Vol 6 Prologue (1/2)

Prologue

The wind blew fiercely as though intent on tormenting him.

As it was a westerly wind, it carried a large amount of sand with it. Reizus stood there, stock still beneath his deep hood, his long sleeve pressed against his nose and mouth.

Before him, an abandoned citadel lay as silent as death. The ruined city appeared a hazy brown through the sand-laden wind and in truth, there was not a single trace of life within. More than two hundred years ago, the outer walls that now lay buried in the sand had been destroyed at the hands of plunderers, and of the many buildings that had been set ablaze, nothing but innumerable broken pillars remained.

The city had once been called Zer Illias.

Reizus lightly held down the hood that he wore low over his eyes and moved forward, watching his surroundings as cautiously as a snake.

It’s strange, he thought as he progressed along the empty way.

Zer Tauran was a country that had risen like an illusion in this western region of the continent more than two hundred years ago, and that, like an illusion, had then disappeared. The Zerdians still yearned after that era in part because they were proud of once having had a dignity equal to that of any other country of the continent. The leaders of the city-states scattered throughout the west burned with the ambition of personally reviving Zer Tauran even as they continued to engage in b.l.o.o.d.y feuds against each other.

Yet even so…

Zer Tauran’s capital, Zer Illias, was in this state. There was no one to pour their energy into restoring it, nor anyone to even visit it. The large structure was simply left to be eroded by the sands and to decay and be lost with the pa.s.sing of the years. What Reizus felt was “strange” was the thought that the Zerdians seemed to want to erase the abominable memory from their minds with a prayer-like fervour. Yet the still unforgettable glory of Zer Tauran’s name was handed down from generation to generation.

The endless wind blew incessantly. Reizus’ worn-out boots crunched through the sand. Before long, the path came to a wide staircase. The stairs wound up the hill into which they had been carved more than two centuries earlier, and here too were the obvious traces of a brutal invasion.

On either side of Reizus stood a slanted gatepost, broken from halfway up. Beyond them, broken stones of all sizes were piled into heaps and obstructed further pa.s.sage. Again, there was no sign of living creatures. Not a trace could be found of the lizards and snakes that could be expected to live there, and neither were there any birds in the sky. It was as though every sound but that of the wind had been locked away into stillness, afraid of the ruins of this civilisation whose city lay wrecked and destroyed.

The Zerdians are also afraid. Reizus’ steps came to a halt and he gazed at the ruins of what had once been a temple that towered over crowds of pilgrims from the highest point in the city.

Rather than King Jasch Bazgan, the one who had held power here and who had been master of the temple was Garda, a priest to the Dragon G.o.ds. Garda had been a sorcerer skilled at using ether. There was an anecdote about how a bishop who had rebuked him for his imperious behaviour had been publicly turned into a moth. And another one about how one summer when there had been very little rain, a farmer had come to plead before him for a reduction by half of the t.i.the he had to pay in crops that year.

“Oh, I see. So you want rain? Then if you want it, I will give it you,” Garda had declared, throwing out his chest. It was said that from the next day onwards for a full week, heavy rains had fallen without cease. Black clouds had formed only over the supplicant’s farm and most of his harvest had been washed away.

Garda attracted fear and dread throughout the West. According to the a.n.a.lysis of some historians, it was because of Garda’s existence that Jasch, a foreigner to the Zerdians, was able to establish a country in that region.

After Jasch’s death, the country fell to ruin and the fires of rebellion flared up in many quarters. The fighting was not limited to the Zerdians alone. Seizing the opportunity, savage desert tribes had attacked from the west and invaded Zer Illias. In those days, Garda had attained position as the head of sorcery and he protected the capital Zer Illias, which was severely lacking in military might, with terrifying esoteric magic.

“But in less than a year,” Reizus’ cracked lips parted in a mutter, “or no, perhaps I should say that the magical power and the several hundred believers managed to hold out for almost a year?”

Zer Illias was set alight by the invaders. It was known far and wide that the tribesmen with skin the colour of the desert sands had mercilessly and brutally slaughtered the people and destroyed their dwellings. When in the end their rough voices could be heard even as far as the temple, Garda merely uttered those words that were still transmitted in the history of the western region:

“I will never hand over the Dragon G.o.d’s Claws. Not to any king or queen, not to any archbishop no matter what divine protection he may be blessed with. No, not even if my body were to be destroyed and my ashes scattered throughout the steppes.”

The Dragon G.o.d’s Claws had served as the sovereign’s seal under the Magic Dynasty of long ago and Jasch Bazgan had received them from the land’s elders when he founded his country. There had been two of them and the descendants of the Bazgan House had inherited one which was now in the city-state of Taúlia. Garda however had left the other as an offering to the temple and to this day it had never been found.

Even though the savage tribesmen had seized sculptures, money and other treasures from the temple, of the sovereign’s seal alone they had discovered no trace. Moreover, while the hundred or more of the believers who had sequestered themselves in the temple had all slit their own throats, it was said that the remains of Garda himself were nowhere to be seen.

And thus even to this day, the Zerdians held his name in some awe. Or perhaps it should be called a fear deeply rooted within the pa.s.sing generations. If someone said something that was in the least bit critical of the Zer Tauran era or of the Dragon G.o.ds, then even if they were in the middle of the rowdiest of banquets, someone would hiss “Shhh” and press a hand to their mouth to stop them from talking. After which, the whole group would recite a prayer to the Dragon G.o.ds to protect themselves against Garda’s vengeful spirit.

“Humph,” Reizus uttered in a voice grown hoa.r.s.e and gazed once more at the temple’s ruins. For two hundred years, no hands had touched them but they had not originally been built during the Zer Tauran era. Back in those days, Jasch Bazgan had dug what appeared to be old ruins out from the sand dunes and had had them restored. Because of that, the pillars and stones were thoroughly worn down and no longer retained the aspect of a temple. The voices of the dead wailing their resentment could be heard carried on the endless wind.

If one who does not carry the sovereign’s seal sets foot in the temple of Zer Illias, they will be killed by Garda’s vengeful spirit was it? Reizus thought back to the rumours he had heard in Zerdian villages during his travels.

Garda’s ghost was said to still remain within the temple at Zer Illias, guarding one of the sovereign’s seals. Waiting for more than two hundred years for someone bearing the other seal to appear. It was also said that when the sovereign’s seal was once more complete, Garda’s spirit would be released from Zer Illias and in exchange, the city now ruled by the stillness of death and decay would be restored and the one who carried the seal would be granted tremendous magical power.

Reizus was of course not carrying the sovereign’s seal. Furthermore, although sorcery was his livelihood, he had not previously been particularly interested in Garda’s legend.

So why am I here? He wondered anew. The question had often come to him on his journey.

He had been expelled from his country. If ever set foot in the Grand Duchy of Ende again, the only destiny that awaited him was to have the country’s soldiers turn their spears against him and the sorcerers of the Bureau of Sorcery, to which he himself had once belonged, target his life.

Reizus however was not pessimistic about his own fate. He was proud of the fact that being as knowledgeable about ether as he was, he could expect to make a living no matter where he was. He had however no interest in worldly fame or status. What he wanted was an environment in which he could devote himself heart and soul to the study of sorcery. As long as it wasn’t as bound by strict religious precepts as Ende was, anywhere would do.

Should I turn my steps towards the east? When the time came to cross the border, Reizus had certainly been thinking along those lines.

To the east, beyond the country of Ryalide and the kingdom of Allion, along the great river Tīda was a wilderness stretching ever further northeast in which were said to be villages belonging to a clan that had, like Ende and Arion, handed down magic technology from ancient times. He had intended to proceed there and to devote what time he had left to his studies.

But… He himself didn’t know what whim had seized him. For some reason, the day after leaving Ende and after having stopped for a night at a post station, he had retraced his steps and, without re-crossing the border, had chosen to make his way on foot through the perilous Nouzen Mountains and to travel to the west of Ende.

His reason for doing so could accurately be called a vague premonition. If he were to express it as a sorcerer, it was something like being guided by ether. When he had awakened from sleep in his lodgings, he had found that he wanted to check with his own eyes the vestiges left by Garda, whom he had heard of from rumours and legends. And when he had crossed through Mephius and stepped into the Tauran lands, that desire had swelled to such an extent that he could barely control himself.

How much time had pa.s.sed since he had left Ende? Now the ruins of Zer Illias that he had unceasingly yearned for were before his eyes. But he felt no sense of elation. Instead, his heart seemed to have grown hollow and as the wind blew through, it echoed within that empty s.p.a.ce.

Ruins and ancient history.

Reizus had already pa.s.sed sixty. No matter how wide the dominions acquired, nor how great the glory attained, with the pa.s.sing of time, the names of cities, civilisations and legends would all be buried in the sand.

The study of sorcery. My blood flows for that alone. I have no other pleasures. For that, I would sacrifice my family, my life, my heart and if necessary even the soul that marks me as human. I have no regrets. None, and yet…

As he stood before the pile of ruins he was seized by doubts about the results he had achieved in the studies he had pursued at the cost of sacrificing himself. Reizus had very little time left. The research themes for him to puzzle over increased day by day, and just thinking about how little he would be able to accomplish before his life ran out was almost enough to drive him to despair.

I too will decay and die. My body will rot, eventually my bones will turn to sand and be scattered by the wind and my heart… Where will my heart go? The sixty years of knowledge and wisdom that I have acc.u.mulated, the many sorcery techniques that I have clarified or adapted, who will inherit them? Will my life become someone else's stepping stone while my body and heart fade into oblivion? Just as I stepped over so many that I knew nothing about.

Until then, Reizus had not realised his own age, nor the weight of the years piled upon his body. Before he noticed it, he had fallen to both his knees in the sand. He felt so unbearably sad that his actions were like those of a young man. Although knowing it would do no good, driven by the desire to berate himself, he was about to slam his head on the floor of the ruins.

The wind that licked his cheeks changed.

When he realised it, Reizus stood up with an agility that didn't match his age and jumped backwards in a single breath. Thanks to the artefact he had fitted into his boots, he was able to move as though his body were as light as a feather.

As Reizus jumped and landed seven, eight metres away, he turned his eyes upwards. Within the opening of the slanted gatepost was a shadow which had not been there a moment ago. It's four paws firmly planted on unsteady footholds, there stood a beast with golden fur. Even if he called upon the wisdom gathered by Ende's Bureau of Sorcery of which he had once been a member, Reizus did not have the slightest idea what this beast was. The mane around its neck brought to mind a lion, but the dull red glint of its eyes and the tightly-packed, blueish-green scales that only covered its face made him wonder if it wasn't a type of dragon that was as yet undiscovered anywhere in the world. In any case –

Reizus pulled a dagger from at his breast. Indeed, in any case, wherever this unknown beast had appeared from, its immediate aim was clear. Its head was lowered and in the pair of red eyes that peered his way, there was not a speck of either intelligence or mercy. Peeking out from its upraised lips were a great many fangs every bit as sharp as the blade in Reizus' hand. They glaringly revealed that its instinct would be to crunch through his body.

“Certainly, I was looking back on my life and feeling hopeless,” Reizus twisted a single cheek into a crooked smile, “but any way you put it, ending my life inside your d.a.m.n stomach is out of the question.”

The sand-laden wind still blew. It seemed to have gotten a bit stronger.

The beast moved. It jumped from the gatepost without a sound. Reizus’ body lightly drew a semi-circle. He swung his dagger to scythe at the beast’s legs. But the beast was faster than expected. His aim in no way erred, but still the beast’s claws tore into Reizus’ chest.

While staggering, Reizus quickly looked back. The beast had landed just in front of the bottom of the stairs and was about to turn its head towards him. It had lost the right paw that Reizus’ dagger had severed. But not a single drop of blood was it shedding and neither did it appear to be in pain. Furthermore, its posture hadn’t faltered in the slightest.

Rather than being “severed”, it felt as though its right paw simply happened to be “missing”.

Reizus directed his gaze downwards. There were three incisions in his chest. A large amount of blood was seeping out, but what Reizus focussed his attention on wasn’t his own wound. It was on the tip of the dagger that he grasped in his right hand. He couldn’t see the colour of blood there.

Both ends of his lips curled upwards. Even though it was a battle injury that would have caused a brawny young warrior to turn pale, he smiled. With a loud clanging sound, the dagger fell to the stairs that innumerable pilgrims had once ascended. Having thrown away his only weapon, Reizus held out his left hand to the beast. On the wrist of that arm, he wore a jewel-encrusted bracelet. He raised his right palm above the portion with the jewels.