The Azure Wizard (2 page)

He rose to his feet quickly brushing stray stalks of grass from the seat of his trousers and began the uphill walk back to his village. The village that Ethan dwelt within was called North Ridge. It was located on a flat ridge about midway up a high, withered mountain known as Whitethorn Mountain. It consisted of about twenty-five families, most of them herders and farmers, each with its own log home and small plot of earth for crops or livestock. North Ridge also boasted a blacksmith, but that was the sole business in the settlement. People survived by simply raising their crops and livestock for their families with the surplus rationed out among the entirety of the village. This created a very isolated and sheltered community, many of its people having never been to another village much less a town, and many had no wish to ever leave. But Ethan did desire to depart this self-contained boring community.

He desired to see the other villages of Vhar and maybe even Lumberwall, the sole town of the Barony of Vhar located far to the south in the southern reaches of the Vhar Mountains that composed the entirety of the territory, on the northern border of the Barony of Greenwell. He knew numerous tales of heroes and adventures of Greenwell, the Three Baronies’ largest and central barony, a place of forested lowlands abundant with cities, people, adventure, excitement, and the ruins of the Ancient Age. Ethan also knew a few stories and legends of the Barony of Wendlith, a smaller barony of grasslands, coasts, horses, and exotic people that lay to the south of the Barony of Greenwell. But of these wondrous places, Ethan had no hope of ever seeing. North Ridge was his home, and it had been for generations before him.

Ethan found himself on a worn, dirt trail that wound its way up the side of Whitethorn Mountain between the solemn trunks of the evergreens. With the shafts of sunlight filtering through the pine canopy and the still quiet reverence of this northern wood, it felt to Ethan like what he would imagine a colossal chapel of the Ancestors to be like. As he hiked higher up the trail the reverence began to deteriorate as he neared North Ridge. Stumps of felled pines stood like grave markers aside the trail, and they grew in number the closer the storyteller got to his village.

Abruptly the forest broke and he found himself on a flat ridge that was cut out of Whitethorn Mountain’s south flank. Crowded upon this ridge was the small village of North Ridge with its diminutive pastures or gardens and rows of log homes built of the timber harvested from the surrounding wood. Numerous villagers were outside toiling with their livestock or crops, or making repairs on their fences and homes. As Ethan walked into the village only a few paid him any heed with a polite nod or curt wave. Amongst the somewhat larger settlements of Vhar, especially the town of Lumberwall, storytellers were held in high regard, not only raking in a wealth of coins but also owning their own story halls and advising the Baron of Vhar. But in a village like North Ridge endurance and strength were far more impressive and honorable than being able to tell stories of ancient heroics and legends.

Ethan responded in kind, a nod there and bit of a smile there, and reached the home of his family, a two-storied standard, timber dwelling with a stone-shingled roof. The pine front door was wide open as it always was during the spring and summer, and wool curtains were drawn back from open windows letting the bright sunlight illuminate the interior of the abode. Stepping inside, he became enveloped in the aroma of pine needles, due to the homemade candles that Ethan’s grandmother herself made. The scent of fresh bread greeted him warmly as well.

Ethan’s grandmother, Ethyl, stood in the kitchen of the household slicing a fresh loaf of bread. With each cut warm steam drifted from the loaf into the face of the elderly woman, a face of wrinkles due to years of laughing framed by long, straight ivory-colored locks. Her brown eyes, a much darker hue than those of her grandson’s, darted up to settle on Ethan and her face broke into a warm smile which in turn infected Ethan with an equal one.

“Ethan, where have you been? A young girl was around a bit ago asking about you.”

Ethan didn’t respond immediately, instead walking around the table his grandmother worked on, he hugged her with a firm arm as the other lifted a hot slice of bread from the table. After kissing the silky hair on the top of her head he replied, “Just out in the south copse. Did she part with her name by chance, Granny?”

“Aye, Wendi or some sort,” the elderly woman responded as she hurriedly sliced the rest of the bread.

“It was probably concerning her doomed infatuation with that dolt Abram, a log cutter no less. Oh well.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ethyl returned, “but it is neigh time for you to feed the goats.”

Ethan kissed the top of her head again, and he turned back towards the door. “Always work, work, work with you, grandmother,” the storyteller jokingly moaned before engulfing the slice of bread as he crossed the threshold of the home. Ethyl had never used to ask Ethan to handle any chores around the home as it wasn’t customary for storytellers to do so. She had married Ethan’s grandfather, also a storyteller, and had birthed a son who also became a storyteller. The customs of the profession were deeply engrained in Ethyl’s thinking. Now she was nearing seventy summers, and Ethan’s grandfather had passed away ten years ago from sickness. She had to begin resorting to requiring her young grandson to pull his weight every so often, difficult though that may have been for the traditional elder. But Ethan didn’t mind at all.

Ethan’s parents had died returning from a storyteller’s festival in Lumberwall when he was only two so he didn’t remember what they looked like or the sound of their voices. When he was old enough his grandparents, who had taken the duty of raising him as a storyteller like his father and grandfather, explained to him that his mother and father had been robbed and murdered by brigands in the pine forests of the Vhar Mountains. That should have encouraged Ethan to stay in North Ridge, safe and comfortable from the things cruel and dangerous that roamed the Three Baronies.

Instead the seed of exploration and journeying grew in him from an early age. That seed could be accounted for as an effect of the tales that he had been trained to catalog to memory. Perhaps that was why many storytellers set off from their quiet little villages in the Barony of Vhar when they came of age, to learn new legends and tales and congregate among those that the tales were written about. Also storytellers were less useful and adept in the very rural settlements where manual labor was much more appreciated than history and legends.

After feeding their three old goats plenty of grain and spring water Ethan got to work cleaning up the small goat pasture. That task, while dealing with the periodic attacks from the foul-tempered old goats, took him the better part of the afternoon, and by the time that he was finished Ethyl called him inside for supper.

Ethyl and her storyteller grandson sat together at their table and enjoyed a meal of fresh bread, venison, and milk. Even more than the delicious meal, they enjoyed each other’s company, Ethyl imparting grievances over the stubbornness of their goats and barley crops and Ethan conveying bits of the legends of the Ancestors and their realm where all good souls journey in death, the Ancestor Lands. Ethyl listened to Ethan’s animated storytelling with a seeming reverence, and eventually tears welled in her eyes. Becoming uncomfortable Ethan cleared his throat and became still and quiet, looking at the scraps left upon his plate.

Ethyl reached her withered hand across the table and laid it atop her grandson’s. She stated in but a whisper, “Do continue, Ethan.”

“But Granny, I didn’t mean to make you long for those that are gone,” returned Ethan as he rose his intense amber gaze to Ethyl’s, as intense as his own.

“Do not be ashamed, dear. A storyteller has immense power over the people of the Three Baronies. The right tale at the right time can instigate rebellion or topple a barony. Cherish the gift you have. It was the gift of your father, and his father, and his father’s father back until the dawning of the Three Baronies at the end of the Ancient Age. It is the gift of the history of the land, the gift to bring a listener to the forgotten days of which you speak, to invoke emotion and passion in your audience. Outside of Vhar books are the way of hearing information and tales. Sadly, the gifts of storytellers aren’t respected as they are in our barony. They serve only to fill taverns and make merry sodden revelers. Ethan, you would do good to stay in Vhar. In these mountains you will always be accepted and you will always be happy. If you desire something more exciting you could always sojourn to Lumberwall and you could make your life there.”

“How do you know of what it is like in Greenwell and Wendlith? The stories of our kin?” inquired Ethan, a thin eyebrow arching up in query.

Ethyl sighed and drank the last of her milk. “Before I ever met your grandfather I dwelt in the Barony of Greenwell. I ended up journeying here to the Barony of Vhar, and I met your grandfather here. Eventually I decided to stay.”

Ethan didn’t take his eyes from her as he downed the last of his own milk. After the tense moment she answered his unspoken inquiry, “I was a Forester of the Three Baronies in my younger years.”

Ethan coughed in surprise, the remnants of his milk spattering from his mouth. When he recovered he choked, “You, Granny, a Forester?”

Ethan knew numerous stories of many of the heroic Foresters of the Three Baronies such as Gentle Thyen who roamed alone in the forests of Greenwell completely at one with nature, and Jasper Fielderson who single-handedly hunted a circle of assassins deep into the most untamed wilds of the Barony of Vhar, and of course he knew all of the tales of Lady Quinn who heroically founded the order and martyred herself to the Wizard Emperor, initiating the mythic Battle of Greenwell City that ultimately destroyed Illumis and ended the Ancient Age. Ethan had even seen a Forester of the Three Baronies about a decade previously who had passed through North Ridge while on patrol in Vhar. The Foresters served all of the Three Baronies but it was well-known that they were based and primarily operated in the Barony of Greenwell. But sometimes the Foresters of the Three Baronies were assigned or took it upon themselves to patrol the other two baronies of the Three Baronies.

After a steady deliberate nod from her, he continued, “Why would you give up being one of the acclaimed Foresters of the Three Baronies for the life of a housewife in the most rural region in the entire land? You must have had such adventures and seen such wondrous things.”

Ethyl shrugged slightly and gathered her tattered grey-green shawl about her shoulders before replying, “I was a member of the order for only half a decade, but yes, I have seen the sunrise throw its golden radiance through the thick, fern-cloaked Forests of Greenwell and the blue light of the moon turn the sea off of the shores of Wendlith into a million sapphires. I have faced a multitude of brigands alone, my fine silver hand axe laying them low. But I have received my share of wounds as well. I have faced a Blood Bear single-handedly and lived to tell the tale and I have seen opposing Woodfolk tribes slay each other in battle to the last man. I had been in love, Ethan, even before I met your grandfather.”

Ethan sat across from Ethyl, his grandmother and friend yet suddenly a stranger, and simply stared at her. She became uncomfortable under his measuring gaze and stood, her old joints audibly creaking. Ethan then whispered in a hushed tone brimming with awe, “Will you tell me more, Granny, more of your tales?”

She yawned as she nodded. Ethyl then turned and shuffled towards her bedroom leaving behind naught but a single tired statement. “Tomorrow.”

Ethyl never woke up from her sleep that night. She died without pain, and when Ethan discovered her body she seemed sincerely at peace. Her burial was a public affair of mourning as they usually were in the small villages of the Barony of Vhar. Ethan recited a few prayers to the Ancestors, ensuring a hasty arrival in the Ancestor Lands for Ethyl, and she was buried in the earth a little farther up Whitethorn Mountain from North Ridge where the village’s cemetery lay. The storyteller was bestowed a handful of condolences, tears, and hugs from the community and everyone went back to their homes. And that was that.

For a couple of days Ethan attempted to get on with his life. He took over running the household, keeping things clean, making himself meals, minding the goats and crops. He never spoke a word to anybody and his movements were dulled, slowed by grief and shock at the sudden death of the only family that he had left. He was now truly alone in the Three Baronies.

It thus did not take long for Ethan to fall back into the habit of dreaming, dreaming of leaving the Barony of Vhar, not just going to the town of Lumberwall but truly leaving. He dreamed of leaving the Vhar Mountains behind completely and entering the Barony of Greenwell with its abundant deciduous woods and cities. Before Ethyl’s death these notions were dreams and nothing more, but now with nothing left for him here the prospect of departing seemed a very logical decision.

Ethan wasn’t going to let these dreams die with his grandmother, taking upon himself the yoke of a wasted life and of a meaningless lonely existence. He was going to act on them. Thus it was that Ethan Skalderholt packed a few extra pairs of trousers and shirts into a satchel with some oats and dried venison, put on his rarely-used leather boots and patched up grey woolen cloak, and left North Ridge behind, putting one foot in front of the other on his journey southward towards the Barony of Greenwell.

Summer had arrived by the time that Ethan reached Lumberwall, and it was already sweltering, causing the storyteller to shed his cloak and roll the sleeves up on his woolen shirt. Though warm, summers in the heights of the Vhar Mountains never reached true hot temperatures, such as those in southern Greenwell and the Barony of Wendlith. Wool clothing was the norm in villages like North Ridge, but at the base of the southern flanks of the mountain range, where the town of Lumberwall laid, the summer heat was among the worst that Ethan had ever experienced. And he knew it would only get worse once he passed the border into the Barony of Greenwell.