The Wizard of Building

On the fourth night of SulmRek, before the Wandering Sun, in the small town of Devin Hill, a man name Andrew Figum was being tortured.

Kylan Dax watched the process from the darkest corner of the room with increasing annoyance. The fact that Figum had not yet broken, in spite of Glath’s best efforts was nearly proof enough that they had the right man. Nearly.

“Are you the Wizard of Building?” The question was like the beat of a drum that punctuated the silence between screams. Glath’s voice had an almost sympathetic tone that did not equal the circumstances or his hulking appearance. Kylan allowed himself a brief moment of pride at how he had found Glath as a boy living in rags and eating rats, of how he had raised the feral savage from the ashes of the orphanage in Flin Crest, and had turned him into his death hound.

There was the predictable rasp and whimper, followed by, “I don’t know what that means.” Kylan sighed. For someone so good at withstanding pain, perhaps due to Sanomic Enhancements or inherited knowledge and skills from Figum’s predecessor, he was still a novice in treachery. Why, he had fallen for Amyth within the span of a single day, if her account was to be believed, and she was not given to exaggeration. This fact alone left a seed of doubt in Kylan. If Figum truly was the Wizard of Building, or as he liked to think of it, the Wizard of Plans, shouldn’t he have seen through the ploy?

Which is why we must now suffer the inconvenience of verifying your identity before we can move on to more important questions… you poor fool.

They were torturing Figum inside his own house. The basement had no windows, offering the perfect sound-proof location. A large candle that had already melted through a third of its stem was slowly covering its corner of the table with wax. The single flame was dim, but bright enough for Glath to work on Figum effectively. Kylan preferred to brood in the shadows.

“Where is the Book of the Scribe?”

Kylan’s head snapped up at the unexpected question from Glath. He chewed the side of his tongue, watching Figum’s face. The question was a risk. It gave information which, in the hands of the true Wizard of Building, could be a formidable weapon.

But Glath was an experienced interrogator. He obviously had a reason for the dubious line of questioning. Kylan watched closely, breath held. He noticed the way Andrew’s drooping head twitched a fraction at the mention of the book, covered quickly by a groan and a slowly shaking head.

“Book… I haven’t heard of a book, or a scribe. I can’t even read.” He said. “All I do is cut trees and haul them to the mill. Please…” He slumped with a whimper, tiny dark drops of blood dripping from the razor cuts on his face to tap the wooden floor boards.

Glath turned toward Kylan, a cruel smile on his face.

Kylan raised an eyebrow. Glath had read Figum’s body language as easily as Kylan had. The man was clearly lying about the book, a tome so ancient that knowledge of it was limited to wizards and dusty Frenclik scholars. So it seems that Amyth had been right. He nodded to Glath, who bowed and stepped aside as Kylan emerged from his dark corner into the dim orange light.

“Oops.” He said in a consoling tone. While Glath’s voice was smooth enough to raise the hair on your neck, Kylan’s was the voice of a kindly older gentleman, deep, with a slight rasp to it. It was the kind of voice most people just believed without a second thought. He strode to an empty stool between the table and the bound man and sat down, maneuvering the long black robe he wore so it would not catch beneath his feet.

“Andrew, Andrew… you made a mistake there. And I think you know it. It’s not your fault. Glath is… quite practiced at this sort of thing.”

Andrew did not respond. He just stared at Kylan with eyes that held the kind of fear that masked a deeper anger.

“Let’s not waste anymore time.” Kylan continued. “You must be curious to know how we captured you. A man of your vast wisdom and skill? How we knew where you lived, how we knew where you worked, how we were able to take you by surprise even though you must have been paying attention to your surroundings?”

He could tell that he had Figum’s attention by the way his breathing had slowed. Yes. You want to know how you were beaten, don’t you? The answer is so obvious. Though you possess the wisdom of the Cycles, you are blinded by your passion.

“It was Amyth.” Kylan said apologetically. “She works for me.”

Andrew’s eyes widened, then closed as understanding mixed with betrayal and regret.

Kylan enjoyed the expression, and fought to keep his face from smiling. “Yes, I know. Shocking. But you shouldn’t blame yourself. Why, even I might be ensnared by beauty like that.” He sighed dramatically. “But alas, I’m old enough to know never to fall in love. Love’s just a trap meant to keep weak men from ever attaining positions of power. A cruel, but necessary trap.” He smiled sadly and let the silence hang while the young wizard breathed heavily, possibly to prevent himself from screaming with rage.

“What. Do. You. Want.” Figum enunciated each word through clenched teeth, eyes burning with hate.

Kylan’s hands rose, palms pressed together as in prayer, to point at him. “That’s the first honest thing I’ve heard all night. The hate. That’s more like it. And that’s all I want. Honesty.” He stood, paced to the table, and began playing with the soft wax, chipping it slowly from the wood with his nails.

“You’ll never find it.” The change in Andrew’s voice was not lost on Kylan. It had shifted from that of a terrified coward to the strong, bold voice of a man who’d seen the Cycles come and go. “Whoever you are, you are a fool. The Book’s been hidden since before old kingdom fell. It’s most likely destroyed by now… That or it’s been lost.”

Kylan heard the sincerity in the young Wizard’s voice, and pushed down his anxiety. Pretending that he had not heard Figum’s words, he said, “Such a pretty girl.” As he stared into the flickering orange flame.

“What?” The perplexed reply came after a few seconds. There was a note of fear that word.

Kylan smiled and turned, brushing bits of wax from his hands. “Your sister Nylistra. Such a natural beauty. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to that... perfect mouth.” This time he made no effort to hide the malice he held toward this man. If Figum could not give him the information he wanted, Kylan would not hesitate to destroy everything he loved. He was satisfied with the whitening of his prisoner’s face, the loosening of the jaw muscles as the words registered.

“Oh yes. We have her. You were wise no to tell Amyth about her. But… she found out anyway. Amyth is one of our best… It’s not your fault.”

“Please… don’t hurt her.” There was a quaver in his voice.

“I never intended to hurt her. That’s… up to you.”

Figum slumped. Defeated. “I don’t know where it is…”

“But?”

“Before the Fall, it was said to be protected by one of the great houses. Which house is a mystery, and we’ve lost almost all records of that time, so we don’t even know how many houses there were.”

Kylan was listening with rapt attention, eyes drilling into Andrew’s. “And? There is more to the story.”

Andrew’s eyes flashed with a final defiant light before once again growing dim in defeat. “Whichever family took the book, the old rumor is that they joined the clan of Sorrow’s Leash after the death of the last king.” He sighed and continued, eyes unfocused, as though reading from a page. “Today, Sorrow’s Leash is known by the name Sorlish - no doubt from the natural evolution of language that resulted in the blending - ”

Kylan raised a hand. “That’s enough, that’s enough.”

He inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart. The Sorlish clan had it. All this time, that tribe of brutish nomads held the key to nearly godlike power. He turned and resumed peeling the wax, silent as thoughts and plans spun in his head.

“Please, leave my sister out of this.” Andrew’s voice was pleading. “There is more I know, many things, it could help you. I will tell you anything just… don’t hurt her.” His voice broke, and Kylan could not help but curl his lip in contempt and the display of weakness. Look what love has done to this man. It has taken all of his strength, his power, his resolve, and turned them into nothing but fear, and cowardice.

“We won’t hurt your sister Mr Figum. And yes, you will tell us everything... but not today.” He stepped back and nodded to Glath, who strode forward holding out a cup of water to Andrew, who gulped it down greedily.

“So, you will let her go?” Andrew said breathlessly after draining all the liquid in the cup.

“Let her go? No, I’m afraid not. Amyth has taken to her I believe. She will be trained as a handmaiden and, if she does well, who knows… she may make a fine priestess in time.” Kylan smiled at the look of horror on his prisoner's face. Andrew looked as though he were about to protest, but the sleeping potion mixed into the water worked fast, and just as his mouth began to open, a look of confusion came over his face. Then, his eyes rolled up and closed, and his whole body went limp.

Kylan looked at Glath. “The Sorlish?”

Glath studied the sleeping prisoner while responded. “A simple but mighty tribe, with fierce warriors. They’ve migrated north every cycle, winning numerous skirmishes with the San Vrandi who roam the wilds up that way.”

“Where are they now?”

“The neck, sir. Between the Sawroot Mountains and the western coast line.”

Kylan nodded. “Go. Retrieve the Book at any cost. Make your plans, take as many men and as much gold as you need.”

Glath turned to Kylan then, a blank look on his face.

Kylan sighed. “I know you have been putting off your usual… nighttime activities while we have been on the hunt. I must ask you to postpone them a little longer. It is vital that we recover the Book as soon as possible.”

Glath nodded slowly. “I understand… But I can’t promise there will not be any… bloodshed among the Sorlish.”

Kylan grimaced. News of mass slaughter would spread throughout Ol’Shyria, and then it would only be a matter of time before someone found out that Glath was the one behind it. If further investigation were conducted, it could even expose the entire Cult of Onner. Still, it was necessary risk. There was no time for him to find someone better suited for the task.

“Fine. But try not to… over indulge will you?”

Glath grinned, nodded once, and left the room through the door in the back of the basement. It squeaked open on rusted hinges, but did not squeak closed.

Kylan looked over, expected to see Glath standing there, waiting to ask a final question. Instead, he saw a shadow, and his stomach tried to climb into his chest.

“The Little Man congratulates you Kylan Dax.” The shadow said in a voice cold as ice.

Kylan said nothing as he pushed his fear back down. Then, his lips managed a tight smile. “Ba’orn.” He replied, with as little emotion in his tone as he could manage. “Tell the Little Man that I’m flattered by his praise. And his… attention.”

The shadow named Ba’orn chuckled, an unpleasant sound, and stepped closer, letting the candle light reveal the thin figure of a man, dressed in clothes so black, they seemed to blend with the darkness in the corners of the room. His face was masked, thin slits for eyes and mouth.

“He already knows you are not. That everything you say is a lie. It is why he thinks so highly of you.”

Kylan gave the slightest of bows and said nothing.

Ba’orn studied the sleeping man in silence, then looked back to Kylan. “I must return to Flin Crest. He must be informed of your results.”

Kylan stiffened. “He is in the city?”

The corners of Ba’orn’s mouth lifted.

Kylan cursed. “With her?”

“No. Not with Lucia. He still prefers his anonymity, even from the two of you.”

Kylan released a breath he had not known he was holding, and attempted to restrain his confusion. Why was Ba’orn here? If it was simply to spy, he could do that more effectively without revealing himself.

Ba’orn seemed to respond to Kylan’s inner thoughts in a way that deeply unsettled him. “I’m here to deliver a message.” Ba’orn produced a small brown envelope, red wax seal glinting in the dwindling candle light. “From him to you, in the event of your success.”

Kylan stared at the letter. And what would the message have been in the event of my failure? He suppressed a shudder, took the letter, and placed it in his pocket. He knew better than to read anything of that sort unless he was assured of privacy.

“Until we meet again, Kylan Dax.” And then he was gone back through the open door, which was now creaking shut behind him, leaving Kylan alone with the Wizard of Plans and his thoughts. Thoughts that had been laced with triumph were now clouded with uncertainty and traces of fear. He’d hoped to wield his knowledge of the Book’s location like a master swordsman. But now the Little Man knew, and the game had changed.

No matter. The game of power was about patience. He would wait.

Author's Note: This is the first chapter of the novel I am working on called The Wizards of Ol'Shyria.