped onto the precisely carved stones of the roadway. Teetoo was about to follow when a brilliant orb of shimmering light emerged from nowhere, streaked down the highway and burst directly upon his friend’s chest, knocking him hard to the ground. Dazed from the impact, Premoran fought to right himself and regain his footing, as Teetoo scrambled immediately to his aid. The boy bent down, lifted his friend’s head with the palm of his hand and gently leaned over him in order to look directly into his eyes. They were unusually clear and vibrant, despite the shock of the encounter, and it was apparent that he was not seriously harmed. The old man spoke softly and earnestly. It was instantly obvious that he was shaken by whatever had just transpired and that the event unequivocally weighed heavily upon his heart.
“I am the last now, Teetoo. She is gone. I have received of her what yet remains,” he spoke somberly and sadly, shrugging off the pain of the recent impact as he attempted to rise. “Calista is no more. She will be grievously missed. May the First protect us all.”
Teetoo remained silent for a moment, absorbing the heartbreaking news, as the forces whipping the city intensified suddenly. The clamor surrounding them grew louder and louder, drowning out their voices even as they attempted to shout to each other. Lightning lit up the southern sky and an oppressive blackness obscured what little sunlight struggled to illuminate the littered streets. The violent winds lifted the very foundations of the city and created a horrific and turbid uproar.
Premoran leapt to his feet, and with the grimmest of expressions etched upon his timeworn face, he stepped into the roadway. The raging gusts temporarily subsided in his immediate vicinity, whether out of fear or respect, as he silently strode across the paved avenue and headed for the shattered gates of the once mighty city and the broad avenue that stretched expansively northward. Teetoo followed closely at his side.
The space immediately encircling the two survivors remained calm and clear as if an invisible and impenetrable sphere encircled and protected them both, despite the earsplitting pandemonium that increased, concurrent with the renewal of the decimation of the city. As they drew closer and closer to their final egress, the mighty streets that they had regretfully abandoned erupted wildly, spewing forth molten lava and sizzling steam which engulfed everything in its path. The two joyless figures lumbered through the devastated entrance, departing their beloved city. As soon as their feet were clear of the gates, what remained of heroic Calambria imploded upon itself, collapsing and crumbling into the venomous jaws that opened wide to swallow it. Shooting shards of stone and debris, flames, destruction and fury signaled their final departure. The two friends walked defiantly forth and neither the Wizard nor the Weloh deigned to look backward again.
It was but one tiel and two ago when the great Lalas Acire, chose to die. For ages untold, she had watched over Calambria, and along with her Chosen Theran, insured the city’s well being. The Lalas grew upon a broad knoll south of the massive walls. Its root structure spread voluminously in all directions, solidifying the soil within which it radiated into an impenetrable barrier and thus shielding Calambria from anything and everything that sought to undermine its foundation. A river of fresh and pure water flowed beneath the splendid tree, constantly cleansed and refined by it as it passed through Acire’s mass.
Calambria occupied a place at the promontory of a narrow peninsula to the southwest of the elfin kingdom of Seramour. It was precariously near the forbidden territories of Colton dar Agonthea, but the presence of a Lalas as wondrous and prodigious as Acire provided constant reassurance to the entire populace. Theran was a noble Chosen of the tree, formidable on the battlefield yet gentle and kind when not engaged in combat. Concurrently, they assisted as Calambria grew to be the considerable power that it became.
The indigenous bedrock of the territory provided the citizens with ample material out of which they carved and constructed a magnificent metropolis. The people of Calambria were hard working and intelligent, and the cool waters that constantly flowed beneath its walls kept the normally hot southern temperatures down to a comfortable level. The city thrived for countless tiels, and was a shining example of a successful Republic. No monarch ruled therein, but instead an elected official governed. Political corruption was rarely an issue, as the prosperity of the city inured to all who lived there, generating little reason for anyone to be greedy or dishonest. The caves to the north that dotted the hillsides just above the sea’s lapping waters, were blessed with an almost endless supply of gems merely waiting to be mined. Calambria was the major supplier of precious stones to the surrounding kingdoms, and therefore the city rarely wanted for commerce, or the means with which to supply itself. Truly a Utopia, it appeared to many to be.
Premoran, the Wizard, took a special liking to this city, and he visited it as often as he could. He had a particularly close relationship with Acire and Theran both. Often, he would remain in Calambria for weeks on end, joyously participating in the good fortune of the populace.
There was barely a warning before the Lalas surrendered its soul to the earth. The people of the city had felt the pain of loss before, as another of the nearby trees had died a half-tiel earlier than Acire. Yet, no one ever expected a Lalas as great as theirs to succumb to whatever was plaguing the race. It was truly shocking the day that Acire died. The population mourned the loss so thoroughly and profoundly that it was difficult even to arise in the morning. Adults sobbed and children ceased their play. Even the animals walked around with their heads hanging down, lost and forlorn.
Premoran arrived the day after Acire departed the world. He had visited Calambria often in the past and the people always rejoiced in his company. This time though his appearance was hardly acknowledged, the people were so preoccupied with their grief. Furthermore, he brought with him a knowledge of events to come that even he was reluctant to impart to the city’s leaders. With the passing of Acire, Calambria was precariously close to disintegration itself. The great tree had kept the city safe from the lava flows which radiated outward from Sedahar, home to the Evil One, Colton dar Agonthea, the proponent of darkness, the bringer of death. Its massive root structure shielded the substrata from everything, prohibiting the undermining of the city. In the absence of the Lalas, nothing would prevent the destructive floes from destroying Calambria.
Premoran’s sad task in addition to bidding his farewell to Acire, was to advise the city’s leaders of their imminent plight. It was one of the most difficult and painful things he had ever had to do in his long lifetime. Everyone loved Calambria so, and with good reason. But, he advised them without any doubt, that the city was doomed and the sooner they began to make plans to evacuate it, the easier the transition would be.
At first, the officials looked for ways to remedy the situation. They refused to accept the cruel heart of fate and they searched in vain for ways to reinforce their underground borders. But soon enough, it became evident even to the most diehard disbelievers that the end was approaching. One morning, not long after the city council convened to discuss what options they believed they had, the main wells in the heart of the city began to emit a pungent steam. As the sun rose and the normal chores and tasks of the day commenced, the word spread quickly. All who ventured to the wells that sad morning were repulsed by what they discovered. The water was warm and cloudy, not clear and cool as before. It smelled of death, and panic quickly spread among the citizens. Shortly, everyone was up and about, gathering at the great fountains around which they formerly celebrated their good fortune.
The leaders convened with Premoran at their head. He gently reminded them of his initial warnings, understanding their disinclination to believe him at first, and bearing no ill will against any of them for it. But, as he reiterated now, it was time to begin the evacuation of Calambria.
Premoran did not know precisely how much time they had left, and in his own way, he prolonged the life of the city as long as he could. Nevertheless, he knew from the very day that Acire died, what would eventually become of this great metropolis, and he mourned according to his ways for both the city and its populace, as well as for his beloved Acire and Theran. These were tragic days indeed. He encouraged the leaders to organize the departure as soon as possible. The old man was fully aware of what would eventually become of those who remained. The city was dying and anyone or anything that stayed behind would perish with it.
The citizens of Calambria naturally resisted the acceptance of the need to abandon their homes and livelihoods. The city was ancient and it had survived so much in the past that they could hardly believe that its demise was imminent. Premoran exhorted them, along with a very cooperative council, and slowly but surely, many recognized what they had to do.
Initially, even the council believed that they could still save the city. They tried to divert the polluted waters elsewhere. They attempted to dam the flow of lava. They even endeavored to dig a channel and redirect the cool waters of the sea toward the city. That particular effort was doomed from the start, as the city was perched upon a hill above the waters and no matter what elephantine efforts the people exerted, they could not raise the water enough to accomplish what they required. Premoran allowed them their folly, knowing in his heart that the good people of Calambria needed to do whatever they could on their own before they would accept their fate.
One grey and steamy afternoon, during what had become quite frequent meetings on the part of the leaders of the republic, Premoran felt that it was in their best interests at that juncture to allow them to see what was in store for their beloved city, although it pained him terribly to have to do so. He had the council leader seal the doors of the chamber and then he removed from his cloak an ancient disk of an indiscernible nature which he placed upon the massive stone of the table. He spoke the words of power and an image of sad intensity began to form just above the disk. Within it, the city of Calambria literally sprouted. Recognizable buildings rose to great heights, while parks and fields and houses formed as if they were growing within the image.
It was at first quite beautiful to behold, and those watching were invigorated by the perfection of the vision. Shortly though, great fissures began to appear in the sides of the towers. Steam shrouded the streets and piece by piece, the buildings began to collapse into themselves. The avenue turned red with heat and the image glowed with a deathly fire. Premoran sought to spare them the worst of the process, as the circumstances were difficult enough to bear without the pain of seeing the final moments before they even occurred. But, he had to be certain that they realized the inevitable fate which would befall Calambria. He allowed them to suffer only as long as it took for true recognition to set in, and when he finally sensed their unanimous acceptance of what was to be, he allowed the image to disappear as quickly as it initially formed.
That was a sad, sad day for them all. The council members departed the chamber with their heads downcast and their spirits shattered. No further words needed to be spoken. The visions were sufficient, though markedly painstaking to witness. It could not be helped though, and Premoran left the room in no better a mood than the others. He refused to force the evacuation and he therefore hoped that the people would leave voluntarily once they fully realized the grave nature of their situation.
Premoran himself left the council chamber and made his way purposefully out of the building. He walked without hesitating, directly for the monumental gates to the city. As he passed through them, he envisioned the city tragically devoid of life and the magnificent gates shattered and broken. His imagination, he knew, was more than speculation, and his premonitions were more like predictions than conjectures. His heart ached at the thought, while he continued on his way.
He climbed the grassy knoll whereupon Acire once flourished. It pained him greatly to walk on the parched soil and brown grass and to gaze upon the remains of his ancient friend. He could remember little else in his long lifetime that hurt him so. Yet, it was necessary that he do this and he knew that better than anyone.
“May the First protect us all,” he uttered to himself as his eyes scanned the devastation.
Small spirals of twisting smoke rose from the fractured soil. Nothing lived any longer in the vicinity of the Lalas’ remnants. Nothing dared to. There was a large crater in the ground where the trunk had been and rock-like appendages lay strewn all around it. No greenery was visible and enormous fissures seemed to have swallowed up everything that had formerly grown atop the adjacent soil.
Premoran carefully navigated his way around the bottomless ravines that gaped at him from below and headed for the area that had once been the trunk of Acire. This was not the first time he had the stultifying need to circumnavigate the remains of a dead Lalas. In fact, he had visited each and every one of the sites that had formerly harbored a great tree. He had no choice but to do so. It was his role, his sad destiny, and none of the others remained who knew any longer what to look for. Except of course for Colton. A quick chill overtook him at the thought of the Evil One. His power was spreading too far, too fast.
As he stepped closer to the center, the heart of the once great tree, he could still feel the potency that had dominated this area. His senses were assaulted by the pain of so great a loss and as he walked, he hesitated slightly in order to catch his breath and calm himself. The tree had not fully disappeared. Traces of its vitality and vibrancy could be felt in the air, prickling his sensibilities with their potency. They were incoherent though, unlike in the past, and he could make neither sounds nor visions out of them. The echo of power was still present and it grew in intensity as he neared his destination.
Before he descended into the pit ahead of him, he bent down and gathered a handful of soil into his palm. It was hot to the touch and dry as dust despite the constant flow of steam that emanated from it. Sadly, he let it fall through his fingers back to the ground.
No ordinary beings ever ventured into the remains of a dead Lalas. Or if they did, they never lived to talk about it. Premoran though, was not an ordinary person. He was a Wizard of the highest class, for lack of a better description. He was possessed of the greatest of power bestowed upon the human race when life began and the First radiated the full energy of the Gem of Eternity. He along with six others, had been watching the weaves behind the course of earthly events since time began. Now with the demise of Calista, only two of the original seven still remained alive. Colton dar Agonthea presided over the forces of dissolution and had gone over to the other side countless tiels ago. He was a strong and powerful mage, though unable to remain true to the light.
How ironic, he snickered, that Colton should have survived all the others but me.
Even beautiful Calista who had been the Dark Lord’s only defender so may tiels ago, was now dead. She had attempted to save him then and she earned only his eternal enmity for her efforts.
“The fabric weaves of its own will,” he muttered gravely, shaking his head.
Premoran heard a faint humming in the air and that comforted him somewhat as he descended into the desolate pit. Raising his right palm, he summoned a ball of blue-white light to illuminate his way as he stepped carefully down. The humming grew louder and he instinctively followed the sound. Shortly, he could feel the vibrations he so ardently hoped were still evident amidst the ruins of the area. He made his way deeper into the chasm, hoping he would find a suggestion this time as to why the great trees were departing the earth. Each and every time he entered the dead shell of a once mighty Lalas, he prayed that he would find the clues that he needed. But lamentably, each time he found nothing more than the departing spirit and an admonition to continue to search.
He made his way carefully down the twisted path toward what was once the heart of this sentient being. He stepped lightly upon something hard, and summoning the orb of light to hover above the spot, he bent down and discerned Theran’s sword lying on the dry earth. It was unmarred, as no physical battle took this gallant warrior’s life. Next to it, he could see the remains of the Chosen himself, propped up against what must have been a large root of Acire’s.
“May the First bless you and keep you, my brave son,” he said, head bent.
He lifted the blade and placed it upright with the hilt leaning upon the dead man’s shoulder. Premoran carefully pushed the blade deep into the ground so that it would remain there next to its companion. He gazed momentarily upon the sad expression marring the warrior’s handsome face and a rush of regret and melancholy overcame him. Closing his eyes for just a second, he focused his thoughts on the task at hand, and then he moved on, having bid farewell to his old friend Theran forever.
Premoran descended further into the nearly empty cavern that had formerly been replete with Acire’s substance. With each step, the humming sound grew louder and more distinct and the wizard knew thereby that he neared his destination. He continued to trespass through the lifeless remnants of the tree until he came upon what he sought. With as much respect as he could muster, he reverently bent over and parted the soft soil with his hand, digging just under the surface. He felt the emptiness and cool air of the cavern waft over him as he exposed the opening. Extending his fingers carefully into the hollow, he retrieved the shard and placed it in the pouch at his belt. To his great surprise, the humming continued and did not terminate with the removal of the artifact.
“Is there a part of you still here, Acire? You were a good friend. Can you not be one still and provide me with the information I need?” he spoke aloud, astonished that the essence of the tree did not cease this time with the removal of the shard.
No response was forthcoming, though he honestly did not know what to expect. He had always hoped beyond hope that one of the trees would communicate with him and enlighten him as to the reason for its departure. Each and every time, he withdrew unsatisfied. This time would be no different than the others, he surmised stoically.
“Return to the earth and may your spirit find its way back to the First,” Premoran said somberly.
But, the droning continued still.
The Wizard was puzzled by this turn of events. He had retrieved the shards from nine Lalas over the course of the last two tiels and never once did the spirit of the tree survive the removal.
“Is there something you wish to tell me, dear Acire?” he inquired once again.
What at first appeared to be a leaf, fluttered lazily to the ground. He reached for it hastily and drew the light close in order to examine the token. He had hoped and prayed for some sign, some indication of why these tragic events were occurring, but he did not really expect anything more this time than on any of the other occasions. Strangely though, he sensed a different level of energy here. Perhaps he would be blessed with a clue with which he could work.
Greedily, he perused the fallen object which upon closer inspection was not a leaf at all, but a piece of parchment shaven from the tree itself. It was covered in ancient runes. Summoning the light hovering nearby to flare brighter, he scanned the paper keenly. He read the ancient script to himself as naturally as he would any other language. When he reached the second line of words, the parchment began to transform itself. Premoran did nothing to attempt to prevent the metamorphosis, as he had yearned for something just like this to occur each and every time he performed this grueling task.
The paper lifted on its own accord out of his grasp and began to expand in all directions. Soon, an opaque sphere perhaps two feet in diameter hovered in the air before his eyes, infused with a multicolored mass of spinning and swirling objects. It was impossible to describe how a Lalas communicated with another not of its own race, but Premoran clearly heard the voice of his departed friend deep within the recesses of his mind, rather than through his ears. The images in the sphere solidified and as he watched, he listened attentively to the heavy-hearted narration.
The First is needfully detached. It seeks to protect the Gem, its primary charge. In so doing, I am deprived of the light, as are my brethren. Without it, I care not to remain here. I see a darkness approaching.
As he concentrated, Premoran witnessed the final moments of Acire’s earthly existence and he understood immediately the choice that the great tree made. He watched the hovering orb ardently, and the image of the magnificent Lalas, in all its past glory, loomed before him.
My time is past. Others must take my place. But, despair not. This is a beginning, not an end for one such as me. As for you, my friend, seek the twins in Seramour. And, above all else, protect the shards. Their significance will become apparent when the weave allows. I impart this information to you because I fear that the forces of darkness have altered the fabric. I wish not to affect it further; but you are the last of your kind who serves the light. Your brother has long ago betrayed us. And now the balance must be preserved at all costs. You must lead, but tread carefully though, lest you lose your way. It is a delicate journey you now commence and the path is obscured. Things are not always as they seem. Remember, as Theran died with me, so must all Chosen perish when their tree doth pass. Be not afraid to hasten that which will bring you closer to the light. We all must do that though it may seem wrong at times. Do not misjudge us. May the First guide you and illuminate your path.
Premoran observed the spirit of the Lalas as it slowly and tragically dissipated, and he mourned once more for the loss. He was grateful to Acire for everything, and though he was enervated by the experience, he was infinitely more hopeful knowing now that the Lalas truly did choose to ‘die’. Even the fact that the First was intentionally separating its brethren from the Gem’s radiance was, in a strange manner, hopeful. This all lent intention to the great losses and upheavals that were so prevalent. They were not unplanned or random, not without meaning, but purposeful, despite the pain and sadness they incurred. Necessity sometimes serves to justify even the most perplexing of actions. Premoran knew that the quest for the First and the Gem of Eternity was ever more imperative now.
The bile rose in his parched throat at the memory of Acire’s reference to Colton as his “brother”’. But alas, it was true. No matter how diametrically opposed to one another they might be now, they were born of the same blood. Colton would only rejoice in the shielding of the Gem’s brilliance and power. He could not know that the withholding of its potency and efficacy was intentional and designed to protect it. But he was the cause nonetheless, of that Premoran was certain. And for that alone, he despised him even more. If not for his encroachment upon the light and his advocacy of dissolution, perhaps the First would not have needed to restrict the Gem’s reach.
He looked upon the shimmering sphere once again, hoping for more, hoping for anything that could help him on his quest however trivial or seemingly inconsequential. Acire had given him so much already that he felt selfish and greedy in his desires, but he knew that this tree’s light would soon go out forever, and he yearned for whatever he could retrieve from the Lalas before that occurred. His heart was heavy and he suffered from this loss more personally than any of the others. Yet, he would not allow himself to succumb to the sadness. There was no possibility of altering what was, only that which had not yet occurred.
Suddenly the brilliant sphere disappeared altogether, leaving behind only a crackle in the heavy air, a fading trace of power, whose potent sweetness dissipated all too quickly. At the same moment, the humming abruptly ceased. Acire was gone. He would gather no more information here and with mixed emotions, he prepared to leave.
“Seek the twins in Seramour,” he repeated out loud, as he fingered the pouch of shards at his belt.