Unchosen Mage (Legend of Ravenwood) Page 6

  The face of Norris Anderwood disappeared as the mist dissipated.

  Krys jumped forward, reaching toward the spot his ancestor had been. “No. Come back. I have things to ask you.” He shook the journal, but Norris Anderwood did not return.

  He looked up at Peter. “What do we do now?”

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  Chapter 6 - The Barrier

  “I guess the only thing we can do now is get some sleep.” Peter stretched and yawned, then leaned back on the wall.

  “Whatever we decide to do—” Krys closed the old book. “—we have a busy day ahead.”

  Peter sat straight up. “What do you mean—whatever we decide? Aren’t we gonna try and find the castle?”

  Krys furrowed his brow. “I need to go home and see if there’s anything left. Besides, I want to talk to one of the Elders about all this.” Krys held the journal up. “They should know something about its magic, and about this Norris Anderwood.”

  Peter nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He dug into his sack and pulled out a handful of venison jerky and four griddle cakes. He pitched half the food to Krys.

  “How can you possibly be hungry?”

  “You know the answer to that.” Peter smiled.

  Krys sighed. “Yeah, I do.”

  “You’d starve if it weren’t for me,” Peter said with a broad smile, then stuffed an entire griddle cake in his mouth.

  Krys wrapped his cake around the jerky and ate his meal in two large bites. He looked at the old journal lying in his lap and then stowed it in his belt pouch. “Do you think we need to conjure an illusion to hide the entrance?”

  Peter nodded. “Good idea.” He waved his hand in an arc in front of the passage opening and uttered, “Alamantoran hurdrinza. That should do it,” he said. He ripped off a large piece of jerky with his teeth and extinguished the glowing ball hovering over their heads.

  Leaning his head against the earthen wall, Krys closed his eyes to the pitch-blackness and willed his tension to ebb away into the still night. Thoughts of the day drifted through his mind, the Choosing, the old woman, the bizarre lizardmen, his cottage. How could everything go so wrong, so fast? Mother’s going to have a griffin! He lay in the cramped hollow for what seemed an eternity. Eventually, his thoughts jumbled together and he felt his mind drifting. He slept, but it was fitful and full of terror and odd images.

  He woke to muffled bird song and the chattering of squirrels. The morning sun streamed past the edge of the thick cloth and fell on a small sliver of ground inside the hideout.

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the shadowed ceiling. Waking in the earthen room dashed his hopes that the day before had been a bad dream. He turned on his side and stared at Peter, still asleep. Krys reached for a half-burned stick from one of their many trips here and threw it at his friend.

  Peter jumped. “Huh? What was that for?”

  “Get up. It’s time to go.”

  Peter sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Is it morning already?” He yawned and ignited a dim light ball. “I’m hungry.” After digging around in his pack, he retrieved two apples and a large chunk of cheese wrapped in cloth. He gave Krys a share and they ate in silence.

  Small droplets of water fell from a root protruding from a crack in the stone ceiling. Krys watched them splash on the spongy floor. His hand fell to the pouch at his side where he had stowed the journal the night before. A thought crept into his mind. “I wonder—” He pulled the book from the pouch and opened it. Squinting in the semi-darkness, he could make out nothing on the page. He glanced upward at the small ball of light Peter had made. It wasn’t bright enough to read by. Pointing at the journal, he muttered, “Hadrolassa borwista.”

  “What are you doing?” Peter yelled, knocking his friend’s hand away from the journal. A stream of fire shot from Krys’ fingertips and a small pile of dry wood next to Peter burst into flames.

  “I—I was trying to see the page better.” Krys looked at the burning tinder, then at his hand.

  “You’ve gotta be more careful,” Peter said as he jumped up and stomped out the fire. “You need to learn your enchantments. You evoked an incineration spell.” He plopped himself down on his log again and grabbed Krys’ sleeve. “Kerkotimon.” Krys’ fingertip glowed.

  Still clutching Krys’s sleeve, Peter drew back his friend’s arm and flicked it, flinging the ball of light off Krys’ fingertip. The light hung in the air above the journal.

  Krys’ heart pounded as he urged the glowing ball to hover just over the open book. New words filled the once blank sheets of parchment. “Peter!” he gasped as he tried to read the whole page at once.

  Peter leaned toward the page. “What does it say?”

  There is but one way to cross apparent impossibility

  Be guided to the solitary portal along the snow path.

  Do not waver, lest you become ensnared.

  The portal leads to treachery, but also to triumph.

  “Well, that doesn’t tell us much,” Krys said.

  “Actually—” Peter tapped his finger against his chin. “It does.” He turned to face Krys. “It’s a bit of a riddle.” He pulled the journal toward him and studied the cryptic wording. “It’s talking about that strange barrier on the edge of the cursed section of forest.”

  “But no one’s ever been able to get through it, and you know we’ve tried!”

  Peter pointed to the first line of the passage. “Ah. But there seems to be a way to get through.” He shoved the journal closer to Krys. “According to this.”

  Krys frowned.

  “The stream that runs under the barrier,” Peter said. “What if that’s it?”

  Krys thought for a moment. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Peter slapped Krys on the back. “Come on. We’ll go check on your cottage. Then, we need to go get supplies and go see.” He picked up his food sack and pack, and crawled up the passage, dissolving the diversion spell he’d placed the night before.

  Krys gathered his belongings, put the journal in his pouch, and followed his friend.

  They ran through the thick underbrush to the edge of the village clearing near the charred remains of Krys’ home.

  Wisps of smoke still rose from parts of the ruins.

  A tear ran down Krys’ cheek as he stared in disbelief.

  “I’m so sorry, Krys,” said Peter.

  Krys stepped across what used to be the threshold of his front door. He glanced at the devastation. He looked at the pile of ashes and charred wood at his feet. A box, blackened but still intact, lay amongst the rubble.

  He bent and picked it up. Inside, the old ocarina sat, untouched by fire.

  Nothing else in and of the cottage seemed to have survived.

  Grasping the perfectly intact string of leather, Krys drew the instrument from the box and pulled it over his head. He touched it as it rested on his chest. It was all that was left that tied him to home. He set the box down on a piece of charred wood.

  “We tried to put out the fire,” a voice came from behind him.

  Krys turned to find Wizard Myt standing a few yards away, wringing his hands, a solemn look on his face.

  Beyond the Elder, dozens of concerned-looking people moved closer, with more appearing by the moment.

  “There was a body, burned terribly.” Myt wiped the corner on an eye with the tip of his beard. “We feared it was you.”

  Silence hung between them for several long moments. Krys turned his head to Peter, standing outside the remains of the cottage. He could think of nothing to say.

  “Do you know how something like this could have happened?” Myt asked. “One of the citizens saw two cloaked figures run from your cottage, but did not get a close look at them.”

  Krys’ hand went to his pouch. He pulled the old book from within and handed it to the Elder. “It has something to do with this.”

  Myt’s eyes grew wide as he took it from Krys’ hand. “Could it be?” He caressed the soft leather with his
thumbs. “There have been rumors for generations.” He locked gazes with Krys. “But no one really thought it existed.” He gazed at the book again. “This is the journal of Norris Anderwood.” He looked up. “But how did it come to be in your possession?”

  Krys recounted the events of the previous evening and what he and Peter had learned from the journal, pointing out specific entries in the old book.

  The ever-growing crowd whispered to each other, passing along the information as they heard it.

  “You must go to Ravenwood Castle. The great Wizard Raven must be freed.”

  “But why me?” asked Krys. “Why can’t the wizards go?” He waved his hand around. “There are plenty here right now.”

  “We cannot accomplish that which fate has destined for you.” There was kindness in the old wizard’s eyes. But there was something else. Hope. “You hold the legendary journal. Your fate was written two hundred years ago. If it were possible for one of us to complete this task—” Myt pointed his finger around at the assembled wizards. “The journal would have been left to someone other than you.”

  “I can’t do this alone.” A bubble of fear crept into Krys’ throat.

  “Does it say you must?” Myt raised the journal.

  Krys shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He gazed into Myt’s eyes. “Then one of you can come with me?”

  Myt cast his gaze to the ground and shook his head. “I’m afraid we cannot.” He raised his head and stared into Krys’s eyes. “The task is not for a wizard. The magic that will be involved will need to be of magician level, uncorrupted, innocent.”

  Krys scrunched his brow, a wave of uncertainty flowed over him. “How do you know that?”

  Myt placed a feeble hand on Krys’ forearm. “It has been foretold.”

  “Then I’m going with you,” Peter said. “I’m not a wizard.” He jabbed Krys in the side. “Someone needs to watch out for you.”

  Snickers arose from the crowd.

  Krys blushed and glared at his friend.

  Myt took Krys by an elbow and guided him from the ashes of his home. “Gather your supplies. You must leave at once. Your parents will be notified upon their return as to what has happened.” He stopped and turned Krys back to face him. “You understand the gravity of your task?”

  “Y-Yes. I think so.”

  “Then, on you go.” Myt extended his arm. The crowd parted at the gesture of the senior wizard in the village.

  Peter joined Krys as he walked away from the Head Elder.

  The citizens of Ravenwood Village, and their visitors, lined the path the boys traveled. They whispered and pointed as Krys and Peter passed.

  The boys walked through the village toward Peter’s cottage. With every step, Krys’ fear grew, until he noticed Zandur leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, a sneer on his face.

  “You think you’re going to save Lanterra?” Zandur’s gaze bored into Krys’. “Ha! We’re lost for sure!” He spun on his heal and stormed away.

  Courage blossomed in Krys at the thought of proving Zandur wrong. Lifting his chin and with purpose in his step, Krys continued his march to the Greenleaf home.

  From the path ahead, Rufus Greenleaf pushed through the crowd and ran to his son, taking him in his arms. “Peter!” He pushed his son back and held him at arms-length. “The fire—and the body—” He hugged Peter again. “And when you didn’t come home last night—” Rufus looked over Peter’s shoulder at Krys. He extended an arm and drew Krys inward. “Krys.” Rufus’s voice cracked. “I—I feared—” He hugged Krys harder. “But you’re both okay.”

  Krys closed his eyes and leaned into the embrace. Rufus Greenleaf had become like a father to him over the years. With the absence of his parents at the moment, he greatly appreciated the man’s outpouring of affection on him.

  Peter wiggled free. “Father, we don’t have much time.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right.” Rufus turned and led the boys quickly to the cottage.

  They bolted through the door.

  “I’ll gather food and drink.” Rufus pulled the food sack from his son’s shoulder. “You need to find some extra clothing for Krys, as well as for yourself.”

  Peter pulled his cloak from the peg by the door and slung it around his shoulders. He led Krys deeper into the cottage to the heavy curtain that partitioned off the space he slept and kept his belongings.

  Another cloak hung on a peg. Peter yanked it free and pitched it to Krys. “Here, it’s a little threadbare, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Krys threw it over his shoulders and fastened the clasp.

  He ran his hand over the smooth material, thinking of the new cloak his mother had woven for his birthday. Now it lay in ashes at his home. He pushed away the feeling of loss. “Thanks,” he said to his friend.

  Peter tossed him a pair of trousers. “These are too short for me.” Something brown flew through the air at Krys. “Take this too.”

  Krys looked at the tunic. “This looks almost new.” He put it and the trousers in a shoulder pack Peter handed to him.

  “It is. I just hope it fits.” Peter stuffed a pair of trousers and a tunic in his pack, then slung the filled bag over his shoulder and bounded toward the front of the cottage.

  Rufus handed two filled sacks of food to the boys. “This should be enough for several days.” He gave them each two wineskins. “Here’s water and apple juice.” He pulled the dagger from his boot and another from a shelf and handed them to the boys. “You may need these.” There were tears in the man’s eyes.

  “Thanks.” Peter hugged his father and turned to Krys. “Let’s get going.”

  Krys accepted one last hug from Rufus and the boys left the cottage.

  They raced along the path leading out of the village, a trail they’d played on many times as younger children. They knew every root that crossed the path, every turn, and every washed-out section. They ran past the old three-trunk oak tree, up the hill, and through the grove of wild blosterberry shrubs.

  They stopped at the stream.

  “Look!” Peter pointed at the streambed.

  Crystal-clear water ran over snow-white stones.

  “I don’t think I ever even noticed the color of the rocks.” Krys bent and touched one of them.

  They followed the waterway uphill.

  Krys looked up at the dark part of Ravenwood Forest, looming before them, its strange outer wall impassable. Its surface appeared like water that swirled and undulated. The movement produced odd patterns of sinister-looking grey wisps. At its base, the stream of water flowed over the same white-colored stones.

  “This is the place.” Krys’ skin tingled as he stepped closer to the mighty barrier.

  Extending to the treetops, the odd material barred their entry to a shadowed forest beyond, compliments of the curse Grimm had cast over the castle. Krys and Peter had walked all the way around the barrier two years before when Rufus Greenleaf, and Krys’ father, Richard, had taken them on the two-day outing. They had found no break in the wall then, and there appeared no way through now.

  A small spark jumped between Peter’s fingertip and the barrier as he reached for it. He poked the surface, which recoiled, yet did not break. He placed his hand flat on the surface. Concentric circles rippled away from the spot. “It doesn’t look, or feel any different from any of the other times we’ve tried to get through.” He turned to face Krys. “Do we really want to go in there?”

  Krys looked through the barrier at the shadowed woods behind it. A shiver shot up his spine. “It doesn’t matter if we w-want to or not.” He swallowed hard and looked over the surface of the odd obstruction. “We n-need to.” He bolstered all the courage he could and stepped into the bubbling stream.

  They ran at the barrier, splashing through the water. When they made contact, the strange wall stretched inward but did not breach. The wall recoiled and knocked them back.

  Krys landed in the water covering the white stones. He sucked i
n a huge breath as the frigid liquid soaked his clothing.

  Peter landed on his back on the hard ground.

  “Curse this place!” Krys yelled, jumping up.

  “Too late. It already is.” Peter smirked, reached into his food sack, and extracted a handful of berries. He shoved them in his mouth.

  “Are you eating again?”

  “Got to keep up my strength.” Peter mumbled through the food.

  Krys shook his head. “How come you’re not big as a cottage? You eat all the time!”

  Peter shrugged. “I guess I’m just that perfect.” He got up, walked to the barrier and pushed it. “Maybe we just need to be more forceful.” He placed his shoulder against the barrier and pushed hard. As before, the surface stretched inward. He stepped back and pulled the dagger from his boot. He drew it back.

  Krys grabbed Peter’s arm in its backstroke. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Aw, it’ll be okay.” Peter pulled his arm free of Krys’ grasp.

  “Peter, I mean it. Don’t you think that if we needed to use force, the journal would have said so?” Krys stared in disbelief at his friend. “It gave us a riddle and we need to figure it out.”

  “We followed the journal’s directions; I’m standing on the white rocks. I don’t see how else we’re going to get in.” Peter drew the dagger back and plunged it into the odd barrier.

  Krys narrowed his eyes and stepped back. I don’t like this! He cringed, but nothing poured from the opening as he expected.

  “See,” said Peter, looking at Krys. “Nothing bad happened.” He pulled the dagger down and made the hole larger.

  The knife didn’t make a sound as he sliced through the material. But where it cut, a web of energy spread outward

  Peter jumped back and shoved his dagger back in his boot. “This isn’t good.”