Staff of Shigmar: Prologue, Part 1

4 March 2026

Today we begin the serialization of the second book in The Redemption series, Staff of Shigmar. In this first part of the Prologue, we see the peddler acting again, in response to actions of Gar, and witness the birth of twin brothers, Klaybear and Rokwolf. (14 July 2014) The link for the Glossary: Book 2, Book 1

Prologue, Part 1

The young are foolish in that they allow feeling and prejudice to dictate their actions, landing themselves in one difficulty after another. . . .

Tarlana, Headmistress of Shigmar, 167-194

Atno 3500, Spring

The sun rose above the horizon, casting long, pink shadows across the road north out of the village of Artowgar; the peddler shook his reins, urging his mule along, confident that his servants, who lived in a tower about 20 miles west of the village, would soon discover the boy he had left in the care of the village innkeeper late the previous night, the boy they were meant to train and adopt as their own son and apprentice, one of the chosen. The peddler jerked his head up, his eyes focusing on the empty air just above and in front of him, as if he were looking at something only he could see, his head cocked, listening.

“I’m on my way there, now,” he spoke to the empty air.

“I just delivered him to the innkeeper, who will see that he is found by our servants,” he said after a moment’s silence, as if he were answering an unseen, unheard inquiry.

“Has he?” the peddler replied, shaking his head sadly. He listened for another moment, then his eyes went distant, as if he were seeing far, far away.

“I can see no other alternative,” he sighed, “and it will have many unfortunate consequences.” His eyes focused again on the air above and before him, air that still appeared to be empty.

“I will take care of it now,” he noted a few moments later, “they must be protected at all costs,” he added, raising his right hand and gesturing; an archway of blinding white light opened before his mule, large enough for both mule and cart. The archway shimmered a moment and resolved itself into a different country road, many leagues to the northwest, where the rain still fell and the sun had not yet risen. The mule plodded through the archway without missing a step or even taking notice of the abrupt change of location and weather; the peddler pulled his hood over his head, smelling the moist air, heavy with salt, and reaching for the cart’s brake as the road plunged steeply down toward the shore of the Western Ocean and the small fishing village that was the peddler’s destination.

A hungry, crackling sound caused the old wetha to look up from her knitting and set the colorful wool and her wooden needles aside.

“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice quavering; she stood slowly, her hands on the smooth arms of her rocking chair as she peered blearily into the shadows in the direction of the sound. As quickly as it had come, the crackling sound ceased, and a hissing, bubbling voice spoke a word that she did not understand; purple light enveloped her, putting her into a deep, dreamless sleep. She slumped back into her wooden rocking chair, causing a sudden creaking sound that slowed and then fell silent as the chair stopped moving.

A figure, hooded and cloaked, stepped out of the shadows, its feet flapping gently on the scrubbed pine planks of the wetha’s sitting room floor; the figure held a diamond-topped rod in its two-fingered hand. A second figure, also hooded and cloaked, followed the first, its booted feet clacking with each step across the floor; two points of red light were clearly visible inside the shadows of its hood.

The first figure looked around the room, then focused on the old wetha. “My lord,” his voice, hissing and bubbling, began, “what do we here? What does she have to do with the chosen?” he finished, pointing the diamond-topped rod at the wetha now slumped and asleep.

“You will place a compulsion on her mind,” the second figure answered, his voice suave and sophisticated, “to poison a wetha named Marissa; she will be calling for her soon to deliver twin sons,” he went on, moving next to the wetha and slipping a small bottle into the pocket of her smock. “Make sure she knows where I have placed it, but does not remember it before or after–she always gives them a bitter drink to ease the birth; it will be a simple matter to add the poison to the drink.”

“But, my lord,” the first hissed, “have we not already altered the two about to be born in the future? How do you expect to poison them in the past, knowing they already exist in the future?”

A hand shot out from the second figure and gripped the first around his neck, but the second did not choke the first, only threatened him. “You dare question me?” the second growled, all marks of sophistication gone from his voice, his red eyes so bright they illuminated the green face of the first.

“No . . . my lord!” the first hissed. “I do not understand the subtleties of moving through time.”

The second released the first; his eyes cooling and darkening, no longer visible in the shadows of his hood. “If not for your ability to use that rod, I would destroy you where you stand,” the second noted in a calm voice, “now, do what I asked!” he snapped, the red of his eyes momentarily visible.

“At once, my lord,” the first replied, moving closer to the wetha, the diamond-topped rod surrounded by a sickly green light. The wetha twitched, although still caught in the sleep orthek.

For a time, while the first worked, neither figure spoke, until the first straightened and the light of the rod winked out.

“It is done, my lord,” the first noted in his hissing, bubbling voice.

The second did not move. “I have every confidence that my meddling brother,” he spat the word with derision, his red eyes again visible in the shadows, “will arrive in time to save the two brats; in fact, I want him to save them, since the chosen will do more to further my cause than all of my most faithful servants combined, although they will believe they are doing my father’s work!” he laughed, a low guttural sound, and the first hissed and bubbled in what must have been his version of laughter. The second raised one hand and gestured; a black archway opened before him, and the two figures disappeared into the black doorway, the archway winking out an instant later.

“Something’s gone wrong,” the old midwife told Delgart; the tall wethi stood by the door into his house looking up at the gray-haired wetha, wringing his calloused hands. His muscled hands and arms were bare and bore many tiny burns; he wore a leather apron that fell past his knees and was covered with blackened, burned spots. His sandy-brown hair was long and straight and tied by a leather thong at the base of his neck; his gray eyes were bright. A gangly boy who was a spitting image of his father stood clutching the leather apron; the fires of the forge had burned low while they had waited for word from the midwife.

“We must be allowed to see her,” Delgart said, his voice hoarse.

“Father, what’s wrong?” the boy asked.

Both adults ignored the boy.

“I might be able to save the babies,” the midwife said, “but only by sacrificing their mother.”

“Babies?” the elder Delgart asked, surprised.

“Twins,” the midwife replied, “which is why they have come early . . . ,” she added and halted when someone banged loudly on the doors to the smithy.

The elder Delgart went to and unbarred the doors; the boy, Delgart, followed his father more slowly, his gray eyes wide and staring at the midwife; his father pushed open one door, and the peddler rushed in out of the rain.

“Oh, it’s you,” the elder Delgart said, recognizing the peddler and taking his hand. The father tried to speak, to tell his friend what was happening, but only a sob came from his mouth. The peddler, seeing his young friend’s distress, embraced him, and the embrace gave him the courage to speak. “I don’t know what to do,” he told the peddler.

“You must decide now,” the midwife said, “the longer you wait, the less chance of saving the children.”

The peddler released Delgart. “Let’s go and see,” he said in his calm voice, shooting Delgart a reassuring smile; there was something in those deep blue eyes that caused Delgart to smile in return. He led the peddler and the young boy into the house, following the old midwife into the room where Marissa lay. The elder Delgart sobbed again on seeing his wife looking so wasted, so near death; he went at once to her side and took her hand, feeling how cold and damp her delicate hand had become, seeing how pale her skin was. Her chest only moved feebly.

“She has been poisoned,” the peddler noted in his calm voice.

“Poisoned!” the midwife exclaimed. “That is not possible! I have been with her the entire time!”

“Nevertheless,” the peddler replied, “I know poison when I see it; you must take the boys before it is too late.”

“Boys?” the midwife asked, surprised. “How do you know . . . ?”

“No time!” the peddler interrupted. “Quickly! Before it’s too late for the babies!” He touched Delgart’s shoulder. “Take your son away, and hurry! We’ll call you back when it’s done!”

Delgart nodded once, kissed Marissa, then pulled his son with him out of the room and closed the door, leaning against it.

“What’s happened to mother?” the boy asked.

“She’s very sick, son.”

“What about my brothers, are they sick, too?”

“Maybe,” he answered, not noticing the boy’s calling them his brothers.

“Mother looks like Grandma did, before she went away.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is mother going away?”

Delgart shrugged.

“I don’t want her to go away, like Grandma.”

“Nor do I, son,” he sobbed, squatting and embracing his son, “nor do I; I can’t imagine what I’ll do without her, how I’ll take care of you.”

“And my brothers.”

Delgart laughed through his tears and sobs. “And your brothers.” He stood, holding his son in his arms. For a time they stood this way, the boy patting the father on his back while the father shed silent tears, the boy’s head resting on the father’s strong shoulder.

The door opened a while later, and the peddler beckoned them both back inside.

“We were in time to save your sons,” the peddler spoke in a hushed voice.

“And Marissa?” Delgart asked.

The peddler’s expression did not change. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “You should go to her before . . . , she is holding her newborn sons,” he went on, changing what he was going to say.

Delgart entered the room still carrying his older boy, looking down at his wife, Marissa; her face had no color, her skin was waxy and hung loose on her face, and he could barely recognize that it was her. The old midwife brushed Marissa’s hair, although it had lost its luster and was limp instead of wavy. The two newborn boys were nursing at her breasts, propped in place by blankets and pillows; one of Marissa’s hands was placed lovingly on each head, one with hair like Delgart’s, the other with hair like hers. Sensing his approached, her brown eyes sought and found his; she tried to smile and speak, tried to say his name.

“Del–,” was all she managed, and the last air escaped from her lungs, and the light faded from her eyes, still focused on his.

Delgart sank to his knees beside the bed, letting his boy slide to the floor beside him, his face falling onto the pillow next to Marissa’s, the light of his world going out.

“Welcome, chosen of the One,” the peddler whispered, placing one hand on the head of the elder Delgart, and one hand on the head of the younger, letting feelings of comfort flow out of himself and into them both. He turned away, leaving the house and the forge to unload the goods he had brought and stack them carefully inside the smithy. When he was finished, he went out into the rain, climbed onto the seat of his cart, urged his mule forward, and disappeared through a blinding white archway.

Come back tomorrow for another installment of Book 2 in which we will attend the reception for the wedding of Klarissa and Klaybear, meeting other major characters before our story begins. Get the ebook from Smashwords for free! If you prefer print, purchase your copy from the link provided. Good reading! We also note that the Smashwords read and ebook week is ongoing; get all our other books for half-price.