Achaeron: The Human Years, Part I
Long ago, in the Age of Thorn, and in the time of Calieen, the mother Ishara came out of the Deepest Abyss into the city of Cabaal. The Great Mother returned to a world where lesser gods had governed supreme through ages since creation. Her moon lasted for seven days and seven nights, and on the sixth day she lay in a pasture among the Horses of Ignen. In that field of long flowing blue grass she bore a young boy from her womb. Ishara took the young human child to the city of Kalidren, where she dipped him in the fountains of Aarklon and granted him as an apprentice to a black smith.
“Take this boy as your own and teach him your ways. He will be called Achaeron,” the Mother said.
Achaeron grew very quickly. By the time he was in his seventh cycle he could hammer iron into an unbreakable blade. He was no larger than any dire wolf that might accompany him home from playing in the forest, but he was strong enough to wield a sword and swing a hammer.
In the winter of Achaeron’s eighth cycle the crops had fallen and Korleth’s cold breath devastated the world. Aarklon, lord of merchants had angered Korleth, when he told him that one-day the greater gods were destined to return. This had been foretold to Korleth by Fate herself, but he didn’t like to hear that he would no longer be the most powerful of the gods. In his anger, Korleth blew on the world of man and beast. He would let nothing stop him from playing the games of the gods with the lives of the world as their pieces.
The cold devastation in Kalidren made business slow. Raiders began to come from across the mountains, but only steal livestock from the fields. The waters of the Oohzan River began to dry up, and the people began to starve. That is when Eyuborum came to Kalidren, cloaked in tattered purple robes and a great hood revealing only long white hair and a darkness that was within. The silver, ruby centered talisman around his neck made all that saw him back away and lock their doors. It exuded an ominous aura that could only be intensified by the site of the dark figure within the hood.
The blacksmith continued to work, for he had received a token with a message from an unnamed wizard to create a masterful blade in exchange for enough food to last to harvest. He was hard at work when Eyuborum glided through the wooden archway into the forge.
“Give me what is mine, any you shall live,” Eyuborum’s words echoed from the hollows of his hood.
“I have your sword wizard, but you promised me enough food to last until the harvest,” the shaky words of the burly dark skinned blacksmith showing his own fear.
“I promise nothing. Give me what is mine, or I will eat your living flesh as your screams fill the air with the sweet sounds of gurgle.”
In awe of the words of Eyuborum, the blacksmith became a marionette. He watched as his own arms lifted to the wizard’s blade, still burning from its seat by the forge. No sound could cross his lips as the flesh melted away from his hands. He carried the bastard sword to bony pale hand of the wizard, while his own blackened flesh began to droop from his face.
Eyuborum took the blade into his hands, slid it into a prepared guard and grip, then wrapped it with the dried stomach of a dragon. The blade began to cool in Korleth’s wind, and Eyuborum sat to sharpen it. The blacksmith had soaked into the earthen floor, and the moon began to rise. Suddenly, Eyuborum felt a presence not to be denied. It loomed over the forge as if it were the sun to veil the day with its light. He hadn’t felt such power since his young days. The days long before when he had once lived.
Eyuborum turned to the doorway. A small ball of fire rested on his fingertips, ready to hurl as Achaeron peeked inside. “Who are you boy,” said the old wizard.
“I am Achaeron, apprentice blacksmith.”
“Why were you not here helping earlier?” asked Eyuborum
“I am allowed to play in the forests when work is slow. I bring back the small furry glacken for us to eat, and gather water from the river.”
“Well, your master has sold you to me, and I don’t eat glacken.” Eyuborum had for the first time in many ages felt bad about his actions. This boy had a strong heart, and the power of a great mage.
“Why did he sell me to you?” said Achaeron.
“Because I took away all of his disease and pain and in exchange I got this poor sword, and you. He knew that you should be the apprentice of a great wizard, so that you too might be a wizard one day,” Eyuborum said.
“Yes, sir,” said Achaeron, his sandals filling with wet sand.
With the next few years, Achaeron amazed even Eyuborum with his ability. He remembered all that was taught, and always wanted to know more. By the time Achaeron was in his twelfth cycle he was a master of all forms of magic from illusion to divination. Eyuborum had told him that it was time to specialize, but Achaeron could still never make up his mind. He never wanted to limit himself to one area of expertise and this only encouraged Eyuborum to try to teach him more.
On the first day of Achaeron’s seventeenth cycle, the army of King Xavier the First came to the great castle of Eyuborum. They began to ram the gates and their mages began to chant as they floated around on the outside of the walls. Eyuborum took Achaeron to top of the highest tower, and handed him a bastard sword of bright red metal and a dagger with the blade made of a very dark crystal. He told him that he would one-day return to the world, but the wizards outside would try to put him in a prison for the many centuries to come. He placed Achaeron on a black-vained marble altar with a seven-point star carved into the top and inlaid with gold. Achaeron fastened his new weapons into their frogs and held a box filled with grimoires in his hands. Eyuborum lifted his hood to reveal the gray rotting flesh of his skull.
“You are like my son, Achaeron, and so I show you what I have become over the past centuries. I was once afraid to die, and so I used my magic to remain alive. Now I continue to use my magic to maintain my flesh. I am no longer afraid of death, but those outside these walls don’t have the power to kill me. Instead they will put my soul in a vessel, and close it tightly. I will let them do this. Hopefully someday I will have served my penance, and the gods will release my soul. I tell you this now because I love you as my son. Do not be afraid of death, for in it you are more powerful than life.” Before Achaeron could speak, Eyuborum stepped back with his hands in the air and everything disappeared.
A familiar green grass grew up around Achaeron as he marveled at the cloudless pink sky. He noticed a statue of stone standing in the middle of the grass. As he moved closer, a talisman of protection in the box began to glow. Achaeron sat the box down and slipped the talisman around his neck and let it hang against him inside of his deep purple robes. He walked over to the statue to find a human sized elf wielding an ornate sword of many runes. He could feel the gleaming sword; he could feel its power, and even its knowledge.
“Take it. It will give you great power,” said a soft seductive voice from the grass.
Achaeron tore the sword from the statue with his strong, small hands. The fingers broke from the statue hand, revealing a pink bone and a fine trickle of blood.
“He has not finished becoming stone,” said the voice.
“What happened to him?” asked Achaeron.
“He came with that sword of wisdom to kill a gorgon,” said the voice.
“Then the sword is no good, because he did not win. Where is the gorgon now?”
A tall, athletic woman, in a thin, almost transparent, white wrap and a white veil slipped through the tall grass. “I am here,” said the woman as she through back her veil. Snakes began to writhe from her head and her eyes became filled with the deep red of her tears. Her own pale skin shifted from a milky white, to a gray and back again. Her beauty was a stunning as her powerful gaze.
Achaeron was aghast. He stood there as if he was already a statue, but nothing happened. Suddenly he had only one thought that rang out in his mind and then he saw her. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said.
The gorgon stopped. A smile grew across her face, as if she herself was being petrified. The flowing snakes fell to a wavy golden corn silk, and her eyes became a warm jade. Her heart grew, filling to capacity she had never known. Her cheeks blushed, and her arms went limp. She fainted into the tall grass.
She awoke while Achaeron was putting his box of grimoires down on the wooden floor of her home. He had carried her here, and then gone back for his things. Achaeron stood over her, his black velvet cloak lined in dark red, and his purple robes gliding across the floor as if he levitated instead of walked.
“You’re too strong to be a wizard. I saw you take the sword from that stone paladin,” she said, as the fog cleared from her eyes.
“To harness the wisdom of this sword, you first have to understand the beauty within wisdom. That’s why the paladin couldn’t harness its power. His wisdom comes from faith, but his faith is in a god and not the in the beauty of fate.”
The gorgon sat up. “That sword didn’t protect you either. It only helps you to gain wisdom. I want to know why you lived, and why you’ve made me human.”
“You’re beautiful. I am protected by beauty, and by magic. It was not my fate to become stone.” Achaeron smiled to reveal an extra set of canines, “besides, you love me.”
The gorgon leaped to her feet. Her veins filled with fire and her head thumped like the drum of an orc battle charge. “I can accept that you are a wizard. I can accept that you are powerful. I may even accept that you have beaten me. But you are still a man, and in that you are weak, and ignorant, even of love.”
Achaeron spun on the ball of his foot, lifted his box from he floor, and slowly walked out the doorway.
“Where the hell do think your going?” said the beautiful woman. “You didn’t even get my name. It’s Shiana, my name is Shiana.”
Achaeron walked on. The day would be long and he felt something pulling him away. Every so often he could feel Shiana’s presence, but he was still being drawn somewhere, and thus he walked on.
After three days, Achaeron came upon a field where nine horses grazed. As he walked among them he realized that these where the Horses of Ignen. Then a horse turned to him and said, “Are you Achaeron, sorcerer and wizard?”
“Yes, I am Achaeron.”
“I am to be yours. It is foretold by Fate, and the books of Karé,” said the mare. “My name is Riegaren.”
“Well, I don’t understand, but I do know that fate has yet to lead me astray. Riegaren, can you carry my books?”
“Yes, Achaeron, I can carry your books and your and your wife too, if you like.”
Achaeron smiled, “I’m not married, but it would be a pleasure for my books and I to have a ride.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. Maybe as we go you can read me a book.”
“Maybe I can,” said Achaeron, “yes, maybe I can.”
As Riegaren slowly galloped, Achaeron began to go through his box in search of something other than a spell book. He knew he had seen Eyuborum throw several other books in along with his grimoires. Then Achaeron came upon a book that was bound in leaves, with a hard shell wrapped around it for protection. He pulled it from among the scrolls and opened it up. Achaeron whispered some words to the air and waved his hand over the book. The words began to move and change shape on the leafed pages, and they began to form sentences, then paragraphs. This book was obviously from another plane of existence, and another world. Achaeron began to read aloud to Riegaren in a voice that he knew that Shiana could hear:
Long ago, in the Age of Thorn, and in the time of Calieen, the mother Ishara came out of the Deepest Abyss into the city of Cabaal.
