Chosen of the One: Chapter 2, Part 2

23 December 2025

Part 2 of Chapter 2, as noted below. We again remind our readers to right-click on the Glossary link, open in a new tab or window, thus enabling the reader to learn what each of these new terms mean.

21 October 2013

We continue this week with the second part of the second chapter of our epic fantasy, Chosen of the One, in which we introduce another teacher of the chosen, Headmaster Myron, called by Hierarch Kalamar to the latter’s tower, to take the person Thal is going to rescue back to Shigmar for healing. While waiting for Thal’ return, they converse upon matters relating to the chosen, and their fear that something has gone terribly wrong. . . .

Chapter 2, Part 2

When the tower door slammed shut, Kalamar stood and walked to his study’s west window and watched the red-topped white smudge that was Thal streak toward the west. He turned from the window and pulled a talisman from his robe. His hands whispered drily, as he rubbed the small round object between his aged palms. Opening his hands, the old maghi breathed upon the object, spoke a single word, and watched it rise from his hands to float before him.

“Perepod-Myron,” Kalamar said in a clear voice. The small talisman disappeared with a snap, like the sound of two flat boards slapped together. The old maghi left his study and turned away from the stairs toward the ladder leading to the tower’s roof. “Rumandu!” Kalamar cried and the door above flew open. “Steighud-me!” He pulled his white, silver-trimmed hood over his head and, pointing the tip of his platinum rod toward the opening overhead, began to rise slowly. Passing through the opening, he stepped lightly upon the wet stones. All the storm’s fury did not touch the frail-looking maghi standing on the roof. Kalamar held out his rod and spoke a single word, “kresko.” The rod grew in his hand until it was as long as the maghi was tall; the rod’s tip glowed with orange light. He hummed as he drew a symbol on the stone. When the circle was complete, he rapped the roof once with the rod; a symbol of power flared to life where before there had been only wet, black stone. Kalamar leaned on his rod and waited for Myron to finish his own fiery symbol many miles to the north in Shigmar, connecting their two present but separate realities to a future hypothetical reality in which the two occupied the same point in space. A kind of doorway would open and remain so until one or both of the symbols were erased. It was teka he and Myron had invented. Kalamar turned from his glowing orange symbol and looked west, seeing Thal pass easily through the dome of protection. He looked beyond his apprentice and saw the force sent to test both his teka fences and his apprentice. The old maghi sighed and cast his gaze around the teka fences looking for weaknesses and other threats. To the east, he saw, but didn’t see, something lurking, hovering at the limit of his view. He could only see it at the edge of his vision, like a shadow that flitted out of sight when directly confronted. Kalamar reached out with his mind, trying to discern what he saw and didn’t see, but each time he tried to touch whatever it was, it disappeared, as if nothing had ever been there. Finally, he purposely looked from where it was, pretending to reach away but suddenly turning upon the shadow. He got a glimpse of black horns tinged with flames and a whiff of sulphur. He started to reach a fourth time, but stopped when orange light flared before his eyes. He braced for a mental blow before recognizing that the light came from his symbol as it joined with Myron’s symbol, and the kailu of Shigmar appeared within the circle.

The green robed figure, of medium height and build, stepped from the circle of orange power and clasped Kalamar’s hand. The old maghi looked long at his friend before speaking, noticing his blue eyes as bright as ever, even if his kindly face was more worn than before.

“You received my message?” Myron brushed rain from his prominent, hawk nose.

Kalamar’s smile went limp. “Message . . . , no.”

“Then why did you. . . ?”

“The sign was given . . . , I sent for you.”

“I received no sending,” Myron said. “I came because Klaybear went to the sacred glade this morning, which is my half of the sign.”

Kalamar nodded; his rod diminished to its normal length. “You sent it in the normal manner?”

Myron nodded.

Kalamar walked to the west edge of the roof and looked over the parapet. The black stone telepad, carved with arcane symbols was bare but for the rain. “Nothing,” Kalamar said.

Myron’s forehead wrinkled. “Odd . . . it has never failed before.”

Kalamar pointed in the direction Thal had gone. “Tell me what you see.”

Myron closed his eyes. “I sense the evil force and its purposes. Thal approaches. The storm is lifting.”

Kalamar lowered his voice. “Now look in the opposite direction . . . , suddenly.”

Myron nodded, keeping his eyes closed. He turned quickly around, casting his thoughts to the east. “I sense . . . , nothing?” his voice rose as he questioned his own declaration. “There was something, but it disappeared before I could touch it.”

“Exactly what I didn’t see.”

“Does it have anything to do with our messages?”

“What else could intercept and prevent teka that has not, before today, failed?”

“And, it happens on the day the both our apprentices choose to act.” Myron sighed and shook his head. “Does Thal understand what he does?”

Kalamar shook his head and sighed. “Not clearly.”

Myron frowned. “I was strongly told to reveal nothing but the essentials to Klaybear.”

“It would not matter if I had told him all,” Kalamar said. “Thal is headstrong,” he sighed, “he believes in nothing but what he can verify by his own senses. If he cannot see and touch it then it does not, for him, exist.”

“Yet, he uses elemental power that cannot be seen or touched by most. How does he respond to that criticism? Since I’m sure you have mentioned it.” Myron smiled at Kalamar.

The old maghi nodded. “He would say that because he wields the power himself and knows of its existence, what others say is irrelevant . . . for his belief.”

Myron laughed and clapped Kalamar fondly on the back. “He is certainly your son!” The kailu’s laughter stopped suddenly; his voice lowered to a whisper. “That may cause some problems later on.”

Kalamar nodded sadly. “It is something he will grapple with . . . in time. We have, Nelle especially, tried to instill some doubts in his mind, some cracks in the fortress of his logic that will allow for . . . faith.”

The Headmaster smiled crookedly. “It’s going to be interesting when the logician meets the others!”

Kalamar smiled and let another sigh escape. “I sometimes wish I could be there.”

“I know what you mean, my friend,” Myron said, laying his hand on the maghi’s shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. “I fear I will only see the first encounter.”

“We will be standing with you, though you see us not.”

Silence fell upon them as they waited for Thal’s return. The storm lifted, and only a moderate drizzle continued to wash the walls and roof of the tower. Red beams of light pierced the clouds as the sun sank slowly into the western sea. The west wind, heavy with salt and moisture, barely ruffled their robes. A gull cried in the distance marking the end of the unnatural storm. Myron broke their silence.

“Are you certain?”

“We have known since we were joined . . . when the kortexi comes. . . .”

Myron looked at him and drew a sharp breath. “He is not supposed to leave for the Mountain until fall . . . ,” he protested.

“Plans change,” Kalamar interrupted, “and his arrival is overdue. Were you not as surprised as I was, this morning, when your Klaybear and my Thal chose–on their own–to act as they have, giving the first sign?”

Myron looked away.

“Sir Blakstar the kortexi is not far away. In fact, we think he should have been here by now.” Kalamar sighed, shook his head, and then pointed to the west. “Part of the reason they are here is to probe our teka dome.” He jerked a thumb toward the east. “And there is a shadow hovering, waiting. I did not tell you I got a glimpse of him, complete with a whiff of sulphur!” Kalamar shrank; his voice crackled as he spoke. “Our time is nearly gone.” He sighed. “Did you find anything in the secret histories?”

Myron turned slowly to face his friend. “A single note at the end of Shigmar’s record,” he said, “but what it means, I don’t know. I’ll make sure my apprentice gets it at the proper time.”

Kalamar frowned, his entire face wrinkling. “His words may not make sense to you or me,” he said, “but they will to the chosen.”

Myron shook his head slowly. “I really thought I’d find more, something useful, anyway, not just some cryptic comment about a house,” he fell silent, shaking his head again.

“There is one other thing,” Kalamar frowned, breaking the silence after several slow minutes had passed, “Thal’s vision was . . . interrupted. I’m not sure how to explain it, but his vukeetu was split during his seeing by lightning that opened a second window filled with images: images smashed together and so compact, it was difficult to distinguish one from another.”

“Did Thal see these interruptions as out of place?”

“No, and I nearly stopped the vision for fear that he was losing control of his orthek, but his mind was undisturbed, calmer than when he began.” Kalamar looked to the east. “I have never heard of the orthek behaving in this manner.”

Myron twisted his staff in his hands. “I might be surprised, under other circumstances, but that I had the strangest desire, about the time Klaybear would have entered the glade, to fly there instantly and rescue him from some peril.” Myron gently tapped his staff on the floor. “I even tried to open a teka window to view the glade.”

Kalamar looked at his green-robed friend and smiled. “What did you see?”

Myron laughed. “Nothing,” he replied, “the window opened to nothing! Whatever has happened I could not–was not allowed–to interfere.” Myron smiled crookedly. “Perhaps, had you tried to stop the orthek, you would have been thwarted. Yet I fear, for all our planning and preparation, that things have gone awry.”

Kalamar shrugged. “Perhaps this is the way it was meant to be.”

Thal melted into the shadows of the trees as the setting sun broke through the storm. He saw that the ghelem outnumbered him six to one.

“If only I could cast an illusion orthek,” the young maghi mumbled to himself. “A red aperu, flaming and swooping down upon them would send them running all the way to Melbarth!” However, illusory aperu were far beyond his present skill. He reviewed his list of offensive ortheks, an act that took half a breath, and discarded them as ineffective against so many. He cursed his lack of experience, but stopped, mid-curse, when he suddenly remembered the old peddler who had befriended him as a child. The old wethi taught him many things and left him in the nearby village of Artowgar, a village that would look kindly on an orphaned child. The wandering outcast taught him a simple air orthek that would cause the sounds around his person, including his own voice, to echo and multiply, making his single horse and cart sound like a herd of horses, his voice like the voices of an army.

“Jaylethe! Robero! Garik!” Thal shouted. “Attack from the left! Markelle! Brian! Erik! From the right! We four will move in from here. Remember, anyone we capture will be staked in the sun!”

Thal mumbled the words of the simple orthek and began to crash back and forth through the brush, shouting as he stomped. The sounds he made echoed and multiplied, giving the ghelem every indication that a patrol of wandering seklesem was about to attack them. Ghelem are not brave, being the least of Gar’s twisted creations, useful only to fill the lowest ranks of his armies. They seldom grew taller than four feet and had the intelligence, according to Gar, of a stone. When aroused, they were extremely strong for their small stature. Gar prized them for their ability to tunnel and work with stone. It is said that an army of ghelem could pull down the walls of any city in a few hours, if aroused and in large numbers.

Thal noticed the ghelem dropping their weapons and turning to flee. “After them! A ghelwu for every head!” The gangly maghi grabbed a fallen branch and used it to beat back the brush as he ran in the direction of the fleeing ghelem. When he turned toward the wounded wethi, his eyes met those of a single, uncommonly large gheli, not fooled by his chicanery.

“Filthy lone wethi,” the gheli’s voice hissed passed his yellow teeth. His face was vaguely pig-shaped; he reeked of dung. “I no fool tricky voice! I gut you hang you stink flesh! Crows eat you!” The gheli rushed Thal with his sword swinging.

Thal mumbled, “podstolon,” and a root rose from the earth, tripping the charging gheli. The maghi easily parried the sword stroke with his stout branch, then broke the branch on the gheli’s thick skull. The sword fell from the gheli’s now limp fingers. Thal took the sword, swung, and separated the gheli’s head from his shoulders. The white maghi looked once at his handiwork, turned and took two steps before the contents of his stomach stained the grass of the glade. Thal continued to retch until he managed to crawl away from the dead gheli and his foul smell. Thal’s stomach continued to churn as he stumbled to the wounded wethi. The wethi was tall with sandy hair and gray eyes and looked familiar to Thal–the second seklesi in my vukeetu, he thought. His clothes were filthy and tattered and hung loosely on an emaciated frame.

“Many thanks” the wethi croaked. “I thought I would be tonight’s gheli feast.”

“My master’s tower is near,” Thal said, “if you can put your arm over my shoulders . . . ?”

The wethi sucked in air as Thal squatted and tried to lift the wethi’s arm onto his shoulders. “The pain!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Thal stopped and thought for a moment. “I will cause you to sleep and call for assistance.” Thal cleared his mind, touched the wethi’s forehead, and spoke the word: “supno.” The wethi sighed and relaxed, falling at once into a deep sleep. Thal slipped the wethi’s arm over his shoulders, wrapped an arm around the wethi’s waist, and straightened his legs, easily lifting the wethi. He lifted his iron amulet with his free hand. “Master, I have him.”

Yellow light flashed to life, surrounding the young maghi and his wounded companion. The light lifted them slowly into the air and carried them above the treetops to the tower’s roof where Kalamar and Myron stood waiting for them. Myron quickly examined the wounded wethi, his hands glowing green as they moved over the wounded wethi. The Headmaster’s hands moved to the wethi’s forehead, where the kailu poured healing energy into the wethi; his color changed, looking more healthy.

“The wound itself is not critical, but much time has passed since it occurred. His mind is also weak from years of slavery. I will take him to Shigmar and place him with the healers,” Myron said. The kailu headmaster carefully took the wethi from Thal.

“Take good care of him, my friend,” Kalamar said.

Myron nodded. “Goodbye, my friends. Until we next meet.” The green-robed kailu stepped into the glowing circle and disappeared.

Kalamar waved his rod over the symbol. “Neki,” he said, canceling the orthek, causing the flames to dim and wink out. “A levitation orthek is active,” Kalamar told him, “descend with your rod.” The old maghi did not look at his apprentice as the flame-topped scarecrow held out his clay rod, took a breath, and stepped into the opening. Thal floated slowly through the trap door, disappearing from view. Kalamar flicked a final glance to the east, catching a fleeting glimpse of the threat waiting, hovering just beyond detection. An image of Nekerp with his sickle flashed across Kalamar’s thoughts. The old maghi sighed and followed his son and apprentice through the trap door. The door clunked shut, reminding him of the closing of a crypt.

Come back next time for another installment of our epic, when we will introduce another of the chosen, the kortexi, Blakstar, as he travels to the Mountain of Vision, an initiation all kortexem must pass through before becoming a full member of the order. If one cannot wait until next week, then download the entire book for free from Smashwords!