Chapter III

Laurence sat in the university’s library, looking over Ricard Mannel’s Account of Guun-gehad, trying to glean any new insights from the book, although he had to admit he doubted whether or not Mannel had ever made it to Guun-gehad. There were numerous inconsistencies and contradictions that were only apparent to someone who had actually been to the city, like Laurence himself had. 

It had been many, many years ago, back when he was still a student at the Royal University of Ethril, but he remembered every step of that adventure like it was yesterday,  particularly the journey through Pasrial and the city itself. The enchanted forests of incredible beauty, unmatched by anything else men, elf, or any other had laid eyes on. Lakes so clear you could see hundreds of feet down, and mountain peaks that soar higher than any other on the surface of Menatir. Then within the city are the winding streets, so vast one could easily get lost for days or weeks, and buildings of such an intricate design, that no civilization on Menatir could hope to replicate. Monuments to heroes history has lost, or has yet to uncover, and knowledge that could reshape the world as everyone thought they knew it.

Laurence remembered it all fondly, but also solemnly. When he was in the city, he felt the presence of… something. Something with more power than he had ever felt anywhere else, whether in Pasrial, or even in a well of magic, and something that was undeniably sinister. The further he had ventured into the city, which had only lasted no more than a week, the stronger the presence felt, until he had come to what he assumed must have been the palace of the city’s long-since dead rulers. Scholarly curiosity got the better of his instincts, and he ventured inside with his three fellow students and professor, to see what hidden secrets the palace had to offer. He remembered the vastness of the hall, stretching far into the darkness, and with vaulted ceilings soaring high above the elaborate, but cracked marble flooring. The group of wizards had made their way slowly and carefully into the darkness, their way only lit by their torches and summoned lights.

The farther they delved into the ruin, the more overwhelming the presence became, and the mental strain of being near an entity of such evil, powerful magic began to overwhelm some of Laurence’s compatriots, causing one of them, Freda Lemara, to lash out and attack the others. She had released a blood-curdling scream, and then a shockwave of energy that had sent them all flying, and knocking their professor into a pillar, killing him instantly. One of Laurence’s other friends recovered from the blast and charged Freda, attempting to restrain her, but she simply shot a bolt of lightning directly into his chest, incinerating him and turning his body into a charred corpse. 

She had then turned her attention and fury upon Laurence, who sat disoriented and stunned on one knee. When he had looked into her eyes, he saw nothing but black pools, tendrils of darkness streaming down her face, and her veins popping through the skin with nightmarish intensity. She had raised her hands towards him, a fireball beginning to form between her fingertips, and Laurence had closed his eyes, awaiting his impending death. However, their last partner had made an attempt to run to the great hall’s entrance, distracting Freda just long enough for Laurence to blast her with a spike of ice, the force of which skewered her and sent her flying to the opposite wall, impaling her into it. Laurence had then tried to make his way over to his former friend, but the other last surviving student, Nicholas Dunn, had screamed for him to run, as tendrils began to snake their way out of the darkness and towards them. As he sprinted towards the exit, he felt an unnatural cold begin to overcome him, and he was certain that he was once again near death before…

Laurence was shaken from the horrific memory by a man wearing the outfit of the Royal Guard entering the study, and making his way over to him, helmet held under his arm. The man sported rugged features, with dark black hair to his shoulders, a short, roughly shaven beard that looked like it had been cut with a knife, and across his left eye ran a long white scar. Laurence looked up at the man and smiled, making his way over to him and embracing him warmly.

“Martyn, my old friend, how have you been? It has been far too long since we last saw each other,” Laurence said, clasping the man tightly on the shoulder.

“Indeed it has, Laurence! Last I had heard, you were up at an archeological site in Rehn, were you not? Some kind of old gnome ruin?” Martyn asked, his voice loud and boisterous, a warm smile stretched across his otherwise grizzly face.

“Yes I was, but other business called me back here not too long ago. My sincerest apologies for not coming to see you sooner, but I have been otherwise occupied here with my research… Ahh, but you don’t want to hear about any of that. What brings you here?” Laurence asked.

“The King has requested you to see him in his private study,” Martyn said, the smile dipping from his face, causing Laurence to frown.

“Did he mention what for?” Laurence asked, although he felt he already knew the answer. Martyn simply shrugged.

“He didn’t say, just told me to come straight here and summon you, after the Royal Council meeting ended,” Martyn said.

“Well then, let’s not keep him waiting, shall we? Lead on, my friend,” Laurence said, and gestured towards the door. The two men left and navigated their way out of the long hallways of the university, and then out onto the street. It was relatively quiet that day, as most people were in the city square for the monthly market, meaning their walk to the castle was unimpeded and uneventful.

In spite of himself, Laurence couldn’t help but once again, for the thousandth time, compare the ornate splendor of the city’s architecture and decor to that of Guun-gehad’s. While Ethril, and the Kingdom of Ardel as a whole, were considered shining examples of South Menatiran culture and architecture, it still paled in comparison to the ancient city, which had entire buildings that looked as if they were carved out of a single piece of stone, and what wood that hadn’t rotten away had grain patterns unlike any other he had either seen or read of. Despite it all, Laurence had to admit to himself that he would gladly stay in Ethril for the rest of his life if it meant never again encountering that horrific presence that turned even the strongest of wizards murderously mad.

When they came upon Castle Carneath, two guards stood on either side of the large, reinforced solid oak doors that formed the castle’s only public entrance. The doors stood open, as they did on most days to allow for common folk to see and petition the king to redress various wrongs, or to make other requests. Martyn nodded at both of the men, and Laurence followed him through the gate and into the main courtyard. Making their way into the inner keep, Martyn led him up the stairs to the right, to the third floor, where the king’s private study and dining room were located. 

Not that Laurence needed Martyn to guide him through the castle, he knew the entirety of the grounds like the back of his own hand, and likely better than even Martyn or Gallad knew them. After all, he had been serving the royal family as their personal wizard for several decades at this point, ever since befriending Gallad’s father, Caron, during their time at the court of Brennia, where he had been studying books regarding the history of elven ruins there, and the young prince was a ward under tutelage at King Feorden’s court. The two young men had become fast friends, riding around the Brennian countryside and sneaking off to drink in the various town pubs and taverns surrounding the capital.

Remaining close friends even after returning to Ardel, Laurence had been Caron’s closest advisor upon his ascension to the throne, and until the day he died. Laurence smiled sadly at the thought, missing his oldest friend.