Warring Heavens - Chapter I - The Invitation

Chapter I - The Invitation

“Has hell finally found me? Or is it just you, Frederick?” a male voice spoke out, wincing at the sound of metal against metal, scraping and scratching, banging and clanging.

The noises echoed within his head and he felt as if his head were one of the giant bells of the Savior’s Church, to which a rope was attached, which in turn was attached to the grubby hands of a much too overweight monk, heaving and sighing as he pulled the rope and bell with all his might. Close to vomiting, the young man pulled himself up to a somewhat sitting position upon his bed, his shoulder-long hair covering his face. He leaned heavily upon his right arm, keeping his stomach in check with his left.

“Ain’t you lookin’ dandy!”, a deep, bass voice bellowed. Frederick. The young man sighed.

The youth whipped his head backwards, using his left arm to toss his hair gently into position, while parting his lips in a sickly grin. He immediately lamented this sudden motion: Though the sickening motion quickly came to a halt, the world kept spinning. This was one of the rare times he felt his room was over-decorated: The golden grandfather’s clock; the at least fifty different paintings; the three small coffee tables (one in mahogany, one in oak and one in birch) each carrying their own small ornaments; not to mention the diploma he received upon graduating from the School of Sairus, the leading college on the fields of alchemy, incantation and transmutation. It was but a piece of white paper, slightly longer than it was wide, on which small, inky letters and arcane marks were sprawled across its parched surface.

It read:

  “The School of Sairus, its leading council and the headmaster, have conferred upon Sephaios T. Quintenson the degree of Magus in Alchemy, Incantations and Transmutation, therewith all honors, rights and privileges entrusted in recognition of his fulfillment of the requirements of this degree.

Upon accepting this diploma, he has expressed his consent with the Wizard’s Oath, as explained per following paragraph:

 I will throughout the rest of my time on this world, wherever I may be, should I be capable of, willingly or unwillingly, serve the greater good, the Council of Sairus and the Archmage, by my magics or my body. Without this commitment, my magic is null, my art is to be vanquished and I with it: I shall be renegade, and for this I will without trial agree to the immediate disposing of myself: my soul, my spirit and my corpus, as it is. “

It was signed by the headmaster, the three leaders of the Magus' Council and the Archmage himself.

Sephaios sighed. It felt good. Breathing in, breathing out. The light air cooling down the warm insides of his nasal cavities, streaming through his head, clearing his mind. He was very close to dangling his tongue out his mouth, but realized his visitor’s apprehensive glance. He pulled himself together and faced the man, while still sitting on the bed, supporting himself against the bed-supports. Frederick.

“So… What is a noble knight like yourself doing here, in my humble abode?” he asked, failing to successfully keep up a polite smile, twisting instead his lips in a very off-putting manner.

The knight, Frederick, was clad in heavy, old fashioned armor. Upon his breastplate the Falcon of Sairus was depicted, its great wings unfolded in flight and its claws readily held outwards in preparation of snatching whatever prey its dreadful, red eyes was fixed upon. Three symbols were inscribed at either side of the falcon, as well as above its head. At its left wing: The elaborate, swirly symbol of hope. At its right: The dense and hardy symbol of honor. Surrounding the head, like a halo of radiant light, the symbol of guidance was engraved.

“Getting’ all lazy, are we now, Seph?”, the knight bellowed heartily, “Haven’t you received the Archmage’s invitation?”

“I have. And I’m not the tiniest bit fond of its contents”, he muttered, while pulling himself up from his enamored bed, yet failing miserably, landing back on the bed, flat on his back. “The king and him, they’re up to something,” he paused slightly, “There’s been talk of war, Frederick.”

Some minutes passed in silence, while white birds fluttered by the nearby gothic-styled window.

“You’re not thinking of breaking the Oath, are you?” the knight asked, his voice now serious, in contrast to the heartwarming, stout tone he had feigned before.

“No, I’m not-“

“Cause then, I’d had to kill you. You know that, don’t you?”

Silence crept upon them. Finding his balance upon the oak-wooden floors, Sephaios pulled himself up to his full height. He was taller than the knight, about half a head. But he was skinnier, one could barely call him lean. Slender seemed more fitting. He looked awfully thin compared to the knight in front of him. Like a straw of grass at the side of a rose in full bloom.

“Would you?” he whispered softly to the knight.

The two words reverberated against the mahogany panels, carved in intricate patterns. They bounced back and forth, shapeshifting into other sounds, other words. “Could you?” echoed back, almost inaudible, like a ghost’s calling.

Suddenly, the knight seemed infinitely smaller than the young mage. The room itself seemed to shrink back from its master, in reverence, as he took another step closer to the knight. The very ground seemed to growl and rumble at the mage’s silent words and the paintings shook with excitement " or fear.

Something ignited in the eyes of the magus. A tiny spark of yellow and purple, invisible to the eyes of mortal men, flickered and danced around his the black of his eyes, like playful rays of the sun during a lunar eclipse. It rose and fell with the quickly rising heartbeat of the man. If inner demons could manifest, one would fear that a being of darkest fire could jump out of the shining blue eyes of the youth any moment now. The knight noticed.

“Seph, don’t. The country needs you. Your homeland needs you. The Archmag-“

“The Archmage be damned to the abyss and back.” Sephaios spat, eyes flaring. “The man seeks nothing but power. Arcane as well as material. He’d do anything in his power to gain more. Avarice is his middle name, and Lust is his mother’s.” Sephaios spat at the knight’s feet.

The knight laid his hand upon Sephaios’ shoulder. The weathered man, merely in his thirties, looked terribly fatigued. He was only a decade older than Sephaios, yet looked twice his age. They stared each other in the eye. After a battle of will had been contested between the two, Sephaios pulled back, his anger quelled by the deep, dark brown eyes that seemed so earthbound, so tranquil. Flames cannot burn off the bare earth. 

“I will not attend the meeting.”

“The Archmage will not happy. The king neither,” the knight said, “They will definitely send guards.”

“They can try,” Sephaios said smiling wryly.

“It’ll be your own chagrin. And mine too.”

Sephaios pulled up close to his friend. He whispered: “Frederick. Take care of yourself, and the others”. Moving past him, Sephaios left the room, heading, presumably, for some tea. His head still felt like the huge bell of the Savior’s Church, and soon he heard it ring, far off in the distance. What a heavy-laden morning.