The Cornerstone

Imagine this, if you can: A land that time has twisted and warped; A land of spiked mountains and deep valleys; trees gnarled and bent; A medieval land of sorcery and myth, legend and prophecy; A land that seems to be stuck in the autumn of the year, waiting for winter to come.  Darkness has replaced the day as the creatures of the night emerge from their hiding places until the sun pushes them back into the shadows.  A cold wind is blowing, not a normal wind that you feel on an October night that foretells of the coming winter and snow, but a cruel wind that blows into your bones and that a coat can’t stop.  There is a strange fog that seems almost unaffected by the wind.  It hovers around trees and rocks, and hides in holes that you could trip in.  The moon gives off just enough light to shadow the land with evil shapes that you hope are trees and rocks, not animals waiting for their evening meal.  The only sound is that of the wind.  It sounds like a thousand banshees screaming as it echoes off the mountains and the crooked trees.  There is a pervasive smell of rot that bleeds and oozes from the ground.  Death is just behind the next rock or beyond that fallen tree, in a land like this you just never know!

He should have been here two days ago to prepare to meet them.  It wouldn’t give him much time.  With that strange fog building, it would be harder to find the exact spot he was looking for.

He was a man with dark thoughts, dressed in dirty rags and an old dirty coat that had been passed down from generation to generation.  Now he was searching the shadows of this valley between the tall mountains of this accursed land.  He would find the place in time; he had to.  His now dead master had told him that he would. 

When he first began his training as a sorcerer, he was a nobody, and still would be had his master not taken the time to teach him true magic.  He missed him now as he looked back.  His master had been a true friend; and it was his fault that he had died.

He was born and raised in the Town of Hillshire, just outside of the kingdom walls of Ravenfall.  It was a nice little town full of farmers, tailors, and craftsmen of all kinds.  It was quite a wealthy town because of the closeness to the king and the fact that they supplied most of what the kingdom needed.  He was seven years old when his mother died during the Black Plague that killed most of the people of the town.  His father had been killed in a war for the King three years earlier.  His sister was two when the town paid their respects and laid his father down for his final rest.  He had been a great warrior, but in a war, even the best men die when they are outnumbered. 

Rathsmus didn’t remember his father much.  His name was Victor.  He had been a big man, large of bone and stature, with dark brown hair and a full beard and mustache that had just a tinge of gray around the edges.  He had a great sense of humor and a laugh that could bring down a mountain.  Victor could best any man in the kingdom with a sword and he could hold his own with the best from any kingdom within a month’s march.  One of Rathsmus’ best memories was when his father won the king’s greatest warrior contest.  The winner had to be the best with five different types of weapons, both on horse and afoot; sword, bow and arrow, crossbow, lance, and a whip, all with full armor.  The celebration lasted several days.

That took place about six months before the war began with the local kingdom of Damonwood.  It was a foolish war over a mistress belonging to the King of Damonwood who was now with the King of Ravenfall.  A month into the war Rathsmus’ father was dead; within two weeks the Kingdoms were friends again and the war was forgotten, along with his father and the other men that had died.  Rathsmus hated the King for his stupidity and the Town for putting up with him.  His mother instructed him never to tell anyone how he felt for fear they might not be allowed to remain in the house. A few words of advice as a child, memories of the family picnics, and the memory of a man dressed in metal armor with the blue and red markings of the King, were all Rathsmus had left.  His mother had saved the armor and shield and kept it in the attic.  Rathsmus went there to look at and fondle them often.  He even tried them on and pretended to fight off the King’s enemies.  He wished that he could remember more, but the memories just weren’t there.

The memories of his mother were clearer.  She had been a pretty woman, kind and sweet, tall for a woman, but when she had trouble with a neighbor or other townsman she needed the height and they usually backed down when she gave them the eye.  She held herself with the pride of a queen and never said a mean word of anyone.  She would laugh a shy little titter that endeared her to anyone she met.  Rathsmus’ mother would help anyone, even if it meant a hardship for her; she always told Rathsmus that God knew who was good by how much you would give up for your fellow man.  Deep down his mother had a profound impact on his life.  How he felt about other people and how much he did to help his neighbors that were having trouble with their health or other problems.  Since his mother’s death, God had become nonexistent in his life.  He felt that most people only wanted to use him and gave him nothing in return for his help, and he hated people in general.