Comiriom
The School of Arts Inscrutable
Some Two Centuries Before Eagoth's Conquest...It was known to the common folk as the Wizard's Tourney, though- of course- none of
them were allowed to attend. Each year a few peasants or city folk would try to sneak past the School's gates or scale the black stone walls for a glimpse of the colorful out-of-towners weaving exotic spells. They would, inevitably, be hanged for their troubles.
To the participants it was known as the Trials, and they took place every two and a half years, always (for reasons now obscure) in Comiriom. The most talented students were culled from the handful of Arcanums scattered across Leria's petty kingdoms; along with contingents from Phrasto, Vissaban, and lands beyond as far as Nyssos. They were put through a series of grueling- indeed often macabre- challenges both mental and physical, designed to test their mastery of the elements and the transmundane.
And each Trial culminated in this. The final day. The Contest.
Magister Syverin paced the edge of the sparring circle, black robes billowing behind him. The air had a faintly sour, faintly spicy smell, the characteristic scent of discharged aether. The magister's narrowed gaze was fixed on the pair of contestants squaring off in the in ring. He was not alone. A crowd of students, magisters, and other contestants had assembled in the quad to watch the man they had no doubt would be the winner of the Trials.
Prince Callidus of Yzen.
He was fighting two other young mages at once, both dour, shirtless, tattoo-covered Phrastans wielding bladed staves. Callidus himself- tall, dark haired, clad in flowing white- fought with a simple wooden staff.
The Phrastans were giving him the hardest time he'd had all day- all three combatants were moving so quickly their staves were little more than blurrs. Fast as they were, the Phrastans couldn't manage to land a blow on the young Prince, who weaved around them and knocked aside their strikes with easy grace.
The crowd murmured in appreciation of the display. Syverin was less sanguine. He had seen virtuoso performances before. He knew the combination of rare genius and magical power was a dangerous one, had seen too many talented mages lose their minds, their very humanity, to the allure of godlike power.
One of the Phrastans managed to break Callidus' guard and the Prince let loose a burst of magical force: there was a flash of whitish light and both Phrastans staggered backwards. Callidus now pressed his advantage, sweeping the legs out from one opponent and stunning him with another force-blast.
The remaining Phrastan backed away from the Prince, mouth moving rapidly as he wove an offensive spell. The air shimmered around him and Syverin felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. The crowd fell silent.
Callidus advanced on the Phrastan, unconcerned, and as he closed the other mage let loose, sending bolts of bluish lightning at the Prince, who caught the bolts on the end of his staff and sent them harmlessly into the ground. The Phrastan did not let up however, and Callidus' staff began to char and smolder. He was forced to dodge a few of the magical bolts and begin backing away. Behind the Prince, his fallen opponent was pulling himself to his feet.
Syverin crossed his arms, waiting to see how the Prince of Yzen would pull himself out of a seemingly impossible situation. He had no doubt Callidus would, for he knew the Prince's secret. The royal line of Yzen had long been gifted with foresight, indeed they plausibly claimed Vymar the Seer as their lineage's progenitor. But Callidus was no mere gifted augur. His father was a middling mage but a harsh taskmaster and his son was the object of his vicarious ambition. It was known that as a child the Prince was denied food and water if he failed correctly to predict the day's weather.
To see hazy visions in dreams was one thing, to foresee your opponents' next move in the midst of a fight was a rare skill indeed. As he watched Callidus masterfully sidestep a magical bolt so that it collided with the Phrastan behind him, Syverin wondered if he was not watching the Leria's future conquerer. After all, such talent wedded to the crown of a powerful state like Yzen could only...
It was then that Syverin noticed the boy standing next to him: a reedy, ill favored youth of maybe fifteen, with pockmarked skin and dirty hair. He wore dirt-stained peasant clothes and his eyes were rimmed red, as though he'd been crying.
"Boy!" barked Syverin. In the sparring ring, Callidus closed with the remaining Phrastan and quickly disarmed him. The crowd cheered. The opponents in the ring shook hands, Callidus grinning, the Phrastans bloodied and fuming.
The youth glanced at Syverin and smiled, "I challenge the Prince next."
His voice was surprisingly soft, fluttering and almost girlish.
"Who let you in here?" demanded Syverin.
"I let myself in," said the youth, watching Callidus, who had turned from the defeated Phrastans and was bowing to the crowd.
"I CHALLENGE YOU, WHITE PRINCE!" screamed the boy, and he laughed.
Syverin struck the youth across the face, sending him stumbling backward into the mud. The magister was just about to call for the guards when Callidus himself strode over, smiling.
"It's alright, Magister," said the Prince, helping the boy back to his feet, "No need for that. Tell me, boy, what is your name?"
The youth smiled, "You'll know that soon enough. I said,
I challenge you."
Callidus laughed, "Well I'm afraid it wou-"
The Prince paused, frowning, as he met the boy's eyes. His mouth fell open in surprise.
There was a deafening
crack and Callidus was sent sprawling backwards, nose broken, blood spattering his white robes.
The youth laughed and took a step forward into the sparring ring. Callidus sat up, dazed. He made a half-hearted attempt to reach for his staff but the youth uttered something under his breath and the Prince's weapon shattered.
"You didn't see me coming did you?" asked the boy. As he advanced, Callidus' body tumbled bonelessly away from him, dragged by unseen hands.
Some in the crowd charged the youth, or hurled offensive spells at him. He paid them no attention. The spells fizzled in the air around him, the bodies where flung away with the same invisible force that had knocked back the Prince.
"Pathetic," said the youth as Callidus managed finally to break his invisible bonds and struggled to his feet, "I had thought maybe
you would be a challenge. The white prince. The man who sees the future."
Callidus, gaunt face covered in blood, grimacing, sent a bolt of searing white fire at the youth, who smacked it aside with a backhanded gesture.
The guards by now had broken through the crowd, swords drawn. Several Magisters, students and Trial contestants, including Syverin, had assembled as well, staves raised and aimed at the youth, ready to unleash a whirlwind of offensive magic.
The pair of Phrastans now stood behind Callidus, ready to fight alongside him.
There was a long moment of silence as the youth surveyed the forces arranged against him, his face serenely unconcerned.
"Who are you?" asked Callidus.
"I told you,
seer," said the youth, contemptuously, "You'll know soon enough."
There was a bright emerald flash, a crack of thunder, and the boy was gone.
Sour Bridge
45 Years AgoThe White Wizard stood alone on the battle-scarred bridge. Waiting for the dead.
He was alone. The armies of the living had long since fled south. Forestalling their doom.
There had been a future, once, where victory over Eagoth had been possible. Theleden, empowered by the Wizard's own magic, could have thrown down the Necromancer. Become a great king over a unified Leria.
But that future had fled. Eagoth and Theleden alike, in different ways and both unknowingly, had seen to that.
Now the only ways forward were dark paths, sinful and treacherous.
The Wizard tightened his grip on his silvered staff. It had begun to rain. Green-tinged lightning flashed in the dirty sky.
In time the Necromancer's ragged horde shambled out of the gloom. The crowd of twitching corpses stopped well within bowshot of Callidus.
wizard they hissed in unison.
"I am here," said Callidus, "for your Master."
A lone ghoul stepped out from the festering mob. Barefoot, cowled, dressed in tattered robes.
It approached Callidus and threw back its hood.
"Oh," said the wizard, "Oh, I see."
Marrone
josephb