Prologue
The Monster stole a star, and the Sorcerer fled after it. It fled deep into the heart of the crescent mountains, seeking to use it’s power for it’s deep master, locked far below the earth. The Sorcerer and his procession set out the very day the theft was discovered, and they marched out in the spring rain. They chased it east across the plains, into the Valley of Vither, and up into the Crescent Mountains. A month into the chase, the heat worked it’s wicked magic to make the soldiers too hot in their armour, but kept a false promise of a cool wind that gave them just enough energy to keep going. The flies pestered the horses, hooves stamping, ears twitching, and irritation breeding. The soldiers quietly complained that the Sorcerer did not cast any anti-fly spells on the procession that was not on it’s last legs, but desperately wished it was. The soldiers at the head of the procession barely carried their spears; the butts had been dragging in the dirt for hours. The soldiers at the back guarded the provisions, and only half of them at the best of times were all walking, the rest laying on their backs about the wagons. One man at the front was slouching heavily in his saddle. His sword in it’s sheathe bounced gently with the sway of his horse against it’s flank. He wished he had shaved his moustache that felt like it was crawling with sweat and ticks, and every time he rubbed it grew even itchier. Beads of sweat trickled from his scalp, soaking his tunic and making his skin even sorer. “What was it the damn thing stole anyway?” a voice from his left said, bringing him out of his exhausted stupor. He glanced over at his friend in acknowledgement. “They said it was a relic of some kind, like it related to the elves or something.” The first man replied, barely looking up. “Elves? Really? The elves left the world before birds ever flew in the sky,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “I thing it relates to someone higher up.” “King Aleksander?” “Who else? I don’t know about you but I’ve never seen him cast so much as a spell.” He leaned in even closer, “I don’t think he’s even magic.” He said in a whisper. “Then what the hell are we even doing out here? The fleas are eating us alive and the captain is driving us on a handful of hours of sleep a night! If there is no stolen relic, then what are we killing ourselves out here for?” “To put up pretences.” He grinned now, clearly waiting to tell someone his grand conspiracy. “We know the Royal Sorcerer is closer than anyone at court to the King. He always has his ear. But we have never seen him do magic. He has that massive library in the tower and beautifully furnished apartment but never does magic.” “Then what is he?” asked the first man, still quite skeptical. The second man lowered his voice even further, to the point that the first man almost didn’t hear his answer. “He is the Kings lover!” He raised his eyebrow in emphasis, subtly inviting the first man to join him. “What you’re suggesting is treason. There are things in the palace we don’t know about, but that doesn’t mean they would spend all this money lying about who he is.” He jabbed a thumb at the large carriage in the middle of the procession, more of a room on wheels than a soldier’s wagon. The Sorcerer’s wagon itself was draped in heavy purple curtains that swayed slowly with the rocking of the carriage across the muddy road. The front raised up into an elegant (and cushioned) seat for the driver, who was himself deeply slumped back in his chair, fingers barely grasping the reins. The back of the carriage had a large and obvious chest, a deep brown with a powerful gold trim. The guards at the back sat on the edge of their chairs, as far from the chest as possible, unwilling to accidentally trigger the magical defences on the lock that were almost surely there. Weren’t there? “If you have any more bright ideas, keep them to yourself.” The first man said, and tried to return to his glum numbness. The second man seemed to think he had one whatever argument they had, and moved his horse away to get back into order. The procession proceeded in silence once more, bothered only by the buzzing of bugs and occasional bird song or woodpecker. The sky had been threatening to rain all day, the dark clouds looming but somehow never quite breaking the heat. Until it finally broke. Torrents of rain pummelled the men, almost instantly soaking them to the bone and making progress even slower. The men by now knew that they could not stop now the sun was still in the sky, and so every man on a horse grimaced and counted his blessings that he was not walking on foot. The men on foot counted their blessings that they still had their boots. The men who lost their boots said nothing. They continued in this interminable weather for too long for anyone to count, until they came to a bridge. Not a wide and well maintained bridge over a river like in the capital, but spindly decades old bridge that crossed a wide ravine. A pony would barely cross it, heaven forbid a whole procession. The man with the itchy moustache felt relief at last; with no way to go forward they would finally go back. He called his captain over, who wordlessly assessed the situation, water dripping from his soaked uniform. They shared a knowing look and the captain walked over to the sorcerer’s wagon. He gave three stiff knocks on the door and stood back. There was some rumbling inside, and the door opened a crack. “Are we stopping for the evening captain?” Came a voice from inside. “We may have to sir, the path has become too narrow for us to go deeper.” “I shall be the judge of that,” replied the voice from inside, and some creaking noises came from inside. The door opened fully and the Royal Sorcerer of New Lontir stepped out. An assistant quickly followed carrying an umbrella, and though he was at least six inches shorter than the Sorcerer, he held it aloft to keep him dry. The Sorcerer was quite tall indeed, dressed in tailored black trousers, a white tunic, and long purple coat. He had a narrow face with a small pair of spectacles tinted purple resting on the tip of his nose, a clean shaven face, and short cropped hair. He seemed almost offended that he had to step out and join everyone. “Where is the issue?” He asked in a calm and deep voice, looking down at the captain, who was being hit with some of the fall off of the umbrella but paid it no mind. The captain led him to the bridge, which almost seemed to be creaking under the wind with no one setting foot on it. The Sorcerer stood in the mud and placed a black gloved hand on his chin. “What ways do you see to get across captain?” He finally asked. “Well we can get the men across one at a time, and a few of the smaller horses. But the wagons, the provisions, the barracks? We cannot get them across sir. We either take another week to double back and find another route, or we accept we cannot go further. Sir.” “If we were on a military campaign, and you were the ultimate authority, what would you do?” “I would send trusted men across to finish the mission with enough provisions between them, and take the rest of the company back to find another route.” “And what do your textbooks of military strategy dictate we do?” “Most would say we simply find another route. But no strategy survives contact with the enemy. There is no other way across.” The Sorcerer smiled at this. “That is the wisest thing you’ve said all day captain. We have confronted the enemy, and the enemy is these mountains themselves.” He reached into an inside pocket of his deep purple coat and pulled out something small that fit in the palm of his hand. He knelt down and stuck his hand with the object in it into the ground and held it there. He whispered some words that were lost in the rain and looked up. At first nothing happened, and the Sorcerer’s face remained stone. He did not react when the land began to rise up with barely a sound, stone turning to dirt and growing wide while the bridge seemed to just slip away like it had never been there. A whole slice of the mountainside had been shifted and changed, and before them was room for two processions to proceed. The Sorcerer stood up, shook the mud from his hand, and placed the object back in his pocket. “And there you are,” he said to the captain, “another route.”