Telling Time

This short story was originally written on 11th June 2023.

Immense wings clapped overhead. The pale sun fought to glow through the dense cloud that hung low above the plain. Zanthamor heaved his great legs, fighting as his feet were swallowed by the damp, red dirt. Under his plate he was boiling alive. Great rivulets of fire streamed across the battlefield, the flames towering above what few trees remained. He scanned the carnage, his laboured breaths echoing in his ears. Where was this place? He was certainly far from the mountains. Another foe launched from the fray toward him. Zanthamor swung his warhammer with all his remaining might, its head cracking against his attacker’s helmet, resounding like a temple gong and sending the limp assailant flying. It was an excellent strike. It was an excellent weapon; a handle of solid grey stone, a colossal head shrouded in intricate engravings, the entire thing light as air. Where had he found such a weapon? More importantly, when had he learned to wield it? He muttered a short prayer, and the heavens answered; his hands becoming shrouded in faint, dancing yellow. A protection ward? That was a powerful invocation… Far more powerful than he knew. How? From where?

His own name reached him over the roaring melee.

“Zanthamor!” repeated the stranger. He turned his head to find a man among the slaughter, a man clad in shimmering gold plates and flowing robes. It was the same man. The same face. The face he saw every time.

 “It’s coming around!” bellowed the familiar stranger, pointing his glaive skyward. Zanthamor gazed upward at the grey shroud above. A dark shape swum among the blanket of cloud, its great wings spread. It couldn’t be. But it was. He remembered now. It always was. This was the moment, the moment they knew all was lost. More inexplicably familiar faces emerged from the carnage, eyes upward as the baleful shape descended, piercing the clouds like an arrow, diving toward the battlefield. This was the moment. The same moment every time. It couldn’t be. They were legends, all long extinct millennia ago. But it was. A drachen. 

The creature roared as it whipped overhead, bathing the ground in fire. Tortured screams joined the battle’s chorus. The new inferno sheared through the skirmish mere paces from Zanthamor and his unknown companions. Zanthamor knew not the fighters incinerated in the drachen’s new torrent. He did not recognise their curious armour. Did not recognise their strange voices. Yet somehow, he knew they were his allies.

The winged serpent pivoted low in the sky. It was preparing for another sweep. No protection ward, no matter how powerful, would save him from the creature’s return.

“Now, Kutchem! Bind the relics!” commanded the same man, his ally in the familiar, foreign garb. Zanthamor turned to see who the man was addressing; to discover who this Kutchem was, to discover what these relics were. Every time, Zanthamor was too late. It was always like this, he remembered. His head swung round as the air grew cold. Ice cold and sharp. What light remained in the sky above seemed to dim, whilst a brilliant luminescence burned out from the figure he found behind him. The pale, glowing silhouette hovered above the chaos, blazing pillars of white flaring from where his eyes once were. Once that being had been mortal, Zanthamor knew. He knew not how he knew; but he knew. He knew also that this thing was something greater now, something more than mortal, something powerful. Something terrifyingly alien. The ethereal shape extended an arm outward, pointing over Zanthamor’s head, over the head of the golden stranger, his fingertips trailing toward the battle. Something told Zanthamor this figure was an ally. A friend, even. Yet every time he watched the glowing form rise above the skirmish, he felt no relief, no comfort. Only dread. His breath grew short and tight in his chest.

Then the air cracked. The sky flashed. Horrified wails rung out from deep within the clash of arms for only a moment, before they were drowned in silence. He turned his attention back to the battle. The scales were tipping back. From the jaws of defeat, victory. Man after man, foe after foe, battalion after battalion, turned to ash. The air cracked and cracked again. The wails echoed. The siege engines; ash. The drachen; ash. The day would be theirs. But no solace found him. Every time it was the same. Terror. A terror that consumed him and turned his gut to ice. The day was theirs. But the cost was so high. So horrifically high. What have we done? he wondered, as his eyes drifted open, and he awoke, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

– – –

A frigid mountain breeze drifted through the workshop’s open window, rippling Zanthamor’s cassock. Snow drifted gently through the pallid sky beyond. Despite the chill, beads of sweat gathered on Zanthamor’s brow. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, before dusting his palms on the apron that covered his vestments. He took up his tools again to resume his work. He chiselled at the raw stone atop his bench, closing his eyes, trying to find the pattern within the rock, trying to allow it to show itself. The shape within was supposed to reveal itself as he worked, but today it felt evasive, distant, diffuse. Focus eluded him. Try as he might to find peace, the dream clung to his mind, complicating his concentration. He tried again to clear his thoughts. He searched for a prayer and began to recite it silently, shifting his lips as he returned to his work. But the shape within the stone continued to hide. Vulthorn’s guidance felt absent today, a day he felt in great need of it. Today he could not feel the heavenly craftsman guiding his hand.

As the curtains flapped in the wind he heard the clap of the drachen’s wings. As his chisel worked the stone he heard the sound of blades on armour. As his mallet pounded he heard the stamp of hooves. Just a dream, nothing more. But it was so real. It was so familiar now. He’d lost count of how many times he’d seen the end of that battle. Seen the faces of those strange folk around him. Seen that chilling figure rise skyward, leaving only ash in their wake. But who were they? What exactly was this vision? Why was he seeing it? The heavenly craftsman sent inspiration in unusual ways, he knew that much. But what was he to do with this?

A voice at his shoulder startled him out of his reverie. “Good, good. The grooves are delicate. But your angle is imprecise. Something impedes your stillness.” Zanthamor truly must have been distracted to have not heard Father Thranador shifting his ancient, hulking body beside his workbench. The venerable abbot looked at him through eyes scarcely visible behind drooping, grey lids. “It is that dream again, is it not?” he asked.

Zanthamor downed his tools. “Yes, father,” he sighed. “I cannot find respite from this vision. In my waking it clings to my memory, and in my sleep it shrouds my mind.”

 The withered abbot tapped his stone staff against the floor, sending an echo through the workshop. He often did that when he was getting impatient. “I’ve had my years, Zanthamor, and I doubt I have many remaining. I don’t wish to spend every day I do have left hearing about this dream of yours.” Thranador’s voice was low and slow, rumbling out of him like a tile scratching on a grindstone. “You cannot be a thrall to these distractions. Persevere.”

Zanthamor knew his old master was right. He must have been; he’d never known him to have been wrong about anything before. Thranador’s staff clapped against the flagstones again. Zanthamor admired it from the corner of his eye. It was something truly aethereal. Sculpted from a single piece of shimmering alabaster, engraved across its entirety with exquisite curling calligraphy; the words of the heavenly craftsman. The words were taken from the Verse of Yielding Forgiveness, the lines which Thranador claimed had resounded in his mind as he produced the magnificent artefact in those days long, long past. The abbot must have noticed the young acolyte inspecting the stave. “In time you shall produce your own Masterwork, Zanthamor. You are as skilled a mason as I have ever known, and an Oath Mage of great promise. But no Masterwork was ever crafted without Vulthorn’s guidance, and nor will one be. It is only through Vulthorn’s blessing that we can shape and form the Aether. You will produce no Masterwork with a clouded mind.”

The insinuation was not lost on Zanthamor. No acolyte could receive the Forgemaster’s Sacrement until they produced their Masterwork. Many young initiates far less skilled than him with the chisel, far less learned in their scripture, far less talented in their invocations, had received their robes in the time he had been an acolyte. Yet his Masterwork was yet to reveal itself to him. Why had the heavenly craftsman abandoned him now? Why was it only when he needed his guidance most, that he could no longer find his voice within? Talent would get him only so far. Unless he could free himself of this… distraction, he’d never earn his robes. He grasped his chisel.

With a prolonged sigh, Thranador rested a leathery palm atop the acolyte’s hand, lowering his tool back to the bench. “Not in anger, Zanthamor. You know that well enough. Leave your tools. Go to the library. Put your mind to something else. Search the scriptures. Vulthorn speaks to us through all we craft, but if you cannot hear him through the stone and steel… then find him in the scriptures.”

Zanthamor nodded dutifully. Perhaps his old master would be right.

– – –

The edges of the dream faded as his lids drifted open. The shouts, the fear, the iron stench of blood; they all turned to smoke in his mind as reality returned, and Zanthamor took stock of his surroundings. He wasn’t in the bunk room. He wasn’t even lying down, he was curled over. Something was stuck to his face. Parchment. Zanthamor groaned. He straightened his back, lifting his head off the desk in front of him. The great stone table was strewn with scrolls, tomes and letters. The library was gloomy, but no torches illuminated the towering stone shelves of the room’s lofty corridors. Light was drifting from the far end of the corridor, shifting lightly through a window. The ashen luminescence of a mountain sunrise. Zanthamor groaned again, rubbing his eyes. I’ve been here… all night. He inspected the piles of parchment that sat before him. To one side he’d gathered a collection of prayers and scriptures. The Litany of Perseverance, The Verse of Yielding Forgiveness, The Prayer to Archangel Lapriamor, even the Forge Tome itself. He’d started his reading with these. But the visions hadn’t stopped. He had inspected the teachings till the sun had dipped behind the mountains, but peace had continued to evade him. Sat in a haphazard pile in the desk’s centre was the obscure hoard he must have fallen asleep whilst reading. He remembered plucking them from the shelves by the light of a torch, scouring the library’s highest recesses for anything that might help. He’d spent the midnight hours dissecting some of the monastery’s most recondite histories and treatises, copied and written by monks and scribes centuries past. Some of the books had been caked in dust almost as thick as their covers. He had begun with the chronicles, and slowly made his way onto the more arcane. A History of Conflicts on the Continent of Besol, The War of Defiance, The Crusades of Dakhan Adadi, Visions in Flames, The Days of Drachens Vol III: The Legend of the Scaled Soldier, On The Mighty Eightfold Relics, Mastering Aethereal Form, Reading Premonitions, The Propheticum.

The hazy traces of what cryptic lore he’d gleaned swum around his memory. His head felt no clearer this morning, but his research had at least answered one of his most pressing questions; the battle he witnessed was not to be found in any of the annals, not even a passing mention. He was being foolish. Of course it wasn’t. Drachen’s hadn’t existed on the continent of Besol since the time the gods walked the mortal plane, even children knew that. But then… The answer only fastened an even more baleful question in his mind. Was this a vision of a war to come? 

The question lingered in his mind for only a few torturous moments before it was wrenched back out. Zanthamor was dragged back to reality as a long, rumbling intonation resounded through the walls of the library.

The watch horn. A single blast. Wagon departing. Atop the monastery’s highest tower sat the Greyhorn, for which the monastery itself was named. It was an immense instrument carved from the mountain itself, large enough for a man to climb inside. Some said it had been chiselled out from the mountain face by the monastery’s very first clerics, whilst other chronicles claimed it had been here long before the monks arrived. When it sounded, not only would its tone thunder over the mountains, but also through them. From within the monastery, it often sounded like the walls themselves were growling. It could be quite an overwhelming wake up call when it rang out in the middle of the night. Fortunately, the horn was blown only occasionally, typically to signal the departure or the arrival of wagons that hauled supplies up from the distant villages that dusted the mountain’s lowlands. The journey was long and arduous, and it could sometimes be near a moon before a wagon returned; longer if conditions were particularly foul. A second tone echoed through the halls of the monastery. Wagon returning. Wagon… returning? That couldn’t be, there hadn’t been a wagon sent within the past moon, all the clergy were here, in the monastery, there couldn’t possibly be a wagon arriving, unless… When the horn sounded a third time, Zanthamor felt the air snatched from within him. Three blasts. Outsiders approaching. Outsiders? He waited a moment, certain he’d soon hear a fourth tone. But none came. Three blasts. Outsiders approaching. He hastily closed up his tomes and rolled up his scrolls, before rushing out the library and along the corridor, almost sliding on the smooth stone floor as he did. Outsiders were such a rarity they were scarcely worth counting. He’d seen no more than a handful his entire time in the monastery. Mostly they were hopeful initiates, pious souls who’d braved the brutal journey to the mountain’s peak in order to join the fold. He’d heard that in his grandfather’s time the king’s men were known to make the journey, using the monastery as a waypoint as they passed over the High Ivadias, rather than around them, risking the perils of the peak to hopefully halve their journey. Otherwise, he’d once seen an ill advised merchant foolish enough to make the climb, and a peculiar traveller who seemed to be in some haste to be swiftly on his way after having spent the night enjoying the monastery’s spartan hospitality. But beside that, the Greyhorn Monastery was not one to be frequented by guests.

The courtyard was remarkably calm. A number of the clergy had come from their prayers or their tasks, gathering to watch the new arrivals saunter through the open gate. Vulthorn taught that all strong walls must serve to protect, thus each of the monasteries built to honour the heavenly craftsmen were sanctuaries above all things. None were turned away from their doors, even the doors of monasteries as remote as the Greyhorn. A handful of strange figures, hardly dressed for the weather, stayed atop their horses as they were led toward the humble stables. Zanthamor wondered how they’d find the room for even one of the destriers, let alone all of them. The pens were built to house the monastery’s small herd of yaks, and even they were often crammed in the tight confines. Maybe they’d be sleeping in the cold tonight. The riders had wrapped what few thin clothes they wore around them as best they could, concealing as much bare flesh as possible, but their garb was that typical of those dwelling in the Arnak desert; delicate, loose layers designed with the intention of protecting the wearer from blistering heat and itching sand, not icy winds and bitter snow. Some of the travellers had supplemented their robes with furs tossed casually over their shoulders or wrapped around their waists, but for the most part this didn’t seem to have stopped their teeth from chattering or their faces turning a pallid blue. The arrivals spoke Arnak, but in an accent that sounded fast, thick and sharp to Zanthamor’s ears. The Arnak accent. The accent of the cityfolk, not the accent of mountain recluses. He wondered if the clerics of the Greyhorn, with their slow, rumbling drawl, sounded almost painfully tiresome to these strangers. It was sometimes easy to forget, all the way up in the peaks of the High Ivadias, so far from the nation’s heart, that it was not folk like these new arrivals that were the unusual outsiders, but he and his fellow clergy. Whilst the monastery was indeed within the borders of Arnak, the spires of the High Ivadias and the tiny, frigid settlements carved in and around them certainly all felt an entire world away from the red brick pyramids, the endless expanses of golden dunes, and the verdant green palms of the kingdom’s cities.

One of the men had stopped his destrier in the courtyard, separating slightly from his companion’s small caravan. His head was wrapped in a sandy fawn cloth, leaving only his dark green eyes visible. Dark green eyes that were staring right at Zanthamor, almost burning into him. It wasn’t the stare of a curious man, but an intent glare. Almost angry. Almost fearful. Zanthamor shifted slightly as he felt the man’s eyes crawl under his skin. Suddenly, as if snapping himself from a trance, the man averted his gaze. Kicking a heel into his mount, he trotted off to rejoin his part as they were led to the stables. His eyes hung in Zanthamor’s mind after he had gone, staring, inspecting, questioning.

 Long after the arrivals had left the courtyard, and the other clerics had returned to their duties, Zanthamor remained where he stood, the cold air of the yard whipping around him. Something about that man’s glare still sent shivers down his spine, shivers that not even the frigid air could evoke. The bell sounded, ringing out across the monastery’s stone walls. It was time for evening prayer.

As the brothers and sisters had gathered in the temple, Zanthamor had failed to quiet his mind. Not only did he find the shadows of his dream lingering, but he was also tortured by the uncomfortable presence of those stern green eyes, refusing to cease piercing his concentration even after the arrivals had been shown to a spare dormitory. As he rose from his knees after the final prayer, no sense of relief or clarity had found him. Perhaps the clouds were even denser than before. He had agonised over his next decision, but there was truly only one thing for it. He needed guidance. And thus he found himself now hovering outside of Abbot Thranador’s sanctum, his hand lingering above the ornate stone knocker, carved into the shape of two crossed mallets. With a sharp breath, he raised the mallets, and let them drop gently against the towering doors. The thump echoed into silence. Perhaps the abbot was elsewhere? Zanthamor was turning on his heels to return to the workshop when the abbot’s voice resounded from behind the door.

“Enter,” he instructed. With another deep breath, Zanthamor turned heaved the door, wincing as it scraped against the floor.

Thranador rolled up the scroll he was inspecting and ushered Zanthamor toward him. “And to what do I owe this pleasure, my good attendant?”

Zanthamor bowed his head before addressing the abbot. “I come asking for your guidance, father. I’m struggling to find the path that Vulthorn has paved ahead of me.”

Thranador’s thick brow wrinkled, concealing his already tiny, beady eyes even more so. “And it is of course my duty to help you find this path, Zanthamor. But I hope this does not pertain to your dream. I have spent enough breath on this. I made myself quite clear, I had hoped.” Thranador extended an arm to the seat beside him.

With a sigh, Zanthamor lowered himself down alongside the abbot. “I worry, father. I worry that I am searching the horizon so intently for a message that I am ignoring the one that has landed at my feet.” The abbot continued to frown, but said nothing. “Is it not unheard of for the gods to speak to us in our dreams?” continued Zanthamor. “I am sorry, I truly am, I do not wish to squander the time you generously grant me, nor abuse your patience, but I cannot keep this within.”

Thranador rested an immense hand on Zanthanmor’s shoulder. “Speak then. Clear your mind, and then we shall let this be the last of it.”

With a weak yet grateful smile, Zanthamor went on. “I cannot help but think… What if this dream is more? It feels like so much more. It feels as If I am there. The people, the place, the sights and the sounds. They are unfamiliar, yet I feel as if I know them. I do not believe I am seeing a vision of the past. It cannot be a scene from any of the wars I know. Could it be the future I am seeing? Perhaps… being shown to me? Could the heavenly craftsman be showing me such a vision?”

Silence loomed in the air as Thranador rested his heavy chin on his knuckles. “It is possible,” he eventually replied. “The scriptures speak of such messages. Ask yourself, what if this is a vision of the future? What then?”

Zanthamor looked uncomfortable at the abbot. He knew what he had to say, but knew even more so how much it would pain him to say it. But if now was his only chance to share his thoughts, then he had no choice. “Each night the dream ends in terror I cannot describe, cannot understand. This terror… It cannot come to pass. What if it falls to me to change it? What if my path leads out of the monastery, father? Many leave, do they not? Brother Sithnor left to preach in Seba, and Sister Maloora upholds Vulthorn’s word with stone and steel in the borderlands. Perhaps there is something to this conflict I see. Suppose that war does come, Vulthorn’s hammer is a mighty tool, but it is just as fearsome of a weapon.”

“A weapon?” Thranador stroked his chin. “That it can be, indeed. Resilience. Perseverance. Dedication. Protecting those who labour and toil to forge a better world. These are the precepts of Vulthorn, the precepts of our order.  But these are nothing without settlements built on firm foundations. Yes, the heavenly craftsman is not without his enemies. Those who seek to exploit the toil of others. Those who seek to use his gifts of artistry to spread shadow and sow discord. Those who seek to tear down that which protects and shelters. War breeds many folk like these.

“And yes, our order has forged Oath Mages that use their talents to maintain the precepts through combat; Sister Maloora, for one. But she had trained with weapons of warcraft since her very first days. We all knew this would be Vulthorn’s wish for her, long before he revealed her Masterwork to be her fearsome mace. You are one of our finest masons, Zanthamor. Look not at the murky visions of what could be and look to the clarity of what is. The strength of our new gates are thanks to your hand. The resilience of our walls. The beauty of our halls. If war visits our land again, we will need tools. We will need bricks, mortar, stone and steel. Above all, we will need craftsmen like you. You are wise enough to know why you are my attendant, Zanthamor. I will not last as long as these walls. Greyhorn will need a new abbot when I pass on to the great forge beyond.”

Zanahtmor’s eyes widened. “Abbot? But…” The words escaped him. “I’m already into my second century, and I still haven’t even crafted my Masterwork. There are plenty more capable than I, more deserving than I, more-”

“In the time of the last war,” interjected Thranador with a raised palm, “your grandfather helped build the Tebtai Wall. As the war drew to a close, he had yet to craft his Masterwork. He was in his third century. In the final days of conflict, the heavenly craftsman spoke to him. Your grandfather spent day and night, tirelessly following the guidance of Vulthorn. When he left the workshop, he left with a mallet and chisel crafted from solid black marble. They were a sight to behold, Zanthamor, truly. Vulthorn had chosen him to build, and build he did. In our day the Tebtai Empire has grown insular, their leaders cruel. They have traded wisdom for knowledge, and wouldn’t deign now to admit that their greatest achievement relied on the work of those outside their sprawling Empire. Yes, their science helped them design those mighty walls, but it was thanks to our order that they were crafted. Thanks to your grandfather.” Supporting himself on his staff, the old abbot rose from his chair. “Vulthorn’s hammer is indeed both a mighty tool and a fearsome weapon. But it cannot at once be both. We cannot create whilst we destroy. Fire and water come not together.”

Zanthamor’s head sunk into his hands. “I’m lost, father. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what the heavenly craftsman wants of me.”

“And what can you be certain of?” asked Thranador.

Zanthamor gazed up, his eyes tight and painful. “War, father. I am certain of this war. I have seen it clear as day.”

The abbot began to shuffle towards the door. Zanthamor rose to stroll beside him. “If it were my choice, Zanthamor, I would have you here. You could train generations of masons. You have the patience, you have the skill, you have the piety. A great many creations could be born from your tutelage; hammers to build and hammers to smite. But it is not my choice. It is for the heavenly craftsman to decide what he wants of you. I am but a hand that points to the path, I do not dictate its direction. You may listen to my voice, but it is the voice of Vulthorn that you must heed. And,” he continued, striking his staff against the ground for emphasis, “the heavenly craftsman’s voice is strongest when you are working. By the time your Masterwork is complete, you will know exactly what he wants of you. Of that, I am certain.” Thranador paused before the doorway and turned to look at Zanthamor. “Come now, child. Let us leave it at that. The cooks have been toiling hard. Let us not leave our guests waiting. For now, your Masterwork can wait. No good wright labours on an empty stomach.”

Zanthamor watched the abbot stroll out the door of his chamber and into the wide stone corridors of the monastery. He had a great deal to consider.

The refectory was unusually animated that evening. It was astounding just how much sound and movement could be brought to the typically inert atmosphere by just a handful of outsiders. Normally Zanthamor might have spent his meal in silent reflection, if not quietly theorising with a fellow cleric on the heavenly smith’s word, or perhaps joining a discussion on various masonry techniques. But today was different, today he hung off every word the new arrivals spoke. They had been seated on the central table, opposite Thanador; a revered position for guests. As Thanador’s attendant, it was Zanthamor’s privilege to sit beside the abbot and serve him his food. Today, this honour had an additional benefit; being able to indulge in the riveting conversation of their visitors. They were a strange sight among the monastery folk. They were an explosion of sound and colour. Their leathers rustled and their loose robes and capes flapped around them as they shifted and jostled one another in good humour. Many still wore their furs, and a few had kept their headscarves concealing their mouths and noses. Even with the fires burning in the hearths, the refectory, with its glistening stone carved from the mountain, must have felt quite icy to them. The travellers shared that they were taking the same route as the old King’s men had all those generations ago; taking the daring path over the mountains to reach Seba, Arnak’s capital. Although they themselves had avoided the topic, Zanthmor noticed they too were pious folk. Each bore the insignia of Chansa, god of justice, fate, and fortune; three squares arranged in a triangle. Some had the god’s mark tattooed in an inconspicuous place; inside the palm or behind the ear, whereas others wore minute rings that bore the symbol. Zanthamor wondered if anyone else had noticed. Likely not, given how riveting the tales of the groups’ journey were proving to be. Perhaps this was what bound their group. Perhaps they were wandering missionaries. Unlikely. Wandering missionaries didn’t tend to be so well armed. The man Zanthamor presumed was their leader, a short man with fiery eyes and a pointed black beard, was currently halfway through the riveting tale of the journey thus far. He relished detailing every peril they faced, every beast they had bested, every obstacle they had overcome. He’d get roughly halfway through each sentence before one of his peers would interject, each loudly adding their own details, arguing over which of them exactly had been responsible for each success. They all clambered over one another to join the boasting. All, save one; the green eyed man from before. He still wore his scarf around his head, sharing nothing but his gaze. Zanthamor often glanced across the table to find the man’s eyes once again piercing him. 

A parade of solemn clerics strode into the hall, bringing with them steaming bowls. Today was mutton stew with a thick heel of bread. Zanthamor licked his lips as the bowls were laid down upon the tables. The visitors watched awkwardly as the clerics bowed their heads, and muttered a prayer of thanks. They thanked the heavenly craftsman for aiding mortals in crafting the bowl, in crafting the spoon, in crafting the stove within which the food was cooked, the knife, the cauldron, the cup. Before diving into his food, Zanthamor checked to see if the abbot required more wine, and dutifully filled his cup. Zanthamor raised his spoon to his mouth, blowing gently on the stew. The green eyes caught him. Zanthamor nearly dropped his spoon. The green eyed man had unwound the cloth that concealed his head in order to eat. Zanthamor stared at the face beneath in horror and amazement. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognised him before. He seemed younger, and somehow more retiring. But it was him. It was him from the dream. The ally upon the battlefield. Could it be? The man in the dream wore shimmering gold and flowing robes, but this man before him was clad in boiled leathers and a humble linen mantle; tattered, stained and frayed at its edges. But no, it was him. His face was unmistakable; a broad face with an angular jaw, coated with a sharp goatee. His eyebrows slanted upward violently, forming a deep ‘v’ atop his forehead. Was this why he was staring so intently? Had he recognised Zanthamor too?

Each time Zanthamor’s gaze met that of the stranger, he’d be reminded of slivers of his ominous dream. Flashes of the battlefield would jolt into his mind. The screams, the carnage, the fear. His taste for adventure, this conviction spurred by the vision previously, was evaporating. In his dreams, this man had felt like an ally, a friend even, but now Zanthamor was not so sure. Doubts began to fester in the back of his mind. Surely nothing good would come from this stranger. Surely nothing good would come from leaving the High Ivadias. His place was here in the monastery. Wasn’t it? Was Thranador not right? Was he not always right? Unease crawled through his stomach like maggots through cheese. The sounds and scents of the refectory faded around him as he became swallowed by his thoughts. What was the purpose of this vision? What was this message? Was the heavenly craftsman calling upon him, or warning him? He plied his memory for the secrets and lore he had uncovered in the library, but nothing dispelled the cloud. In his dreams he saw something, he saw it clear as day – but how could he ever dissect the meaning of such an obfuscated message? This was foolishness. The green eyed man was just a curious stranger. He was neither friend nor foe. He was just a traveller. 

 By the time the bowls were cleared, Zanthamor had managed to eat but a thimble of his broth. He hurriedly excused himself, and rushed down the corridors to the workshop. Tomorrow morning the strangers would leave, setting out to cross the mountain, and the green eyed man would be gone. The dream would be gone. Things would be as they were.

The sun had long since set by the time Zanthamor settled himself into his work. He heaved a hunk of grey basalt onto his bench, and took up his hammer and chisel. He closed his eyes and began chiselling away at the slab in front of him. I need you now, Lord, he prayed. Guide my hand, I beg. His chisel struck the rock, and he began. One hit followed another. The grooves slowly found themselves, the lines forming as they always did. Zanthamor let go, trying to follow the shape as it allowed itself to be created. A flash came to his mind. The waste. The screams. His chisel slipped. He heard a shard of stone come loose and bounce across the floor. He squeezed his eyes tighter. He steadied his hands. But the flashes came again. Fire. Steel. Green eyes. He kept striking his chisel, stroke after stroke, straining his concentration, straining hard as he could to focus on nothing at all, to focus on pushing these visions from his mind. A verse from the scriptures drifted into his awareness.

Know that fire and water come not together, for one consumes the other.

He struck the stone again.

The leathery wings above flashed behind his eyes.

But through the strength of stone and steel, great works can rise that resist all elements.

The basalt let out mighty snaps as it began to crack.

The stench of burning flesh returned to his memory.

Let the fire of the forge be hot, let the water in which you quench your blades be cool.

Chips of stone flew out with each strike of the chisel.

The figure, hovering in the air.

Let you find balance, let your works be a reflection of the gifts I have bestowed upon you.

What started as light taps of his mallet soon became mighty heaves.

The great weapon in his hands.

Let your works be a testament to the power of resilience, dedication and zeal.

He brought his mallet up, way above his head.

The icy grip on his gut.

Let your swords be sharp and your walls be tall, for in them lies the strength to protect and defend.

Cracks echoed through the workshop as the basalt surrendered.

The green eyes of a friend.

Do not squander the powers of stone and steel.

He could feel the shape emerging, giving way to his chisel.

The power.

Let your hammers be strong, and your hearts stronger. In imbalance lies destruction. Fire and water come not together.

The hammer came down, again and again. The stone moved to welcome the chisel.

The power to change it.

Raise your tools, my children. Lay the foundations for a world made better. May your hands craft the path to righteousness.

His hammer rested.

The silence.

Slowly, Zanthamor opened his eyes. The first fragment of the early morning was creeping up the horizon, bathing the room in a gentle glow. Around him, the floor was strewn with shards of basalt. He looked to his bench… and he knew. Lying before him was the stone head of a warhammer, intricate grooves cradling it. Protruding from the mighty head was a solid stone handle, almost as long as Zanthamor was tall. As he delicately lifted the work off the bench, he found it light as air. The stone glimmered slightly in his palms, gentle motes of wan light shifting through the grooves. The clouds shifted from the mountain tops as brilliant, pale morning illuminated the sky. The air was clear. He knew. He knew exactly what Vulthorn wanted of him.

The courtyard was bathed in the frosty glow of the early morning. The peaks of the High Ivadias glimmered silver in dawn’s new light. The bell for first prayers was yet to ring, all the clerics would still be abed, yet the courtyard was bubbling with hushed activity. Horses whickered as they were led from the stables, and their riders wrapped their cloaks and furs tight around themselves as they prepared for their onerous journey. Sharp commands were whispered in barbed accents. Zanthamor watched from the steps leading out from the great hall. It was time. He strode hesitantly down toward them, as one of the travellers was slowly shifting the main gate open, a mound of fresh snow forming on one side of the heavy stone door as it scraped along the ground. Among the figures, Zanthamor made out the one he was looking for. The green eyed man was already atop his steed, watching Zanthamor intently as he approached, all the while patting the destrier’s neck as it shuffled around the yard. Zanthamor stopped a few feet away from the man and his mount. The green eyed man unwound the scarf from his face, and gazed down at the cleric.

“You’ve seen it too,” spoke the man –  a statement rather than a question. Zanthamor’s eyes widened. So it is. He has witnessed it. He nodded. “I am Chuli Ra’an,” continued the green eyed stranger. As he spoke, he lifted a palm over his mouth, and then opened it to the side, as if miming the removal of a covering from the face. A greeting.

“Zanthamor,” replied the monk, bowing gently.

“Well met, Zanthamor. I had wondered where I might find you.” His guttural, lilting accent shortened Zanthamor’s name where it was once long, and lengthened it where it was once short. “You’ve changed your robes,” added Chuli, inspecting Zanthamor’s garb.

“Indeed.” This morning he did not wear the simple beige habit of an acolyte, but the slate grey robe, accented with strands of gold and green, of a priest of Vulthorn. “You are men of faith too, I see,” he said, his eyes caught by the pendant that hung from Chuli’s neck; Chansa’s triangle cast in a dull gold.

“In our own way,” replied Chuli. He quickly cast his eyes around him, as if looking for eavesdroppers. “My companions and I uphold certain precepts wherever they are neglected. You might find that justice has become something of a forgotten doctrine in the cities of Arnak. Very few people seem to recall the old teachings; it falls to us to remind them. Although some of our band,” he continued, with a smirk, “are more pious than others.”

One phrase of the traveller’s had clung to Zanthamor’s attention. “The cities of Arnak… Is that where we shall go?” asked Zanthamor.

“My companions make tracks for Seba. We shall join them for the descent, but then you and I have other matters to attend to. Chansa has been good enough to weave fate that I may find you by fortune alone. Believe it or not, I neither intended nor expected to meet you here. I had never thought to see remnants of those visions in my waking days… But now that I have…” He trailed off. Zanthamor knew what would come next. He felt the same. “Now I know my vision is more than just the fantasy of a wandering mind. So now I know there is someone else we must find.”

Someone else? The name came to him suddenly, roared in his mind’s ear. “Kutchem…”

Chuli nodded. “Do you have a steed?” he inquired.

“I could fetch a yak.”

“Wise. We have a long trek ahead of us. And I see you bring Resilience. Wise also. She appears even mightier than in the visions,” he added, with a wry smile.

Zanthamor stared at him blankly. Was this some part of the dream he wasn’t privy to? Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps they hadn’t shared the same dream at all… Were they just two crazed men, seeing shadows dance on the wall and thinking them spirits? No. There was something to the dream. He was certain. Something he could not yet fathom, but something very real nonetheless.

Chuli extended a finger to point at the warhammer slung over Zanthamor’s back. “Resilience. The hammer. This is what you call her… in my visions.”

Resilience, thought Zanthamor, slipping the weapon’s strap over his head and taking the warhammer in both hands, holding it in front of him for another inspection. It was true what they said about Masterworks; although forged by mortal hands, the traces of the divine within them were plain to see. Resilience. He hadn’t considered giving the work a name yet. But this one would fit. Resilience.

“Far more impressive than anything I carry,” continued Chuli, gesturing to the battered steel glaive that he wore tossed over his back. It was a far cry from the glamour of the weapon he wielded in the dream. “How long have you been fighting with it?” asked Chuli. Zanthanmor baulked. Fighting? He almost wanted to laugh. His gaze shifted between his weapon, then back to Chuli as his mouth drifted open, failing to find the right words. The traveller’s eyes narrowed. “I see…” he continued, as if he had read Zanthamor’s mind. “Well, do you know how to use it?” he asked with a frown.

“No,” admitted Zanthamor. There was no use in lying. Of course he didn’t. That much was plain by looking at him, surely. He’d never wielded a weapon in his life. “I don’t.”

Chuli’s smile creased his chin once more. “Not yet.”

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