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Disconnection... detachment... as Tystus died, he felt as no living man had ever felt, and could never feel. He knew that he had been successful. He was dead, but he existed. Sensation fragmented as he became a creature of pure energy. His mind was broken into a million pieces, then reassembled, then broken again. His vision exploded into a thousand colors, then came back together in a monochrome of greys. He thought he tasted leather, and then realized he'd never taste anything, ever again.
He would have been saddened by this, but he wasn't sure if he was capable of emotion. He had been alive once. Now... now?
Tystus looked down - he was nothing but a spectre himself now, hovering above the remains of his body. The sensation of floating, of deprivation, of vague nausea, sickened him. He couldn't remember who he was, what he'd just done, what had happened... but he remembered the Lich Lord who stood chanting. Wasn't that the one who had killed him?
Somewhere in the back of his fragmented mind, Tystus thought he heard a familiar voice shout, "No!" The voice startled him. It seemed that he shouldn't be hearing this voice, because...because....
And then he was gone. The vampires were gone, the Lich Lord was gone, the Pale Tower faded away. Tystus was drifting in the chronal stream. Nothingness surrounded him, reaching out, threatening to rend his spirit to shreds. He fought to maintain cohesion, and the effort would have killed him had he not already been dead.
He saw the ghosts of friends and enemies - he saw the good and bad times of his life - he saw an old clock chiming the thirteenth hour. A bright light reached out to him, calling him, beckoning him.
Tystus pushed it away.
The light reached out again, more insistently.
Tystus focused on the evil Lich Lord who had killed him.
The light flared violently, as if to warn Tystus not to pass this chance up.
If Tystus had a voice, he would have screamed. No, he would not leave! The Lich Lord would not win!
The light blinked.
No! I will find a way to stop him! I will not allow it to end this way!
The light faded slowly.
I will return! But first, I must see my destiny done!
The light blinked once, and then disappeared entirely. Tystus's spirit was cold and empty. The tendrils of nothingness renewed their attack on his soul, and in the absence of light, darkness engulfed him.
And then the chronal stream grabbed him again, and pushed him on, past the nothingness, past the oblivion, and into a physical realm of existence and pain.
Tystus was dead. Lord Death had won. But their story had just begun.
A greyness surrounded him. He could see nothing, feel nothing. He floated, and wondered. Suddenly, he heard a voice call out to him.
"Duck, Tystus!"
The spirit watched as a middle-aged man in wizard's robes dodged and rolled as a hand axe swept through the air, neatly decapitating the attacking zombie.
The spirit recognized the robed man as himself, but a different, fleshy self... and it didn't seem like it had been all that long ago. A... day?
Hawkslayer finished the spin, whirling about in the air with perfect balance, getting the sword in his other hand up just in time to parry the spear thrust from another zombie. Still more of the fiends were streaming from the portal at the far end of the room, and the brave paladin was facing off against them alone.
But where was Alendar?
Yes, there he was, moving to join Hawkslayer at the portal. Meanwhile, the robed wizard jumped to his feet and pointed a clenched fist at his two allies.
"Duck, Hawk!" he yelled, mimicking the earlier cry.
Hawkslayer and Alendar threw themselves to the floor of the room, just in time to avoid a barrage of magic missiles. The emerging zombies took the blast in the face, in the chest, in the arms, and were completely blown away.
"Well done, my friend!" said Alendar, climbing back to his feet and staring at the putrid mess that was left behind.
"Always glad to be of service," laughed the mage.
If the spirit had a face, it would have smiled. It remembered this. These had been the best of times.
Suddenly the door behind the three friends burst open, as a high-pitched berserker's wail echoed through the chamber. The allies spun about, but Hawkslayer wore a smile on his face.
"Once more?" he yelled to his friends.
"Unto the breach!" said the determined Alendar.
"To victory!" the mage screamed.
And then the demons were upon them. If the spirit could have turned away, it would have. This was familiar enough for it to know what was about to happen.
The allies fought bravely and well, but their adversaries were no less skilled. Each spell the mage cast fizzled before it reached the horned, human-sized monstrosities, and neither Alendar's spear nor Hawkslayer's axe and sword could pierce their rapid parries and quick defenses.
The paladin was the first to fall, as a demon's great maul batted aside his hand axe and slammed into the side of his head.
"Hawk!"
As the great warrior fell to the ground, Alendar did not allow himself to be distracted, nor did his friend the mage. The two experienced companions rotated their bodies, always keeping their backs together, with the ranger thrusting out with a spear and the mage striking out with a staff magically enchanted to chill his adversaries to the bone.
A demon with great, huge horns began a spell, and the spirit of Tystus saw the mage's face drop into a helpless frustration. The mage and Alendar were moving through the room's center, and the spellcaster was at the room's far end, much too far away for them to stop it.
Alendar, however, did not share his companion's helplessness. With a move almost too quick for the eye to follow, one hand left the spear's handle and flew down to the small quiver he wore tied around his thigh. In one smooth, fluid motion, the ranger removed three arrows and hurled them across the room toward the horned demon. All three arrows reached the spellcaster, none doing any serious damage, only scratching the demon with minor flesh wounds. But the demon recoiled at the assault, and the spellcasting was halted.
The hellspawn were distracted by Alendar's unorthodox attack, and the mage used the momentary respite to take some rose petals from one of his many pouches and hurl them into the air. Within the span of a second, the petals somehow became a swarm of biting, gouging insects, which attacked the demons with fervor, driving them back into a small cluster where the spellcasting demon stood.
"Now!" yelled the ranger, as he ducked and rolled to where Hawkslayer had fallen. The mage followed his lead and darted ahead as well. These staunch companions, loyal and true, were unwilling to leave their companion behind, and this was their undoing. As the two reached the still paladin, a burst of sickly green poison emerged from one of the demon's mouths. Brave Alendar could have easily dodged the blast, but in so doing he would have left the mage vulnerable.
So the ranger didn't move.
Alendar caught the blast full on; he stopped, coughed, and fell to the ground.
The spirit of Tystus tried to cry out, but couldn't. The mage could, and did. The demons took advantage of the mage's sorrow to press the attack, and suddenly the mage channeled his very scream into a spell. The magical energies pushed the demons back, but they fought against the force, struggling to reach the mage and finish their murderous task. The mage took one last look at his fallen comrades, and the spirit of Tystus knew the words that were being whispered.
"Forgive me, my friends. I will not let you have died in vain."
Hurling one last lightning bolt, the mage ran from the room, leaving his adversaries in confusion. The spirit of Tystus watched, watched as things played out exactly as they had just yesterday in the Pale Tower. He wondered if he was seeing his past before he died, or just reliving his memories as he faded away into the afterlife.
Then the tugging began, and the spirit felt himself reentering the timestream. He let himself go.
Somewhere far away, in another time, in another place, a young man strung a bow. It was a task he hated, as the string constantly bit into his fingers, but he knew it was necessary to fulfill his goal to become the great archer his family expected. He looked around at the empty practice range, glad that nobody had been present to hear his latest grimace of pain.
Then a great wailing came from the sky above him.
The young archer fell to the ground and stared at the horrifying revenant that floated just a few feet above him. If the youth had kept his wits about him, he would have noticed that the spirit looked more like a middle-aged scholar than a horrifying spectre. If he wasn't so busy quivering in terror, he might have seen that the spirit wasn't attacking, and in fact didn't even seem to notice him - instead, the thing was clutching itself in pain and staring off into space. If the bowman had been a bit more experienced, he might have thought to himself that physical weapons probably wouldn't be of too much use against a ghost.
Sadly, none of this held true for the young archer.
Recognizing his own cowardly behavior, the youth let out a battle cry, nocked an arrow to his bow, and drew back, aiming at the ghost.
Of course, the young archer had forgotten that he hadn't yet finished securing the string on the bow. When the string came loose from his weapon, and the arrow and string both snapped back, hitting him in the face, the archer let out a cry of pain.
And by the time he looked up again, the revenant had disappeared.
Somewhere far away, in a more familiar time and place, the skull of a Lich Lord formed a skeletal smile.
The greyness surrounded the ghost again. He thought he had seen something - a young man in green? - beneath him, but whatever it was, it was gone now. Now there was only the grey of death, of oblivion, of....
Wait a second, was that...
"Just once, my friends, just once I'd like to fight an evil wizard without having to run up twenty flights of stairs!"
The spirit of Tystus again saw the trio... the paladin Hawkslayer, the ranger Alendar, and that determined mage... this time, standing at the massive portal leading into the Pale Tower. The sun shone dully in a sky covered by clouds of a reddish hue, and the ground was the same featureless grey as the nothingness that the spirit was growing so used to.
"You exaggerate, old friend," rebuked the mage. "Now – the door is unlocked. Obviously, we're expected. Come, my friends – evil awaits us." With those words, he opened the great door that led into the Pale Tower.
Behind the open door was revealed a long staircase leading up into darkness.
"I knew it!"
"Hawk, will you please stop all that yelling! We're conspicuous enough out here without you alerting everything in a two-mile radius to our presence!" said the exasperated ranger.
So focused were they on their private argument, neither of the two experienced warriors noticed the hellhounds bolting down the staircase, four steps at a time. Or maybe it was just that the devilish canines were enchanted with some kind of chameleon spell. Whatever the reason, only the mage saw them. The spirit watched with some measure of pride as the mage pushed his startled friends aside, threw out his hand toward the descending hellhounds, and spoke a command word.
Chain lightning struck all along the staircase, slaying the hellhounds in midleap. Burned, smoking carcasses rolled down the stairs and came to a stop within feet of the three friends.
"With bodyguards like these..." said the mage aloud, with a smile and a wink to the two warriors.
Hawkslayer grimaced, and Alendar wisely hid his own smile from the embarrassed paladin. Hawk kicked the dead dogs aside and led the three friends into the Tower and up the first of many staircases. As usual, Tystus stayed in the middle of the group and Alendar took the rear, an arrow nocked and his eyes alert for trouble.
The spirit felt the tugging again, and everything vanished.
In another time and place, a dark elven girl looked down at a dead snake with manic glee. She knew it was wrong, and knew that she would be severely punished if her parents found out, but she couldn't hide her own enthusiasm - snakes were so icky! In a society that almost worshipped the slimy creatures, she alone seemed to be the only one who saw them for what they were: disgusting beasts with one sole saving grace - they made neat noises when you jumped on them.
Suddenly, not far from the dead reptile, the wind shimmered and blurred, as ectoplasm formed and rearranged itself into the figure of a spectral male. The young girl watched with amazement as the ghost slowly formed, not frightened at all; after all, her people summoned spirits all the time, and this one was rather unimpressive and human-looking.
As the form of a ghostly mage became clearer and clearer, the little girl wondered if perhaps the spirit was somehow connected with the snake she'd just killed. She wondered if its soul had attained spectral form to seek vengeance for the many snakes she’d squished. She wondered if a painful, terrible death awaited her at the hands of a spirit snake.
And she would have been quite frightened at that point, had it not been for her next thought: that maybe, just maybe, if the snake made such neat noises when she jumped on it, maybe the ghost would make even better noises!
But she'd need something bigger than her own tiny feet to squish a spirit of this size... good thing she'd dragged Daddy's war mace all the way out here.
The spectral wizard didn't even have time to begin its wail before the mace whistled through it. Its manifestation was disrupted and it disappeared, but not before it caught the look of angelic disappointment on the little girl's face.
Somewhere not quite at that time, and certainly not at that place, a rather uncharacteristic laugh emitted from the mouth of one long dead.
"We're being followed."
The spirit watched as Hawkslayer looked about in surprise for the unexpected voice. "Wha... who? Oh, it's you, Alendar. Thought you were scouting the path ahead."
From the trees off to the left of the weatherbeaten path came the voice of the archer. "I was. Then I took a look behind us. We're not alone."
The warrior, the ranger, and the mage stood together then in the center of the trail. The spirit, hovering above them, couldn't help but notice a difference in the trees that flanked the path – hadn't they been green once? Hadn't there been a subtle majesty about them before, something full of life and hope and promise?
Now, the leaves were grey; the branches twisted in sinister ways; the forest seemed to ensnare and choke the very air. The trees hadn't always been like that… had they?
But then, the spirit noticed, perhaps it was studying the wrong thing. After all, the trio of adventurers were still huddled in their conference. Perhaps there a clue could be found as to whether this was memory, afterlife, or insanity.
"… and I say we turn about this instant and confront them!"
"We have no idea who they are, Hawk… it could just be a coincidence."
"It is possible, Tystus, but it seems unlikely. They have followed us far too long and far too exactly. I fear they are emissaries of our enemy."
"All the more reason to find them and smash them!"
The spirit remembered this encounter well. He had wished to press on, and the grizzled warrior had stereotypically demanded they turn and fight. As usual, it was Alendar who served as the moderator. There was a pause. And then, when the ranger spoke, it was with a voice used to the assumption of command.
"Tystus, do you detect undead behind us?"
"Yes, it's a powerful presence. Nearly as powerful as I am, I think."
"Then let's continue on. We're not at our strongest as it is, and we need to be fresh when we enter the Pale Tower. If this undead is as powerful as you say, it probably won't intrude on Lord Death's domain."
"But…"
"No, Hawk. I keep seeing shapes further and further behind us – whatever it is, we're outpacing it. Let's stay focused on our goal, and maybe we'll all come out of this alive."
And so the spirit watched as the trio pressed ahead to the Pale Tower, leaving the unknown danger further and further behind them.
In yet another time and yet another place, Brother Bonicleer closed his eyes and took a third slow, deep breath. He convinced himself yet again that when he opened them, the new pupil from Raven Manor would be somewhere else, anywhere else, but most importantly, if the God willed it, far, far away from Bonicleer's home, the Monastery of the Book.
Bonicleer was usually the most kind-hearted of men, the most patient of instructors. But ever since the monks had been saddled with the odious chore of teaching this young aristocrat the ways of the cleric, Bonicleer had gained a new respect for corporal punishment.
He opened his eyes. The boy was still there, looking for all the world as if he didn't know what was wrong with everybody else. He had barely entered his thirteenth year, and he'd only lived in the monastery for a week now. The handsome, muscular, long-haired youth had come at his parents' request, but seemed excited to be there. The rest of the class continued to alternate between staring at the boy and their teacher, shocked at the boy's oblivious disrespect, and wondering what in the world Brother Bonicleer would do next.
"Let's… let's try something different, young Lord Raven," Bonicleer began. "Suppose we take a few steps back and cover some basic scenarios you are likely to run into in your life as a Monk of the Book. Let's start with an easy one. You are called upon to chant the Ave Karalea. What must you do before beginning the chant?"
"Turn in three complete circles and hold my holy pendant to the sky, brother."
"Very good, young man!" replied Bonicleer warily. "Now, what does a cleric of our order do when unexpectedly confronted with a dark spirit of the netherworld?"
The lordling thought for a second, and then answered, "Remain calm, draw forth holy water, and call out to God with the Krysalia Manifesto."
"Very good, very good!" said Bonicleer joyfully. Finally, they were getting somewhere. "Indeed, we invoke the powers of God Almighty with all our wills and hearts, standing back and letting Him do our righteous work! We are the vessel, the instrument, by which the God shall show the light to those who oppose the virtuous of Asler! So it is said…"
"Amen," finished the class.
Caught up in religious fervor, Bonicleer continued to question the young Baron of Raven. "While traveling down a busy highway, a foul-smelling old beggar man approaches you from the side of the road. His clothes are in tatters, and his eyes speak that he has not yet found the Glory of the God. What is the prescribed course of action for this situation?"
"I'd whack him with my mace."
Gasps arose from the class. Bonicleer closed his eyes briefly, formed a mental image of his holy symbols, and pressed ahead unto the breach.
"And what would strike you to do that to this poor, unfortunate beggar, young Raven?"
The neophyte cleric smiled. "You said he was smelly and old, on a busy highway. Obviously the man is diseased, and he could spread whatever he's got to everybody on the road! I'd whack him back down to save everybody on the road from getting infected! I mean, you said we were fighting a war against disease, right?"
"Ah," replied Brother Bonicleer. "Yes. Oh, my. Well, perhaps that was a bit vague for you, young man. Let's try another. Suppose you were asked to lead a special sermon in church for the homeless one day. What topics would you…"
Sadly the world would never know the answer to that question, for just then, a great howling sounded throughout the lecture hall. The sky outside seemed to grow darker as a wind whistled in the ears of the monk and his students. Within seconds, a ghostly image had appeared above the center of the classroom, the image of an old wizard with glowing eyes, screaming. His ghastly howl echoed off the walls of the room, reaching an uncomfortably high pitch.
Brother Bonicleer dropped to his knees and began to pray, as did his students. He was just beginning to draw forth the holy water he always kept in his belt skin, when he heard a cry of what could only be described as battle rage.
Opening his eyes, the monk witnessed the spectacle of the young lordling of Raven, clutching Bonicleer's ceremonial staff as if it were a sword, throwing himself bodily against the dark spirit. Barely audible over the noise of the spirit's howl, the youth hurled curses at his opponent as he swung the staff through the ghost, again and again.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the spectre vanished. The wind died, the howling quieted, and the ghost simply wasn't there. The other students slowly got to their feet and gestured holy signs to purify the room, as the lordling of Raven took two more swipes through the air with Bonicleer's staff for good measure, looked around, and smiled at his success.
Somewhen else, and somewhere else, the lich continued its incantations, and the spirit of Tystus continued its spiral through the timestream.
The spirit's surroundings again faded from mist to a familiar scene. It looked down on a small room in a city inn, where a pale, middle-aged man dressed in wizard's robes sprawled face-down on a lumpy bed. A tankard lay on a table beside the bed, overturned and forgotten. Judging by the sunlight and tall shadows from the open window, a new day was dawning as the wizard remained in blissful oblivion.
A loud pounding on the door shook the room enough to dislodge the tankard from its precarious ledge. The mug bounced off the table and enjoyed approximately half a second of free-falling freedom before shattering into exactly sixty-seven sharp-edged pieces when it struck the floor. However, neither the crash of the pottery nor the assault on the room's door was enough to cause the sleeping wizard to so much as blink.
The spirit was fairly certain it remembered this.
More pounding followed, and was answered by more silence. Someone tried to open the door, but the lock held it shut tight. This was followed by a muffled conversation from outside the door, as the mostly unconscious wizard lifted a hand to his pillow, and tucked it around his right ear as best he could.
“Come, Tystus!” came a deep and jovial call from the other side of the door. “Glories untold await us…”
“And opportunity waits for no hangover,” added the voice of Alendar.
“Glories untold…” muttered the mage, as one hand emerged from beneath the disarrayed sheets and pointed at the door, mystically unlocking it. The warrior and the ranger entered, packed, dressed, and prepared for their exodus from Newest Cedarleaf.
“Have any of you thought to wonder,” drawled the waking wizard, “that perhaps our quest won’t end with the same ‘Glory Untold’ the two of you received after the Mad God War?”
“Ah, you’re not still bitter about that, are you?” asked the warrior with a smile. “Come now, Tystus, you were off on your studies, it’s not your fault you didn’t…”
“No, Hawkslayer!” rebutted the disheveled scholar. “Who’s to say that after we finish off this Lord Death, we won’t end up… say, like the party that finished off the Lord of Terror? No glory for them! Disgrace! And for some of them, a fate worse than death! That poor paladin….”
“Peace, Tystus,” said Alendar, with a placating gesture. “Waking from a nightmare? The final effects of our night of libations? Surely not a bit of cold feet as we prepare to leave?”
The wizard stared at his two friends for a good ten seconds.
“I… I’m not sure. I… I think….”
Alendar grabbed a bucket from the side of the room, and thrust it in front of his friend. Hawkslayer was glad he did.
The spirit remembered this, or at least, it thought it did. The spirit believed the wizard would emerge from the bucket feeling much better, more ambitious, more enthusiastic. The spirit remembered the wizard happily rushing off, leaving the inn and Newest Cedarleaf beside his two dearest friends. The spirit reflected on what a mistake that was.
And then, all was black again.
Just outside the country town of Syldskel, not far from the untamed wildlands of the East, a small orphanage sat complacently in a green valley. Near the small orchard that abutted the orphanage, two caretakers watched one of their young charges with anxiety and, truth be told, awe.
“But you know she’s only eight years old, Stewart!” said the woman with some emotion. “Regardless of what she can do, she is too young to be sent off to formal magical training! It would be wrong to do that to a girl her age!”
“Ah, but would it be wrong to keep a girl her age, able to do the things she can do, among the other children here?” replied Stewart simply. The pair of them looked over at the girl in question, a dark-skinned child peering thoughtfully at a butterfly perched on a nearby flower. “She’s a danger to the others, Maggie. We must send her where she can be cared for.”
As if on cue, the little girl hiccupped, and the butterfly burst into flame.
“See?!? That’s exactly what I was talking about! We can’t continue to risk our lives like this, Maggie!” shouted Stewart. Meanwhile, the little girl, quite disappointed that her cute little friend had caught fire like that, tried to decide between crying for the butterfly and contenting herself with the pretty flames that were rising up from it, and rapidly spreading to include a bit of the meadow as well. “Oh, by the God! Quick, help me stomp that out!” came Stewart’s voice as he rushed over.
The little girl considered, and noted that the grown-ups were putting out her pretty sparkly fire, but the cute butterfly had completely disappeared. She was about to go back to the original plan of crying, when the sky suddenly went dark, a great wind blew up (finishing the job of extinguishing the small blaze), and an old man appeared out of thin air, a man she could see right through!
This was so neat! Kind of gross, with that sword sticking out of its back, but she’d never encountered anything like a see-through man before.
The spirit gazed at the girl, almost imploringly, as Stewart and Maggie screamed in terror, running back toward the orphanage.
The girl looked back at the man, trying to figure out what he wanted. Maybe he hurt because of the sword in his back? Resolving to help the man (even though he put out the pretty fire, but the girl wasn’t petty enough to hold that against him), he reached up to pull out the sword. Her fingers passed right through it, as she’d somehow known they would.
The spirit howled in anguish.
The girl scrunched up her face, and thought hard about the sword. Stupid sword, mean sword! You’re hurting that nice see-through man! You won't let me touch you! I want to touch you!
The girl concentrated.
She touched her forehead…
… and she reached out, took hold of the spiritual sword, and yanked it out of the ghost.
A look of shock crossed both of their faces. Within a second, both the sword and ghost had disappeared.
The pain was gone. The wrenching, agonizing feeling of his soul being drained and separated had ended. He was exhausted, yes, and he felt rather numb throughout his entire being, but the terrible pain was gone. He existed!
After the relief of that realization ceased, he wondered where he was.
Tystus opened his eyes.
The wizard saw a city street, lit only by the full moon above. The hour was obviously late, for no lamps burned in any of the home or business windows, and nobody was in sight save a guardsman of some kind, who walked right by the mage without seeming to notice him. The night was dark… darker than it should have been with a full moon.
But then, thought Tystus, maybe that’s just the way I see things now… for a glance down at himself showed that he was indeed still ghostly and transparent.
A spirit, then? Yes, that must be the case. One of the finest minds in all Asler, alive or dead, studied his own situation. He had reached out to his temporal powers just as he died, and it was quite possible that the shock of death and the sudden release of those energies had catapulted his soul throughout time and space. He had moved backwards in time at first, and then, for some reason, encountered four children he had never met before. Why?
Well, first things first. Was he merely a doomed thing destined to haunt this city street, or did he still possess his chronomantic powers?
Insubstantial fingers cut through the air, as a single syllable of power escaped ethereal lips.
And just as Tystus had hoped, it was suddenly morning. The sun was out, shopkeepers hurried to set up their pathside booths, and traffic had started to build on the thoroughfare, everyone oblivious to the mage’s spirit. Yes, everything seemed quite a bit dimmer than he’d remembered it being, but that hardly mattered now - he still had his powers!
A sudden burst of inspiration came upon the wizard – surely the survival of his soul on Asler was the work of Divine Providence – surely there was a great task he was meant to achieve. He would not spend his eternity haunting old castles, or whispering vague answers in the ears of fortune tellers. There could be only one possibility. Lord Death remained, and the deaths of the three who had stood against that undead terror needed avenging. Surely that was what God had been trying to show him, by making him relive so many of his experiences on the quest with Hawkslayer and Alendar!
But why the four children? Why was he shown them, as well? He did not know them. There could be no reason for his spiritual introduction to them, unless…
… of course!
Tystus cast a spell of scrying to determine the first location, and then vanished to begin his work.
He had an army to build.
To be continued...
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