Phrocylan & The Tree of Life (The Spirit of the Tree Book 1)

Chapter Four: Who?

The heirumphia was a man.

We came out of the camp-house, Cylla taking half my weight on her and Molto coming up behind us, with a cleaning cloth in his hands, probably for cleaning up any blood I might drop.

We walked past a few more camp houses and tents, a few dozen teenagers, ranging from 12-17 year olds teaming around, a few had mugs in their hands, some weapons, and others were bare handed. We made our way to the slightly bigger tent among the others, with orange and white banners furling the front door made of acacia wood, and a walkway lined with orange carpets into the room. Torches lighted the way in.

I felt cozy and warm as soon as I entered the room, so I guessed this was the heirumphia- leader of the group's room. We made our way around the corridor and saw a man sitting on the floor cross legged, with brown fur coat, white tee, black and brown spiky undone hair, brown and red eyes blazing like a burning coal site. He was holding his knees and sat buckled tight among stacks of papers, ink, and quills. His expression was grim.

Cylla sat down near the opposite wall, I sat with her, Molto waited outside.

There was an eerie silence until Cylla spoke, "Nyacin, he doesn't remember anything."

The heirumphia, named Nyacin, waited for a long time before speaking, "I checked the drisposal, the future is not fun. He-" he gestured at me, "-has a tough quest ahead. He must find his forgotten memory. That is all I know."

"But, Nyacin, how?" Cylla asked dimly, tucking at her axe.

"I do not know, Cylla. But he must take the bid. He has to be the one."

"Oh, no. No, no, no. The previous drisposal is beginning now? No way, he is not prepared!"

"Wait, hold up, can anyone explain? What's going on here?" I asked frustratingly.

They both glared at me, confused, then struck with the realisation my memory was faded, Cylla spoke: "The tree of life is in the wrong hands. It has been captured. It needs a young treeker to free it. Last-" She stopped speaking as Nyacin raised his hands in a gesture of silence (this is an english word).

He rose, and spoke with a very grim voice, "Come with me to the place of scrolls."

The place of scrolls was an ever bigger room with all the walls lined with red, gold, and silver scrolls. There were a few wooden tables with quill and ink and some paperweights on them. A few scrolls were scattered throughout the room.

Nyacin took us to the sitting area in the middle, then took out a scroll and started writing.

"The master of arts,

Shall free the starts,

Roots compromised,

Vulture unleashed,

Dispose the lead, in a place of fury,

Continue his journey, with deaths and glory"

After writing, he put down his quill. "That's the previous drisposal. After it came, we were overjoyed that a master of arts- our best fighter and magician- would free the Ochirus Noverm, even if some of it was lost. We don't know who or what 'vulture' is referring to. And after freeing the roots, the master will become the new heirumphia." He explained.

"But who is this- master of arts?" I wondered.

Both of them looked at me.

"What? Me? No way. I don't even know who I am." I said, worried I might be the master.

I didn't want to be a master of anything, I didn't even know what all this stuff was about. But a small gut sensation told me I belonged here... I had been here before, I felt at home here, like these were my friends.

Cylla looked at me with a worried expression, "I'm afraid you are the master from the drisposal, and just as you were going with the group to find the tree, this-" she gestured at me and my head, "- happened."

"So I have been here before." I replied, now a bit of my memory coming back, just enough for me to know for sure I had been here. And Cylla..

Cylla's face lit up a little, her eyes bouncing around. "What do you remember?"

"Not much, just, I was here, this is my home. I know you, Molto, there were other people too, Ru, Hectar, Jose, and others.. The names are just coming back to me."

Cylla and Nyacin looked at each other, as if having a silent conversation.

Nyacin nodded and turned to me, "You are the magic fist, master of arts, the suremus josine, and your name is Phrocylan, we call you Phro."