Shades of Red

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. That’s what the glyphs etched into the wall read. He doesn’t know how he knows that. The apprentice has never seen those symbols in his life.

It’s an old aphorism. Incomplete though, and he can’t help but think of the rest: for once the gods dwelled there.

It’s a reference to the old world. The world before the Ruin; before the face of the land was left scarred by divine war and wrath. A time when dragons were supposedly domesticated and didn’t just roam the wilds. Pets of eternal beings beyond man’s comprehension. Well, if one was to believe in such things, anyway.

He stands before a stone altar. He blows off a thick layer of dust to reveal an ancient map. The carving depicts the whole of Elysios. Perhaps all the world. He’s never seen even modern cartography taken to such a level. Even worn and faded by ages passed, the detail is stunning. The awe makes him forget to cover his face with his sleeve. His jaw and arm go slack in wonder as his eyes go wide. He seems also to not notice the stench that made him retch only moments ago.

He looks back to his master. The old wizard, hunched on the rough, granite tiles near one of the many stone sarcophagi, is an evanescence in the dim, fickle torchlight. His attention is on his task: probing the ancient chamber for information—investigating. It is the reason they’re there, after-all.

The apprentice’s attention slithers back to the disturbing scene surrounding him and the tension and nausea coil back up. He retches then covers his face from the odor… again. He turns back to the altar. A very welcome distraction. Master is busy. I got this.

As he takes in more of the details he realizes something. What he thought were the Northern and Southern seas are actually something else entirely. Something… otherworldly. The mythic artistry suggests the higher and lower realms of Heaven and Devaparora. And then he sees the two, coin sized jewels. Their luster is gone but the ruby is emblazoned with the cartographic symbol for dragons. The sapphire bears the sigil of the higher pantheons. The dragon gem occupies the Great Valley in the North of Elysios. The god jewel is in the heavens.

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

He tries to pick them up but they’re stuck, faceted into their respective positions. The apprentice pulls his dagger from his cloak and tries digging them free. Struggling to find purchase with the tip of his blade, he lays his other hand behind the jewel for leverage. The dagger’s edge grinds into the hair-thin space between gem and stone. Lodged nicely into the groove, he pries and wiggles and pushes and—

The blade slips off and stabs the palm of his hand. The sting shoots from the tips of his fingers all the way up to his ears. It seems to affect his vision as he now sees the world throb his agony, but he refuses to let the pain escape his lips. Well, what with his master only a few paces behind him, he dare not show his plight, or that he had made a mistake. He would rather die than reveal he had made a slip to that degree. ‘A wizard is precise and methodical. Not clumsy.’

Blood streams from the wound and trickles onto the altar. Rather than pool on the map, however, it soaks into the stone like water into bread. What in the?! But before astonishment can completely take hold, the jewels slowly jut a finger's breadth out from the altar. Not coin shaped at all. More like shafts of crystal. Wands? No. He realizes what they are: memory stones.

He tries to pull them free, but whether they’re just fixed solid, or his blood is making his grip too slippery, he’s not sure. Regardless, they don’t budge. He thins his eyes as a thought comes to mind then he squeezes more blood onto the altar. The crystalline rods protrude even farther. They stick up a good hand’s breadth when they stop. His excitement mounts. Perhaps this is his moment. Maybe now he can begin to prove himself. He pulls them free and swaps their locations.

Nothing.

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. For once the gods dwelled there. An idea occurs to him. The gods ruled over the dragons. The gods were above the dragons. He pulls both memory stones free, slides the dragon stone back into the valley slot and then places the god stone over the dragon stone.

Nothing.

He sighs through his teeth. His hand stings so bad his thoughts hurt. His impatience crescendos and, in his frustration, he forces the god stone down onto the dragon stone. Both crystal rods sink down into the altar as if they were sucked in. He yanks his hands away in alarm. With a snap, the altar’s surface cracks in half then grinds open to reveal a hidden chamber.

There-in lies a tome.

It is bound in a crudely stitched patchwork of what reminds the apprentice of cured muscular tissue and flesh. It is adorned by a brand—the ancient glyph for Devaparora. Again, the apprentice does not know how he knows that, but he is certain it is true.

As he gazes upon the morbid literary device, stark emotions cut through him. Seething and dark. They surge into him the way a butcher’s knife might cleave a leg of lamb. His mind is severed, his thinking is truncated and fragmented. His focus can attend only one thing – the deep, black hatred that gushes from that tome. It crushes him like a tidal wave that sends him flailing and spinning and roiling helplessly through the spiral of wash and undertow.

Yet, bubbling up from below is a gurgle, like someone screaming underwater. An emotion that trumps nearly all others—curiosity. No. More than curiosity. As his attention is drawn more and more to it, it rises up and breaks the surface of the waves and shrieks across the expanse to grow from a fleeting feeling to a compulsion – an obsession – a need to know.

He strokes the surface of the book like he were caressing his horse to calm him then he turns the cover over and begins to read the ancient language he’s never learned.

-----

The master is rarely astonished anymore by the lengths sorcerers will go to, or the atrocities and grotesqueries they’re willing to commit, in the pursuit of the arcane, but this has raised the bar.

The council was wise to answer the call of Ro. At first the report of missing children in the city, though disturbing, seemed trivial. A task for the city watch. But now he realizes there’s nothing trivial about this. Here, in the ancient family crypt of Ro, there is a clear attempt at some malevolent sorcery. All twenty, missing children are accounted for among the bodies. Their frail corpses were stretched out across the tiles to form some demonic symbol he doesn’t recognize. He’ll have to do some research in the Eclectic – see if he can dig something up.

The horror worn on the lifeless expressions of each child suggests that their terror upon death may have been part of the ritual. He also ventures that the victims needed to be chaste and that is why children were chosen. But what completely baffles him is how they have become so malnourished in such a short time. Was something draining their life force? To what end? What spell was attempted and what was the goal? He shakes his head in disgust then grits his teeth in anger. Such revulsion. A cowardly sorcerer for certain. They had better pray he never finds them for when he does, they will answer for this by the wrath of his flames.

No. That is not how a Shade of Red should think. He calms himself and instead simply hopes that whoever is responsible resists capture when he finds them. It has been decades since he’s felt this hostile towards another.

He refocuses and goes back to putting the pieces together. There’s a loud snap and the grinding of stone. He looks to it and sees his apprentice there. What’s the boy gotten himself into now? He’s probably not handling this well. Had I known this would be so disturbing, I wouldn’t have brought him here. The master lets out a sigh. Not much can be done for it now. Besides, the world is filled with horrors and he’ll have to face them eventually. The apprentice just stands there at the altar, unmoving. The master goes back to his work.

He moves from one body to the next, opening up their tunics. Carved into the chest of each child, right over the heart, is a glyph. The master isn’t familiar with the language, which, in-and-of-itself leaves reasonable concern, since he’s well versed in most, known languages. It’s a different glyph on each so he produces an inkwell and a quill and copies each one to his ledger for later reference.

He hears the boy… laughing? He looks to his apprentice. The boy’s hands are held out as if to embrace something as he laughs madly. Oh no. Was this too much for him? Did he snap?

“Roxe. Is everything alright?” No response but the laughing becomes more hysterical. “Roxe?” The master steps away from his investigation to check on the boy. “Roxe!”

A guttural chant erupts from his apprentice, “Ban Ra Gule Ra Ban Ra Zule Ra–Hex La Cooooooooor.” The master rushes to him and rounds the altar. The boy’s arms reach for something unseen. His eyes glow a ghastly green. An impossibly wide grin is stretched across his face. He hardly looks human. The pages of some book before him, flip over on their own as if turned by an invisible hand. A voice that is not his says, “What’s the answer? What’s the answer?”

“ROXE!” The master grabs his shoulders over the altar and shakes him. Roxe’s too wide grin opens and lets out an ear-bleeding screech. The master staggers back, a little shaken. Resolve then washes over him and he begins a chant of his own.

------

Roxe stares at the glyphs on each page as he flips through them. Are they moving? Like worms wriggling over dirt? No. It can’t be. A tremor runs through him. Questions form. If there are gods then where are they? Where is their power? How can I wield it? He’s doesn’t know why he cares. These aren’t questions he usually thinks to ask or answers he would likely even value. All he knows is that the swarm of bees in his gut, the bile rising in his throat, and the spasmodic retching is washed clean away. And… that he needs to find the answer.

It’s as if the book is alive—its soul mixing with his like two lutes dueling. A dark voice rumbles in his mind—a chant in the long forgotten tongue. ‘HEEEEEX LAAAAA COOOOR’. It feels like power. Unfathomable, unrivaled POWER! The horror and distress from seeing children nearly his own age slain and then displayed in such an unsettling way, and the stench of rotten meat that soaks the air are all eclipsed by a warm pleasure. The pleasure of a first kiss or that of discovering the affection for a girl you like is mutual. This feeling draws him in like a mother pulling her young son to her bosom after he’s been hurt.

The pleasure wanes. It falls up and away from him. A sadness rushes in to fill the vacuum. He reaches for it, for the power, but it’s just outside his grasp. Yet he knows, if he finds the answer then he can have it forever and no one can take if from him. But time is short. He’s frantic now: obsessed: afraid to lose it: searching the pages: tearing through it, slapping the next vellum leaf against the last like a mad man. It’s as if the threads of all of the knowledge of all of creation are woven into and around the symbols on these pages.

And he craves them.

What’s the answer? What’s the answer?!

“Roxe. Roxe!” A familiar voice. It buzzes in from the outside. “ROXE!”

“WHAT’S THE ANSWER?! WHAT’S THE ANSWER?!” He howls.

A chant rises up and through the fabric of existence. It chops away at his focus and it annoys him, angers him. He tries to ignore it but it grows in force and volume. That enrages him. The words are gales of light that cut through the canvas of darkness that envelopes him. Jin Shido Riho Yay, Jin Shido Riho Yay. The voice is familiar. The words are familiar. He knows them. How dare they interrupt him? The shroud is nearly shredded, held together only by his will. It’s ready to fall apart. “Kato Shi!” The darkness shatters.

He’s ripped back to here and now. He feels wild, like a beast. He hyperventilates. As the trance fades the realness of the situation strikes him once again. His eyes trail through the dancing torch light and along the bodies of the children strewn about. The horror returns. The foul odor crawls back up his nostrils. He retches again.

His master gawks at him. The concern and bewilderment on the old man’s face sharpens the wrinkles around his eyes. Not an expression often seen beneath those white, bushy eyebrows and beard. “Are you alright, Roxe?”

“I’m sorry Master. I don’t… I don’t know what…”

“What answer were you looking for?”

“What? I… I don’t know. I just…” Roxe looks away as if ashamed.

“What did you find here?” He gestures toward the book.

“It’s a tome.”

“Yes.” The master’s hand inches toward the book. His fingertips graze the surface of a page and he recoils from it as if it were made of fire. Only his master doesn’t recoil from fire. He is fire. The master runs his fingers through his beard. “Hmm. So, that’s it then.”

“What is it, Master?”

“This book is old magic. Very old magic." The old wizard gestures to the scene around them. "And I believe it’s the reason it did all of this. It was looking for this codex.”

“It?”

“A twilight.”

Roxe shivers at the thought. He’s studied twilights thoroughly at the collegium, but only because he found their tales fascinating. Never because he thought he might encounter one. He believed them to be nothing more than myth and legend; fantastic creatures used to add fright to old tales. And add it they did. But could it be true? Could something that horrible and terrifying actually walk the world? He raises an eyebrow. “You mean… twilights are real? They… exist?”

“Yes, Roxe. They do. And the stories don’t do them justice.” Volorom scans the book and then the crypt, searching. “This book contains a dark power. Secrets older than history.”

“What book is it?” Roxe queries.

“I’m not sure. It could be…” Volorom contemplates for a moment the lets out a sigh. “I’m missing something. Why would…” the master steps away, thinking.

Why would you not finish that sentence? Is the question Roxe would love to ask, but that might be a bit out of line. Instead, “if this was a twilight, then why would it leave without what it came for?”

The master tosses a satchel to Roxe before he stalks back down among the bodies. “Place the tome in that satchel… without touching it.”

“Yes, Master.” Roxe tries grabbing the book, using the flap of the satchel like an oven mitt but the book is large and the flap is short. It’s a very clumsy operation.

“And to answer your question, it must have sensed our approach.”

Sensed our approach!? But why would that scare it off?

Roxe’s understanding of twilights, if they are real, suggests that there is nothing that they run from, except for maybe a god or a demon, and it would really be stretching it to try and convince him that gods and demons are real. He never really was the religious type. They’re interesting stories and the ideology behind them certainly means well; giving the lesser minds some motivation to live more positive lives, but he’s no fool, and he doesn’t need some fairytale to teach him how to live right.

But… his master did just say twilights existed. But…really? Warlocks that cut deals with demons? Sacrifices and self-mutilation for dark powers greater than even a Shade of Black? Mind ravaging, illusion spells that can drive brave men mad? Summoning mythical creatures and resurrecting legendary warriors to fight on their behalf? The stories suggest that they might as well be demons themselves. The master must be exaggerating if their tales don’t do them justice. Still, why would something like that run from the two of them? It doesn’t make any sense.

Then it dawns on him. He looks back to the master. It actually makes perfect sense. Not the two of them. Just him. The great and powerful wizard, Volorom. His tales are nearly as legendary as any twilight’s. If you can take the Olandic Scrolls seriously, then Volorom might be the single, most powerful Shade of Red to have ever lived, and can arguably rival even the greatest Shades of White or Black. Songs are sung about his exploits.

At the historical Battle of Split Heaven, all seemed lost. Then victory came when Volorom intervened and singlehandedly defended the overwhelmed forces of The West by casting a fire fall spell of cataclysmic proportion. The few warriors of The Black Army that remained didn’t just surrender to him. No. They fell prostrate and prayed to him as if he were some kind of god.

That is how the former paradise of Milios came to be known as Split Heaven. Rift Lake, the body of water that divides the Eastern and Western plains of Elysios, is said to have been formed from the abyss that was burned into the land by Voleram’s spell, and has since been filled by the rain. He thinks back and realizes that Rift Lake wasn’t on the altar. His master’s deeds have altered the geography of the world, to enough of a degree, to register on the modern map.

The more he thinks about who his master is, the more overwhelmed he feels in regard to becoming a wizard. Roxe is grateful to have been chosen to be Volorom’s apprentice, though he doesn’t understand it. There were plenty of fledglings who tested higher than he did: plenty who hate him for being chosen over them. But still he is grateful, and very intimidated. Why should he be worthy to learn under a wizard of legend? He can’t even get a stupid book into a stupid a bag.

He tries pulling the bag over the tome but the book is heavy, and the flimsy leather edge of the satchel won’t slide underneath.

“This is...No. It can’t be,” Volorom mutters.

“What is it, Master?”

It’s as if he didn’t even hear the question. “Have you finished with that yet, Roxe?”

“Nearly there, Master.”

“I recognize this from somewhere.” Volorom rubs his chin as he peers into the pit of bodies.

“Recognize what, Master?”

“This ritual. There’s something familiar about it. But...”

Roxe takes a different approach with the satchel. He drapes the open mouth of the bag over the edge of the book then tries wrestling the book up to slide inside. He gets it lifted but his tiny fingers strain under the weight and the book just sticks there, not wanting slide down. The book’s weight wins the contest over Roxe’s fingers and falls back to its ancient resting place.

He hears the master’s breath catch behind him. He turns to see a look on his master’s face that he’s never seen before. He’s seen Volorom wear many expressions. Surprise, disappointment, curiosity, satisfaction, and even though it was rare, he had even seen anger on that wise old face, but this was something new. Was it… shock? Panic? Is Volorom, the great Shade of Red, scared?

“Time to go. Now.” The bag is torn from Roxe’s hands and flies into the master’s. The book then rockets into the open bag. “Why are you not using magic? You’re training to become a Shade of Red, not a baker. We’re wizards, Roxe. We use magic.”

Roxe’s gaze drifts downward in shame. It isn’t that he doesn’t already understand that. It’s that he’s scared to fail in front of his master, and yet again his fear has produced exactly what he wished to avoid.

Volorom hands Roxe the bag. “Come, Roxe. We must make haste.” The Master snaps his fingers and all of the bodies burst into flames. Roxe staggers from the jarring eruption and follows Volorom out, shielding his face from the blaze with his arm.

“What about their families?” Roxe asks. “They’ll want to have rites…”

“There isn’t time. And it’s too dangerous to leave them. Unfortunate, but it must be done.”

It makes sense, but does little to help Roxe feel better about it.

------

They make their way back through the crypt and climb the stone stairs to exit the master chamber. The floor turns to dirt here. The stone work isn’t nearly as extravagant. The bricks begin to vary in size, the mortar joints protrude in some places but not others. Sloppier craftsmanship and an obvious lack of concern for uniformity prevails. Coppers and gold coins are scattered about. Offerings to aid loved ones in their haggling for a better afterlife. They pass under a series of narrow, bricked archways. Burial urns are tucked away in corners as linen wrapped dead rest eternally in their respective nooks.

They enter a domed chamber where corridors intersect. As they pass through the center, Volorom stops abruptly and puts his arm out to make Roxe do the same. The master’s eyes are clearly focused on something in front of them that Roxe can’t see. Volorom looks to a sarcophagus down the end of an adjacent corridor. His eye flickers as he whispers, “Pyrio.”

The sarcophagus explodes.

Roxe has no idea what’s going on. The smoke clears. The master sighs then says, “alright. Why don’t you just come out?”

A hissing voice gurgles from everywhere, “I’m afraid I can’t let you take that.”

Roxe looks around trying to make out the source of the voice but the master doesn’t even bother. Instead he says, “you suggest that you have some means to stop me. Then come out and show me. And I’ll show you how a real wizard does battle.”

Down the passageway, from within the rubble of the former sarcophagus, eight, long, sharp, spindly fingers wriggle up and out of the dirt like the furling legs of a spider. They curl out and gain purchase to pull its lanky form out from beneath the floor. It stands up to nearly as tall as the archways. Its silhouette stalks toward them. It’s knife-like fingers drag in the dirt. “Volorom,” It gurgles.

Recognition strikes the master wizard. “Diemo. I'd thought I'd sensed your hand in this... act. But you're dead. What goes on here?”

The creature laughs like something akin to a snake trying to sing. “Nothing can kill me, Volorom. Not even you.”

“Hmmpt. Yes well, we’ll see.”

The creature lumbers into the chamber and into the torchlight and what Roxe sees is something out of his worst nightmares. So, this is a twilight. Its skin is grayed like a corpse. Its eyes and mouth are sown shut. Its arms and legs suffer deep, self-inflicted wounds that look as though they refuse to heal.

Roxe shivers uncontrollably. His teeth clatter together so hard he thinks they might shatter. His breath comes short. Panic rises up in his throat. Quivering, he inches away.

Panic then grabs hold of Volorom as well. The master trembles as he slowly retreats. “No! Stay back! Stay back!” He yells. The twilight flickers and sways like a single flash of a single flame and instantly it's in Volorom's face. Its claws strike out like a cobra and slash Volorom’s throat to send him sprawling to the dirt.

The twilight turns towards Roxe. Its stitched eyes and mouth grin wicked. It flickers again then he feels the claws tear into his abdomen. The pain bursts and burns inside him as the sharp, hard foreign objects invade his insides. He feels them flailing within, grinding his entrails like herbs in a mortar and pestle. The world fades to black as the book is snatched away from him.

A candle's flame cuts the black. The fire burns and grows until it roars toward him like a fiery avalanche that consumes all that he sees. “ROXE!” “ROXE!" the blaze tickles his skin. His eyes pop open. The master and the twilight are still locked in their stand-off. They haven't moved at all.

“I only want the book, boy. Give it to me.” The twilight’s voice is a wisp of air and crushed glass. Roxe clutches the satchel tighter in defiance, but deep down he knows it wouldn’t take much more for him to hand it over.

“It tries to frighten with illusions, Roxe. Pay them no mind,” says Volorom.

Pay them no mind?! That’s certainly easy to say.

“Take the book and go." Volorom orders. "Find the Knights of the Moon. They’re here in Ro. At the castle. Tell them you’re a Red Apprentice and require escort to the Red Order. Tell them I sent you, and report what has transpired here, but keep the book to yourself. Show it only to the Red Order. Do you understand?”

“Master, I can’t just leave…”

“Go Roxe.”

Roxe starts to turn. A torrent of green water pours from the twilight and rages toward the boy. Volorom whips his arm and a stream of flames lashes out and intercepts the cascade. Fire crashes into vile liquid. They explode. Thick steam hisses forth. Claws punch through the cloud followed by eyes sown shut. They dart straight for Roxes face. And then, faster than the mind can process, it happens.

A volcanic eruption with the force to split the world: an extinction level firestorm spun tight as rope, spit through a white-hot torus, spews forth from Volorom's lips and screams towards the twisted warlock. The light is blinding even through Roxe's closed eyes. He covers them and sees the bones in his hand through his eyelids. The greedy fire steals the air. He can't breathe. Sweat evaporates from his face as fast as it forms. The spell thunders too loud to hear. The twilight's shriek does not. The creature is a dried out sand castle. The spell, a titanic tidal wave. The blazing deluge burns the deranged sorcerer to dust and scatters it to the wind. The catacomb wall explodes. Bricks and debris splatter like shrapnel. The shockwave sends Roxe reeling to the floor. The entire chamber shudders. And then...everything is still.

Roxe gathers himself and picks himself up off the floor, but the shock is still there, disassembling any complete thoughts. The master remains on guard, staring at the scattering of ash that was the twilight. Volorom takes a few deep breaths then relaxes. Perhaps too soon.

A twisting breeze carries the ash up and into a spiraling cloud. The twilight reforms. Volorom's eyes go wide. "Go!" He yells.

Terror pulses through every part of Roxe. This thing really can't be killed!

The twilight lunges for him again. A roaring wall of flames erupts between them, cutting the monster off. Roxe stumbles backward to the floor. A shriek peels through the air. The twilight’s flaming arm reaches through the inferno. It's stopped only a hair’s breadth from the boy's nose and falls to the floor. It screeches again and its claws rake the dirt as it's dragged back through the wall of flames.

"Your fight is with me, witch!" Volorom's voice is barely audible over the roar of the fire and sound of stone smashing. "Go Roxe!"

The boy shoots out of there like a demon is chasing him. Well, one kind of is. He blazes through the tunnels and out of the crypt, through the graveyard, onto the cobbles of Harrow Street, and over the marble bridge. It’s dark out now. He was in there longer than he thought. He’s haunted by the way the moonlight spills across the many stained glass cathedrals, stone barbed steeples and cherubs of weeping angels. He feels the stone gaze of the gargoyles on him like a predator bird on a rodent. He wonders when one of them will spring to life and dive down onto him.

An iron bell tolls as if prompting the ground to quake beneath him, but it’s from an explosion in the crypt. He looks back and there’s a hole blown open in the ground behind the entrance to the tomb. Smoke and fire billow and eddy from it. He thinks back to the master’s tone and expression, and the monster that he faces. Roxe can't help but wonder if he’ll ever see his master again. Of course, Master Volorom would tell him he hardly has time for such questions and so, with the demonic book in tow, he darts down the eerily empty streets towards the Castle Ro with as much haste as he can muster.