The Magocrats of the Emerald Tower

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The Magocrats of the Emerald Tower

"Alright, let us try it again."

The withered Ruthus stood haunched, waiting for the young apprentice to begin. At the far end of the courtyard, a straw dummy swayed gently in the new autumn wind. The apprentice extended the long finger of his right hand and began drawing symbols in the air; a multicolored trail of light followed the finger as he drew.

Expecting to see the dummy engulfed in flames, Ruthus panicked when the hands of the apprentice began glowing like hot coals; the young man collapsed, yelping in searing pain.

"Oh, dear!" Ruthus jumped. Quickly drawing runes in the air, the withered man created a freezing wind; the hands of the apprentice dimmed somewhat. The young man remained on the floor, still writhing in agony. Ruthus crouched down and placed his hand on the apprentice's shoulder. "Hurry, boy, get yourself to the healer's." The young man nodded, picked himself up and sprinted out of the courtyard.

Ruthus scratched his beard in confusion. "We can't even get a simple fireball spell working!" He bowed his head in defeat - a scolding surely awaited.

A messanger fleeted out into the courtyard carrying a parchment. "Magocrat Ruthus, a word from the King." the boy said between gasps for air. Handing Ruthus the parchment, the boy left nearly as fast as he entered.

Ruthus scowled at the parchment as he unfurled it. Reading, he found it difficult to keep his hands from shaking. He threw down the parchment in disgust and walked somberly to the castle.

~------------------------~

The castle halls were scowling at Ruthus. Every wall, pillar and tile seemed unfriendly and uninviting. The guards wore grim faces; a sense of worrisome preperation hung in the air. Ruthus cautiously approached the throne room doors.

"Let me by, please. I'm here to see the King."

One of the guards scoffed and said, "Calm down, old man. We'll let you by."

Ruthus stood aback, but swiftly regained composure upon entering the throne room. Inside, the jester was performing for the king, who seemed not to notice; he preferred to eye Ruthus' entrance.

"Ah, Ruthus, I trust you have good news to relate on your progress?" the king inquired.

Ruthus sighed heavily, hesitant to address the king. "The experiments have not been going well, King Garand. We haven't yet to produce a spell for our mages to use in battle. In fact, myself and the other magocrats are beginning to wonder whether magic is even meant for fighting....."

"Enough!..." King Garand interrupted.

"I have given you magic-users a generous amount of time to train your students. Eiradon is now at war, Ruthus. Every citizen must contribute to the victory of the Republic. I had personally vouched for your kind in front of the other kings at the last council; I proclaimed that Wiseklen was blessed with talented individuals not seen in any other city-state."

Ruthus did not answer. A glance around the throne room revealed the dark expressions of guards and servants alike. He fixated his eyes on the marble floor.

"We are still suffering from your previous failure. The forest is saturated with those vile beasts! I lose guards to them everyday!" the king became increasingly enraged.

"Tomorrow morning, Ruthus, I want to see you here again. Prove to me your efforts are not fruitless, or I will exterminate you and your kind!"

The king gestered the magocrat to remove himself. Ruthus bowed solemnly and made his way out of the throne room, not daring to speak out

~------------------------~

The Emerald Tower was a symbol of achievement for magic-users. King Garand had never been accepting of mages, but they had won over the hearts and imaginations of the other city-states. The other kings, learning of the savage treatment of mages by Wiseklen citizens and royalty, demanded reparation. Thus the construction of the Emerald Tower, which became the focal point of studies for the mages and their leaders, the magocrats.

Tonight, the tower did not illuminate in a jade luster, mirroring the dimming hearts of the magic-users. The highest level harbored the congregation room. Oak shelves, burdened with heavy tomes and aged manuscripts, were mounted along the walls. An elliptical, ebony table with three matching seats, in high contrast with the marble floor, occupied the center.

Ruthus occupied one of the seats, hunching over the table. "I'm afraid this may be the end of us all, friends. We have spent months scavenging every written work and performing numerous experiments." Ruthus' eyes peered out a window at the far end of the room, overlooking the forest.

Ivan did not hear his words, too occupied in his mountain of literature. "The answer lies in these writings, Ruthus! I just need more time to sift through them all. Agh!" He threw aside a dusty book and began fingering through a ragged scroll.

Uri, who had remained quiet for much of the counsel, spoke up abruptly; even Ivan stopped to look up.

"Garand can not do this to the magic-users! If the rest of the Republic found out, they'd have his head!" he paused briefly before continuing, "I say we revolt. Start our own nation, seperate from the ungifted ones!"

"How can we?" Ruthus added hastily, "We haven't even gotten a fireball spell to work properly."

"You idiot, Uri, you'd get us all hanged!" Ivan jumped in. "I'm telling you, the solution is in our tomes!"

"What solutions have your writings produced thus far, twit?" Uri pounded the table furiously.

A shouting match ensued between the two magocrats; Ruthus remained quiet, unsure of how to resolve their argument but certain of impending annihilation. The double doors to the congregation room were flung open; the magocrats were silenced.

A brooding figure paced to the ebony table. The stranger wore a hooded cloak, masking his features.

"Who are you, good sir, and why have you intruded on our council?" Ruthus questioned.

"I know of your problems, magocrats, and I come with a solution." the stranger's voice was audible, and yet, sounded much like a whisper.

The hooded figure procured a large tome and placed it upon the table. The black velvet binding bore elaborate markings unfamiliar to the magic-users.

"Inside you will find great power. You can use it to aid the king. Or, perhaps, wield it against him."

Uri's eyes glinted. Ruthus only glanced at the tome, preferring not view it's contents.

"Where did you get this book? Why are you helping us?" said a puzzled Ruthus.

"Do not question me, mage." the figure's voice obviously irritated, "Just know this: your people will be gone by tomorrow. The choice is yours."

With that, the stranger made his way out of the congregation room. "Now here's a book I haven't seen before! Maybe the answers are in here." Ivan said excitedly.

"No Ivan, I don't think we should open it. I fear what may lie inside." Ruthus cautioned.

Uri's patience was not willing to be restricted. "Blasted Ruthus, we need this information!" he cried, heaving himself over the table and opening the tome.

"No!" Ruthus screamed.

A beacon of crimson light projected upwards from the tower, it's color altered to match. The lands nearby began to quake with fury. This display of force was short-lived, but the effects were to change all of Wiseklen.

The three magocrats were sprawled on the floor, uncertain of the consequences of their actions. Each arose, noting their physical changes. They were now but skeletons; new power began coursing through their spirits.

Eiradon is our enemy. King Garand shall be the first to suffer.

The magic-users sat down at the ebony table, spending days pouring over the tome's contents in silence.

~------------------------~

The throne room lay barren. The servants had long since went to sleep, leaving the king and his guards as the room's sole occupants. Candlelight provided spotty illumination; the king's dimly lit face was a glimpse of his dark thoughts.

King Garand's gaze did not stray from the double doors at the other end of the hallway, as if in expectancy. He was not to be embarrassed again in front of the other kings. No, he would make sure of it. Undoubtedly, there will be uproar from the other city-states if he exterminated the magic-users. He could simply say that they had attempted to revolt and were endangering his people. Yes, that would suffice.

The first rays of sunlight began slithering through the windows in the upper walls of the throne room.

"Captain," Garand said, "spread word to the other officers. All magic-users are to be killed on sight."

"Yes, sir." the captain replied coolly. He motioned for the other guard in the room to follow him out.

Suddenly, there was commotion outside the throne room. The screams of men became apparent; it was a torturous, wretched wailing, followed by the loud thunk of armor. The captain and his escort froze in place, not daring to approach the wooden doors. A haunting silence enslaved the throne room...

(creak)..........(creak)........THUD!

The wooden doors of the throne room were forced off their hinges and came crashing down. Three figures stood at the archway. Their faces were hooded in gold-lined crimson robes which glinted in the candlelight.

"Guards!" the king commanded.

The captain and his escort drew their weapons and advanced on the intruders. The two figures who stood on either side of the center figure extended their arms towards the guards. Immediately, the guards yelped in pain; their bodies shriveled down to the bone and collapsed.

The hooded figures strode down the hallway to the throne, their steps in unison as if guided by the same force. King Garand cowered in his seat. "Who are you? Get out of my castle!"

As the men continued to approach, they pulled back the crimson hoods to reveal their hideous faces. Vile, demented faces they were. All muscle, sinew, even eyes were not present. No, these faces were but skeletons of their former figures. The men now stood in front of King Garand's throne.

Foul creature of this earth, you must die, as will the other kings of Eiradon. We, the Antari of the Crimson Order, shall be a plague amongst your people, and they will be made to serve the undead.

In King Garand's fear, he believed he had gone mad. The king clearly heard a voice, but the mouths of the men did not move. Which one was speaking? Were they all speaking?

The center figure grabbed the king by his collar and lifted him above his head. The figure then raised his other, bony hand and placed it on the king's chest. King Garand felt enormous pain - his muscles were dissolving; he became thinner by the moment. With his last bit of strength, the king spoke in a voice that rapidly became softer:

"The magocrats...."

The center figure tossed King Garand's now-limp, lifeless body on the floor. The Antari solemnly made their way out of the throne room.

Outside, the sun arose on the city-state of Wiseklen, but did not illuminate it.