"Prandoran Chronicles: Prologue" by Keith D. Brooks Jr.

QUENTALIA Jaden stood on the deck of the Sea Dragon, the most feared pirate ship on the known sea. A salty wind slapped the boy in his face and he savored the smell of the sea air as it rustled through his thick, brown hair. He quickly drew his sword to ward off an attack by a skeletal warrior who lunged at him with an ancient sword that gleamed in the moonlight. A horde of undead surrounded him, but with courage in his heart, he valiantly fought them off and made his way to the captain's cabin.

Opening the door, he entered the dark room, knowing his prize awaited him: the pirates gold and jewels, which lay locked in an old chest sitting in the corner of the cabin. Cautiously he made his way slowly toward the chest, expecting to see the ship's captain, the dreaded pirate Rham the Bloody, armed to the teeth and ready for a fight to the death to protect his precious treasure that he personally plundered from countless ships he had sunk over the many terrible years of his tyranny on the high seas—sparing only one crewman on each ship to continue his legend; he always brutally killed the rest. Quentalia saw the shadowy form of his adversary out of the corner of his eye and turned to face his opponent. Suddenly, he stopped and his eyes widened, for it was not an imaginary enemy he came face to face with, it was fear:

"Father?"

Son, the ghostly figure of Quentalia's father said in a hoarse whisper.

His father had died when he was only three years old. His mother had told him the tale of his father's sudden death at the hands of highwaymen who were stealing from the village. He had died protecting his home—a hero to his son. Now, seven years later, here his father stood—he looked exactly as he had remembered in the fog of Quentalia's mind—with his shoulder length chestnut colored hair and scraggly beard that always tickled whenever his father hugged him. He stared at Quentalia with cold, dead eyes.

Son, you must wake up now! Mommy needs you!

Quentalia awoke with a start, his breathing coming in great gulps and sweat beading on his forehead. It took a moment for the boy to orient to his surroundings. The nightmare was quickly fading into the mists of his mind as he tried to pull from the dream the image of his father; all thoughts of his pirate adventure were forgotten. He quickly looked around his bedroom and realized it was still dark outside. Moonlight was pouring in through a small window next to his bed. The door to his room was closed and a soft light was filtering under the door's frame combining with the light from Prandora's twin moons to faintly illuminate his room. Still, it was hard for the boy to see well. He could not entirely remember what his father had said to him, but he knew he wanted him to wake up from his slumber; it was just a dream, wasn't it? A cool breeze wafted through the room from the open window sending a chill through the young boy.

Mommy needs you …

"Momma," Quentalia called out. He waited for what seemed to be an eternity for an answer and the ten year old could clearly hear his heart beating in his chest. Perhaps it was nothing, but he needed his mother and the security of her smile; she would tuck him back in under his covers and reassure him that everything was all right—that the monsters under his bed were not there and that it was just a bad dream.

Wham!

The bed in his room moved an inch from its place on the wood floor and Quentalia jumped out of the bed, standing in his nightshirt and little else. He heard screaming coming from the other side of his bedroom door. Sweat now plastered his ash blonde hair to his forehead.

"Momma!" he screamed, afraid to move; he was afraid of what he would find if he opened his bedroom door.

"Quent!" came a woman's reply.

"Momma?"

"Quent! Run, through the window! Get out through the win—" There was a muffled scream and the sound of breaking glass. Shadows played across the sliver of light under the door frame, then another voice, much deeper and harsh said,

"Aye now, find this Quent and bring him to me. We don't need no trouble from some upstart."

Before he could think, Quentalia was at the window by his bed. He climbed up on the sill with trembling hands and fell out onto the hard packed earth beneath it, slashing his right hand on a large splinter of wood. For a moment, he sat there breathing hard, tears welling up in his eyes. He looked down at his bleeding hand and winced in pain. Then he heard the door to his room bang open and someone was at his window. Quickly he crawled on all fours to the back of his house and stopped around the corner, fright keeping him from yelling out in pain as the wound on his hand became caked with dirt. He sat with his back against the building shivering in the cool night air, trying to slow his breathing, listening for any movement. He pulled his nightshirt down below his knees and slowly peered around the corner on all fours. A rather large shadow was leaning out his bedroom window peering in all directions. The shadow suddenly looked in his direction and stopped.

Quentalia quickly shot his head back out of sight and he wiped tears from his eyes that were now blurring his vision. Looking up, he could see one of Prandora's moons, full and shrouded in thin clouds. It was bright out but because the second moon had not yet risen above the horizon, there were still pools of deep shadow everywhere. Quent was afraid to move from the dark shadows surrounding his home; he was afraid of whomever might be there to hurt him and his …

"Momma?" Who was it that was hurting his mother? Were bandits back in town, or was it someone more sinister? Looking around, he noticed the thick trees not too far from the back of his home. The house he grew up in sat on the edge of the small village of Frist. A deep forest of tall pines and oak surrounded the village. He could escape into the dark woods, but the thought of his mother being hurt kept him from running for the trees. Fear or not, the boy thought, I have to find out what's going on.

Once again, he peered around the corner. The shadow at his bedroom window was gone and now sounds from the front of the house attracted his attention. It sounded like a crowd of people was gathering at the front door of his house. Perhaps this meant that help had arrived and scared off any intruders. Perhaps his mother was all right and now wondering where her son was. He had to know for sure, but a sense of foreboding swept through him, and somehow he knew he must be cautious.

With trepidation, Quentalia crept on all fours toward the front of the house careful to stay in the deep shadows, avoiding the moonlight. As he neared the front, voices he heard only moments ago became audible words and he stopped to listen, trying to identify any of the voices. One voice he immediately recognized was that of his mother, who sounded furious and upset.

"Why have you dragged me out of my home in the middle of the night, Jibara?" his mother screamed. She sounded as if she was struggling with someone.

"Now, Shiana, you know of the allegations against you, and I did ask for you to come see me about this earlier." That voice belonged to the Mayor of Frist. Jibara Bownan was not only Mayor of the town, but owner of the Vile Flagon, one of the town's only taverns. He was short and quite rotund with little or no hair on his head. He was also loud and boisterous—usually seen around town loudly regaling old stories to the poor townsfolk about his life before he moved to Frist—and more often than not smelled of cheap liquor. Quent's mother never really liked him much, but he was raised and educated in Gasada, the capital of Tarangora. Gasada was a great city ruled by a just king. The city was the first to fall however, when the War of Magic began. The capital sat on a high sea cliff, overlooking the Bay of Three falls. When the city was destroyed—torn apart by an evil wizard bent on ruling the world—most of Gasada fell into the sea, forever lost. To the rural townsfolk of Frist, Jibara's place of birth and so called education more then qualified him for the position of mayor in this small village—though his education was never really verified.

"You have no right to do this," Quent's mother, Shiana Jaden, said. "You know as well as I that Bill Niles was the town drunk. He couldn't grow crops before the war, and I will not be blamed because he was trampled by cows in his pasture trying to grow something now!"

"But, you are the village healer, Shiana," the mayor boasted. "Isn't this true?"

"How does that make me responsible for a man who got drunk one night and tried to plow his field with wild oxen?"

The throng of people gathering before her home began to murmur amongst each other, and as Quentalia silently peered around the corner of his house, he could see his mother standing in front of their front door being held by two fairly large men, her arms held behind her back. She was dressed only in her nightgown, and her long dark hair flew about her shoulders in disarray. The boy saw that about forty people from all over the village had gathered around his home. Some were dressed in nightclothes; most were dressed as if they had been expecting something to transpire. Mayor Bownan was dressed in his mayoral garb of gaudy black and gold robes and he stood before Quent's mother with an attitude of defiance, holding a torch in his right hand; the torchlight was flickering off the walls of the nearby houses, creating nightmarish shadows that played tricks with the mind and heightened the tension already in the air.

"Now, now," Mayor Bownan theatrically gestured toward the crowd of onlookers, "Must we make a scene? If you had acquiesced to my invitation earlier, these men would not be here to escort you to my office where we can calmly discuss this situation in a more, shall we say, civilized manner. "

"You can say what you wish, Jibara, you braggart," Shiana shot back. "I will not advocate anyone who send swine to break into my home and drag me from my bed in the middle of the night." She glared at the mayor with furious green eyes, blowing long strands of dark hair from her face; the mayor actually took a few steps back in alarm, though he disguised the look on his face well.

"I did no such thing," Jibara stated. "But after all, we must ascertain whether you could have saved him or not. There are also the charges of you killing the crops in our small, quaint village. All of this must be addressed, Shiana. Am I not the town's protector? As benefactor, you should realize that when charges are made, they must be looked into at once. We live in terrible times, Shiana, and I must put the town's interests ahead of some inconvenience on your part."

"Where is my son?" Shiana asked lividly, leveling her eyes on the mayor. Quentalia almost burst around the corner to assure his mother he was all right, but that nagging feeling deep in him stayed him where he was.

Quent remembered the incident that his mother had referred to; it happened not more then a week earlier. The body of Bill Niles, who had lived alone and drank all to often, was brought to his mother one chilly night. His mother was the village healer, who learned her craft from the town's former healer. This former healer was known to use magic in his curitive skills and went to fight in the war. He died in the final battle, hundreds of miles away. At any rate, it was determined that Mr. Niles was trampled by wild bulls he tried to use in plowing his field while under the influence of bad liquor; he was declared dead by Shiana. Some of the villagers complained to the mayor that more could have been done and questioned her training by a wizard—though they never mentioned that he was a wizard who died defending the town's freedom. Anti magic hysteria had been sweeping the countryside every since the war ended, seven years prior, and although his mother showed no signs of being a magic user, her training by one made her suspect, nonetheless. When the mayor paid her a visit the next day, Shiana accused Jibara of witch hunting, and a few heated exchanges about the mayor's bad habit of drinking while on the job were followed by Jibara storming out of her home—obviously in a drunken stupor—vowing to get even with her.

"Your s-son?" the mayor stammered. "Who knows what kids are up to these days, Shiana? He probably snuck out with his friends."

He stepped closer to her and the men holding her tightened their hold on her arms. Jibara was now only inches from her face and Shiana turned her head in disgust, and saw her son crouched by the side of their house, crying. Her eyes grew wide and her countenance wavered as she smiled slightly. Quentalia saw his mothers face and he almost got up and ran to her. The look in his mother's eyes, however, told him that he should stay hidden, at least for now. It was all he could do to obey her pleading eyes. He wiped tears from his face and stayed in the shadows.

"Perchance," the mayor said almost in a whisper, as he stroked her chin, "your son ran away from home. Perhaps he was scared of you and your sorcery ways." He seemed oblivious to the silent exchange between mother and son, as was the mob. They seemed to be warming up to the mayor—some even laughing at the mayor's jibe comments. Shiana turned to face Jibara, and with contempt, spit in the fat man's face.

"Never speak about my son in that manner!" She spat again. "He is barely ten years old, and already he is more of a man than you will ever be." Some in the crowd snickered and there were a few laughs. The mayor, wiping spittle from his face, backed away from Shiana. He became acerbated and realized he was losing the crowd.

"Quiet!" he yelled to the throng. "Need I remind you that it is she," he dramatically pointed at Shiana, "who has been accused of killing the crops here in Frist. She, who has been the town's healer for years, may have in fact been using her sorceress ways to harm you fine citizens. She was probably cursing the fine people of this village she claims to love so much! The village has fallen on hard times as of late."

This seemed to galvanize the crowd and everyone began shouting at once. Some began yelling at Shiana. Others seemed to be arguing with each other, or with the mayor. More villagers were coming out of their homes, wondering what had awakened them and what was going on. Jibara, for his part, seemed to enjoy this response and began to play to the growing mob. He waved his torch flamboyantly through the air, silencing the crowd. He then studied the rabble for long moments, letting the silence fill the night air. Tension grew among the crowd and when it seemed another outburst was inevitable, Jibara, in his boisterous manner, flung a finger into the crowd, indicating a small, fragile woman who shied away from the torch thrust toward her.

"Lindsy," Jibara spoke to the woman in the crowd, "did you not lose a daughter to the fever a few months prior?" The woman in the crowd shook her head yes and softly began to cry.

"My condolences," Jibara feigned contrition. He then theatrically waved his torch in Shiana's direction. "Didn't you take your daughter to see her right before the child's death?" Jibara continued, unrelenting. Again, the woman silently shook her head yes, her tears falling to the hard packed earth. Jibara waved the torch over the crowd, casting unearthly shadows over them. The crowd was mesmerized. "Shiana's curative talents work well when she wants them to, don't you think?" There were low grumbling murmurs and a few jeers directed at Shiana.

"Your fanatical tripe feels me with revulsion, Jibara," Shiana said calmly still struggling with her captives. She compassionately looked at the young sobbing Lindsy, who hung her head in grief, her head buried in her hands. "I feel for your loss Lindsy. Do not let this man use you as a pawn to justify the immoral deeds he plans for tonight. I lost a husband when my son was only three. No death is easy."

Lindsy looked up from the crowd with deadened, tear filled eyes. "Why is the Evers child still alive?" she questioned. " He had the fever as well."

"Lindsy, the herbs I brewed were administered too late. The fever had already done its work. If you had brought her to see me earlier perhaps … " Shiana lowered her eyes, a solitary tear running down her cheek. Her body went slack; the two men holding her arms were her only support. "I'm … sorry."

"Your sorry?" Lindsy cried. Shiana could see the sorrow in her eyes turn to rage. "Tell that to my daughter!" She began sobbing loudly. "You can't, can you? I buried her not two months ago." The young woman's sobs infuriated the already restless throng and Mayor Bownan raised his hands over his head waving his torch back and forth.

"My good townsfolk, I know you only want justice for the misdeeds committed here," he yelled over shouts of Kill her! She'll murder our children! "I can assure you," the mayor screamed over the mob—smiled a wicked smile, "she will be dealt with in a manner that will satisfy all. There is another who must also be punished tonight."

Shiana quickly glanced at her son, still hidden in shadow, and their eyes met. "Do what you will with me!" she screamed, looking back at the mayor. "Your fabrications won't let you sleep better at night if you kill me out of superstition and petty revenge, Jibara." She lowered her head in acquiescence. "A day of reckoning will come for you," she said simply.

"We shall see Shiana," Jibara Bownan seethed. He waved his torch through the air and bellowed to the crowd, "To the village square with her! Let justice be done!"

Quent sat in the shadows with tears rolling down his face wondering frantically what to do. The mob swallowed his mother as the two men holding Shiana dragged her toward the small plaza in the heart of Frist. The mayor stood by the front of Quent's house a few moments longer then the crowd, and as he turned to follow the rabble, he smiled with a look of gratification on his smug, fat face. He took one last look around, peering into the deep shadows surrounding the houses, and then followed the crowd, vanishing into the night.

For the first time in his young life, Quentalia was alone and scared. He wanted to run to his mother screaming at the men restraining her to let her go. He wanted to scream at the crowd—people he knew, though tonight they acted like villainous strangers. She had healed many of these same people with her herbs and plants, and her home was always open to any villager who needed help or just wanted a shoulder to cry on. What had she done to deserve this? Leave my mother alone! He had just about summoned the courage to stand and run toward the fleeing mob, when suddenly a rather large man, with a wicked smirk on his face, stepped into the shadows and stood glowering down at him.

"Aye now," the man said. "Who're you, skulking there in the dark? And with no clothes on, to boot." Quentalia immediately recognized the man's voice. He had heard it right before escaping through his bedroom window. The man reached down to grab the boy by his arms and Quent quickly backed away on all fours looking for a way to escape the towering man's clutches. "Hey, stop backen away from me boy!"

The huge imposing figure of a man stepped farther into the shadows enveloping the house, intent on seizing the boy. Quent kept backing away until his back was against a tree and he could go no farther. The big man stopped in front of him and folded his arms.

"Nowhere to go, aye boy?" He grinned—a wide sarcastic grin full of rotting teeth—down at the boy. The big man was all of six feet or more and his huge frame supported a generous amount of muscle and fat. When he smiled, Quent thought the man looked like someone who was up to something foul and unpleasant. Then the huge frame laughed aloud, as recognition came to his bloodshot eyes, and Quent knew he was up to no good. "I know you," the rotting smile said. " You're that witch's son, right?"

"She is not a witch!" the boy spat, desperately looking around for someone to help him; nobody was there, just the darkness. The crowd was gone along with his mother, and only this horrible man with the bad teeth and huge frame remained. He looked up at a sky; filled with stars, and the full moon named Jasalla shone its yellow light down upon Quent, though there was no sign of the red tinged moon Valairial in the night sky. Quentalia pleaded to some unknown being for help. Tears fell to the dirt and his right hand began to throb in pain.

Without warning, the stars above the boy winked out as he was watching and something gigantic flew overhead, blocking out Jasalla's pale light; he was thrown into complete darkness for a moment. The man standing over him looked up to see what had obscured the full moon. The shadow moved on and the stars blinked into small, bright pinpoints, Jasalla flickered into light. Whatever flew overhead was enormous, and Quentalia heard the sound of wind rushing over their heads. He noticed he was near the edge of the forest at the back of his house. The big man was occupied searching the night sky and Quent took this opportunity to bolt for the cover of the trees shrouded in nights embrace.

"Where you going?" the bloodshot man hollered, looking away from the heavens and seeing his prey stumble into the dark forest. "Get back here you little lump skull!" The big man chased after Quentalia and stepped into the dark wood, intent on grabbing the boy and hauling him off to the mayor.

Quentalia ran blindly through the dark forest, fright keeping him from slowing down, as tree branches and leaves struck him in the face causing small lacerations. Ignoring the pain, Quent ran into a small clearing, and promptly tripped over a large, gnarled tree root sticking out of the ground. He went flying and landed hard on his back.

Not far behind him, the man with the rotting teeth lumbered into the clearing and stumbled over the boy, who was splayed on the forest floor. The man fell, landing face first on the tree root. His head jerked back and blood sprayed from his nose and mouth. He rolled to his side, protectively put his hands to a broken nose. He spit out a blackened tooth and glowered at Quentalia, who was gaping in shock at the man's bloody face.

"Thas it!" the bloodied man roared. "You'rsh dead boy!" He stood up, dazed, and leaned on a tree wiping blood from his face. The disdain that marred the man's face made Quentalia recoil in fright. The man took an unsteady step toward Quent, waving a bloody fist in the air. "When I get my hans on you, there won't be mush left of you for anyone to find!"

Panic overwhelmed Quentalia as the huge figure draw near. He clenched his hands into fists and felt blood drip from his right hand. "Go away!" he screamed. He felt a strange warmth flow through his body. "Leave me alone!"

Unexpectedly, Quent noticed the approaching man halt, gaping at him with wide eyes. A light seemed to radiate up from the forest floor, casting shimmering red and orange shadows throughout the forest. Quent glanced down and gasped in bewilderment.

His hands, which were still clenched in fists, were glowing a brilliant crimson. It looked like his hands were on fire, but he felt neither heat nor pain. The forest around them was awash in an eerie red glow and the big man with his broken nose stared dumbfounded at the boy.

"Leave me alone!" Quent shouted again at the big man. The flames grew in intensity, spreading up his body. The big man's countenance turned to abject terror at the sight of the boy bathed in flames.

Quent felt alive with the sensation of new life flowing through him and he wondered how any of this was possible. Looking through a crimson haze, he saw the large man's shocked expression. The man turned to run in the opposite direction, and Quent felt relief flow through him. The big man did not run far, however. He stumbled a few steps, then stopped, and bent over picking up something from the ground. He then turned back toward the boy with a large rock in his hand.

"I was going to turn you over to the mayor, boy!" he screamed, shock and terror quickly dissolving into bitter abhorrence. "Now I think I'll rid the town of another magic user instead. You know the town will burn your mom tonight, don't ya? I think I'll bash in your skull, then drag your body to the village square where everyone can see what justice really means. Your body will be burned next to that witch you call a mom, and the mayor will reward me for saving the village from the likes of you." The man spit another bloody tooth from his mouth then mopped blood from his nose. "Sides, I owes you for thish."

The man lunged at Quentalia and the boy closed his eyes and threw his hands up to ward off the attack. He kept his eyes tightly shut waiting for the blow, screaming, "You will not hurt me! You will not hurt me!"

The blow never came.

Instead, he heard the huge man scream. It was a hideous scream of agony and suffering like none other, and it tore through the boy's soul.

Quentalia opened his eyes, and immediately regretted doing so.

The big man with the rotten teeth and bloody face was now a pillar of fire. The inferno overtook the man's skin like kindling in a fireplace, flowing up his body and consuming his flesh. To Quentalia's complete astonishment, he saw that the flames flowed outward from his own hands. Quent wanted to make it stop, but he stood transfixed as if he were watching from far away with no control over the events. The flames devoured the man's skin, exposing bone, and pulsing organs, and the man screamed, and screamed, and would keep screaming in Quentalia's mind for the rest of his life. Then without warning, the flames died and Quent was thrown into darkness. A smoldering corpse crumpled to the forest floor and the smell of burnt flesh assailed the boy's nostrils. Quentalia fell to his knees in front the pile of burnt flesh that still held a smoking rock in an unrecognizable hand.

Pain—a stabbing sensation he had never experienced before in his life—suddenly enveloped the boy's body, and he grabbed his stomach with both hands falling face first onto the cold, wet foliage. After long moments of intense agony, he pushed himself up from the ground. He sat there a long time, tears streaming down his face, feeling dead inside. Glancing over at the charred corpse, he wished with all his might he could undo what he had done. How was any of this possible? One minute he was standing before a madman preparing to die and the next …

He leaned over and vomited.

"It wasn't your fault, young one."

Quentalia hastily stood up wiping his mouth and faced whoever had caught him unawares. He must have looked appalling, standing there in his nightshirt that was now soiled with dirt and mud. His knees were scraped, his face covered with gashes, and his hair was disheveled and soaked with perspiration. At least he wasn't covered in flames.

An older man dressed in drab robes and leaning on an old withered piece of wood that seemed to serve as a walking stick stared back at the boy with an expression of grief on his face. The man scratched his thin beard that was becoming gray in some spots, then reached up and took an old pointy hat off his head. Long brown hair, also speckled throughout with gray, tumbled around the man's shoulders.

"It wasn't your fault, boy," the bearded man repeated and pointed his staff at him. "I'm not here to harm you, Quentalia Jaden, I'm here to help."

Quent did not recognize the man. He had compassionate smoky gray eyes—unlike those of the man whose smoking corpse lay on the forest floor behind him—but the old man clearly was not from Frist. Quentalia knew everyone in the small village and he had never seen this man before. The man clearly knew him, however, for he called him by name. Quent reached up and wiped tears from his eyes.

"Who are y-y-you?" he asked in a quivering voice. "W-what happened to that m-man?" He pointing a shaky finger at the smoking remains laying near him. Then, as if the toll of the evening's events were too much for him, Quentalia collapsed. The bearded stranger dropped his walking stick and hat, quickly caught the boy in his arms, and gently laid him on the ground.

"You are scared and frightened," the man soothingly said, wiping damp hair from the boy's face. "You are also exceptionally courageous. As I said, I am not here to harm you, boy." He put the pointed hat back on his head. "I am here to help you … and your mother, Shiana."

The boy's eyes opened wide at the mention of his mother and he struggled to sit up, pushing the man's hands away and looking around as if he were seeing things clearly for the first time tonight. The woeful expression on the young boy's face broke the older man's heart. "You'll help my momma?" the boy asked, wincing in pain as blood dripped from the gash on his right hand.

"I'll do my best young one," the old man said and he patted the boy on the head and smiled softly, easing the boy's fears. He retrieved the piece of wood lying next to Quentalia and stood up leaning heavily on it. "By the way, my name is Menendia."

"How d-did I do what I did to that man?" Quent inquired shakily.

"Answers will come soon enough, young one. Now is not the time. Now is the time to see what we can do for your mother. Here, let me assist you."

As Menendia helped Quentalia up from the forest floor, the boy nervously looked up at the night sky hearing something large fly overhead. With a whoosh, leaves from the ground flew around them and the trees surrounding them swayed back and forth. Quent grabbed Menendia's robes.

"W-what was that?" the boy moaned.

Menendia smiled knowingly. "Do not worry child. There is naught in the night sky that will hurt us this night." A rustling from the surrounding woods drew his attention. "Ah, here comes my companion. He, too, is here to help you and your mother."

A slender man with shoulder length scarlet colored hair also dressed in robes stepped out of the deep shadows of the forest and walked up to Menendia. To Quentalia, he was the tallest man he had ever seen in his ten years of life—standing at least two feet taller than Menendia, who was no slouch himself. When the tall man looked down at the boy and smiled, Quent could have sworn his eyes—a brilliant jade color that reminded the boy of emeralds he had once seen long ago—were glowing in the dark. The man turned to Menendia and said,

"I've scouted the vicinity, Eternal One, and no one else is searching for the boy." The tall man's accent was extremely alien to Quentalia. The boy could understand him but his voice was incredibly low in timbre, almost a growl that vibrated the boy's ears. "Most of the town's folk are in the village square where they have a middle-aged man and the boy's mother tied to a wooden post in the middle of the plaza," he commented matter-of-factly. "They are tied back-to-back with faggots of wood piled about the bottom of the post. The mayor is giving a speech—the loud mouthed fool—and I believe he'll be showing off for some time, waving his torch back and forth." The man's glimmering emerald eyes scanned the forest. "We must hurry though, if we are to attempt any rescue."

"Very good Vandalenth," Menendia remarked. "Now, boy, let us see what we can do to save your mother. The villagers are acting out of fear and superstition in these dark times and are to be pitied, not punished. Although," he added as an afterthought, "that mayor of yours seems to thrive on all this madness; he should be taught a lesson."

The three of them started walking around the outskirts of Frist, just inside the edge of the forest, slowly making their way toward the center of the village. They were careful to stay in the shadows of the trees. As they walked, Quentalia looked up at Menendia and asked,

"Is my mother to blame for the crops failing and the death of some of the villagers, like Mr. Bownan said she was?"

Menendia looked upon the boy with a look of profound sorrow on his face. "Your mother is an excellent healer who learned her craft through perseverance and hard work from a tutor who was a magic user. She cared for the people of Frist, and never harmed anyone in her life." He smiled and ruffled Quent's hair. "And no, she did not cause the crops to fail."

"Then why did Mr. Bownan say those things about her?"

"Son, we live in hard times. One sometimes searches to blame these times on something they cannot explain or understand using bedtime stories to play on the fears of the people. Your mother was associated with wizards and was used as a scapegoat for the failures of a fat burgomaster who cares more for his liquor than he does for his fellow villagers."

"But after what I did to that man back there, I thought that I … " the boy faltered and tears began to well up in his eyes again. "Where did my ability come from if not from my mom?"

Vandalenth answered the boy in his low growl, glancing sorrowfully at Menendia with his glowing eyes. "You are your father's son," he stated simply.

This brought the boy to a standstill. The three stood just shy of the town's center, and Quentalia nervously looked up at Vandalenth. "I dreamt of my father earlier tonight. He told me to wake up. He said that mommy needed me." He hung his head in shame. "I wasn't there for her when they came for her." He looked from Vandalenth to Menendia. "The town should be afraid of me, not her," he said angrily. "I'm the one with the power to hurt people."

For long moments no one spoke. Quentalia stood in the shadows, holding his injured hand tenderly, staring at the ground. Menendia glanced at Vandalenth, and the tall red-haired man slowly shook his head yes to Menendia's unasked question.

"Did your mother ever tell you what happened to your father?" Menendia asked the boy.

"S-she told me that he was attacked by bandits outside the village, when I was three years old," Quentalia whispered, remembering the day he had asked his mother what had happened to his father. His mother had told him the story of the thugs, then spent the rest of the day in her room. He peeked in on her later that evening and saw her sitting on her bed clutching a blue robe; tears were running freely down an already tear worn face. He never mentioned that he saw her clutching the robe, and kept it secret to this day. Somehow, he had always known that his father had not died the way she told him, but he was always afraid to ask what actually happened.

"No young one," Menendia said softly, absently disturbing the dirt with his wooden staff. "Your father did not die at the hands of outlaws." The old man seemed to staring off into the distance as if remembering the past. "He was a noble man who fought side-by-side with thousands of other great men and women in the War of Magic. He died on the field of battle using his gift of magic—a gift you have apparently inherited—to defeat Giltharean Talamir, the evil wizard who gathered an army bent on taking over the world. This evil nearly destroyed all of Prandora." He stopped his tale and looked at Quentalia with sympathy in his gray eyes. "Your father died a hero, along with nearly every last one of those gathered in the valley of Qualiniar, now called the Valley of Eternal Winter."

"My father was at the final battle?" Quentalia stared at Menendia in wonder. "When I was younger I heard stories of that battle: the battle between two great armies of wizards and mages from all the races of Prandora, ending in the destruction of both armies. Those fighting for good were once called the saviors of Prandora. Now they are called cowards." "The ones who call them cowards are the <i>true</i> cowards," Vandalenth said in his gravely tone. "I hate to interrupt your lesson on the past, Eternal One, but we must continue if there is to be any hope of recovery."<p> "Yes of course, you're right, old friend." Menendia patted the boy on his head, urging them forward with his staff. "We should be near the center of your village." The three cautiously left the shelter of the tall trees surrounding Frist and flitted from one building to the next, staying in deep shadow whenever possible. They followed the bellowing voice of Mayor Bownan, as he waved his torch with authority at the crowd gathered in the plaza, accusing Shiana, and a middle-aged man with young looking eyes—both were tied to each other back-to-back around a wooden post staked in the ground in the center of the court—of everything from causing the towns milk to sour to murdering the townsfolk.<p> Quentalia and his colleagues approached the nearest building with enough shadow to not be seen: it turned out to be the Vile Flagon, Mayor Bownan's bar and tavern. The three were close enough to see the mock trial for themselves. Mayor Bownan was finishing a rather lengthy list of accusations smiling his impious smirk, the throng shouting, Kill them! Burn them alive! From their vantage point, Quentalia could see his mother tied to the post, her head lowered, her face covered by her long black hair. He yearned to run to her … to say how sorry he was for not being there when she needed him.<p> Vandalenth was also watching the travesty unfolding. He seemed to be staring rather intently, however, at the man tied to Shiana Jaden, not Quent's mother. His glowing green eyes narrowed; he seemed to be lost in concentration. Menendia noticed Vandalenth's intense stare.<p> "What is it old friend?" he asked with concern. Vandalenth's concentration was disrupted and he blinked and stared at his two companions.<p> "Shiana does not have the gift of magic, just as we thought, Menendia," he acknowledged. "If you'll pay close attention to the other who is tied to her, however … "<p> Both Quent and Menendia stared out of the shadows at the man tied back-to-back to Quentalia's mother. The man was of middle age and his thin hair was graying but his eyes looked much younger than his age. He was obviously terrified out of his mind and kept glancing around nervously, his young, dark eyes darting back and forth with the look of a frightened deer. Sweat was pouring from him, drenching his shirt and soiled pants.<p> "He has been hiding the truth for some time now," Vandalenth growled, " and is now trapped like a cornered rat."<p> Menendia stared at his old friend, a look of panic stealing over him. "So that damned mayor of yours has finally trapped a true wizard. Does the mage know what will happen if he loses complete control?" he asked Vandalenth, nervously rotating his wooden staff.<p> "He is a man with nowhere to go and nothing to lose," Vandalenth said simply. His green eyes narrowed. "We must leave this vicinity at once."<p> "What?" Quentalia started. "What about my mother?" A feeling of dread overcame the boy.<p> "By the Stream!" Menendia swore. He looked back at the man tied to the woman he had meant to rescue. The man was clenching his fists, closed his eyes in resignation. His body was shaking violently. Menendia looked at Quentalia with a helpless expression. "I'm sorry son, but we cannot help your mother now."<p> "What? But why?" Quent screamed.<p> "We are all lost if we do not leave now!" Vandalenth remarked, stridently.<p> Menendia grabbed the boy, dropping his staff. "Get us out of here, Vandalenth!" Quentalia struggled to break free of Menendia's grip.<p> "No!" he welled. "Mother!"<p> Time slowed for Quentalia. In one instant, he saw his mother suddenly look up, stare directly at him and smile; Jibara Bownan was moving in slow motion, waving his torch in front of the two condemned scapegoats; and the man tied to Shiana closed his eyes tightly then opened them … they were glowing a fiery red. Quent remembered what had happened to <i>him</i> when he thought he was about to die at the hands of a man now lying in a smoldering heap back in the forest. Quent did not even know he had any magic in him. This man had known for some time, according to Vandalenth. Quent imagined the power this man could unleash if he thought he was going to …<p> Timed stopped for the boy. His mother's smile lingered in the air, rapturous and somehow comforting. The man tied to her was becoming a pillar of bright iridescent fire growing slowly outward. Menendia tightened his hold on Quentalia as a brilliant white light slowly enveloped them. The last thing Quent saw, before the light completely engulfed him, was his mother's transcendent smile. He closed his eyes and saw only white light.<p> <i>Goodbye my son. I will always love you …</i><p> <center>…</center><p> One moment Quentalia was standing in the middle of the village of Frist hiding in shadows, the next he recalled Menendia grabbing him as a brilliant white light enveloped them. An instant later, Vandalenth, Menendia, and he were standing on a hilltop horribly transfixed at what they saw. From their vantage point, the group could clearly see Frist several miles away. From the center of the small village, a ball of red and blue magical energy began to spread out in concentric waves, growing ever brighter as it engulfed the village. It then consumed most of the surrounding forest. Night turned into day and the three companions shielded their eyes against the light. Moments later, the shockwave from the blast hit the companions blanketing them with a hot, violent wind. Oddly, there was very little noise. No loud boom or teeth chattering roar, just the rush of hot wind and an eerie, high pitched hum. The ball of iridescent energy grew larger and when Quentalia thought it was about to devour the three of them, the blast silently subsided, the wind slowly died, and darkness encompassed the land once again. Where the village of Frist once stood, a deep crater several miles wide marred the land, changing the terrain forever.<p> Nothing was left of the village. The powerful magical explosion vaporized the buildings, and what were left were a few melted stones lying on the bottom of a deep crater. Nothing was left of the four hundred and thirty people who called Frist their home. There would be no graves to mark the passing of so many souls. The surrounding forest was decimated. What few trees there were left in the crater were now only remnants of their former splendor. A few trees lining the crater burst into flame and were now smoldering, adding to the smoke languorously curling up into the sky from the bowl. A variety of animals were scuttling through the remains of the once beautiful forest trying to escape the devastation. Countless animals would not survive the night, succumbing to the same fate as Frist. A deer sprinted through some undergrowth and bounded up the hill where Quentalia and his companions sat, numb from grief. The animal stopped for a brief moment taking in the scene, then rushed past the three companions hurrying into a grove of trees. Two rabbits and several squirrels followed closely behind. Quentalia briefly glanced at the animals, taking his eyes off the smoking crater he once called home. <p> Hours passed, and morning approached, yet Quentalia still sat on the hill, tears streaming down his face. His mother was dead and he was now alone in the world. The last thing he remembered of his mother was her smile. The image of that smile was burned into his mind, a moment forever frozen in time.<p> Behind Quent, Vandalenth sat on a rock leaning his back against an old oak and scratching at a small rash that seemed to have developed on the side of his face. He stared hauntingly out from under a mane of red hair, his eyes glowing an unearthly green in the early morning light. Shortly after witnessing the horrible blast that deformed the land, Vandalenth disappeared for almost an hour. Upon his return, he and Menendia conversed in low whispers both hanging their heads in sorrow. Now he sat on a rock, brooding. He had not spoken a word since.<p> Menendia stood beside Quentalia, leaning heavily on a long piece of withered wood. He had lost his other staff in Frist, dropping it when he grabbed Quentalia just before they were transported to this hill. He immediately went in search of another stick but he did not seem comfortable with the new staff he had acquired. He kept switching the piece of wood from one arm to the other as he leaned this way and that. It was now under his left arm, and he leaned on it staring out at the blasted land. To Menendia, this was the second time in his life he had seen the land deformed by magic; he prayed this should be his last. His eyes were tired and red from crying and his face was haggard, hidden beneath his pointed old hat. He ruffled Quent's hair absent mindedly, taking in the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the smoke rising from the crater. The sky was awash in eerie red and yellow mixed with the decay of grayish black oily smoke that made the morning seem more nightmarish and dark than bright and sunny. Ominous storm clouds were gathering in the north emulating the mood of the three companions on this chill dawn.<p> Finally, Vandalenth stood up from his rock and walked over to Menendia and Quentalia. Glancing down at the boy with jaded eyes, he said in his low growl, "Your mother was a good and honorable woman." He stared out at the damaged land, his green eyes narrowing. "I am sorry for your loss." He then bent over and laid his hands on Quent's head. "I can not assuage your grief, young one, but I can do something for your injuries."<p> Vandalenth's hands began to glow a soft green and Quentalia could feel the heat radiating from the man's fingers as he slowly moved them through his hair. An inner peace poured over Quentalia, and the pain in his right hand subsided. When he looked, Quentalia saw that the gash on his hand was gone. Dried blood caked his palm where the wound should have been but the palm was healthy and pink. The slashes on his face were gone as well. The aches and pains of his injuries vanished without a trace, but the pain in his heart remained. Quentalia suddenly felt tired and he lay down on the ground, closed his eyes, and fell into a restless, healing sleep.<p> "There are no words," Menendia said softly to the sleeping boy. "Sleep now … and wake anew."<p> "What happens to the boy now?" Vandalenth asked, taking his hands from the boy's head. "He does not know anyone, now that the village is gone. His kith and kin … "<p> "He knows us," Menendia said. He sat down next to Quentalia and took the boy to him. The boy stirred, and buried his head in Menendia's robes, but did not wake from his magical sleep. "He will need training if he is to understand and use his newfound power. I will be his family now." He gently stroked the boy's hair. "Dream now of pleasant things, and leave the nightmares for another day."<p> <center>…</center><p> Quentalia Jaden stood on the deck of the Sea Dragon, the most feared pirate ship on the known sea. A salty wind slapped the boy in his face and he savored the smell of the sea air as it rustled through his hair …