Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) (4 page)

Once he finished scribing his tale he rolled the scroll, careful to tie the ribbon securely and tuck it back into the protection of his cuirass. He didn’t know how long the message would remain there in the forest, waiting to be found by some wandering passerby.

Sleep seeped in and with it a smile returned to his face. Once again the world went grey, and once again he was greeted by a vision of his parents. Only this time he was a man and they were embracing him in a hug.

Williamdale died there, armor twinkling in the light of a smoke tinged dawn, beside the lifeless body of the last dragon.

“Dragons? Are you mad?”

Baymar instantly realized he spoke with a little too much gusto, for as if in agreement with his thoughts the drunken camaraderie throughout the foggy mead hall momentarily wavered in volume. He felt hot tension caress the back of his neck, and the hairs down his forearms pricked up as squinty eyes zeroed in from multiple directions.

All magic wielders feel this sensation when they are stared upon. Curious eyes may as well be daggers to a wizard. When a mageling casts his first spell – a real spell, not the street corner stuff – he learns how to pull power directly from the cosmos in order to fulfill his task. What isn't known by most, is that each time a spell is cast a tiny amount of the magical energy flutters off, and then gravitates around the caster's body. Eventually this residual magic settles into an aura, and it thickens over time. Much about this energy is still a mystery, like why it doesn't like to be looked at.

It’s a bittersweet situation that most newcomers to the dark arts learn well after they've taken the life-changing plunge into the Mystic Academy. By that age they'd probably dreamed about conjuring snowstorms and lightning bolts for as long as they could remember. Nobody informs these dreamers why wizards live out most of their lives in isolation, or that they will inevitably live the same hermit life.

Baymar was no mageling, in fact he had an aura that could fill the room twice over, and he was fully tuned into the eyes on him now. In one shady corner of the room Baymar saw, as well as felt a group of card dealing dwarves sneaking peeks. In the opposite corner a sitar-strumming bard was distracted enough to stutter in rhythm. Baymar balled his fists, and it was all he could do not to shrink down into his chair.

Speaking out was a careless mistake on Baymar’s part. He knew perfectly well that the gloomy watering hole was a haven for outlaw and thief alike. He was one of the older patrons in the private tavern, so by default his robbery and murder had probably been plotted several times over long before his outburst.

“Lower your voice, or would you rather I save these thugs the time and rob you myself?”

The sarcastic grin behind the remark did little to diffuse the threat. Baymar didn’t take threats lightly, even the ones made in jest. If it were twenty years ago he might have put a fist to the young man’s mouth just to make a point of it, but Baymar knew him and knew better. Even through the failure of a disguise he recognized his face, and a fist to the young man's mouth wouldn't work.

The young man sitting across Baymar was Shomnath, prince and heir to the throne of Somerlund, the city they were currently sitting in the middle of. The prince had mysteriously gone through pains to conceal his identity. He was unshaven, wore clothes littered with patches, and even stank a little. Even the weathered stain on his cloak seemed genuinely old, but after all the effort it was wasted on Baymar. He recognized the prince the moment they met the prior evening. The prince appeared at Baymar's home late in the evening promising a job that he would not be able to pass up. The prince didn’t know, but the failure to hide his identity worked out in his favor. If Baymar hadn’t recognized him he would never have left the comfort of his home for this hall of cretins.

The Black Cauldron, a pub hidden within Somerlund’s poorest district, was not the type of tavern Baymar frequented. In fact, it wasn’t the type of pub any respected man could find. From outside, a ragtag structure revealed no clue of the steady business within. Literally a pile of log, scrap iron, and brick, the walls and roof seem about as architecturally sound as a pile of firewood, but the effect was the desired one, perfectly blending it in flush with the shanty homes surrounding it. A door that was thoroughly warped by time hung from a single hinge at the center of the mess, where several squatters could regularly be found contributing to the ambiance.

It was all an illusion, quickly realized once you passed through the entrance, when you found yourself walking down an intricately shaped stone stairway that twisted deep below ground. The passage spiraled twice, stopping abruptly at an open, massive iron door that judging by the way dirt piled up to it's base hasn't been shut in many years. Just within the doorway a sentry waited on an ancient wooden stool, with one hand extended for a door fee and the other hand perpetually closed around a mug of mead.

Once you've dropped some coin, you get to pass by the real door to the Black Cauldron, as well as a more fit guard, sporting a smile full of holes and an axe covered in notches. Then, all that is left is a short stroll down an arched, tiled hallway fit for a rich cathedral. At the end of the out-of-place hall, a new world lit up in the form of a wide, windowless cavern, fashioned with thick mahogany pillars and red brick walls traced with dark, smoke stained grout. The high ceiling is almost completely black, covered in soot from many years of smoky nights.

Centering the room, surrounded by tables like the one Baymar and Shomnath presently occupied, is a giant, black, iron cauldron, standing over nine feet tall and nearly twelve feet wide. One side of the cauldron is flanked by a wooden, rickety flight of steps leading to the top of it. A slightly less rickety looking bar had been built around the other half. The monstrous pot, for which the tavern was named, was rumored stolen ages ago from a traveling horde of trolls. The trolls used it for cooking unfortunate travelers who crossed their path.

Now, the cauldron was where the first person of the night that fell asleep from over-drinking was ceremoniously stripped naked and tossed into. Needless to say the establishment wasn’t exactly the pride and joy of Somerlund.

“Young man,” said Baymar. “There hasn’t been any dragons for nearly two hundred years. Also, you told me that you had a job for a healer. I’m not accustomed to being lied to.” The old cleric’s bushy grey eyebrows rose high as he leaned back in his chair. He wanted to know why the prince hid his name, but wisdom told Baymar to keep the rest of his cards in pocket until his opponent revealed his.

There was no deep reasoning behind the prince's secrecy. Concealing his namesake was just the norm for Shomnath. He wasn't hiding who he was from Baymar specifically, it was just second nature to deny who he was. His father spoiled him with
the best of everything, assuming the prince would just slide into his royal shoes and relieve him of his duties, only to have Shomnath repulse at the notion. He grew up loathing his royal disposition, wanting nothing to do with his born station in society.

The kingdom of Somerlund was blessed with peace for more than a decade and the idea of sitting upon a throne, even as its supreme leader didn’t hold a warm place in Shomnath’s heart. From the day he learned to mount a horse, he secretly wandered the countryside under different guises and name, seeking what he really wanted for himself. Above all he wanted to go off on fantastic adventures like the ones he read about in books.

“I didn’t lie," said a grinning Shomnath. "I just didn’t mention that it’s a traveling job.”

“A traveling job?”

“Exactly. I have an excellent crew, but your healing magic would be extremely valuable to us.” The ends of Shomnath’s curly brown locks jiggled loose from under his hood when he became animated. The dark cloak did nothing to hide his boyish energy.

Baymar cringed at how simple the prince made his “healing magic” sound. A true cleric was educated in all facets of alchemy, nature and magic. They were far more than just healers. They were trained to manipulate the physical attributes in nature through the use of magic. Lord Baymar had reached a level beyond the likes of which many mage and sorceress alike die before reaching, yet the prince had just made his life’s work sound so minimal.

“I hate to disappoint you,” Baymar quipped, “but I must refuse your generous offer. Traveling, as well as job, are two words I tend to avoid nowadays.”

“But you haven’t heard everything yet,” declared Shomnath. His ship was quickly sinking and he felt it.

“Exactly," countered the older man. "I’m absolutely sure that I haven’t.”

“I know," Shomnath stroked his trimmed beard and leaned back into his chair. "You doubt my ability to pay for your services. That it will be worth your while. I assure you, I can meet any price.”

“No, I question why you want to bother a tired old man with this. I’m sure there are plenty of young heroes for hire who would jump at a paying contract.”

“You're joking right?" scoffed the prince. "I’m not the first to seek out the famous Lord Baymar.”

Famous. Although hearing himself attached to the word always unnerved Baymar, an attempt at modesty would be a waste of words. Even if it had been twenty years since his last crusade as the leader of the king's notorious battle mages, the reputation he gained trekking with the king provided him the means to retire comfortably. Even the shady bard across the room undoubtedly knew a song or two that put his name to ballad. It was rumored that the king owed his very life to Baymar many times over.

“You sound like you’ve done your research, young man, so you should also know that you’re not the first warrior to be refused by me.”

In truth, Shomnath was the first person to even draw the old veteran from his door. Baymar had personal reasons for ending his days of battle and adventure, reasons that caused him to disappear from the civilized world altogether. He became a hermit and opened a private school for magic, although no one can bear witness if he’d ever admitted students. Shomnath had only gotten this far because of Baymar’s own
curiosity. Why did the son of his old friend the King appear on his doorstep? Why couldn’t the prince speak freely at his school? And most curious of all, why this extreme need for secrecy?

“Aren’t you at least interested?” Shomnath went on, his tone going serious. “What if I told you that I’ve stumbled onto the biggest threat in Somerlund’s history?”

It was an impressive statement, strong enough to strike a chord within any adventurer’s heart, retired or not. Still, the ever-cool cleric corked his interest. Instead he apathetically pulled out his herb pipe and stared at Shomnath as he put it to his lips. He bore no flint or match, but the moment the cleric sucked the inside of the bowl burned red hot. It was simple magic, but it seemed to thoroughly impress the prince. After two puffs a thick white wall of smoke built up and hung suspended between them, obstructing the prince's view of the old man.

Shomnath was worried the old man had vanished from behind the smoke but just as he began to rise from his chair to investigate, Baymar leaned forward, breaching the wall of smoke sending two clouds adrift to the left and right.

“What, pray tell, could be so terrible?” he asked.

Before the prince could deliver his reply, Baymar jolted forward from a violent nudge to his back. Over the cleric's shoulder Shomnath found Baymar's aggressor looming, wearing a wide grin. The prince was surprised that Baymar didn't go sailing across the tavern, because compared to the fat boar of a man who pushed him the cleric was a twig. Also, miraculously, his pipe never left his lips.

“I don’t like the smell of your smoke old' man!” said the ruffian.

Baymar regained his bearings, slowly sitting back into his chair and placing his pipe on the table. He didn’t look at the man directly, but from his peripheral sight got the gist of his enormity.

“Interesting for you to say that,” answered Baymar. “Because I can smell your breath over my merryweed.” Baymar understood that he could have been burning incense and it wouldn't have made a difference. The ruffian had obviously been waiting for a reason to make his move.

Then, moving with speed no sensible person would have expected from the old man, Baymar spun out of his seat and was suddenly standing face-to-face with his assailant. The man was twice as big as he’d thought, and he immediately regretted his decision to stand up to the thug who was now smiling down at him. Before Baymar could decide on what defensive stance to take, the thug levitated two feet from the floor, his face flushing red as beet juice.

“Yer bothering my boss and his friend,” boomed a voice from behind the floating man.

Baymar leaned over to see that the man hadn’t levitated, but was being lifted by a huge hand with a fistful of the thug’s shirt from behind. It was a huge hand that was connected to a huge man.

The voice belonged to a man who stood at least ten feet tall, with the most muscular build Baymar had ever seen. The scene reminded him of a chef holding up a fattened chicken about to be plucked. Time seemed to slow, with the only sounds in the tavern being a few whispers and the clunking of mugs not so delicately being placed on tables.

Baymar realized that the behemoth must have been waiting sentinel for the prince well before the meeting started. He definitely would have noticed this giant walk in, and more definitely would have wanted to exit the tavern upon his arrival! Before he could put words forth, Shomnath was already standing to his right, his hood still hiding the upper half of his face. The prince then burst out in strangely calm dialog with the man.

“Excuse me, but it seems you have accidentally bumped into my friend, and in turn met my bodyguard, Rolo. What is your name sir?”

“G-ordon,” stuttered the fat man.

“Well met G-ordon,” responded Shomnath, drawing a few chuckles from the tavern.

Amidst the surreal scenario, Baymar noted movement in four other fellows behind Rolo. There were two on each side of the giant, and they were stealthily inching closer. His mind raced as the patrons of the Cauldron behind them also seemed to be forming a tight circle to close off any room to flee. To make matters worse, the eyes glaring at them had his aura tingling something fierce.