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Tales of Agomnan


John Smith

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Chapter One: A Tale of Eberhard

 

Eberhard, a skilled young warrior garbed in leather armor, gripped a sword in his hand. In his dark eyes was a look of intense determination. Suddenly, he landed on his back, defeated.

 

“Excellent work, both of you,” his master, a middle-aged man of great strength and agility, told  his assembled pupils. His weathered gray cloak gave him the appearance of a wise sage. “These two, Eberhard and Llwelyn, have provided the best example of the Tsaeb mode of combat I have seen in many Offerings.”

 

The master, who was named Tirem, and his students were gathered in a small forest clearing. Winter was approaching, as evidenced by the bare trees and gray sky. Tirem and his students met there daily to practice the Tabocim, the defensive arts. Mastery of these arts was the key to their civilization's survival if the long-anticipated war at last broke out.

 

“It should come as no surprise to anyone that they are to contend for the favor of Agomnan tomorrow. All of you are worthy to serve Agomnan; but only they have shown the fortitude to accomplish Agomnan’s uncertain challenge.

 

"I believe this has been enough for one day. I shall see you on the morrow, when the Offering shall take place, and we shall discover who will win the favor of Agomnan. May this land of Ileway fare well till then. Hwyl fawr.”

 

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“Hwyl fawr” was the customary farewell of the people of Ileway, the Syrochii. Like many of their expressions, it came from the language of the Kelbyaji, a race of powerful, benevolent beings who had once ruled the known world. Their downfall came when one of their number, Atukam, became power-hungry and locked them in a special prison that would transfer their powers to him. He then had little difficulty turning Ileway and the surrounding lands into his empire, over which he wielded power of the most oppressive kind. So cruel was he that his subjects would refer to him only as “the Nameless One.”

 

Thankfully, Agomnan, the Spirit of Power, had arisen shortly thereafter, seemingly out of nowhere, rallying the people against Atukam and banishing him to Suratis, the underworld. In return for this great service, and so he could keep Atukam at bay, he demanded a day of Offering each month. On this day, the people of each settlement would gather, and led by Agomnan's appointed priests, each individual would surrender a piece of Minaru, a metallic gray metal that was abundant in Ileway's riverbeds. Its exact properties were unknown, though it was not difficult to sense, inexplicably, that it held some hidden, mysterious power within. Despite Agomnan's protection, however, the people lived in fear that one day Atukam might break loose, beginning a war of unimaginable devastation.  

 

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After being dismissed, Eberhard stopped for a drink from a nearby stream. As he raised his cupped hands to his mouth, he felt a soft kick in his side. Above him stood Llwelyn, a jovial grin on his face.

 

“You really ought to be more careful,” said Llwelyn. “You never know when someone might sneak up behind you . . . and they might not be as friendly as I.”

 

“They might not be? Well, then, perhaps I shouldn’t envy you for being all-but-guaranteed to win,” Eberhard replied, still a bit flustered. “Whatever task you are charged with, I’m sure it will involve a great deal of peril.”

 

“No doubt, my friend, no doubt. But don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re as able a warrior as I; fortune has been kind to me of late , nothing more. Who knows if it will still be with me tomorrow.”

 

“I’d not bet on it to change. Still, I’ll welcome it gladly if it defects.”

 

“Well, there’s little use for mere mortals to predict the future. But I grow weary as we speak. I bid you a good night, Eberhard. Hwyl fawr.”

 

“Hwyl fawr, Llwelyn.”

 

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Following this exchange, Eberhard wandered through the forest to his home. As he walked, he contemplated the day's events. His defeat by Llwelyn did not bode well, regardless of Llwelyn’s own remarks and Tirem’s praise. He was sure his master was simply attempting to ease the pain of defeat. Tirem knew Eberhard’s life’s ambition was to be the greatest warrior the Syrochii had ever seen. Such a warrior would be certain to win the looming contest with ease. Eberhard had a long way to go before he would be the best warrior in Favauoc, let alone all of Ileway. He wondered if his dream was futile. Perhaps if he were stronger, or had better reflexes, he would have a chance someday. As things stood, his prospects were not promising. His nearly assured defeat in the next day’s fight would likely spell the end of his hopes. Presently, he came upon a small, withered pine tree growing amongst the roots of an ancient oak. Was he like the pine tree, he wondered? Destined to live in the shadow of greatness, but never achieve it himself?

 

As Eberhard approached his dwelling, fallen leaves crunching beneath his damp feet, he realized that his short hair and the robes he had changed into after the fight were doing little to insulate him from the late autumn cold. He at last reached his abode, a hut built around a tree, and started a fire. The hut was itself little more than a framework of tree limbs, but it sufficed for Eberhard's spartan needs.

 

As he sat by the fire, he slowly consumed his repast. His mind wandered to the source of his insecurities. He had no recollection of his parents, who had died the winter following his birth. His childhood was spent being passed from one home to the next. No one wanted a mouth to feed that wasn’t of their own flesh and blood, so the people of Favauoc had decided to take turns caring for him. This meant Eberhard had been raised by his entire village, and yet by no one at all, for he never spent enough time in one house to form familial bonds. Such was his lonely existence. Yet, throughout it all, his friend Llwelyn had been present to comfort him. Llwelyn was also an orphan, under the permanent care and tutelage of Tirem. He made sure Eberhard joined Tirem’s band of apprentices as soon as it was permissible. Together, they had studied the Tabocim to the point of mastery. Through the years, and the toil, they had, in a sense, become brothers. Eberhard even grew to see Tirem as a sort of paternal figure. Nonetheless, Eberhard’s lack of a normal upbringing made him feel incomplete. It seemed as though a tiny voice from within constantly whispered doubt into his soul. It told him that, because he was incomplete, forever isolated from others, he could never achieve greatness. It tormented him night and day, refusing all of his efforts to silence it. Still, he persevered. Even if he had no chance of success, he refused to be deterred from making his best attempt.

 

He considered wandering into Favauoc to seek out some amusement to lift his gloomy mood. At last, he settled for practicing the Tsaeb fighting style on a nearby tree and getting a good night's rest before the Offering the next day. He failed to notice the comet that had appeared in the sky, directly above his house.

 

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After bidding Eberhard farewell, Llwelyn wandered around the training grounds, pondering tomorrow’s fight. He’d tried to console Eberhard, in hopes of improving his spirits. He knew such efforts were futile, but he felt he owed it to his friend. He was certain Eberhard’s self-doubt was unfounded. His talents far exceeded those of the other apprentices. In truth, he was, in some ways, a better warrior than Llwelyn. Any passing wanderer could ascertain that with ease. Why couldn’t Eberhard himself see it?

 

As the light in the forest grew dim, Llwelyn wandered home to Tirem’s hut. The path wound through the twisted, deathly tyrgoryn trees, said to have been blighted by the power of Autukam.  Eventually, the twisted mass gave way to large, healthy trees that marked the presence of a stream. It was a shallow one with long, rocky shores, which were littered with Minaru. Llwelyn collected the shiniest piece he could find and continued his journey home. He now felt fully prepared for whatever lay in wait beyond the coming dawn.

 

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Eberhard rose early the next morning and made the short journey into Favauoc. The village was

spread out, with no two huts closer than fifty feet from each other. At the center of the village was a huge, gnarled tree with three trunks and outermost branches descending to the ground. The tree served as the village’s temple. As Eberhard approached, he saw that several others had already congregated there. Among them was Llwelyn, dressed in his finest armor, fashioned from leather embedded with bits of metal. Upon seeing Eberhard, he approached him, a pensive look in his eye.

        

“How fare you?” he inquired.

           

“I’m fine,” Eberhard replied bluntly.

           

“I see,” answered Llwelyn, unconvinced by Eberhard’s words. “May Agomnan look favorably upon you.”

           

“And may he do the same to you.”

           

Unwilling to face his friend any longer, Eberhard moved away, his eyes fixed on the ground. He was insecure enough without having to speak with his friend and rival just before the fight that might determine the course of his life. Then again, at least Llwelyn was a noble warrior. No matter the outcome of the match, they would remain friends..

After a few minutes, all the residents of the village had gathered. The two priests of Agomnan appeared in the distance, chanting, their black robes flowing magnificently as they moved toward the congregation. When they reached the tree, utter silence fell.

           

“Gathered friends, let us to the great Agomnan our Minaru offer up,” said the first priest in a slow, commanding voice. “Thus shall be at bay kept the One Who Is Nameless.”

           

Slowly, everyone passed their Minaru forward to the priests, who piled the offerings around the base of the tree. When everyone was finished, there was a great flash of light, and when it passed, the Minaru was gone.

           

“Now certain is our safety from the One Who Is Nameless,” said the second priest, in a voice similar to the first's. “Let us now await the words of Agomnan, that his will might be ascertained.”

           

Suddenly, a vivid red glow began to emanate from the tree. Nothing like this had ever been seen by the villagers before. Agomnan merely spoke, without manifesting himself, when he ordered them to select two warriors to duel. They froze where they were standing and beheld the tree.

           

“People of Ileway, in the town of Favauoc,” came a booming voice from the light. “Ye must needs know of a threat that, unless action swift is taken, spells the doom of ye and yours. The vile Atukam, in his connivery rampant, has a means implemented to render useless all Minaru. Were I to elaborate on this scheme, ye wouldst not comprehend. Ye have but a hope single: to from Atukam wrest the Tyrup, the only device by which the process reversed may be. There can be but one man, in all the world, who can this mighty deed accomplish; by combat shall he be chosen, and upon fate shall his quest depend. Ye may give him what help ye may, but know this: if the deed done is not before passed three Offerings have, no choice will I have but to my protection from Atukam remove.

           

“But who among you is of such an imperative charge worthy and capable? There is but one means by which selected such a one may be. Namely, two great champions must in lethal combat engage. This, then, is why you were instructed as you were. Now let commence the battle!”

           

The crowd gasped. No one had expected the duel to be to the death. Still, the townsfolk spread apart, forming a large circle encompassing Eberhard, Llwelyn, and the tree.

Within the circle, Eberhard and Llwelyn stared at each other in shock. Neither one would ever dream of killing the other. After a long moment, Llwelyn spoke.

"We must execute the will of Agomnan, Eberhard. However abominable it may seem."

"I can say nothing against that."

They began to slowly pace each other. After a electrifying moment, the tension that was building up in Eberhard reached a breaking point. He drew his sword and charged at Llwelyn. He wanted this fight to be over as quickly as possible. Even defeat would be better than uncertainty.

           

Llwelyn held his ground and parried Eberhard’s blow with ease. He took no joy in fighting his friend, but he was determined to follow the will of Agomnan. He lunged at Eberhard, who parried and riposted. Not to be outdone, Llwelyn dodged the blow and struck Eberhard’s leg. Doing so heightened his sense of discomfort, but he was not going to hold himself back out of some misplaced sense of empathy. Eberhard lunged again. Llwelyn sidestepped, grabbed ahold of Eberhard’s arm and swatted his sword out of his grasp. He then landed a blow to Eberhard’s face, knocking him over. Lost in the heat of battle, Llwelyn raised his sword above his head, as if to strike a killing blow.

           

Eberhard watched, stunned, as Llwelyn lifted his blade. There was little else he could do, for his sword was out of his reach. Surely his friend would not kill him? They had been the best of friends for so long. He knew Llwelyn. Or did he?

           

Llwelyn stood for a moment with his sword suspended above him, then drew a sharp breath. What was he doing? He’d nearly allowed his violent instincts to control him. Disgusted, he cast his blade upon the ground, and knelt before the great tree. “O mighty Agomnan,” he said, “I have done as you have bid. I shall humbly serve you as your champion.”

           

“Well you have fought, brave Llwelyn,” boomed Agomnan. “But mercy you have shown to your foe. Never shall any champion of mine such weakness display. True spirit  Eberhard did display. Champion shall he be. You as his retainer shall languish. A lesson let this be, to clemency eschew.”

With that, the red glow vanished from the tree. One could not say things returned to normal, however: in stunned silence, all of those gathered turned to look at Eberhard, and he, most stunned of all, looked back. Llwelyn stood slumped by the tree, stupefied. After a moment, the first priest spoke.

           

“O Eberhard, thou hast heard thine commandment divine. Dost thou accept thine quest?”

           

Eberhard’s breath froze, and his body stiffened. He was little more than an ordinary apprentice, he told himself. Llwelyn had trounced him. What special quality could he possess that would make the mighty Agomnan single him out? What power was it that would make him more important than all the villagers surrounding him, let alone Llwelyn? Still, the word of Agomnan was not to be taken lightly. Still shocked, Eberhard stammered out the words, “I accept.”

           

“So be it. Are there any present who will consenteth to aid in this task most imperative?”

           

“I will,” came a strong voice from near the back of the crowd.  “He will need my guidance if he is to succeed,” said Tirem, Eberhard’s master. “Furthermore, if Llwelyn is to accompany him, I shall feel obliged to give what aid I can, for he is as a son to me.”

           

“Thank you, Master,” stammered Llwelyn.

           

“So be it. We shall, with Eberhard’s consent, depart on the morrow.”

           

“Art thou not rather hasty, Master Tirem?” asked the second priest. “One does not simply walketh into Suratis. There are terrors of sundry kinds scattered for leagues around it, and within are such things as are nightmares made of.”

           

“Indeed, much hardship awaits us. But what choice is there? A large band would surely be too easily noticed. We must proceed as I have said.”

           

“So be it, Master Tirem,” said the first priest. “On the morrow, we shall mark your departure with much festivity. Until then, hwyl fawr.”

           

With that, the assembly was over. Those present each went their separate ways, eventually becoming, to an observer, lost amongst the trees. Eberhard, who had remained silent for some time now, stayed behind, contemplating his fate. Did this mean he would, indeed, become a great warrior? Or was he merely a tool, a vessel through which Agomnan would act?

Tirem remained behind also, seemingly lost in thought. Eberhard wondered if his master was about to speak to him. Sure enough, after a moment, Tirem approached him.

 

“This has been a most unusual day,” began the master. “I imagine there is much that troubles you.”

 

“As much as there are terrors in Suratis.”

 

“Have you any in particular you wish to discuss?”

 

“What will become of Llwelyn? He must be outraged that I would be named champion.”

 

“Llwelyn will come to terms with Agomnan’s decree. Though it is a most puzzling one; ought not a true warrior show mercy to his foes?”

 

“Perhaps such things are not for mortals to ponder. Who can fathom the will of Agomnan?”

 

“Few indeed, if any. Still, I am left thoroughly perplexed.”

 

The conversation continued well into the day, when Eberhard realized he needed to prepare for the journey. He thus returned to his abode, all the way taking note of the familiar sights he would not again behold for some time. Even the most pathetically withered trees and dry creekbeds seemed not so different from old acquaintances he must now part with. When he at last reached his home, he could not stop wondering how long it would be before he returned, if he ever did.

 

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After the duel, Llwelyn slunk into the forest. His world was shaken to the core, and he could not bring himself to face anyone until he had come to terms with what had happened. He bore no grudge against Eberhard; it was not his fault. Agomnan alone was responsible. How could the object of his worship betray him in so jaded a manner? Were not Agomnan’s commands the very foundation of life on Ileway? If Agomnan’s commands could not be trusted, who or what could? For the first time, he thought to question the word of Agomnan. It was still possible that Agomnan was in the right, but no longer would he accept that freely. Dazed, he meandered back home.

 

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That night, Eberhard packed some wild fruits, spare clothes, and an array of weapons into his satchel. As he drifted off to sleep, he could not stop thinking that his death, for all he knew, could come in a matter of days. The only thing that calmed him was the chance that he was not doomed to become merely another faceless warrior. Even if his life would soon be cut short, at least it would be for the most noble cause imaginable. He dreamt of fond memories, and of everything he would miss in the coming weeks.

 

The next morning, Eberhard awoke early. Despite his worries, he felt strangely calm. His fate was sealed; what more could he do? He chose to spend his remaining time at home wandering in the forest, drinking in every sight and sound, from the shapes of withered, dry leaves, to the atonal songs of the local birds. After a time, Llwelyn appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

 

“The priests have summoned us for a farewell ceremony. I trust you’re prepared?”

 

“As prepared as I can be. Though it is you who should be entrusted to retrieve the Tyrup, not I.”

 

“Perhaps the task requires something more than the prowess of a warrior to complete.”

 

“That’s not what Agomnan said.”

 

“I know. But I can do nothing but hope it was what he meant.”

 

Eberhard, in no mood to accuse Llwelyn of deluding himself, headed off for the village. When he got there, he found all the people arrayed in their best garb. The majority wore tunics made from the bark of the tyrgoryn trees, with leafy crowns on their heads; some of the more prosperous citizens also wore dark flowers, as there were no other plants that looked the least bit decorative. Various activities were under way, such as a game of yweov, a sport which involved jumping from tree to tree in order to place a rock into the opponent’s goal. All Eberhard noticed, however, was the priests and Tirem beckoning him toward the tree at the center of the village.

 

“Silenceth,” said the first priest. “The time now hath come for us to recognize our prospective saviors. Let us hail to Eberhard, Llwelyn, and Master Tirem, for we shall not again behold their likenesses until their quest its course has run.”

The crowd cheered for several minutes. Eventually, the three travelers said their farewells to the group, and, determination in their eyes, strode away from their home, past the two withered, dead trees that marked the boundary of Favauoc.

 

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  • 4 weeks later...

Chapter Two: A Tale of Llwelyn

 

Llwelyn leapt aside as the Retnom creature swung its jagged blade at him. He landed squarely on both feet and used his momentum to swing his sword in a great arc. It sliced cleanly through the Retnom’s midsection. The beast’s scaled form convulsed, dropping its sword from its clawed hand and flapping its mottled wings as if to escape. As it collapsed, it let out a terrible wail, the sound of which burrowed its way into Llwelyn’s ears, reverberating in his mind, blocking out all thought but the desire to be rid of the noise. Then it was gone, and Llwelyn cast his gaze about and saw that Eberhard and Tirem had slain their opponents as well. The last rays of sunlight hid beneath the horizon, as peace came over the forest once more.

 

“This attack bodes ill for our mission,” said Tirem. “I think it unwise to continue in our present state.”

 

“What in Agomnan’s name do you mean?” cut in Eberhard. “Are we to simply capitulate at the first sign of danger?”

 

“Not at all, my rash apprentice. Rather, we must seek out an advantage before we continue. I had hoped we would not have to do so; it will greatly hinder the progress of our quest. Still, better to take a large allotment of time to finish than to be vanquished in a swift attempt.”

 

Llwelyn, off-put by the suggestion of inadequacy, asked, “What advantage can we gain that we do not possess? We are among the greatest warriors in Ileway. We have the prowess and wits to best a thousand Retnom, and the fortitude to carry us through the most dire of circumstances. What more could we have need of?”

 

“We have need of a means by which we may be assured of victory,” answered Tirem. “We have prevailed against three Retnom. Good! But there are myriad others waiting to strike at us when they see fit. And what shall we do when we reach the lair of Atukam, in the depths of Suratis? If it transpires that we must fight him, how can we hope to perform such a feat with our modest weapons?”

 

“You articulate your point well, master. What do you propose we do?”

 

“We must seek out the Blade of Erifurt, the most powerful weapon known to exist in Ileway.”

 

Immediately, Llwelyn’s attention was drawn to his memories of a fateful day when he was but a small child…

 

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Llwelyn awoke early. Most of the denizens of Favauoc were still asleep, but Llwelyn was unconcerned with such a triviality. His elder brother, Gruffydd, was mere hours away from being made a full-fledged warrior. No longer would he be one of Tirem’s apprentices, training to increase his prowess. After he completed whatever quest was mandated, he would be free to do as he wished, to take on what quests he might, and to live where and how he pleased. Few days in any warrior’s life were more important than this, the day of ascension.

 

In utter silence, Llwelyn crept through the forest to his sibling’s favorite clearing. Sure enough, there stood Gruffydd, his blade decimating a horde of immaterial foes. Knowing better than to interrupt, Llwelyn kept his distance until his brother noticed him.

 

“I see an ally has arrived to help me slay the pernicious monsters!” said Gruffydd. “A ally who by all means ought to still be asleep.”

 

“I couldn’t fall asleep again after I woke up. I’m too excited about today!”

 

“I suppose there are worse ills in Ileway. Come, help me slay the ferocious oncoming horde!”

 

And so the two brothers practiced the Tabocim through the morning. Around noon, Tirem paid them a visit.

 

“I see the fury of Atukam stands no chance against your might!”

 

“Suratis surely has no fury we cannot overcome,” proclaimed Gruffydd.

 

“So it would be, if resolve alone could overcome evil. But such ruminations are ill-suited to a day such as this. It is a time to rejoice! Come, it is time to prepare for your ascension ceremony.”

 

“If I may, master, what is the task I shall be assigned once the ceremony is complete? The anticipation is difficult to bear.”

 

“You have been a worthy apprentice, Gruffydd. I suppose the rules can be bent on this one occasion. You shall be sent to recover a certain map.”

 

“And what does this map show?”

 

“It shows the location of the Blade of Erifurt, the mightiest weapon known to our people.”

 

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“The Blade…” gasped Llwelyn. “The one that Gruffydd…”

 

“Yes, the same,” said Tirem. “Gruffydd showed me the map before…before it happened.”

 

“Before what happened?” inquired Eberhard. “Who is this Gruffydd?”

 

Llwelyn and Tirem hung their heads in silence for a moment, unable to find the words they needed. At last, Llwelyn broke the silence.

 

“Gruffydd was—is—my brother. What happened to him is…well, we’re unsure precisely what happened. Suffice it to say he’s not been seen since before you joined us.”

 

“I…I knew not,” said Eberhard. “My sympathies are with you. But may I inquire why you never saw fit to divulge this to me?”

 

This time it was Tirem who answered. “So great was the loss that he has been missed every day since we last saw him. We did not wish to burden you with our own sorrows.”

 

Eberhard glanced down, pondering what to say. He considered further questioning the motives of his companions, but quickly decided against this. They had his unwavering loyalty, without condition. After all, they would need each other’s support if they were to succeed in fulfilling Agomnan’s mandate to find the Tyrup.

 

“I understand, master.”

 

“Your consideration is well taken,” said Tirem. “Now, let us consider less gloomy matters. The Blade of Erifurt is far to the north, in the frozen wasteland of Kowahi. It is hidden in the center of a labyrinth, and guarded fiercely. Though it is well out of our way, it is said that one of the many traps in the maze is a portal to Suratis. If we can find it, we ought to be able to complete our quest before three Offerings have passed.”

 

“Then let us make our way there come morning. I, for one, am exhausted,” remarked Llwelyn.

 

So it came to pass that the three companions swiftly cooked the remains of the defeated Retnom, ate them, and went to sleep. As Llwelyn lay beneath his blanket, staring up at the sky so full of glistening diamonds and effervescent rivers of milk, he could not help but think of his brother. It had been so many years since last he saw him, it caused his chest to burn with excitement at the prospect of finding an object connected to his disappearance. Who knew? Perhaps Agomnan was not as merciless as he seemed. Perhaps it was he who had whisked away Gruffydd. Perhaps, since he had proven his worth by finding the map, Agomnan had simply given him a head start finding the Blade. Maybe he had become lost in the labyrinth, and was waiting to be found by Llwelyn and his companions. He knew such hopes were wild, but he could not help having them. He would give anything to know that his brother was safe. As he thought about these things, his mind slowly wandered into the realm of dreams, and grey clouds slowly rolled in, obscuring the sky from view. Once Llwelyn was fully unconscious, his dreams turned to the last he saw of his brother.

 

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After the ascension ceremony, Gruffydd had immediately left to find the map, only stopping to say his farewells to his friends and brother. After five months, he had not been seen or heard from. Everyone in Favauoc thought him dead. Then, one day, he appeared, carrying the map. There was much rejoicing throughout the village; a lavish party was thrown in the center of town, complete with a yweov tournament. That evening, the festivities moved toward the sacred tree that served as Favauoc’s temple, for it had been decided that the amp would be offered to Agomnan as a token of loyalty. The priests, after a rambling ceremonial speech, placed the map before the tree, and spoke an incantation. As expected, there was a great flash of light, and the map was gone. But after a moment passed, a vivid, ethereal glow began to envelop Gruffydd. At first, he was simply taken aback. But then the glow intensified, and he cried out in pain, shock, horror, or some combination of those sentiments. He gazed about for his brother. When he spotted him, he gasped his name, “Llwelyn,” in the most contorted, pained, breathless voice anyone had ever heard. Then he vanished.

 

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Llwelyn awoke with a gasp. Long ago he had banished the torturous dreams of that night. He had hoped they were gone forever. But now they had returned, and he would have to make the best of it. He rolled over onto his side, not daring to fall asleep again; he was fit only to rest.

 

The next few weeks passed with little excitement. As the companions traveled north, the weather grew colder, and the nights grew longer. Eventually, they stopped encountering any form of life—not even the Retnom monsters that had seemed to be hunting them. When at last they rounded what seemed like their hundredth snow-drenched mountain, they were relieved to see the entrance to the labyrinth, as much because it was a sign of human life as because it marked the first tangible progress on their quest. A frightening array of runes wound about the circular entrance, which threatened to crush the portal in their callous embrace. One by one, the three warriors marched through the portal. Tirem, the most knowledgeable and experienced, lead the way. Eberhard, the chosen hero, followed. Llwelyn, still hoping to meet his long-lost brother, brought up the rear. Once they had all crossed the threshold, a stone rose up from the ground and sealed the entrance. The only light came from an inexplicable green glow that threatened to poison the soul of anyone who beheld it too long.

 

“How much further?” asked Eberhard. “This maze can’t go on forever.”

 

“I believe we are near the center,” said Tirem. “But be wary. We have yet to encounter any traps, which means we are almost certain to come upon one soon.”

 

They continued to follow Tirem’s lead. After a turn into a particularly cramped passageway, they found themselves in a large chamber. The green light changed from poisonous to eerie. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, threatening to impale anyone foolish enough to pass beneath them. In the center of the chamber stood a figure wearing black, metallic armor that seemed to have been forged out of the very notion of evil itself. The figure was hunched, as if supporting a great weight. In its right hand was a sword that burned with a fire borne of truth, striking a stark contrast against the insidious armor. Immediately, the three comrades knew it to be the Blade of Erifurt.

 

“Why have you come here?” asked the figure. The words issued forth in a voice that seemed to have once been noble, but had been enveloped in darkness and foul things for so long that its former state was all but a memory. “If you mean to wrest the sword from me, though you may succeed, the deed will be fraught with regret and shame for you all. Leave now, and no harm shall come to you. I have focused my will to bring you here in safety, without encountering any of the snares with which this place is filled. I will do the same if you depart in peace.”

 

Quietly, Tirem nudged Eberhard. Agomnan’s chosen hero should be the one to answer in these circumstances.

 

“We appreciate your…hospitality,” said Eberhard. “But we must refuse it. We cannot complete our quest without the Blade of Erifurt, and we have spent many weeks traveling here to claim it. We cannot turn back now.”

 

The figure turned around and stepped toward them. When he was but a few feet away, he lifted his visor. Though his face was sunken and decayed, it was still recognizable to Tirem and, especially, Llwelyn. He would know his brother anywhere, in any condition.

 

“Gruffydd!” exclaimed Llwelyn in shock, horror, and joy all at once. He found himself incapable of forming further words.

 

“It is I, brother,” said Gruffydd. “Now I must implore you again: leave now, and tragedy shall be averted.”

 

“What—how—why are you here? What’s happened to you?” said Llwelyn, struggling to think of the right words.

 

“Agomnan wanted to keep the Blade of Erifurt away from Atukam at all costs,” said Gruffydd. “Such power can belong to the mighty Agomnan alone. Because I discovered the map, I knew where to find it. Thus, I jeopardized the safety of the Blade. This was unacceptable to Agomnan. In his wisdom and mercy, instead of killing me, as would have been his right, he appointed me to guard the Blade. Thus Agomnan, in his infinite wisdom, solved two problems with one solution—knowledge of the Blade’s location was safe, and it was guarded by one loyal to Agomnan.”

 

“I also saw the map,” pointed out Tirem, a noticeable wavering in his voice. “Why did Agomnan do nothing to me?”

 

“You were necessary to train new warriors in Agomnan’s ways,” said Gruffydd. “You could not be removed.”

 

“Gruffydd—why must you continue to guard the Blade? Surely, after all this time, Agomnan can find someone else to do the task,” said Llwelyn. “You could swear an oath never to speak of the Blade as long as you live.”

 

“Ours is not to question Agomnan’s will, brother. I am content to obey him in all circumstances, for he knows all.”

 

“How are you certain of that? He holds mercy in low regard; he punished me for my mercy! Surely there’s at least a possibility he hasn’t knowledge of all things.”

 

“I am certain Agomnan knows all because he says so. Do not question the words of Agomnan.”

Llwelyn was stunned. Though he had only recently begun to have his doubts about Agomnan’s benevolence, how could his own brother be so close-minded? Tirem’s words interrupted his thoughts.

 

“It is clear that you wish to follow the will of Agomnan. We do as well. Our quest was given to us by Agomnan. To complete it, we must have the Blade of Erifurt; we will surely be defeated otherwise. Surely it is Agomnan’s will that you give us the Blade?”

 

“He has not said that it is, so it is not,” replied Gruffydd. “Furthermore, your sly attempt to trick me into surrendering the Blade can only mean that you intend to take it at any cost. So be it.”

 

Gruffydd reached for his visor to lower it, but as he did so, Eberhard drew his sword in a furious blaze of movement. He thrust it into Gruffydd, blood splattering everywhere. With a thunderous cry, Llwelyn knocked the blade from his grasp, but it was too late. Llwelyn shoved Eberhard down and turned to kneel by his fallen brother. Gruffydd looked different now, as if he had been released from his task. His face once more appeared youthful, just as Llwelyn remembered it. He placed his hand in Llwelyn’s, and for a moment, the two were n their own microcosm. Then the inevitable happened. Llwelyn bent over his dead brother’s corpse, weeping profusely, trying to block out Eberhard’s apologies and explanations: he didn’t want a fight; one of them could have been killed; Gruffydd had to be killed for the blade to be theirs. But Llwelyn only knew two things. He could not forgive Eberhard, but more importantly, he could not forgive Agomnan.

 

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Edited by John Smith
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