Golwyn of Gildesmeer

Golwyn of Gildesmeer

By: William L. Bowman Jr.

Smashword Edition

Copyright 2019

William L. Bowman Jr.

Discover Other Titles By William L. Bowman Jr.:

Max and the Magician

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PROLOGUE

Chasandra, the Card Reader, who read from her mystical Deck of Destiny for the Enclave of the Wizards of Gildesmeer was giving the most crucial and frightening reading in her preternaturally long life. Just two nights before, her cards, which, in untold centuries had never been wrong, had predicted the approach of doom for the Enclave itself. The power of this prediction and the immediacy of the catastrophe it foretold were so disturbing that the wizened reader of cards had been unable to read again until now.

The Deck of Destiny was no ordinary pack of fortune-telling cards such as one might see at the local market or faire. It was a powerfully enchanted and never-ending deck. Chasandra would answer no questions regarding the origins of her mystical tools. Some speculated that even she was ignorant of the deck's true beginnings. Others believed that the price she paid to have the Deck of Destiny and the powers that went with it was such she was loathe to admit having paid it. It was almost universally believed that on the day Chasandra turned the final card of the deck, the Infinity Card, all things would come to an end. Each time Chasandra gave a reading, the cards turned up before her would vanish as soon as all of their meanings had been divulged, yet the deck never seemed to change in thickness, always appearing to contain the same number of cards. As with each of the nine Wizards of the Enclave, Chasandra's personal symbol was emblazoned on her tools. Hers was the night-blooming amaranth, a rare and some believed mythical flower known for its soporific powers. The flower on the back of the cards opened and closed rhythmically when she held the deck, pulsing in time with the reader's heartbeat. When the flower petals opened, they revealed, in the center, the eye of a mountain eagle. The mountain eagle, it was believes, had the keenest vision of any creature in the seven kingdoms. Stories of the prowess of these huge birds abounded in the folklore of Gildesmeer. It was said that a mountain eagle could see a mouse moving in the tall grass of the vast plains of the Southerlands from atop the highest peaks of the Fietrich Mountains.

On this fateful night, all the ancient Wizards of the Enclave were gathered, waiting with hardly a breath among them. Each of the mages possessed abilities within a specific sphere of magic. From Magnus, whose power it was to heal, to Callista, the fair Druid from the green hills to the west, and Faubionne, the Astrologer who could interpret the meanings and portents in the movements of the stars. All nine wizards were there, having received the urgent summons. Though they all knew the nature of Chasandra's dire revelations, she had divulged no details.

Soreil, the cantankerous Grand Wizard of the Enclave, whose powers were beyond the ken of man or wizard had sent out the call and they had heeded, dropping whatever they were doing and gathering at the vast and ancient Wizards' Keep. They crowded now in the highest tower of the Keep waiting for the reading to begin, all silent, even Volraythe, the wizard who had at his command, powers over the weather and, some said, the power of perpetual speech. They all waited expectantly, each lost in his of her own thoughts, but all speculating on the same question.

Chasandra completed her preparations and withdrew the Deck of Destiny from within its silken wrappings. She handed it to Soreil, who san immediately to her left and instructed him to cut the cards and pass the deck around the circle of wizards. As each of the sorcerers received the deck, it was cut. Chasandra completed the final cut, took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned the first card. It showed on its face a representation of the Enclave, seated in the tower room, just as they were at that moment. Now, this was no surprise to the wizards. The Deck of Destiny did not always have the same fixed images on its cards, as did an ordinary deck used by a carnival fortuneteller or gambler. The faces of Chasandra's mystical deck often depicted the specific person or people to whom the card applied. Sometimes, the images were generic, like those in an ordinary deck, Chasandra had no control over the cards, and she was, she explained, merely the conduit through which the cards passed along their messages.

The next turn of the cards elicited a sharp intake of breath from the gathered magi. Chasandra had revealed the black and blasted Tower card and laid it across the card depicting the gathered wizards. A shudder passed through the bent and wizened body of the reader, and she took a few moments to steady herself before turning the next card. It told of hope, the card following shoed a babe, positioned to indicate that it was the source of that hope and the final card, the Eight of Pentacles, showed a craftsman hard at work. The position of this card, Chasandra explained, indicated that the artisan was the parent of the child.

Standing and leaning over to examine the card more closely, Volraythe let out a snort of disgust. Typical! he exclaimed. Once again, your blasted cards have left out the most important piece of information! Looking around at the puzzled faces of the wizards, Volraythe explained. The identity of the craftsman. Look, he said, picking up the Eight of Pentacles and showing it around like a carnival magician about to do a trick. All could see that the card was generic, the face resembling no one.

As the wizards contemplated this fact in silence and before Chasandra could wave her hand, causing the tabled cards to vanish, the deep silence was again broken. This time it was from an unexpected source. Morla, the normally taciturn Necromancer, whose talent it was to speak to, and cast spells from relics of the dead, spoke. Morla made even the other Wizards of the Enclave, save Soreil, uneasy. Though none had ever seen her do so, it was widely rumored and believed that she could even raise the dead and command them to do her bidding. Reaching a pale, gnarled, and taloned hand from within her robes the color of grave-earth, she said, Give me the card. Hesitantly, Chasandra handed the card over to the Necromancer.

With great care, Morla placed the card gently on the table before her and, moving stiffly and slowly, reached once more into her robes... all of Morla's movements were executed rigidly and with great effort. Some speculated that she had spent so much time over the centuries in the company of the dead, that rigor of the grave had crept into her very bones. Others believed that she was herself, a reanimated corpse. However, none doubted or questioned her powers or her value to the Enclave and the land of Gildesmeer they were all foresworn to protect.

Morla withdrew from within her robes an ancient and discolored skull covered with strange and unsettling necromantic runes, which seemed to have been burned into its surface. A faint copper-colored glow, not unlike the color of dried blood, emanated from within the empty eye socket of the relic, giving the impression that it was looking at the gathered wizards. Setting this disturbing artifact of her art atop the card depicting the craftsman, Morla began to chant, summoning powers as old as Death herself. Shalasa, Korem, Pakatul..., she intoned, over and over, each repetition of the words faster and more fervent than the one before.

An even deeper silence settled over the tower room. It was the deep, complete absence of all sound, the silence of the crypt. The soft breeze seemed to stop, the insects were silenced and a night bird was cut off in mid song. As Morla's chanting continued, the temperature in the room dropped until the wizards could see their breath. Slowly, the skull began turning, its velocity increasing until it was spinning as though caught in a whirlwind. As the skull spun, flashes of light in many indescribable colors were seen playing upon its surface. The jaw of the skull slowly opened and a high-pitched keening filled the vast silence that had pervaded the room. Morla increased the pace of her chanting yet again and a faint, smoky haze enveloped the skull, lit from within by the eerie lights still playing on the surface of the grisly talisman.

The gathered wizards shifted away as a unit, for even they were nervous and uncertain around this type of magic, and with good reason. When summoning the powers or spirits of the dead, occasionally one got more than bargained for. There were many malevolent spirits in the nether realm that could and would intercept the power of a necromantic spell in an attempt to regain the realm of the living for the purpose of seeking revenge or wreaking havoc. Moving to the walls of the round room, the wizards called upon their various powers to create protective wards that would prevent any uninvited spirit from leaving the room until Morla could banish it back to the other plain.

Only one of the wizards moved closer to the spinning skull. Soreil, the Grand Wizard stepped toward the table and leaned in to watch, more closely, the Necromancer's spell at work.

Morla's now frenzied chanting began to slow and the spinning of the skull followed suit. Its revolutions slowed until it stopped completely, hovering a few inches above the card, facing the Necromancer. As the skull ceased its revolutions, the other wizards released their wards and crowded once more around the table, as anxious to see the results of Morla's enchantment, as they had been to distance themselves from its execution. The skull now wore the death-complexioned visage of one known to all of the wizards of the ancient and powerful Enclave. It was Milra. He was a worker of precious metals. Milra frequently fashioned the arcane devices needed by the mages in the working of their arts.

Milra had made the silver sickle with which Callista gathered her sacred herbs, the golden sextant with which Faubionne gazed at the stars, and, even, the copper dagger hanging from Morla's belt, the uses of which none of the other wizards knew or cared to know. These and many other items carried and used by the wizards had been formed beneath the patient and skilled hands of the smith.

Soreil stood gazing at the now flesh-covered skull still suspended in the air over the card with deep sadness in his ancient grey eyes. Milra was a close and special friend to the Grand Wizard and Soreil was Godfather to his infant son, Golwyn. The babe's mother had died in childbirth. The sorcerer was saddened to think of the grief that this revelation would cause this stalwart and decent man. He uttered an incantation and waved his hand and the skull vanished in a flash of bright, blue-white light, startling the roomful of wizards. When they had blinked the after image of the light from their vision, the mages could see that the card now bore the countenance of Milra. Grumbling about Soreil destroying her artifact, Morla sat back in her chair, spent from the exertion of casting the spell. Chasandra waved her had and all of the cards she had turned, save the Eight of Pentacles now bearing the likeness of the smith, vanished.

Holding up his hand to quiet the growing cacophony in the small chamber, Soreil spoke in a somber tone, This child must be protected from our enemy...or enemies, whoever, whatever, or wherever they may be. After pacing a few moments in deepest thought, the Grand Wizard spoke once more, We must fashion a talisman of the greatest power which will defend him against anyone practicing any arcane art against him. In concert, we will design it, placing upon it the strongest protective devices from each of our arts. I will take it to Milra himself to be fashioned from an ingot of the purest Dwarven silver, which I will enchant myself. After the amulet is designed, each of us must turn his or her talents to divining more information about the event predicted here tonight. Look to the stars, the wind, the land, and into the minds of any and all you encounter. We must discover the source and timing of this threat. Gildesmeer is depending on us.

So it was that Soreil was to come, as so often before, to the small, bustling village of Falrawn. Disguised as a beggar, the Grand Wizard moved almost unseen through the narrow streets and busy marketplace in the heart of the picturesque hamlet. He went, as he had since the fateful night of Chasandra's prediction, with all of his senses, normal and arcane, wide-open and scanning his environs for any sign of treachery or evil intent toward the Enclave. Overall, the wizards eschewed this sort of general casting about. It tended to be very unnerving and upsetting to touch upon the deepest thoughts and intentions of people in a random fashion. One learned things better left unlearned about the deepest inner workings of the human mind. However, this was a special time and the intrusive spying was necessary, so they endured the shock and revulsion. So far, it had yielded no information about the threat hanging over the Enclave, though three thieves and a murderer had been brought to justice.

Soreil carried with him the carefully created design for the protective amulet and the specially and powerfully enchanted ingot of the purest silver to come from the deepest mines of the Dwarves of Gilderhallen. The spell infused into the metal was so powerful that only the specially counter-spelled tools he also bore upon him could carve and shape it. Never before has do powerful and all encompassing a piece of defensive magic been attempted. However, never before had there been such a powerful and all encompassing a threat to the Enclave of Wizards.

Sitting on a curb in the merchants' section of the village, Soreil had some time to contemplate the imminent disaster. Which was not to say that he had not spent every waking and most of the few sleeping hours since that night doing so? But here, watching the bustling villagers on a bright, sunny afternoon going about their business happily, his thought took on a sadder color. He wondered how the threat would affect them, the regular, non-magical citizens the Enclave was sworn to protect. If the wizards were in danger, what of these good, hardworking people? Further, he wondered if the doom predicted by the Deck of Destiny was so dire that the wizards would be unable to protect themselves, how, then, could the infant son of a talented, but sadly mortal, craftsman save them?

At last, the hour for which Soreil had been waiting arrived. The merchants along the street began closing their shops for the midday meal. As one of them passed the beggar sitting on the curbstone, he paused and deposited a few coins in Soreil's lap, as was the custom of the good people of Falrawn. With a gesture, Soreil returned the coins, along with their number again to the purse of the generous merchant, as was his custom. Moving largely unnoticed through the thinning throng of people, the ancient wizard approached the shop of his old friend, Milra. The door was locked, as he expected it to be. Soreil murmured a chant and the knob turned easily in his hand, though it remained locked.

The interior of the shop was a tribute to a master craftsman. All along the walls were shelves displaying a vast array of items, functional, decorative, and both, all fashioned from the finest metals. The things he saw astounded the wizard more than any magically created item ever could. A competent wizard could create nearly any beautiful item out of nothing with just a thought, word and gesture. However, the objects made by the hands of a skilled craftsman who truly loved his work surpassed them all. The one limitation no magically created items was that they could not be enchanted. The inherent magic within such creations made them impervious to enchantment. No one, not even Soreil, fully understood the phenomenon, but it had always been so. Many wizards and scholars alike had sought to solve this mystery and circumvent the restriction, but to no avail.

Occasionally, there were wizards who had the artistic skills to create their own items. Morla was one such. She had spent the last three nights in the ancient wizards' cemetery in the far Southerlands replacing the skull Soreil had destroyed on the night of the ominous card reading. The Necromancer had been quite put out with her leader about having to do so. It was not the digging up of the skull, or even the burning into it the ornate designs, but the difficulty in convincing the spirit of a long-dead Necromancer to give up her skull.

Suddenly the old wizard was startled out of his ruminations and appreciation of one man's talent by the familiar voice of that very craftsman, Hold where you stand, stranger. Now, turn around very slowly, I wish you no harm.

Doing as instructed, Soreil saw the man, Milra himself, with a crossbow loaded, cocked, and pointing directly at the heart of the ancient mage. I do not mean to plunder your precious belongings, craftsman. I am here to commission you. So saying, Soreil made a gesture with his right hand and winked. The bolt on the crossbow suddenly transformed into a beautiful, long-stemmed marsh rose, known for their striking bright blue color and wondrous aroma.

Crying out in surprise, Milra accidentally depressed the trigger on the crossbow, sending the rose flying across the room to thump, harmlessly, against Soreil's chest. Wizard, you are going to stop my heart one of these days with your tricks, exclaimed the startled smith, the broad smile nearly splitting his head in half belying his angry tone.

Soreil waved his hand in an intricate and mystical pattern, more for effect than necessity, and his tattered, filthy, and torn garments became the robes of the Grand Wizard of the Enclave. Your heart will be beating strongly on the day Chasandra turns the Infinity Card, declared the wizard, smiling. Mention of Chasandra and her cards brought Soreil back to the moment and his reason for being there and the pleasure of seeing his old friend was instantly replaced with a deep and shilling dread. To disguise his momentary shudder, Soreil bent and elegantly swept the rose up from the floor where it lay at his feet. Proffering it to Milra, he said, For Eleanor. Eleanor was Milra's housekeeper and nanny to Golwyn, the infant in whom the only hope of the Enclave apparently lay. Eleanor had steadfastly cared for Milra and his child since the death of their wife and mother, Ele'ain.

Noticing the moment of unease experienced by his old friend, Milra thanked the wizard, his eyes on those of the mage, trying, in vain, to ascertain the source of his vexation. Unable to fathom the cause of concern, Milra asked, What will it bee this time? A ring, a scepter, or, perhaps a new hypnotic amulet for Aleisha? Aleisha was the Enclave's Mesmerist. Her power lay in controlling and probing the depth of the minds of others, but even she had, been yet unable to locate the source of the threat.

None of those. This time you will fashion an amulet of greatest power. Greater than anything you or any other has ever created in the long history of the Enclave, Soreil replied. He reached into the pouch at his waist and withdrew the ingot of silver, which faintly glowed with the power of the enchantment infused within it, and the parchment upon which Morla had painstakingly drawn the design for the amulet.

Seeing the silver, the practiced eye of the smith immediately judged its purity. Milra let out a low whistle of surprise and appreciation. Let me see that design, he said, overcoming his awe at both the quality of the metal and the power it so obviously contained. As he studied the design, Milra crossed over to his workbench and began to gather the tools he would need in order to execute the commission.

One moment, commanded the wizard. He reached once more into the pouch and withdrew a small wallet, which, like the silver, seemed to shimmer faintly with the power it contained. You will need these." He extended the wallet toward Milra.

Opening the glowing wallet, Milra saw that it contained a set of tools identical to those he had been gathering, though more finely wrought and exhibiting that same faint glow as the ingot. But I am more comfortable with my own tools, he protested.

The enchantment worked upon the silver is such that only these tools, specially made by the Dwarves of Gilderhallen and precisely counter-spelled can carve it, Soreil explained. Upon handling the magical tools, a tingle of excitement and a thrill of power replace Milra's temporary reluctance and wounded pride. He was surprised as how well the tools fit his hand, as though he had used them his entire life, wearing them to the contours of his fingers. Carefully, and with deepest concentration, the artisan began to carve. Milra found that the sense of urgency and dread he had read in the eyes and countenance of the land's most powerful wizard was contagious and he bent to his work with a focus so intense that time passed completely without his awareness. All he was aware of was that feeling of dire necessity and another of awe. As the magical tools carved the enchanted silver, small sparks of unrecognizable, but beautiful colors were thrown up and the shavings vanished as soon as they became separated from the ingot. Milra realized that there could be no mistakes made and bent his will all that much more intently to the task at hand.

A long last, the commission was fulfilled. Looking up from his work, Milra noticed the wizard sitting in a corner with an expression of gravest concern on his normally cheerful and mischievous countenance. It is done, he said, and realized that the sun had long since settled into the west for its nightly repose. Someone, probably Eleanor, had lit the lamps. His suspicions were confirmed when he noticed that the rose with which Soreil had wished to gift her was gone from the workbench.

That is well, replied Soreil, his concerned expression going wherever expressions go when they are no longer being used. One more enchantment and all will be as ready as it can be. Let us hope that our efforts will suffice.

What troubles you, old friend? asked Milra, becoming even more concerned despite the wash of fatigue, which had suddenly settled about him from his prolonged efforts.

It is better if you do not know. Now, turn the amulet over, please, Soreil asked. He thrust the tip of the first finger of his left hand directly into the middle of the flame of the lamp sitting on the workbench. Milra started to cry out a warning, but thought it best to leave the old wizard to his wizardry. Not hot enough, muttered Soreil. He spoke a few words in an ancient tongue and Milra watched in astonishment as the flame suddenly brightened, turning a bright blue-white. The flame became so intense that the smith had to look away. Withdrawing his now glowing fingertip, Soreil pressed it to the back of the medallion lying on the workbench. There was a flash and a long, shrill shrieking sound accompanied by a puff of oddly colored smoke. When the wizard lifted his still faintly glowing digit, his personal symbol, the mobius, the ancient representation of infinity, pierced by the tines of a trident appeared, imprinted into the metal. As the astounded craftsman watched, the symbol faded until no visible trace remained.

Considering the power of the enchantment on the silver from which the amulet had been made, Soreil's feat was doubly impressive to Milra and he stood and gaped for a long moment. His reverie was broken by Soreil's voice. The tools, please, he requested, fatigue showing in every line on his ancient face. As well as the wallet, he instructed as Milra complied with the first request. As the items were passed to him, Soreil handed Milra a bag containing a generous fee. Then the wizard explained. These, he said, gesturing to the tools and wallet, must be destroyed. Holding them in the outstretched palm of his hand, Soreil concentrated and spoke more words in a harsh, guttural language, which literally hurt Milra's ears to hear them. As soon as the vile-sounding words of power were out of the wizard's mouth, the wondrous tools and the wallet in which they had been carried were consumed completely by unearthly fire.

Why destroy such wonderful tools? Milra asked, anguish etched into his features.

Because, my friend, anyone obtaining even one of these tools or their case would possess the means and the power to destroy the amulet and its wearer. Now I must be off to deliver this before it is too late.

Too late? Too lat for whom? asked Milra, growing more concerned by the moment. This behavior was not at all like his old friend. No matter the circumstances, Soreil always had time to drink a glass of wine and tell a few stories. However, the mischievous sparkle was gone from the ancient wizard's grey eyes and had been replaced by dread and foreboding.

The Enclave and all we strive to protect, was the Grand Wizard's cryptic reply.

The Enclave is in danger? From whom? Milra asked, his alarm reaching the level of mild panic. It the Enclave could be threatened by some person or force, he wondered, who, then, would be safe?

Enough questioning! You need know nothing more! Soreil replied with uncharacteristic sharpness and vanished with none of his usual theatrics.

Alone, Milra grappled with the idea that the wizards of the Enclave could possibly be threatened. They had kept the peace in Gildesmeer for longer than anyone knew or the wizards would admit. Even the most ancient legends from the time of the Seven Kingdoms of Ancient Gildesmeer included stories of the Enclave of Wizards and their role in shaping the modern land of Gildesmeer. Periodically, new wizards came and old ones went, but the Enclave was always strong, always present...

He was startled out of his reverie by a sudden, sharp cry from Eleanor. Milra, come quickly! The panicked summons came from the nursery where his infant son, Golwyn, slept. Rushing into the small room, he saw Eleanor leaning over the side of the child's crib, apparently trying to take something from the child. It just appeared there! she cried, shaken completely out of her normally quiet and efficient demeanor.

Looking onto the crib, half expecting a spider or some dangerous serpent to be threatening the sleeping child, he beheld a sight that turned his heart to ice within his chest. Rather it had been a poisonous serpent than that which met his horrified gaze. The talisman he had just fashioned for the Grand Wizard was hanging on a faintly glowing chain about young Golwyn's neck. All that he could do for a moment was stare, more frightened than he had ever been in his life. As he stood there, remembering his conversation with Soreil and the wizard's cryptic half-answers to his questions, the floor seemed to be sliding away from him, his entire world shifting on its axis. Leave it, he said. Seeing that his reaction had further frightened Eleanor, he attempted a smile and said, It is a gift from the Grand Wizard. With that, he turned and left the nursery, going to his bed and dark dreams of evil creatures, dark magic, and Golwyn, his son

.CHAPTER ONE

The sun outside was very bright, which is probably why Golwyn failed to see the vat of etching acid just inside the doorway of the darker shop. Milra, however, was accustomed to his son's mishaps. Having foreseen this possibility, he had sealed the lid onto the container very tightly jus moments before. I have the pieces you ordered from Ivan, the Scrimshander, said Golwyn, righting the vat. They are beautiful." After he corrected his latest mishap, the young man unwrapped the package he carried. Inside were two handles of black stag's horn, ornately carved with the same weird, mystical symbols etched onto the silver vessel to which Milra began attaching them.

Keep the rest of the money, the artisan told his son.

Rest of the money? the boy asked, perplexed. Realizing Golwyn had failed to wait and collect the change due; Milra smiled and shook his head. No matter, Ivan was an honest man and would, no doubt, make a special trip over within a day or two and return the overpayment. This, Milra thought to himself, was just as well. A bit of company might be just what he needed. He made a mental note to ask Eleanor to bake some of her special spice bread and lower a bottle of sweet mallow berry wine into the well to chill. Milra dismissed his son with a wave of his hand and turned back to his work.

As his chore was finished and his father was deep in concentration, Golwyn went back out into the bright sunshine of the summer morning to visit the bazaar. The hawkers and tradesmen who plied their crafts and sold their wares all knew the lad and he enjoyed visiting with them. In large part, this was because they seemed not to mind the frequent mishaps that plagued the boy wherever he went. Golwyn was not intentionally destructive, it just happened. If there was a hole to step into, he stepped into it, if there was a rope to trip on, he tripped on it. Nevertheless, his friends in the bazaar took it all in good humor. They would help him up, dust him off and give him some small trinket or treat, all the while laughing with good humor.

Most of all, Golwyn enjoyed listening to then tell of their travels and adventures across the land of Gildesmeer. He often imagined he was caravanning along the Spice Trail, or traveling the long road through the Calstron Mountains. At night, he dreamed of far off lands and people and of exciting exploits. He was always more than a little disappointed to wake and find himself in dull, dreary Falrawn. Golwyn longed to do something, to go somewhere, to redeem himself somehow for his countless missteps. He wanted to show his