Aglanthol 1 - The Legend of Khaalindaan - 1. Chapter 1

Khaalindaan stood, his arms raised in the air. He knew that his time had come.

The mighty wizard was the last of his kind. Only a handful of the clan had survived, a few wounded soldiers and a few frightened women and children.

Khaalindaan stood, his arms raised in the air. He gazed at his enemies grimly. The Clan of Bre had lost the battle and the Clan of Aglanthol would now rise to greater power. But he, Khaalindaan, would not surrender without a fight. He would kill as many as possible before he was doomed to fall.

Khaalindaan focused and gathered strength. He condensed his energy and brought his vital forces together until he felt bodiless, until he felt he was a mere spot of energy in space and time. This happened in an instant, not even the blink of an eye.

The men of Aglanthol were not aware of Khaalindaan’s plan. They watched the wizard grimly. Only one man had seen Khaalindaan’s energy change. The wizard of Aglanthol stepped forward. He walked upright and slowly. His look was stern and his face showed no emotions. His hand was wrapped tightly around the hilt of a sword. The men of Aglanthol saw that Norlorn moved to the front. They stepped back instinctively in fearful anticipation, aware suddenly that this no longer was just a war between clans. The wizards would fight the final battle and it would be a duel to death.

Norlorn stopped in front of the men. He gripped the sword with both hands and held it in front of his body. Norlorn focused and gathered strength. He knew that his time had come.

Only an instant later, a ball of energy shot from Khaalindaan’s body. The ball emanated a white light that almost blinded the men. Some cried out in agony, some covered their eyes. Heat radiated from the magic ball that quickly moved in their direction. The trees and plants caught fire. The men of Aglanthol retreated, slowly first, and then more quickly. Finally, they turned and ran.

Only one man still stood motionless. Norlorn slowly raised the sword in his hand. He looked into the blinding light of the energy ball without even once closing his eyes. The heat singed his hair and his skin, but Norlorn did not give it a thought. Norlorn raised his sword. The blade grew blazingly hot as the magic ball touched it. But Norlorn did not loosen his grip. Instead, he called out to Khaalindaan or what had remained of the man.

At hearing his name, Khaalindaan’s vital energy responded. It focused on the wizard of Aglanthol, albeit for just the split of a second. It was a vital error. Khaalindaan realized it instantly. But it was too late. By responding to Norlorn’s call, Khaalindaan had followed Norlorn’s command and thus he had acknowledged Norlorn’s superior power.

First, Khaalindaan tried to escape from Norlorn’s grip, and then he tried to attack the wizard more forcefully. The heat that the energy ball emanated grew almost unbearable. Khaalindaan outspent himself. Norlorn’s sword turned red-hot from the heat. The heat scorched Norlorn’s hands. Norlorn ignored the severe pain.

Half an hour passed, or maybe more, no one was later able to tell exactly. Norlorn had stood motionless, holding the red-hot sword, thus banning Khaalindaan’s power. He had stood amidst the fires that raged around him. Finally, the blade had changed back to its normal colour. The heat subsided and the fires retreated. Norlorn drove the sword deep into the ground and thus sealed off Khaalindaan’s force of sorcery.

The wizard of the Aglanthol left the place of the fight. His hair and the skin of his face were scorched. His hands were severely burned and the wizard was almost blind. But, luckily, he recovered. Khaalindaan’s body had burned to ashes. It was later washed away by the rain. Khaalindaan’s vital energy was banned and could only be released by removing Norlorn’s sword from the ground. To prevent this, the Aglanthol made the place a holy place that only the wizards and the holy men were allowed to visit.

A thousand years passed by and the legend of Khaalindaan fell into oblivion. No one had found the secret place, although quite a few had searched for it in the beginning. The story slowly turned into a legend, a myth that was only told in distant areas of the country. No one actually believed in the legend but a few wise men who knew that the story told the full truth. Khaalindaan, or what had remained of the man, however, was waiting patiently for someone to find the place and remove Norlorn’s sword from the ground. Time and space did not actually matter to him. Khaalindaan knew that his time would come.

~~**~~

Qildor was roaming the country. The realm of the Aglanthol had flourished. Strong kings had increased the size of the country and had augmented the power and the Aglanthol’s influence on their neighbours. The only threat that the Aglanthol faced in recent times was coming from a northern tribe. The Clan of the Khalindash whose kingdom adjoined the country of Aglanthol had started to cross the borders and attack the villages close to the frontier. This, however, was not really considered a major threat. It was rather considered a nuisance.

Qildor, warrior of the Aglanthol and a soldier of high rank, was sent to the frontier by command of the king. Although not entirely unwilling to leave the court for a while, Qildor was not exactly pleased either. Autumn had come and with it the cold wind from the north that was accompanied by heavy rainfalls that soon would turn into violent snowfalls.

Qildor rode quickly. It was a four days ride and he had almost arrived. It was late in the afternoon. Night would fall early at this time of the year. Qildor spurred his horse. He wanted to arrive in Tanmil in time. The small village in the north was his destination. The following days he would seek out and interrogate a few men. The qualified men would be promoted Royal Guards and then would guard the frontiers and watch out for any Khalindash men bold or careless enough to violate the border.

Qildor shivered despite his warm clothes. His hands and his face were frozen. He was barely able to open his lips. Finally, the village was in sight. There were no more than four or five houses. Light came from their windows. Dusk had come and the inhabitants had lit candles. Qildor rode along the street that was barely more than a frozen path. No one was around. He looked out for the inn they had spoken of at court. A few soldiers had been to Tamil in summer and they had praised the comfort of the inn. That was why Qildor had chosen Tamil as his travel destination.

Qildor stopped the horse and looked around confused. He did not spot an inn. He was about to turn his horse and ride back the street when a man, dressed in thick clothes, approached him.

“Can I help you?” the man asked in a harsh voice and ignoring the royal emblems on Qildor’s cloak.

“I’m looking for the inn,” Qildor said in the same impolite voice.

“No inn. The host died at the end of the summer and no one wants to take up the business,” the man said.

Qildor measured him. The man glanced at him furtively.

“How far is the next village then?” Qildor asked brusquely.

The man shrugged.

“A day by foot. You’re probably faster with the horse,” he said.

Qildor frowned.

“I can’t ride on tonight. Is there a place I can stay for the night? My name is Qildor. I am a royal soldier,” he said in an authoritative voice.

The man shrugged again and then gazed at the royal emblems on Qildor’s cloak. He did not utter a word, though.

Qildor grew impatient.

“Good man, you may not reject a royal command. Show me to a place where I can stay for the night,” he said arrogantly.

The man looked him straight in the eyes. His look was defiant.

“How do I know? Perhaps you have murdered the royal soldier and stolen his cloak. You might murder me also in my own house,” he said.

Qildor rolled his eyes. He was about to scold the man when a thought occurred to him. Apparently, the man was not a dumbass. He was cautious, wary, and suspicious. He had neither greeted Qildor nor bowed to him. He was bold, perhaps even courageous, and perhaps even intelligent.

Qildor looked at the man with interest.

“I could show you the royal seal. Would this convince you?” he asked.

The man still looked at Qildor defiantly.

“Not really,” he said finally. “You could have stolen that, too. But I meanwhile believe you. No man from this area would fight with words. He would rather fight with his knife and that very quickly.”

Qildor looked at the man in complete bewilderment. The man just gazed back.

‘Intelligent, too,’ Qildor thought. He straightened.

“You have spoken well, good man. May I ask your name?” he asked in what he hoped was a royal tone of voice.

“Magath,” the man said. And then he fell silent.

Qildor looked at the sky that had almost turned black. The night would be cold and starry. He looked back at Magath and cleared his throat.

“All right, Master Magath, show me to your house, please. I will stay there for the night,” he said.

Magath’s look was almost disgusted. He shrugged.

“All right,” he said. “Not that I am pleased with this. But I’m cold and I want to sit beside the fire. You can leave your horse in the stable.”

Magath turned around and walked down the street. Qildor followed him on his horse. He looked at the back of the man. He was pondering. Magath had evoked various emotions in Qildor. They ranged from annoyance and bewilderment to curiosity and a subtle amusement. Qildor’s tiredness had gone.

~~**~~