Chapter One

And so the deck would hold eleven cards, one each for the gods of this world. Ten would be numbered, though one would not. Ponder the un-numbered card: Andrioch -- The Sorcerer. Magic. Luck, chance. Manipulation of events. A random element.

- From The Book of Prophecies and Truths

Pheleag Ulric stood upon his balcony and looked down at the town of Froest. He had stood upon this balcony fifteen years ago when Teague was born, as he stood upon it many times before and since that night. His house, of stone walls and slate roof, had a good vantage of the small fishing town.

It was a compact town, fitted into the end of a bay, filling the small area of rocky land between the sea in front and the cliffs behind and consisted of a few dozen small houses of slate, stone and timber. Nets, as always, were hung out in many places throughout the town, concentrating down towards the shore. A few non-fishing related industries existed; there was one tavern, a wool and hide shop, a smith and so on. But there was no mistaking what it was -- a fishing town, subsisting on Dereliath's bounty.

The rest of the long, narrow bay -- each side as well as behind them -- consisted of almost sheer cliffs, stretching up to the plain above, some one hundred cubits straight up, with only one trail winding up, out of the bay. The bay itself ran north roughly ten leagues in a wide canyon, at most three leagues wide, before widening out to about double that for the next ten leagues, where it finally opened to the sea proper. Even in the depths of winter, snow only occasionally settled on the ground within the village and the water within the bay did not freeze, though hills and mountains of floating ice were often seen.

Below him, in the small courtyard, he heard the sounds of voices. Voices that were still on occasion prone to the high pitch of childhood when excited but which more and more became the voices of men.

Unfortunately, they were at present high and piercing.

He looked down and saw a shock of long, blond hair, just in front of a head of tightly curled hair in that most uncommon of colours, orange, running through the courtyard towards the gate which led down into the town. The first head belonged to Forest, younger son of the town's shipwright. He liked Forest and thought the boy -- man almost -- a double-edged influence on Teague. On the one hand, Forest looked out for Teague and taught him such life skills as fishing and hunting, sword skills and sports. On the down side, however, Forest was a constant distraction from Teague's studies.

At the age of fifteen, Teague was already years ahead of other sorcerous students of his age -- or would have been, had any other such students existed within Froest -- but, advanced as he was in his studies and abilities, he was still well short of his capabilities. The boy was more interested in adventure and derring do than academia and arcana.

Pheleag called to mind a quote in the rare and ancient Book of Prophecies and Truths , a tome reputed to have been written by the god Andrioch a thousand years ago, when he first adopted mortality: "There is always the randomiser, and though it may be always looked for, it is seldom found in the form expected."

He could, of course, forbid Teague from seeing Forest but this would do nothing but increase the boy's resentment and rebelliousness. And so he tolerated at first and finally encouraged the friendship. Because, as the years passed, Pheleag decided that, as something of a guardian of Teague, Forest had a place in the Plan as well.

Whatever the case, there was time yet for Teague to become what he was meant to be, and Pheleag had years to teach him.

The two youths raced through the town along the cobbled streets and down towards the shore. Forest reached their goal -- the post near the pier they always raced to -- about thirty seconds before Teague, who had been running flat out to win. Forest was hardly out of breath, although Teague was gasping.

They paused to catch their breath before speaking, and in this moment of grinning, speechless panting, they looked more like the boys they were leaving behind than the men they were becoming.

Forest was tall and slender -- wiry, with well-toned but subdued muscles. He moved with an easy grace, and gave a casual toss of his head to flick his blonde hair out of his eyes. In contrast, Teague was about a third of a cubit shorter and of heavier set. The puppy fat of youth had mostly fallen from him, and although much had been replaced by the muscle that developed through association with Forest, the memory of the fat boy who quickly lost his breath was not allowed by his peers to die, and so the nickname of "Fat-Teague" was still heard on occasion. But , thought Teague, it's a name I hear less and at longer quarters -- amazing what a good kicking will instil in even the dimmest of wits .

Breathing easily now, the two looked at each other and grinned more broadly.

"What-ho then, Teague," said Forest. "Having gone this far, do we dare do it all?"

"How can we not?" answered his friend expansively. "Whether we go or stay, when my father finds what we have done, he'll skin us both. Turn us into frogs or some such!" This mockery of his mother's long standing threat brought new grins to both faces, and with a slap to the arm and a cry of "Come on", Forest was off and running. Teague took off after him and tried to keep up but as always was not able to.

Within a few minutes the lads had reached an abandoned building on the town's edge and pushed the broken-hinged door to one side. Going in, they heard the nicker of the two ponies Forest had left here the night before. Ignoring the small horses for the moment, they moved through shafts of dusty light to the small shed's centre, and as Teague sat on a half-rotten crate, Forest moved to a pile of gear under an old canvas tarp which reeked of fish oil and guts. He rummaged under it briefly and then walked back towards Teague, a bottle in one hand and a tin cup in the other. He handed the cup to Teague, pulled the cork on the bottle and poured a liberal amount of its contents into the cup. The odour of ale filled their noses as Forest held the bottle up in salute;

"To the Great Adventure."

"To fortune and glory," responded Teague, raising his cup.

They both drank and tried to conceal their dislike of the taste. Forest gave up and made a noise of disgust.

"Blach! I don't know how they can drink this. But to business!" He took the cup from Teague and returned to the tarp. Throwing it off, he revealed a small cache of goods, including two leather bags, into one of which he placed bottle and cup.

Teague stood and joined his friend at the pile. They both looked down, savouring this moment, which they saw as a farewell to their childhoods -- and a break away from the total authority of their parents.

The moment past, they both bent to collect and attire themselves in the gear. Both buckled sturdy sword belts to their waists, replaced their shoes with high, tough leather boots, put on thick wool shirts and slipped cloaks around their shoulders. Finally, Forest picked up the long, oilcloth-wrapped bundle which remained, and they returned to the crate Teague had been sitting on. Forest placed the bundle on the crate and carefully unwrapped it. Lying within were two new swords. Each was two cubits in length with straight, double-edged blades and simple cross-pieces. The weapons were functional, with no adornment other than the name of the town's smith, Ekkar, which was etched into each blade in the ancient letters. They reverently picked up a blade each and in as serious a manner as they could manage, sheathed the weapons in their scabbards. The blades slid home with a slight "clack" and the friends looked at each other, smiling and feeling the thrill of clandestine adventure.

Forest walked back to the cache and picked up the remaining items: the two bags and his bow and quiver of arrows.

Having saddled the ponies and after checking to see that they would be unobserved, the two slipped out of the shed, leading the animals by their reins, and moved further up the shore and away from the town.

Copyright © 2004 Rob Wilkinson