It was Calad Brae, but it was not as he remembered it. The hooded figure stood on the balcony above the entrance of the Great Hall, surveying the deceptive tranquility and calm that quieted the streets of the city on this night. Closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, he remembered only a year ago, when the alleys and avenues would still be teeming with people at this hour – it brought a smile to his face, and for a brief moment all was as it should be. He could see the men gathering at the tavern after a day’s work, others going home to their sweethearts; he could smell the cooking meats from the houses as dinner was prepared, and hear the laughter from a bard’s bawdy song. The cool night air brushed across his face and he left his eyes shut just a bit longer. He knew what he would see when he opened them.
Forcing his gaze once again to the streets below, he saw the cold reality of the situation. The streets were peaceful, yes, but it was not a content peace. It was the peace that occurred just after a battle, leaving you to ponder when the next attack would come. It was the peace that a dying man feels when he realizes that his assailant has run away, only to discover that the knife is still buried deep within his chest. It was the very same peace that he felt only a few days ago while escaping from Red Ribbon, and discovering shortly thereafter that his son had followed him. The streets were nothing more than a facade, a manifestation of a public that was so completely mortified by its leader that not even the tiniest attempts of redemption would be tried. The entire city, this “peace”, was a death knell.
He pulled his cloak a little tighter, only now cognizant of the chillier autumn winds, or perhaps it was the sight of another patrol passing through the alleys below. In their wake followed a massive, six armed creature, standing nearly as tall as the balcony itself. He had seen a few of them before having been sentenced to death, but it was now apparent that their numbers had grown, quelling any chance the people had of rising up. If he were to have any hope of making a difference, it would have to be one person at a time; and at this moment, that person was Loutarin.
Falstrom looked over the balcony at the entrance of the Hall, confirming that Amadius and Ghanadar were still in the agreed upon location. Relieved to see his companions, Falstrom took heart in the nod that Pontius’ father gave him from below. The guards surrounding the two, however, did not sit well with him – but it was the only way they were allowed to seek the Magistrate’s “council”. The three had insisted they meet with Omus in person, but to no avail. One person, and one person only, was allowed. It was decided that Falstrom, holding the most favor (if that could even be said without amusement) would be the one to voice their proposals. Since all three were there not their for themselves, but rather for their sons and nephews, Falstrom knew he spoke for all of them – this would not be as simple as a selfish negotiation.
He thought back quickly to only a day ago, when he spotted Ghanadar and Amadius within the city walls. At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, that the magic dwemers and wards of the new Calad Brae had somehow tricked him – but after following them to a secluded area north of the city and eavesdropping on their conversation, he knew he was not mistaken. Their reaction was similar, of course, even going so far as the ranger drawing his bow, forcing Falstrom to throw his hands up in truce. Yet their familiarity over the decades won out, and without speaking a word, they embraced and gave thanks that they were still alive. Amadius, still weak from the healing magic that was working its course through him, suggested they spend the night in the forest, well outside the city limits.
The men told their tales of escaping from Red Ribbon, and then of being hunted by the city Watch for days through the northern forests. Falstrom rejoiced in the fact that his son was still alive, hearing from Ghanadar that the group had traveled to Burrowshead for the Vesper Epulum. It was a bit of comradery to brighten their spirits, for they realized they would need it in the coming weeks. Immediately, Falstrom told them of the information he discovered that could potentially be used as leverage against Omus. It was decided, with the full knowledge that they may be sacrificing their lives, that one final trip to the Great Hall would determine their, and perhaps Alaron’s, fate.
And so, less than a day later, here they were – standing outside the gates of the Great Hall, ready to accept whatever came their way. Falstrom turned around slowly at the sound of approaching footsteps; two armed Watchmen stopped short of the doorway while the man responsible for Calad Brae’s current state strode eerily onto the balcony. The guards closed the doors behind him, leaving the two men standing over the city’s vista. Falstrom looked at his old friend, how he had changed, and tried desperately to choke down the rising contempt he felt from a simple glance. There was an emptiness, and after a bit of thought, he realized it was simply a magnification of what Omus always was – dry, logical, seemingly unfeeling; willing to do anything for the sake of magic. But a year ago, that logic was nothing more than an endearing character trait. Now, it was a reason to hate.
Omus, was not dressed in the typical purple watch garments that Falstrom had remembered him in, but rather a deep blue, now trimmed with yellow and gold; the colors of the Magistrate. He clothes were still simple, nothing more than an expensive robe to the naked eye, but Falstrom could easily assess that was not the case. There was probably enough magic in the robe alone, not to mention the inevitable spell components and items that he undoubtedly carried underneath it, to vanquish over 100 men. It was a thought he took to heart, understanding that he was sorely outmatched against the mage.
“You want to kill me right now, don’t you?” Omus asked, breaking the silence and startling Falstrom from his quiet thought. “Even now, you are imagining yourself running me through with your rapier, or perhaps hurling me off the balcony to my death. Yes?” Falstrom didn’t answer, still trying to determine what the motive of this line of questioning was.
The mage continued, “A quick dagger across the throat, watching the blood spill, taking my life with it. You cannot stop thinking of the son you may lose because of my actions, or the friends I have taken from you. Dear Amadius, dying of a sickening disease, Ghanadar forced into hiding, and you, sent to your death.” The words were beginning to have the desired affect on Falstrom, and he could feel the rage boiling up, but he tried to calm to himself – these were nothing more than words. “And our fair city, what it once was in no more, because of me. Ah, you would most definitely take great pleasure in killing me, and you think of the happier years to overcome your rising temper. The years when your wife was still alive, when…”
“STOP!” came the angry order. Falstrom, visibly shaking and in a defensive stance looked at the mage with fiery eyes, “I will not have any more talk of death! And I assure you, your magic will be of no help to you if you speak of my wife and son again!” He took a breath, bringing a semblance of calm back into his voice, lowering his tone. “And yes, Omus, I too care about my family. Enough to die for them, and kill for them if need be. But my wife is gone, Loutarin is not. Do you hear me? My wife is dead, Omus. She is beyond our reach.”
Falstrom hoped the grim parallel would be made obvious to the wizard, and by the expression on his face, it had. The fighter continued, “There are many people beyond our reach.” His voice was calm, almost comforting. “Our lives eventually become memories, and our mettle as men is measured on how we preserve those.”
The tall, robed Magistrate walked over to the edge of the balcony, looking down to the city streets where Amadius and Ghanadar stood with the guards. For the first time, Falstrom saw him hang his head in what seemed to be…….submission? He lifted his head and grabbed the stone railing, now looking up into the sky before gesturing the other man over to him. Falstom stood beside Omus, and for a few moments they stood in silence, both of the staring out over the city, the moonlight etching out their profiles against the blanketed night. “I know why you came here, Falstrom.” There was another long pause and he let the wizard continue, “My mind is clouded, and I think often of the days when I called you friend. They are some of my most fond thoughts.”
Falstrom, taken aback by this sudden change in demeanor was on guard, nevertheless he remained silent. “You have been betrayed by me. I have betrayed you, Falstrom. I have betrayed you in the same fashion as I have betrayed my friends below.” Omus said, motioning towards the two on the ground. “Fate has forsaken me, however, and I am forced to take these actions.”
“Fate has nothing to do with it, Omus. You traded power for your family – perhaps you didn’t know it, but your better judgement failed you. You knew deep down that the deal you were making was rotten. Omus, look at me.” The men turned their eyes from the city to each other. “You have forsaken yourself, and now you are taking your friends with you. We were your family, and you meant to destroy us, just like the past….” He let the sentence hang, insinuating the unholy deal Omus had made with Mask. There was more silence and the potent accusation languished in the air – Falstrom knew that this was the time to act.
“We head north, Omus, and we ask your pardon. You know that you can refuse us, but that will only serve to weigh heavier on your already burdened mind. I no longer call you my friend, but I do not wish to call you my enemy either. I also ask that you set our sons and their companions free from your scrutiny, for they were sent on this assignment against their own will.” He stopped, trying to gauge how Omus would receive him. Finally, the mage replied, “Our paths will cross again, and I fear they will not be on such amicable terms.” Falstrom nodded, “Perhaps.” It was a simple reply with much ambiguity, but for some reason both mean seemed to find comfort in it. That one word held the silent deal that had just transpired, and a gentleman’s agreement that death would be at the other’s hand.
Omus looked directly at Falstrom and spoke, “I have done terrible things, but I have come too far. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness. You must not ask anything more from me.” He took a deep breath and continued, “There will be a caravan waiting to take you wherever you wish, and you shall not be bothered by my men.”
“And our sons?” spoke Falstrom.
“They will not be harmed.” came the reply. “But know this, my path has been chosen for me, and I will use whatever means I have to complete it.” The statement’s meaning did not go unnoticed.
Falstrom, seemingly pleased (or at least pacified) by the mage’s admission of guilt, nodded his goodbye and began to walk towards the door to the streets below. Before reaching the rear of the balcony, however, he felt the strong grasp on his shoulder, silently asking him to stop. It was Omus, holding his hand out to Falstrom.
“Please take this and deliver it to Amadius. Let he and Pontius know that while I may have betrayed them, their mother’s memory was protected.” Falstrom didn’t look at what he was given, but vowed to give the item to Amadius. “If you see Pontius, let him know that I would like to deliver a personal apology to he and his companions.” Falstrom again nodded and replied, “I can’t imagine they will accept that invitation, perhaps it is better we all go our separate ways.” It seemed to be a good enough answer for the mage, but before they parted, Omus spoke a final goodbye. “If you can ever come to call me ‘friend’ again, all of this,” he said, gesturing to the city and the Great Hall, “means nothing. The past is all I have, and that is why I must return to it. I look forward to seeing you before I have caused all of this pain.”
Falstrom walked out of the Great Hall, strangely touched by the mage’s words. He was a tortured soul, and perhaps he deserved it; but it would not be the last time they saw each other, that was definite. Omus would take them all, or they would take him. Death was inevitable. And as he walked out onto the street, into view of Amdius and Ghanadar, he couldn’t help but shake a vision that would forever be etched into his memory: Omus saying goodbye to him, his eyes welled with tears.
Recent Comments