Prologue: Kush’s Disaster
Beneath the ticking of a timeless clock, the crumbling of indestructible rock,
New beginnings delighted one, but by another were shunned.
Options were born to soothe, but were trampled beneath hateful hooves.
A tool was invented to deceive, which has endured till present eve.
T
he air
was crisply cold and fresh, and Marsalnir’s long, hazel-brown hair swayed as the wind took hold of it. There was a stern, unreadable expression on his matured face. His dark eyes were panning across the pitch-black cloudless night sky which was illuminated by single stars, bright beacons of light in the midst of a sea of darkness. Marsalnir’s breathing was calm, and his walk
was steady as he climbed the Steps of the Giants to the pinnacle of Mount Kush, which was a sort of an ancient monolith carved by the Giants to mark their dominance in Thirnael centuries ago, a natural mountain, but completely flat, smooth and bare on the top. The Steps which Marsalnir was climbing snaked around the sides of the mountain. His robe, royal blue, with the mark of the Eltrym stitched on his chest in gold, identifying him as the Master Wizard of their Order, was wide around his legs, and his black leather boots were wrapped tightly around his feet. The hood of the robe was thrown back; he did not like to conceal his face with it. He had last cut his beard several years ago; it flew in the wind like his hair. He wore no jewellery except for a gold sapphire necklace, engraved with the insignia of the Grand Mage Vashma, a token of her personal favour when he completed his education at the Academy of Orderly Magic in Culpa many years ago. Now the Master of the Eltrym, the Keepers of Orderly Magic, he led his followers and apprentices up the Mountain to face their most challenging battle yet. His old rival, Master Haldzam, and his cursed Malnim, the Adverse Magic followers, were most likely already waiting for them, planning an ambush or some wretched trickery to give Marsalnir a disadvantage. Haldzam never played fair, because he hated losing and employed all kinds of unscrupulous curs to join his Malnim and serve his nefarious whims. As Marsalnir worried about this, climbing Step by Step, his favoured apprentice Smucnu asked him: “Master, what are you thinking about? Your emotions are indecipherable! We must make haste; Master Haldzam will be displeased if we do not reach the top shortly. Vexing him would be unwise…”
Smucnu was wearing a brown apprentice robe, much like a monk’s. It was wider than the Master’s robe, and his hood was cast over his bald oily head, revealing only his youthful, inexperienced but zealous and eager face and dark enigmatic eyes.
The Master took a deep breath and replied: “Smucnu, this battle will be… decisive. The victor here can most certainly claim to be the most powerful Wizard in all of Thirnael! Haldzam is well aware of this, and without doubt he has some treachery planned to aid him in destroying us. What worries me is that I do not know what to expect. We must not be hasty, but rather cautious not to miss any traps or diabolical machinations that could lead to our downfall.” Marsalnir’s breath trembled. He had been waiting on this battle in anticipation for the last few days. Now, he was no longer so sure if he would live to see the sunrise.
Smucnu looked troubled and swallowed down his fear.
