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Clash of the Swords: The Power of Darkness and Light Chapter 1.

By: Faraz "f_4ever" Hussain

NOTE: All characters in this story are fictional and have nothing to do with anything/anyone in reality.  This is my first actual optional piece of writing…. other than the little thing that I wrote on the way to Georgia.  I still can’t figure out how to make the third person thing sound right, so please forgive me (any help that you could give is greatly appreciated).  If you have any comments, please fill out the e-mail me page and make sure to say that it is about Clash of the Swords Chapter 1.  Please do not copy it and say that it's your work. Last of all, enjoy.  

The trees were full of flourish and life; the grass was a thick, rich green; insects buzzed and flicked around each other; animals dotted the landscape, grazing on the grass and relaxing, waiting; all in all, it was a calm and joyful summer.  On this midsummer morning, many villages were celebrating, for it had been a good year.  The village of Scent was like the others around it; a small, self-sufficient village that traded with the villages around it for a few needed goods; but it was also different, for it had a shaman.  The shaman took care of the villagers by tending to their cuts and illnesses.  In return for what the villagers considered to be his meager services, he was a given a small house, some spare clothing, and plenty of food.  To add even more uniqueness to the village, the shaman had an apprentice, a young boy by the name, Winterblaze.  Every town has it’s own little dark secret, and in this small village, it was a creature.

Flame; death; pain; sorrow; hate; fear; jealousy…. The fire growing larger, stronger, faster.  Winterblaze shook his head and looked about in a daze.  He stared at the people around him and his memory slowly started to return.  He’d been having the same thoughts of destruction and death every night for the past month.  It had started out as a small whisper, but it grew stronger and more powerful each day.  He couldn’t control it and he couldn’t tell anyone about it, for they would make his life much harsher than it already was.

            He never knew his father and his mother had passed away when he was around three.  He was forced to live with the old and quite senile shaman of the village.  He was expected to learn the shaman’s craft and to care for his master.  In exchange, he was given shelter, a meager portion of the shaman’s food, and two pairs of discarded clothing each season.

            He didn’t get along with the other children in the village.  Since he had so much less free time than the other kids, they had all formed groups and they shunned him.  He really didn’t mind being made fun of, he really didn’t care what other people thought of him; but he hated it when anyone made remarks about his parents.  He’d get so enraged that he’d end up trying to beat up the kids who said it.  Before he could actually land a blow on anyone’s face, one of the adults would grab him by the ear and would lead him struggling away.  They gave him the speech every single time; “Now don’t go beating on my kids for no reason,” Mrs. Ellenwood would say; or, “You should use your energy doing something productive, not starting fights!” one of the farmers would tell him.  Whenever he tried to explain that one of the other children had been making fun of his parents, they’d reply with something similar to “Be grateful that we care for you so well; do you know of anyone else who would care for you like we do???” and of course he’d reply that he didn’t.  Then the adult would just snort and walk off.

            It was exactly the same just a few minutes ago, Winterblaze was minding his own business when a groups of kids wandered too near and he heard them talking about how his father had been an old drunk and how he had left his wife when she told him about having a child.  Winterblaze didn’t like it when his father was talked about in this manner, so he walked over to the kid, and tapped him on the shoulder.  When the kid turned around, Winterblaze curled his fist and swung it back, so that he could get a good hit on the kid’s face, but before he could actually get a hit it, the mayor’s oldest daughter grabbed his arm and dragged him away.

            “Now this has got to stop!” she had told Winterblaze sternly. “Why do you always insist on beating kids up?” she continued.  At this point Winterblaze had droned her out and had started having thoughts of punching her in the face.  Before he could actually make up his mind and get himself in deep trouble, his opponent finished her speech and asked “Do you understand?!?”  He’d replied yes and she stomped off.

            He was brought back to reality by the voice of one of the mayor’s sons.  “Why do I have to get married?” he shouted at his parents as he turned and walked towards the other side of the small house.

            Typical, Winterblaze thought to himself as his hands slowly clasped themselves around the locked that had been his mother’s.  Some might say that it was her legacy, but he was always greatly troubled by it, for he was reminded of his mom whenever he saw it.  He looked around to make sure that no-one was going to steal it, then he drew it out of a pocket in his gray, leather vest.

            His soft lithe fingers gently followed the flows and curves of the picture that had been carved into the gold cover.  It was an image of a young woman holding a large staff in one hand and a rose in the other.  The woman’s face was smooth and her chin inclined sharply as it got closer to her lips; her pointed ears made her look more like an elf than a human, but her brown, curly hair was a trait that only a human could have.  The staff that she held in her slender hands appeared to be made of wood; a metallic looking claw at the top of the staff held a perfectly circular pearl.  The rose itself was not extraordinary, but every time he looked at it, he caught his breath; lain inside of the center of the stem was a small, green dragon on it’s side; the eye glowed a hot red.  No matter which way he turned the locket, he got the impression that the eye was staring at him, waiting for something that he did not know.

            “Are you enjoying yourself Winterblaze?” the only mage at the party asked as he slowly walked around Winterblaze in a circle; his long purple robes flowing across the floor as if it had a mind of it’s own.

            “Ye- yes sir!” Winterblaze stammered.

            “Ah… Well then,” the mage replied as his hazel eyes bore into Winterblaze’s pale flesh.  “I have some news that will cheer you up even more,” the mage continued, his soft voice dripping with irony. “We, the guild of magi have decided to accept you into our school of education.”

            Winterblaze stumbled backwards, stunned. He slowly composed himself and after a moment of silence, he replied “the school of Dargeon sir?”

            “Yes, the school of Dargeon,” the mage replied with a sneer.  “Are you not proud?” he asked mockingly, fully knowing the true answer.

            “S- sir, it’s quite an honor” Winterblaze lied with a sinking feeling.

            “Aah. Must be shocked. I see,” the mage stated rather bluntly.  He reached into his one of his pouches and brought out a pair of red robes.  “Here you go young man. Be ready at dawn tomorrow, I’ll send a lesser mage by the name of Dargon to pick you up.

            Winterblaze accepted the robes with a look of disbelief.  He stood still, holding the folder robes in one hand, the other hanging limply at his side.  He slowly raised his free hand to touch the face of the locket that still hung outside of his vest.  What have I done to deserve this? he thought to himself.

            He opened the clasp of the locket and watched as it swung open, revealing two pictures, one on the right and the other on the left.  On the right was a portrait of the king, and on the left was an image of his mother.  What was the relationship between the two? he wondered. My father can’t possibly be the king could he? Wasn’t my mom just a little too young for the kind? and then a possible solution hit him. What if the king charmed my mom with the locket and had me as a child? What if he was an unwanted bastard?

            Winterblaze angrily shut the locket and placed it inside one of his shirt’s hidden pockets.  He was about to leave the small house when he noticed that the old shaman was walking towards him. 

            The shaman appeared to be well into his late sixties.  His green eyes held the sorrow of one who still grieves for one who is lost.  His shoulder length, white hair hung loosely over his scarred left ear.  He had received the scar when he battled against a powerful dragon lord; or so he told everyone, but nobody believed him.  His body was strong and quite bony and unlike most elderly people, he walked with the air of a middle-aged man.

            On this fine evening, the shaman wore the traditional celebration garb that a shaman wears when a new child is born into the chief’s family.  The chief had just had his fifth child and was in a state of pure joy.  The shaman who had no children of his own decided to host the celebration in his house; he hoped by doing so, he might have a child of his own.  He started the preparations the morning of the celebration and had made Winterblaze do all of the work, claiming that he was too old to do anything by himself. 

Not wanting to get in a fight with the shaman, Winterblaze had set about preparing the house for the night’s festivities.  He set streamers along the walls, swept the floor, folded up the clothes, shelved the cluttered books and cooked all of the food.  He had barely finished when the first guests started to arrive.

The shaman walked over to Winterblaze, noticing the red robes he let out a small shout of glee.  “You got accepted?!? That’s great!” the shaman all but screamed with delight.  “When do you leave?” he asked quickly.

“I’m to leave at dawn’s first light,” Winterblaze replied without much enthusiasm.

“Splendid; you better pack your things!” the shaman said as he turned and blended back into the sea of people.

Everyone would be happy when he left, everyone but him that is.  Even though he hated it in the village, he knew that the school would be much worse.  The school of Dargeon was known to be extremely harsh.  The upper classmen always picked on the younger students.  Worst of all, the teachers did nothing to stop them; in fact, they encouraged such activity, saying that it strengthened the will.

Sighing softly, Winterblaze walked over to the back of the hut and started the climb up the brown, splintered ladder that led up to his small room.  About half was up, he paused and turned his head to look at the crown of people in the room.  It seemed as if the entire village had come to the party, dressed in their finest clothing.  The mayor, who was dressed in blue-white robes; his blood red cloak hung around his stout shoulders, held together by a small, bronze pin shaped like an angel with wings.  The mayor himself was a fairly tall, middle-aged man with short, brown hair and hazel eyes.  He kept his beard trimmed and had a small mustache.  His body was lean and well muscled.

Spotting Winterblaze climbing up the ladder, he excused himself and walked over to the child.  He waited for Winterblaze to climb back down the ladder before he started to talk.  “Ah Winterblaze, this is wonderful news. You are going to one of the most famous mage academies in history.  Aren’t you happy?” the mayor asked as he noticed the small frown on Winterblaze’s face.

“Sir,” Winterblaze replied remorsefully. “You’ve heard what the people say about the academy.  The teachers don’t care what happens to us!”

Upon hearing this, the mayor tilted his head back and let out a loud laugh that sounded very much like a dog’s bark.  He clapped Winterblaze on the back, sending the kid stumbling.  “You don’t really believe those rumors do you?” the mayor asked.  “After all, the peddlers who said that also claimed that an army was coming from the south on foreign looking battleships.  So far I haven’t seen any foreigners, let alone an army!” the mayor said humorously.  “Did you?”

“No sir,” Winterblaze mumbled as he lowered his gaze. 

“I thought so,” the mayor stated as if he had just banished all of Winterblaze’s worries.  “Now get to sleep; you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Sighing once again, Winterblaze continued his climb up to his room.  Once he reached the top of the ladder, he looked around at the sparsely furnished loft.  A small chest full of worn clothes lay against a small, straw cot.  Silver moonlight streamed through a small porthole along one of the walls of the room.  Other than the cot and chest, there were only two other pieces of furniture within the room; a small, wooden desk and a matching stool.  He slowly walked over to the desk and looked inside a small, wooden mug that contained herbs that would let him sleep with ease.  He let out a groan and walked back to the ladder, for the mug was empty.  He slowly climbed down the ladder and after telling his mentor where he was going; he left the small house.

It was the middle of summer and the cool night air brought Winterblaze’s sweating body some comfort.  The clear, starlit sky helped the full July moon light up the sky.  A sudden gust of wind brought a faint scent of spices to Winterblaze’s thin nose.  That’s strange! he thought to himself.  Spices are rare up here; I guess maybe they’re proud of either the new child or me.  That’s probably why they wasted so much money on spices, just for a one-night celebration.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he started his walk along the northern trail that led to the forest.  It was called the forest of Raven, for supposedly the spirit of a powerful mage by the name of Ravenwind protected the other side of the forest from invasion.

When he reached the first of the trees, he looked around to make sure that nobody was watching; he hoped that there wasn’t anyone hiding within the shadows, for if there were, he’d be ridiculed by the other kids for the rest of his life.  He didn’t see anyone, so he spat on the palm of his right hand and rubbed both hands together.  Winterblaze inhaled sharply, took a step back, ran towards one of the large pine trees, and jumped onto it’s trunk.  He shinnied up to the highest branches and started to look for the fungi that helped ease the coughing fits that he got in the middle of the night.

As if summoned by his thoughts, his body started to spasm and he curled up into a ball, holding onto one of the branches for dear life.  The fits had started at the same time as the dreams and had increased at the same pace as well.  After his body had stopped shaking, he slowly looked around.

Usually the outer ring of trees provided plenty of cough easing fungi, but luck was not with him today; it seemed as if he would have to go deeper into the forest to find the small green mushrooms.

He wandered deeper into the forest and as he was climbing up one of the last trees, he looked at the sky; the southern par of what he saw was blurred. Few stars escaped through the gray mist that seemed to settle on top of the village.

Winterblaze didn’t pay any attention to this; he was too busy looking up at the red star from the north.  The usually dim star had started to glow much brighter. Must be the elves using the star’s magic to put up their shield! he thought to himself.

All races from dwarves, to ogres, to the humans, knew that the elves were one of the oldest races on the planet, and therefore also one of the most powerful in magic; but the reaction to this knowledge differed among the races.  The humans wished to have the power for themselves; the dwarves distrusted magic and wanted nothing to do with the elves; the ogres hated the elves because the elves had used magic to fend off an ogre invasion a few hundred years ago.

Winterblaze climbed down the tree and started to make his way back home.  A faint stench of burning animal flesh came to him. Normally he would have dismissed this as an unlucky animal stumbling upon a fire pit; but the closer he got to the village, the stronger the smell got.  He broke into a run, his small, leather sandals flopping wildly against his feet.   He slowed down as he reached the edges of the forest and a look of horror came upon his face.

Raiders from the south were torching all of the houses; all but the closest to the forest were up in flames.  Calm as the wind at the center of a raging tornado, the young man that Winterblaze presumed to be Dargon strode out of the shaman’s hut and turned to face the raiders.  He wore deep blue robes, which appeared to be alive, for it was withering and swirling like a serpent.   His read cloak flew in an imaginary breeze and the dragon-shaped clasps, which held the cloak to the robes, glowed a miserable red.  The mage’s face was covered in blue and red war paint and his silver hair not only made him look older than he was, but it made him appear to be a formidable opponent.  He wore a series of gold chains with different colored charms attached to them.  They glowed a soft neon as sparks flew from the mage’s hands.

Growling, the mage let out a snarl and raised his right hand; he pointed it at a group of southern raiders that were looting some of the nearby houses.  A bolt of pure blue lightning exploded from his fingers and struck each of the raiders in the chest.  Their cries of agony were drowned out in the shriek of the next bolt.

Upon hearing the second bolt, the raiders gathered together and turned to face the mage.  Realizing that all of the soon to be slaves were in the house being defended by the mage, they dropped their loot and charged.  The raiders all wore black turbans and long, brown robes which were held up by yellow rope.  Each raider held a large, curved sword in the right hand and a smaller, curved green knife in their left hand.  Their faces were shaved clean and showed no emotion whatsoever.   Banded together, they looked like a horde of non-descript, unemotional, fighting machines.

As the raiders slowly advanced, another bolt of lightning shot out of the mage’s hands and into the midst of the invaders.  As the hole created by the bolt became filled with yet more enemies, the mage realized that he couldn’t defeat the men.  There were just too many of them.

 As if answering a silent prayer, the shaman burst out of the house.  He wore the formal shaman battle garb, which consisted of large, flowing, green robes; a ceremonial headset which was made from peacock feathers and dried wax; and large bracelets made from small, ivory beads in different colors, each representing an element of power.  In the shaman’s right hand lay a small crystal ball, which glowed a soft red, shedding rays of fluorescent light upon the shaman’s robes.  The shaman’s left hand was clasped around a large, oak staff with a clawed hand that held a blue diamond.

The shaman raised his right hand towards the sky and the crystal ball started to levitate.  His eyes rolled back into his head so that only the whites showed and small, white lightning bolts flickered around the shaman’s eyelids.  Another bolt of lightning shot out of the mage’s hands and struck one of the raiders in the face.  They were now within a hundred feet of the shaman’s house. 

Winterblaze was about to run towards the shaman, when he realized that he would only get in the way; the weak magic that the shaman had tried to teach Winterblaze might have been useful at a time like this, but he hadn’t paid attention to any of the shaman’s lessons.  So all he did was hide in the canopy of one of the elms and watch.

The shaman’s bracelets started to glow blue as symbols of power became etched upon the beads.  Then all of a sudden, the lightning around the shaman’s eyes stopped; he closed his eyes as the bracelets stopped glowing and he fell to his knees, exhausted.

Dargon realized that the mage bolts weren’t effective enough, so he cupped his hands and waited as a small, fiery ball grew between his hands.  Then he threw it at the invaders.  As the ball hit one of the men in the face, it exploded, flinging many of the men back against the trees.  At the same time the shaman’s labors paid off; the skies let loose golf sized hail.  The mage smiled at the shaman’s tricks and continued to cast more exploding balls of fire at the enemy.

Winterblaze realized that it had been a mistake to ignore the shaman’s lessons as the hail rained down upon the invaders, directed by an invisible hand.  If he had only paid attention to the shaman’s lessons, he might have the power to defend his mother’s name; in fact, he would have the power to take over cities and establish a name of his own. 

The mage cast another exploding fireball as the invaders turned as if to run; but Dargon knew better.  He knew that they were only pausing to regroup and that they would be back in less than five minutes.  He helped the shaman to his feet and gathered power for his next fireball.

The shaman muttered a curse as the next wave of invaders attacked.  They charged towards the shaman and not even the mage’s fire could force the men back.  The shaman raised his right arm, drew a small knife from the folds of his robes, and let the blood puncture the skin on his right index finger.  As a drop of crimson blood fell to the floor, the shaman started to chant in the language of the Ancients.  He watched with satisfaction as the blood dropped onto the floor and started to create a circle around him.  He slit the fingers and palms of both hands; grimacing as the blood loss caused him to get light headed.

The mage and Winterblaze cried out simultaneously as they saw the blood flowing freely down the shaman’s arms and falling from his elbows into the pool of blood below.  It was with great physical restraint that Winterblaze managed to remain where he was.  Even though he despised the shaman, he still respected and valued the shaman for who and what he was.

The blood started to form a five-pointed star inside of the circle as the invaders struck the only shield around the shaman’s house.  The force of the attack actually made the shield bend inward for a moment, but after a moment, it succeeded in keeping the invaders out.  After the star was completed, the shaman shouted out “Arthan ezlbab,” the mystic words for defiance and power in the language of the Ancients.  In each of the cones created by the edges of the star and the circle the blood formed small bells that seemed to ring with a sweet and powerful, binding melody, as each outline was completed.

“Hope which lights the way of the lost; faith that strengthens the hear; serenity which bonds the will; calm that makes even the worst places look beautiful; I ask thee to come to my aid.  Help me in my direst moment; vanquish the foes that challenge me!” the shaman shouted as the winds carried his voice into the furthest invaders’ souls, causing them to shiver.  The fairly calm wind suddenly picked up, causing the raiders to grit their teeth as they slowly advanced.  Lightning flashed in the now black sky; the light that now helped the raiders see their destination also brought them fear, for when they looked at the mage, they saw two fiery-red eyes that stared at them, unblinking, compelling them to become lost within the deepness of the eyes.  The eyes whispered the invaders’ deepest fears into each of their hearts; forcing some of them to fall and break into tears.

Yet the raiders still came; when they reached a house a few feet away from the shaman’s house, a ball of lightning struck them; the shaman and the mage were waiting.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up!” the shaman shouted over the wind as sweat from exertion dripped down his tight face. His hands hadn’t stopped bleeding; but the flow of blood had slowed down and for the time being, that was enough for the shaman.

“Let the winds fall,” Dargon replied as he threw a ball of fire into the midst of the invaders.  “Go to your people and start the evacuation process.  They can travel quickly for they don’t have much (in the way of baggage) to take along with them!” he continued as he gazed at the charred houses of the village.

Winterblaze watched the shaman run back into the house as the mage continued to battle with the invaders.  His first reaction was one of anger; how could the shaman leave a visitor to fend off an attack made by raiders? he thought to himself.  Then he realized the answer; the shaman’s foremost duty was to care for the villagers; he had to get the others to safety.

The battle continued; neither side had an advantage. The mage was fending off the invaders, but the invaders weren’t retreating.  The mage, realizing that if this continued, his power would run out before the invaders left, stopped flinging exploding balls of fire at the enemy.  He raised his hands as if signaling defeat, while muttering strange incantations that were neither the words from the language of the Ancients, nor were they from the common language.

The raiders, thinking that they had won, threw caution aside, let out a roar of victory and ran towards the mage.  The mage stood still for a moment, waiting for the raiders to reach the path that led to the shaman’s house; then he extended his hands, palms facing the raiders. His hands started to glow the colors of the rainbow and both his cloak and hair blew upwards, as if the wind were rising from the ground underneath him.

At that moment, everything seemed so definite to Winterblaze.  He thought that all was lost; the mage had raised his hands in defeat and the villagers weren’t far away enough to escape from the wrath of the fairly battered men.  In that instant, everything seemed set in stone; the raiders would take over and would enslave all of the villagers; Winterblaze’s hopes of becoming a successful person would vanish; for the shaman would tell the invaders where he was, in exchange for a few scarps of food.  He would be ruined; his vision of reality would be destroyed; the entire kingdom would slowly be taken over by enemies, for the king could not afford to fight both the Novarians and the invaders from the south.

A large quake shook the earth, jolting Winterblaze out of his thoughts of the world ending.  The ground started to heave and the animals took flight, all chattering at once.  The sky rumbled and let loose rain, soaking everything in sight.  Then as suddenly as it started, it was over.  What Winterblaze saw made him almost lose his balance and fall out of the tree; it was only his reflexes that saved him from having broken arms and legs.

A large, earthen spire stood in front of the swirling mage.  His face was knotted up in concentration as he attempted to keep the earthen wall up.  “Shaman!” he shouted as the veins on his face bulged.  “Get the villagers across the bridge to the east, and destroy it after you have passed. Don’t worry about me…… Just do it. Now!  I can’t hold this for more than a few minutes.”

The shaman shouted out a few sharp commands to the villagers and they rushed to obey.  He turned back as if trying to decide whether or not to help the mage, but a stern gaze from Dargon made the shaman whisper a hasty ‘thank you’. Then he ran after the fleeing villagers.

“It sure has been a long and difficult road,” Dargon whispered.  “I was hoping to play one last game of dice with you,” he said as if talking to someone in the wind.  “But, it seems as if I’ll have to cancel those plans.” 

Dargon sighed and drew a sword with symbols of strength out of a sheath that materialized out in front of him.  He prepared himself for the end and let the spire drop.  Then he charged to meet the enemy.

Winterblaze watched silently as the mage met the raiders.  The mage looked like the hero seen only in fairy tales; his soft hair blowing in the wind as he charged at an enemy that greatly outnumbered him.  Winterblaze saw Dargon cast great balls of fire and lightning as he slashed at the enemy with a sword that froze the opponent every time it touched the enemy.  Winterblaze watched Dargon get stabbed in the right lung; yet the mage kept on fighting.  Winterblaze decided that he wanted to be just like the mage who died fighting the enemy.  Winterblaze wanted to be like the mage who kept on fighting after being mortally wounded; just so that someone who didn’t know would be able to live.  Winterblaze decided that he would make sacrifices by going to the school, for he wanted to be like the mage who gave up everything, just to save a small village.

Nobody noticed the quiet shadow fall out of a tree and run into the night, towards one of the most famous mage schools; the school of Dargeon.  The raiders were too busy looting and the villagers were too busy escaping across a shallow bridge over the lake Vienna.  They were too busy to notice the creature that might cause the doom of the entire planet.