The Crystal Cage Part Four

THE CRYSTAL CAGE

An Aurivyn Tale

First published in Abandoned Towers Magazine Issue 3, 2009

Part Four

“Yes,” said I, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps the magician is an Elementalist. Perhaps he specializes in Water-Magic, and thus encased her in this ice.”

“An Ice-Mage, eh?” the barbarian said as he drew his sword. He looked at the girl in her scant outfit. “We’d best save her before she dies of cold, then!”

Before I could reason with him, Rolglor drew back his sword and swung. He swung so strong that had his blade managed to shatter the magical cage, it would also have cut into the girl’s waist. Actually, we all are lucky that the sword didn’t break the spell.

I rushed to join him and he was still vibrating from the impact when I reached the cage. I examined the spot where Rolglor’s sword struck and saw nary a mark. With a frown, I cautiously prodded the spot with one finger, and made a startling discovery:

“It’s not cold! It’s not ice!”

“Oh,” said the barbarian, scratching his head. “Not an Ice-Mage, then?”

I examined the cage, sliding my hands over the faceted surface as the girl within watched us anxiously. “I think this is some sort of crystal,” I sagely said.

The barbarian frowned. “What then? A Crystal-Wizard?”

You know, I glared at him in much the same way you are glaring at me now, Hazerium. I was dumb-founded by it, but I’m sure he didn’t even realize what he’d said.  After all, how could an ignorant barbarian know of the great crystal statue in Sadurnius Square?

“How are we supposed to get her out of the wizard’s crystal cage?” he wondered aloud.

“I don’t know.” I looked up at her, pounding against the walls and screaming soundlessly for help. She was beautiful in that cocoon, and I felt a great swell of pity for her. “Poor girl. To be able to see people who can help her and not be able to touch them, to speak to them. No wonder she screams out at us, desperate and frustrated.”

“I know why the caged girl screams!” Rolglor barked indignantly. Then his face softened. “I just don’t know how.”

“What?”

“How can she breathe in there?” he commented, gesturing toward the crystal.  “There can be no air-holes, or we’d hear her.”

Suddenly I was impressed with him. “Very astute of you!”

“I did not!” he barked in reply, fixing me with an accusatory glare. “Don’t blame me for your wind!”

With a quiet groan, I rolled my eyes and saw the princess in her cage screaming franticly and pointing past us. I turned and screamed out in alarm, but it was too late.  The goblins were upon us.

The goblins screamed out in anger when they saw us with the princess. They raised their wickedly curved scimitars and charged. Rolglor pushed me aside and swung his long sword with fervor. He fought well against the small horde, though hopelessly outnumbered. Goblins fell, some dead, most merely wounded, but finally they wrested his mighty blade away from him.

Undaunted, the barbarian fought on. His meaty fists lashed out, and cracked goblin jaws. But that was not how he won that battle, if ‘won’ is the correct word. No, he won by missing.

He swung, you see, and the goblin dodged. So instead, Rolglor’s hard fist, the one wearing that ring, slammed against the crystal. And the crystal cracked.

The battle ceased instantly, all eyes turned to the caged princess with wide wonder. The cracks raced up and around that crystal cocoon. The barbarian and the goblins alike forgot their skirmish and backed away. None too soon, either, for the crystal shattered, littering the room. I pulled my arm from my face, Hazerium, and saw the princess.

She had somehow landed on her feet, and collapsed into an almost-fetal ball, her long scraggly hair hiding her face like a curtain. She pressed her rough red hands against the flagstones and pushed herself to a squat standing position.

I’m a big man, Hazerium, I’ll admit it: I was shocked speechless to see that the princess…was a goblin! Her costume was the same, though her body was a cruel parody of the image in the crystal. She was short and pudgy, with unkempt wiry hair and red, rubbery skin.

The goblin princess, Hargrah by name, had been kidnapped by a wizard, to ensure the servitude of her tribe down in the desert. They were his slaves for fear of her wellbeing, as she was guarded by Zowtholt mercenaries. She was encased in a magical crystal, as I’ve said, and it was the crystal that made her appear human to us. But, to complicate things, she too saw goblins as humans and humans as goblins! So Hargrah was quite puzzled when she found Rolglor wearing the ring that freed her!

What a ticklish situation that was! You see, the goblins had been sent by the goblin king, to rescue the princess, of course. We quickly learned that the one to free her from the wizard’s spell was to marry her! So, the story does have a happy ending…from the right point of view. I mean, our simple hunter did go back to Yzaruam to marry the princess (and free the tribe from the wizard’s tyranny)… And I did tell the soldiers that Rolglor drove those goblins out of Holgonn single-handed. He had become a sort of local folk-hero in Vesterholt by the time I returned to Trycadia.

I suppose it also has a moral: to get all the facts before embarking on such quests!  By the Seven Sacred Spells! When did the sun sink so low in the afternoon sky?  I’m sorry, Hazerium, but I’m expected elsewhere! We should get together for lunch, sometime, perhaps in the Square, beneath the statue, eh? But for now, farewell my friend!

The End

Tune in next time for a NEW adventure!

The Crystal Cage Part Three

THE CRYSTAL CAGE

An Aurivyn Tale

First published in Abandoned Towers Magazine Issue 3, 2009

Part Three

“Not a Trycadian wizard,” I sniffed haughtily. “A Gyltari, perhaps a Kordanian.  Evil and wizardry are common in both kingdoms. Why?”

Rolglor sighed. “To hunt a wolf, you must know it. The mountain wolves act differently from the ones in the woods.” I nodded in understanding as he cautiously stepped into a hallway.

I will spare you the step-by-step search of the keep. Suffice it to say my new barbarian hero was a finely trained hunting dog. He tracked the goblins through the stony keep, and I’ve no idea how he could have done it, lest he smelled them.

Skeptically, I followed him. Down halls, through rooms, and to a stairwell. That basement level was dark, and we returned to a room with a blazing hearth, where we seized a burning piece of firewood to use as a torch. Then we continued down.

We were walking through a hall down there, when we turned a corner and saw a light through an open door ahead of us. Rolglor turned to me, raised one finger to his lips indicating quiet, and tip-toed to the door.

Being the smart one, I remained at the corner, with the torch. From my vantage point, I saw him creep stealthily to that doorway and peer inside. Then he began to tremble with rage, and charged in with his sword high. That was when the screams began.

Obviously, a heroic deed such as this is meaningless without a witness to verify it.  This is why I trod softly down that dark hall and looked into the room.

It was not a very large room. Boxes and debris were crowded by the walls, a statue stood in the center of the room on a squat pedestal.

There were goblins there, but not the goblins I was expecting! I expected the stout green goblins known to wander the Engatharian steppes. Instead, these were thin, red-skinned devils from the cursed Yzaruam deserts. Their scimitars flashed dangerously in the lights of those long brass teapots the Yzari call lamps.

There were three of them, and one was bleeding on the floor by the time I arrived.  “Yoo-man, you die now!”

But he didn’t, of course! No, he parried and dodged, thrusted and feinted, and all those other things that swordsmen do. In frustration, one goblin threw his lamp into the fray. The oil splashed onto the barbarian’s tunic and caught fire. He didn’t seem to notice, but the goblins’ eyes went wide in terror.

“You spilled Holgonn blood!” he cried amid hacks and slashes, felling another goblin so only one remained.

“You no keep me from cellar! We find statue’s secret!” the red goblin snarled at him, “The princess is mine!”

The barbarian let out a mighty roar, and ran his sword through the goblin’s chest.  The Yzari devil choked on a cry, fell to his knees, then off the sword and to the floor.  Rolglor stood over him, glaring down at the body for a moment. Then the flames licked at his face and he rushed to remove the baldric and the thick flaming tunic.

“Did you hear the goblin’s words, story-man?” he cried as he slipped the baldric over his head again. “There IS a princess here!”

“Yes, I also heard something about the statue having a secret.”

He frowned at the small stone figure critically. He stroked his cheeks like some smart men do when lost in thought. It was a crude little statue, of a warrior with fists on hips, standing perhaps four feet tall. At last he said, “Well, I see no words carved on the statue or the stand.”

I nodded and realized it was time for a little nudge. “Didn’t that goblin say something about a cellar? Here I thought we were in the cellar!”

The barbarian nodded blandly for a moment. Then his head jerked back in my direction, with eyes and grin wide as they could go. “Aha! Perhaps it’s like a pit trap!”

On the inside I was smiling, on the outside I frowned. “What?”

“A pit trap!” he enthused. “You dig a pit, cover it with branches, then an animal comes along and falls in!”

With just the right dubious tone I asked, “You think this statue is covering some way down to a deeper floor?”

“Yes I do!” he cried as he looked over the statue again, this time with an eye towards moving it. He grabbed the statue’s shoulders and heaved, muscles straining, and grunting with effort.

One side of the pedestal rose shakily from the floor. The barbarian grunted some more, pushed some more, and tipped the statue so it was dangerously balanced on one edge of its stand.

I rushed over and looked. “You were right! There is a shaft here, and a rope!”  The rope was tied around a wide stone ring, attached to the bottom of the pedestal. The rope itself was knotted every foot or so, to make climbing easier.

The statue fell over and landed on the stony floor with a loud thud. He panted and rubbed his arms as he looked at the shaft beneath the statue. He took the torch from me, his sweat glistening in its light, and dropped it down the shaft.

“We must hurry,” he said as he sat on the lip of the shaft, “The goblins are sure to have heard that.” Then he reached for the rope and froze still. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at the hand of one of the dead goblins.

I looked and saw the gleam, also. I crossed over for a closer look. “It is a ring.”  I plucked it from the goblin’s finger and examined it in the light of the burning tunic.  “There is writing on it. ‘The Ring of Truth Shatters…’” Then, on the inside, “…’The Fragile Glass of Lies’. Hmm, wonder what that means?”

“Who cares? Hand it here.” said Rolglor. I gave him the ring and he slipped it onto his finger. “Come along, story-man! We must be getting close!” Then he shimmied down the rope, quick as a blink.

Once we got to the bottom, there was no trick to deciding which way to go—there was only one hall to follow. It ended at a wide chamber, empty of furniture, save a quartet of blazing braziers, one in each corner. In its center was the woman.

Tall, shapely, statuesque. Long flowing hair, wearing jewelry on her head, about her neck, on her wrists and ankles. She wore one of those funny outfits, like a dancing girl in the court of some Yzari desert sheik.

Oh yes, Hazerium, she was imprisoned, of course! She was trapped inside a giant shard of glass or ice that floated above a skull that was inscribed with weird runes. She saw us as we entered, and pressed against the transparent walls from within, screaming pleas at us that we could not hear.

“That must be the princess!” Rolglor exclaimed as he rushed into the room. “She is trapped by the magician!”

To Be Concluded...

The Crystal Cage Part Two

THE CRYSTAL CAGE

An Aurivyn Tale

First published in Abandoned Towers Magazine Issue 3, 2009

Part Two

“Do you suppose that Zowtholter was trying to save the princess?” I asked as we picked our way through the woody foothills. “But couldn’t get past the magician’s goblins?”

“Perhaps,” Rolglor replied, his steely eyes ever-wary of our surroundings. “The Zowtholters often cross the mountains into Engathar. There is much trade and mercenary work to be had with the chieftains of that land.”

“I see!” said I through a gleeful grin.

“Or,” he continued, “Perhaps he was no more than a hunter, like me, who wandered too close to the magician’s tower.”

“Oh,” said I, disappointed this time.

It was about that time that we found the clearing. In it was a great white slope skirting the rocky outcropping low on the mountain. Upon that outcropping, just where it ought to be, stood the ancient tower. Its great bricks had been carved out of the mountains themselves. Its top, well below the high peaks, was crowned with horns.

I’ve done a bit of research since, and apparently this tower once marked a caravan route through the mountains into Engathar. There ought to be another up in the mountains someplace, and a third where the path meets up with Engathar’s rolling steppes. You know, I couldn’t find any reason for them to stop using that route. There must be a story there somewhere…

Oh! Sorry Hazerium! The way up to the tower was easy enough to follow. There was a roadway, covered with a skin of packed snow. We could have followed it high into the mountains, I suppose, but only went to the tower’s wide steps.

A courtyard was at the top of that short stairway, surrounded by a stone wall only three feet tall. There was snow there, too, packed into the cracks between the cobbles.  But that snow was red, painted by the lifeblood of fallen Zowtholters, four of them.

Rolglor looked the place over, turning bodies and weapons over with his foot.  His piercing eyes examined the stones for footprints, but there were none that I could see.  He glanced with some concern at the double doors, left ajar, that led into the darkened keep.

“These men fought hard,” he said at long last, “They are Holgonn, great fighters. They should be avenged.”

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Hazerium, how fiercely that statement seized me. I was certain a worthy story would unfold, and here it was, doing just that, right before my eyes! All it needed was a little…helping.

“Yes, and avenged they shall be!” I assured him, “For when Lord Thelosius’ men arrive, these goblins shall be shown the price for murdering people under Trycadia’s protection!”

“The Holgonn need no protecting!” he growled at me. “We avenge our own!”

I must have smirked. I simply hadn’t expected it to be quite that easy. “Do you mean to say that you are going into that tower to kill those goblins, and the wizard, and save the princess?”

His expression transformed into one of doubt. “Well…” he stammered, and I began to worry that I’d pushed too hard.

I smiled and raised one hand in a calming gesture. “That’s all right, Rolglor. No one expects you to do anything heroic.”

“Heroic?”

“Yes. You are just Rolglor the Hunter. No more and no less.” I said in my most understanding tone. “No one will be disappointed in you, for none have any reason to expect more.”

“I am able to be more!” he insisted defensively.

“Of course you are,” I said, assuring. “But to kill those goblins…the wizard…  To save the princess… These are not jobs for a simple hunter. No, you would have to be a Great Hero. You would have to be Rolglor…the…”

A terrible thing happened at that moment, Hazerium. My mind went blank! It was no magic; I simply could not produce an adjective that would make a good title for a barbarian such as him. I floundered.

“Rolglor the WHAT?” he insisted.

So I said the first word to spring into my mind: “Palindromic.”

He peered at me distrustfully through narrow eyes. “What does that word mean?  Why not Rolglor the Good? Or the Strong? Or the Mighty?”

I chuckled at his ignorance. “There are heroes already claiming those titles. Fear not, Palindromic suit you. It, uh, means all those other things…and more!”

He considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Then let us go inside. No Hero who awaits soldiers could dare to call himself Palindromic.”

I smiled and held my tongue. Rolglor drew the sword from his back, turned, and eyed the doorway with childlike trepidation. We trembled in the cold mountain winds for long moments while he stared stupidly. Overcome with the cold and impatience, I said, “Well?”

“It is unlucky to enter a wizard’s house for the first time through the front door,” he said. Have you ever heard such nonsense? More than half of Trycadia’s people qualify as wizards, how do they think we visit one another for tea? Climb in through the windows, like thieves?

Naturally, his prejudiced comment offended me, and I fear I snapped at him, risking the well-being of the story. “We espied no other entrance, you ignorant fool! Is there no way you will enter here?”

He grimaced and sheathed his sword. “None,” he said as he crossed his arms and pouted at those heavy doors. I grumbled and mumbled curses but he was adamant to await the coming soldiers.

“I will not set off some spell cast to safeguard this gateway!” he firmly announced. “You are from the Empire of Wizards, you should know of many curses that could be placed to fall on the uninvited guest.”

Ah, but my stalwart hero presented me with the answer to this problem! “I do, indeed,” I said coyly, “and also the chant to ward off such affects. I would teach it to you, if you would scout out the tower.”

He was most eager to learn it. So I showed to him a game the children play, with much clapping and the slapping of one’s own shoulders and knees. Also, I taught him the nonsense chant “Owah Tafoo Layyam”, and instructed him to say it faster and faster until it came out as “Oh-what-a-fool-I-am”. Satisfied with his safety, he again drew his sword and slipped into the keep. I wiped a tear from my eye, and followed.

The entry hall was frigid, and cobwebs filled the corners. Platters of half-eaten food rested on a table with stout legs. A time-worn tapestry lay in a heap on the floor by a wall.

Looking around with awe, I jumped when Rolglor suddenly spoke. “Story-man!  You are Trycadian; tell me, what sort of wizard would deal with goblins?”

To Be Continued...

The Crystal Cage Part One

THE CRYSTAL CAGE

An Aurivyn Tale

First published in Abandoned Towers Magazine Issue 3, 2009

Part One

Hazerium, my friend! It’s been a dog’s age since last I’ve seen you! I’ve been abroad, didn’t you know? By invitation of a very good friend of mine. You recall Thelosius the Centurion? He is now one of the sovereign Lords, charged with watching over the Holgonn Territories in the name of the Mother Empire!

Thelosius sent for me especially, you see. Oh yes! “Ganderamathrus,” he said to me, “please, I implore you to come and witness firsthand the dramatic changes I shall introduce to this land.” How could I refuse an invitation like that, I ask you? Exotic lands and exotic peoples mean exotic stories!

What an opportunity and what a terrible place it is, Hazerium! Picture it: the Holgonn Territories, far north of our beloved Trycadia, beyond even the arid plains of Yzaruam and the rolling steppes of Engathar. It is a place of unforgiving mountains and slanted fields of snow. I swear upon the grave of the First Emperor, it is always winter there.

If my visit told me one thing, it is that the Holgonn are in desperate need of our guidance and leadership. They are a simple, superstitious, and uncivilized people.  Instead of togas, they all—men and women alike—wear trousers and tunics made of…yak-skins, or something equally unpleasant.

Still, they are an intimidating lot. They are all bred tall and wide-in-the-shoulder up in Holgonn. A strong and burly people, and small wonder. Their legends all claim they are somehow descended from an extinct nation of giants.

Nonetheless, a remarkable people, with surprising talents! They are skilled hunters and skinners. They know the intimate secrets of metalsmithing, supposedly a knowledge their ancestors stole from the dwarves long ago. And sailing! I’m told they are sailors and ship-builders without peer!

Hmm, you know, it’s actually quite lucky for those simple barbarians that they were welcomed into the nurturing embrace of the Trycadian Empire before they could be exploited by some unscrupulous kingdom or other.

….Where was I, Hazerium? Oh, yes! Thelosius! He was granted a stark, cold keep overlooking a tiny village in a vale at the foot of the mountains. The little valley was surrounded on three sides by tall, steep mountains making it highly defensible and sheltered from the cruel winds. However, it was susceptible to small but regular avalanches. The place was named Vesterholt long before Thelosius got there. But within three days, our countrymen began calling it ‘the Snowbowl’.

After a week of freezing misery, witnessing Thelosius issue proclamation after boring proclamation…something interesting happened in the village.

I looked down from the keep and saw a gathering in the village square below. It set my insatiable storyteller-senses aflame, and I simply HAD to find out what was going on. So, quick as a wink, I rushed to discover the goings-on among the natives.

It was a fellow named Rolglor, who’d been out checking his traps for rabbits, or wolves, or some such and found something he did not expect. It was one of his own, a Holgonn, though apparently from the village of Zowtholt. The poor fellow was beaten and bloodied, and I understand he breathed his last just mere moments ere I arrived.

“I found him just beyond my farthest trap,” Rolglor told his fellow villagers, the Trycadian soldiers, and me. “He’d been badly hurt; I think the cold kept him alive so long. He was babbling about a magician who’s claimed the abandoned tower not far away, and goblins, and a kidnapped princess!”

“Goblins! Here?” I exclaimed, with a few others in the crowd. All of the Holgonn spun in place for a single revolution, then spat upon the snowy ground.

One of the soldiers said, “Lord Thelosius will not like goblins in his territory, whether they are the servants of a magician or not!”

“I know where this man was found, and his tracks should be easy enough to follow,” said Rolglor. “Tell your Lord that I shall scout ahead, and gather what information I can for the soldiers he is sure to send.” As I recall, he said these words with great respect and admiration. Though, had I not spent a week among their funny manners and customs, I should have mistaken his tone for sarcasm.

The soldier consented and rushed to the keep. The barbarian adjusted the heavy sword strapped to his back, then turned without saying another word and trudged back into the snow. And I followed him.

Well I had to, didn’t I? We all know what those simple barbarians are like. Their primitive minds would jumble all the facts into gibberish. In order to obtain all the proper facts, and put them into the proper perspective for the story’s maximum potential… Well, I just had to go with him.

He asked me, too, nervy fellow. “I am Ganderamathrus, a teller of tales,” I told him, “and I go where the story wills. What is your name?” Uh, please understand that I spoke much more slowly to him than I am now speaking to you.

I was fortunate. Except for his weird Holgonnic accent, he followed the Emperor’s tongue well enough, as long as I avoided the use of very big words.

“I am called Rolglor,” he said to me, poorly hiding his awe and reverence of my Empirical heritage behind a phony sneer. “I am a hunter. The animals I trap provide the village with meats to eat and skins to wear.”

I smiled at his effort to impress me. “Very admirable! I mean, very good and noble of you!” He rolled his eyes and shook his head; it is the way they show appreciation in his culture, so I’ve observed.

Hazerium, I can honestly say that I spent more time out in the snow that day than I ever wanted to! If I have my say, I never shall again! Rolglor told me it was no more than an hour ere we found the farthest of his traps, but I do not think his primitive mind keeps an accurate account of time. A dozen yards beyond that trap was the spot where he found his dying countryman.

The barbarian pointed at the shallow crater in the snow, at the end of a shallow trench. “This is where I found the Zowtholter,” he said placidly, “He stopped crawling here. Come on.” He followed the trench deeper into the woods.

Before too long, we found the place where he had fallen. The snowy ground was trampled; footsteps over footsteps, and Rolglor said it had been the site of a small battle. The Zowtholter fell there, perhaps to goblins.

To know for certain, we followed the footprints.

To Be Continued...