4 years ago...

Penumbra Knights: Chapter One


Zharvir Muskadett strode purposefully towards his former master’s chamber. The golden halls of the Sanctum Arcanum were dark this early in the day. He had not been up this early since his apprenticeship ended six months ago. Sarthor had sent three urgent messages to him in the last week, punctuated by a very loud and angry spell-image sent to his bedchamber just ten minutes ago.

The man wanted to make sure Zharvir appeared at the appointed time. There was no doubt that whatever Sarthor needed so badly, it was worth making a now-equal member of the Penumbra Arcana very angry at him. Still, Zharvir owed Sarthor everything. Not only did the man teach him everything he knew about magic, but he also taught Zharvir the secret of creating a white spellblade, a status symbol that has brought him much prestige thus far.

His father had been a member of the Penumbra, and had lived and died at a time when Amnestra was surrounded for hundreds of miles by a wintry wasteland. There were no outside cultures to manage, no other gods to deal with, nothing but the pursuit of magical superiority. His generation didn’t have to deal with modern issues like re-chaining the Spellbatteries, struggling against the Ebony Order of Shade, or containing the effects of the Charlie-Crenshar War. But Lord Roscoe had decided it was time to rejoin the rest of the world, and so it was done.

Well, reminiscing on the lessons learned these last few years would have to wait. He was here. Standing in front of the door, he knocked once, then four times, then once again. The door swung open.

Sarthor’s lab had a large, vaulted ceiling. Posters of arcane and scholarly importance covered all the walls. A large stone slab in the middle of the room was currently being occupied by a large circular distortion of purple energy. Sarthor himself was nearby, throwing various components from a nearby table into the vortex. Another figure leaned with arms crossed against a nearby wall. The black hooded cloak and the sharp-clawed golden gauntlets gave away his identity as a cleric of Lord Roscoe.

“About time, boy,” grumbled Sarthor. “We received a tip from an informant that there was to be an important meeting very soon. The viewing portal is almost complete. I need assistance. Take your place and keep a close eye on what is happening.”

Zharvir took his usual place nearby the portal. Simple scrying spells didn’t work to pierce the protections the Ebony Order put up, so Sarthor had come up with the idea to use a modification of the Gate spell opened to the specific location for spying. The problem was making it invisible and impassable from the other side. These edits made the spell much more cumbersome to cast, and thus when needed, Sarthor spent all night perfecting it.

Sarthor said three final words, and the image became crystal clear. Two men in shimmering black robes sit down at a table with a long silver wand.

“It’s about time we get started, Grohm.”

“Agreed. I will start at once.”

The second one, called Grohm by the other, picks up the wand. He points it at the wall and utters a single word. A blue portal opens, and out steps two figures. They couldn’t be called men, as no flesh adorned their bones. Brown robes seem haphazardly thrown over the bare bones, their hoods thrown back to reveal skulls with tiny points of light.

“Thank you for inviting us to this meeting, gentleman,” said one of the skeletons.

Grohm stood up. “We welcome the opportunity to form a stronger bond with the nation of Five Peaks.”

Zharvir’s hand went to his spellblade, hanging on his belt. All it would take is one sweeping strike, and he could take out at least two of them. If he leapt through the portal, he was certain all would be dead before they could realize what was happening.

The second skeleton turns his head to stare directly at the portal.

“We are not alone. Dispelu magion!"

The purple mass started to unravel. Sarthor groaned in pain even while throwing a vial of potion into the increasingly chaotic expanding mass of unstable magic. Zharvir had no access to any magic that would stop this, so he simply cast a protective spell over Sarthor.

The cleric, who up to this point had neither revealed his face nor spoken, reached one of his golden clawed gauntlets into the swirls of chaos. The entire conflagration evaporated. Swallowing his amazement, Zharvir helped the old mage off the floor.

“Thank you, son. Obviously, we’ve underestimated this entire situation.”

“Clearly. We should call an assembly and make everyone aware of this threat.”

Sarthor smiled, and looked over at the cleric. The man threw back his hood to reveal a human face, short brown hair and a fair complexion. His features then shifted to that of a silver-skinned elf with long blue hair. Zharvir fell to his knees immediately.

“Lord Roscoe, forgive me.”

“It’s no matter, young Muskadett. We must stop these two enemies from joining against us. To that end, I have a task for you.”

Zharvir had no clue why these politics would concern Roscoe Goldenclaws, but there was no doubt in his mind that if Lord Roscoe wanted him to play a part in protecting the strength of Amnestra, he would be doing so.