Chosen of the One: Chapter 9, Part 1

12 January 2026

In today’s installment of our epic fantasy, Chosen of the One, we return to Thal and Blakstar, as the latter arrives at Kalamar’s tower, interrupting Thal’s dreams. . . . (3 February 2014) 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.

Chapter 9, Part 1

There exist five known dimensions: three dimensions of space, namely, length, breadth, and depth; add to these time for the four basic dimensions. We discovered, or perhaps created, the fifth, rumepant, through teleportation ortheks, in which all places and telepads are equidistant. We theorize that there is at least one more, in which all places in our space exist in the same place. Thus, travel between places in our normal three dimensional space may be possible by opening a doorway into this theoretical sixth dimension. . . .

from the Annals of Melbarth, Fifth Series, Early Lectures of the Hierarchs
Lecture by Sedra Melbarth

The images glimpsed in his vukeetu danced across Thalamar’s mind as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep to take him. He knew that some of the interruptions to his seeing, flashing in unison with the lightning of the unnatural storm, related directly to the young wethi he had rescued from the ghelem, a wethi who appeared to be related to the twin brothers he had seen. Thal suspected that his master had somehow inserted those images to test him, since he had said that rescuing the fallen wethi was Thal’s job, but Kalamar denied it, falling silent when Thal had asked him about it before bed. The other interruptions troubled him, but he could not tell why. The images seemed related to what he had seen in his vukeetu, for the faces were the same as those he had seen: the twin brothers–kailu and seklesi–the black-haired kortexi, the seklesa with blue-black hair, the awemi, and the female kailu with brown hair. Thal suddenly realized that it was their professions, and oddly enough, their hair color that distinguished them, and wondered why he noticed those details. He knew that they would be his companions, and from what he had seen, their lives would be, at times, perilous.

He turned onto his left side, hoping the movement would dispel the images long enough so he could fall asleep, but his mind raced back to the interruptions, trying to make sense of what he had seen, an action that was difficult, as the images had been smashed together in a way that made it impossible to separate them for discrete contemplation. He wondered about the figures and actions he had seen at the end: the red-robed figure with the color-changing eyes stabbing the wethi tied to the altar who had been tortured. Stabbing someone, or something, on an altar usually indicated some kind of ritual, in this case, a sacrifice. He knew that the red kailu order practiced human sacrifice; the victims’ blood spilled to please Gar, Lord of Evil. Gar . . . that was it! He recalled having read somewhere that Gar had strange eyes and supposedly preferred robes dyed by the blood of his victims, but why would he be performing the sacrifice, unless it had some sort of cosmic significance, and further, who was the sacrifice?

Thal rolled onto his right side, listening to the crickets and frogs, letting their repetitive sounds fill his mind, silencing the images and the questions they invoked. His breathing slowed; the night breeze wafted through his window the scent of roses, growing in the garden below, and the scent conjured an image. The image floated across the now smooth surface of his mind, carrying with it the smell of the flowers after which she was named. He could almost hear her voice. . . .

. . . whisper. Whispers echoing hollowly across a dark, empty landscape. Whispers that his mind tried to understand, but what they said remained beyond his understanding. Some might have been laughter; some might have been shouts of pain, or fear, or joy. He tried to find the sources of the voices, but as soon as his mind’s eye darted in the direction from which he thought they came, their position changed, eluding his vision. Rose floated past, reaching for him, smiling, laughing; laughter changing to fear, calling for help, disappearing in flame and smoke. A trio of ponkolum appeared from the smoke, shouting curses and hurling balls of pure red power; the top of the tower exploded in flames; Kalamar and Nelle flew out of the flames and stones, eyes open, seeing nothing. The sound of pounding echoed behind him; he turned and saw the male kailu’s forehead pulsing with angry red light; the light consumed him and became an aperu, smoking and breathing fire, but the seklesi with sandy hair smiled and swung his sword, the sword flashing with red fire, cutting off the aperu’s head, falling to the ground and bouncing, the sound echoed: thump, thump th-thump. But the sound was behind him again; he turned and his name sounded from another direction. Rose walked past leading a toddler with wild, red hair; he looked into the smiling face of the boy, felt his small hand patting his forehead, heard the sound of the pounding from another direction: thump, thump, thump. He turned, and his name was shouted from a different direction: Thalamar? Thal, wake up!

Thal sat up in bed, disentangling himself from the blanket twisted around him.

“Thal,” came Nelle’s sleepy voice, “the door.”

Thal jumped out of bed and threw his robe around his shoulders and hurried out of his room. This was odd, someone coming to the tower in the middle of the night. He knew it could not be someone of evil intent, since the teka-powered fences surrounding the tower kept them out, but usually there was a signal when someone passed the fences. He leapt down the tower stairs and opened the front door. In the magluku hovering above the door, Thal saw the glint of white and gold from both horse and wethi, the latter leaning against the door’s frame. The wethi turned his face toward Thal, and the young maghi took a step back in surprise, seeing the face of the black-haired kortexi he had seen in his vukeetu.

“Sanctuary,” the kortexi’s voice croaked.

A moment passed before Thal’s wits returned. “Are you injured?”

“No,” the kortexi replied, “just very tired.”

Thal took the kortexi’s right arm over his shoulders and helped him over the threshold and into the tower, moving with him to the bottom of the stairs, where he sat down heavily, emitting a tinkling sound as he sat.

“If you could see to my mount,” he said weakly.

Thal nodded and turned, then bumped into the horse, which had followed him into the tower. He took hold of the bridle, then turned to the wethi slumped on the stairs. “What’s his name?”

“Wingfoot,” the kortexi replied. “If you unbuckle the mail shirt and unbelt the saddle, I think the whole rig will come off as a single unit.”

“All right, you just rest there until I get back.” Thal led Wingfoot through the door, closed and bolted it, then led the horse through a side door and into the tower’s stable. He marveled at how light the horse’s saddle and gear were, feeling the dweomer of teka. Wingfoot was not sweaty or overly warm, so Thal lead him to a stall, then filled the manger with hay and grain. He scratched the horse under his chin; Wingfoot sniffed the hay and grain, then whinnied his approval.

“I’m glad you approve,” Thal said, stroking the stallion’s side. “Now I’ll go see to your master.”

The horse seemed content to eat, so Thal left him there and re-entered the tower.

“Your mount doesn’t seem as tired as you are,” Thal said, “have you waited long? I was caught in a rather strange dream and so did not hear you knocking.”

“No,” the kortexi replied weakly, “not long.”

Thal looked puzzled. “Can I get you something to eat? The matron usually keeps something ready for the unexpected arrival of guests.”

“Thanks, but no. Just rest,” he replied, “my day has been rather eventful.”

“We can accommodate you; the guest room is ready. So how did you get here?” Thal asked, as he helped the kortexi to his feet.

The kortexi put his arm over Thal’s shoulder, then leaned on him as they staggered up the stairs. “Directly from the Mountain of Vision,” he noted weakly.

“Directly? Do you mean you teleported here?” Thal asked. “That would have also given us a warning signal.”

The kortexi shook his head. “It was not teleportation, as I understand it,” he replied. “I opened an archway from the Mountain to the front door of your tower with my sword.”

Thal stumbled and stopped for a moment, looking a question at the kortexi. He had never heard of a sword with such powers. They started moving again, reaching the top of the stairs and the door to the guest chamber. Thal touched the purple nimbus covering the door and dispelled the stasis on the room with a single word, “neki,” then helped the kortexi into the room and onto the bed. The kortexi laid back on the bed, unbuckling his belt and pulling off his gloves. Thal took them from him and placed them on a table next to the bed. As he set them on the table, he noticed the devices emblazoned on the scabbard, the water flasks, and the buckle and inhaled sharply.

“I’ve seen this device before,” Thal said, “it is the symbol of the first kortexi, Sir Karble.” Thal turned to face the kortexi, his eyebrows disappearing into his wild red hair. “Who are you?”

“I am Sir Blakstar,” he said, then added, stumbling over the words, “eli-kerdu-ghebi, bearer of the Waters of Life, destined to fulfill the kortexi’s dream.”

“What is the kortexi’s dream?”

Blakstar shook his head. “I don’t know, yet.”

“What are the Waters of Life?” Thal asked. “I think I’ve come across that phrase before,” he mused.

“Earth’s gift to all,” Blakstar answered, “waters that heal. I bear the only vessel ever created to carry them, along with the equipment of the first kortexi, Sir Karble.” Blakstar yawned widely.

“I’m sorry, Sir Blakstar,” Thal apologized, suddenly remembering how tired his guest was, “my curiosity overcame my manners. I am Thalamar, but most call me Thal, apprentice to Hierarchs Kalamar and Nelle, white maghem of Melbarth. Be welcome to our home. There are many questions I would like to ask, but courtesy dictates that I withdraw and allow you time to recover,” Thal bowed formally and left the room. “Sleep well,” he called back as he closed the door softly.

“Who was at the door?” Nelle’s sleepy voice asked from down the hall.

“A kortexi named Blakstar,” Thal replied. He heard the sound of a sharp inhale. “Are you all right?” he called.

A moment passed before she replied. “Yes, you better get back to bed. Tomorrow is likely to be a busy day.”

Blakstar fell asleep before the door even closed; he was only vaguely aware of his host’s wishing him to sleep well. Darkness took him, and for a time he slept peacefully, but then he dreamed. At first, he saw only images flashing past the eyes of his mind, figures of people he did not know, but knew he had seen them before although he could not recall where or when. Prominently among these figures he saw ponkolam with dark red skin, one whose face reflected the passion she felt, and the other holding a curved dagger that dripped red blood; he saw the face of a pura, with horns and fangs, pale skin, and no eyes; this figure’s face melted into the adult face, without eyes, of a girl from his boyhood. He saw a figure cloaked in a black robe, with bony hands gripping a rod; he also saw another figure cloaked in black, with golden hair, the face of the girl in his strange waking dream, and this figure repeated most often, although sometimes she wore nothing but shadows, which made him ache uncomfortably. She continued to shout the same phrase, over and over again, the sounds of her shouts echoing and mixing with the exultant laughter of the ponkolam, and the clinking laughter of the black-robed figure with bony hands. He wanted to help the girl with golden hair, but he did not know how; he recalled that the figure of his waking dream had showed him a place where he could meet the girl, the place where he had found himself before ascending the Mountain of Vision, the strange blackened glade with the bent, broken tree, but no matter how hard he thought of it, he could not bring his dream self to the burned glade and the girl. Sometimes, when she flashed naked through his dreams, he saw that her skin was covered with lines–white lines that stood out in sharp contrast with the golden tan of her skin. Let me see him! she shouted repeatedly; he wondered who she wanted to see; he secretly hoped it was him.

After a time, when he stopped thinking about it, the figures coalesced into the fire-blackened glade surrounded by twisted trees that swayed in some unseen breeze, as if the wind were blowing outward from the glade itself; he saw himself tied to the broken or bent tree, saw the ponkolam, the blind pura, the black-cloaked figure, and the girl standing around him, but she was now blindfolded, her black silk hood drawn down over her face so she could not see him. The figure with the dagger sliced away his clothing, with the echoed sounds of tearing cloth added to the evil laughter and the girl’s shout. The first ponkola and the blind pura transformed into the girl of his boyhood, both beginning to sway and moan, but their moaning sounded more like howling screams, adding to the cacophony of sound already filling his dream. Then the girl floated over him, her hands claws digging into his chest, his hands claws digging into her chest, both of them screaming in agony, although she continued to scream her sentence: Let me see him! Then all figures were flung to the ground by a burst of golden fire from him, and he was on his feet, reaching for the figure with the bloody dagger, but the dagger moved and struck the back of his head, dispelling the scene, plunging him into black emptiness, the silence of sleep.

He awoke with a start, sat bolt upright, and sat panting on the unfamiliar bed in darkness; it took him several moments to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. He sat unmoving, trying to calm his breathing and the frantic beating of his heart. Finally, he lay back down and passed into a fitful sleep, the dream repeating and waking him at the end; this happened several times before he returned to silent, dreamless sleep.

Return tomorrow for an installment of the Poet’s Corner, and the following day for another installment of our epic fantasy, Chosen of the One, currently available from Smashwords for free!