II - Under Watchful Eye

[Liandrix]

Liandrix sat on a tree one of their conjured creatures had felled, framed between Derreck and Falen. His arm was wrapped in a sling, made from his own robe which was torn at the bottom as well as several other places; it still throbbed and a painful spike shot up his shoulder now and then.

Derreck and Falen seemed no better off. Falen was staring at the ground while he had both arms firmly wrapped around his stomach he had emptied violently after being pulled out of the midst of his own creation. His entire robe was fringed at its outline making him look like an old treasure map.

Derreck sported so many bruises and scratches that it looked like he had been fighting with a mountain lion. After Liandrix had been revived Wald had strolled out into the darkness and had returned with a limping Derreck at his side by means of teleportation.

Hovering above them all was Wald himself. He was standing with his back to the three boys and his arms neatly folded, looking out into the darkness. None of them dared to make a sound, let alone ask him what he was waiting for. He had simply told the three of them to wait. Liandrix wondered what was going on with Wald. He had clearly used advanced arcane magic, that and the impressive posture he stood in belied the confused and erratic old man Liandrix had been living with the past weeks.

There was an unnatural woosh in the air and Liandrix spotted a small figure, wobbling over to where they sat. Cohlien Frostweaver looked at the three of them, and then up at the tall form of Wald who was smiling kindly at the Gnome.

“Ah! A fine evening to you, Master Frostweaver. I take it my message found you well?” His voice was gentle, and steady; Liandrix had never heard him talk like that before.

“Quite so, but it explained little,” Cohlien said scornfully. “What happened, then?”

Wald slowly turned his ancient looking head and gazed at the three boys. “It appears your apprentices tried their hand at Voodoo.”

Cohlien looked around the site for the first time, his eyes grazing the carnage around him, the spells drawn into the sand and the injuries Liandrix Falen and Derreck had sustained. “Tried would be a poor description,” he said, and Wald chuckled.

“All right you three, get up. We’re going home and when we’re there you may be granted the chance to explain your poor spell making.”

Wald reached down and gently laid a hand on Cohlien’s shoulder. “If I may, Master Frostweaver, I would speak to your student before he returns,” he said, and looked up at Liandrix.

The gnome looked up at the old man and nodded, before joining Falen and Derreck who were both straining just to get on their feet. When Cohlien had teleported them away from the site Liandrix, still seated on the fallen tree, looked up at Wald. He felt oddly small under his mysterious gaze. He also felt extremely vulnerable at the moment.

“Well my dear Liandrix, it is time we got on our own way,”

It took Liandrix a moment to digest what he had just heard, and when he had he shot to his feet. Blinking back the darkness that bloomed in his vision by rising so fast he struggled to find the proper words to voice his surprise.

“But you … I … you … you know my name!”

Wald frowned, a pleasant smile on his face. He unfolded his hands. “Why of course, why ever would I not my dear boy?”

Liandrix started forwards but suddenly tripped over something and fell to the ground. He trust out his working arm and it met with wood. A Sharp pain shot through wounded shoulder again. Liandrix lay face down on a surface of unpainted and old but dry wood, a beautiful pattern of triangular cut oak, varnished enough to reflect his image. Liandrix raised his head. Wald was still standing in front of him, but the forest had vanished, to be replaced by what seemed to be a study of some kind. Looking behind him he saw that he had tripped over a pile of books that now lay scattered on the floor.

The room itself was round and filled with scrolls, books, and small bedside tables that bore inkpots. There was a fireplace with stone carvings on the mantle in unrecognisable shapes; an ornamental stave hung on the wall above a bed so richly clad it seemed fit for a king. The stave had a purple crystal on the tip, which glowed dimly in the light of the burning candles scattered around the room, except the light was not the usual flickering yellow but instead icy blue and sharp as glass.

“How did we … where are … what is this place?” Liandrix scrambled to his feet again.

Wald was still smiling, clearly enjoying himself. “Why, this is my … well not my quarter; I obviously live with you. And please forgive me about the books; I had forgotten I left some on the floor.”

Wald suddenly frowned and flicked a finger in the air. “Ah yes, and your first question,” he said as he looked happy that he had remembered. “We teleported here.”

Liandrix strained to put the questions that thundered through his mind in order. “It’s … that’s not possible. Galmeth’s third law on teleportation of matter beyond the own host of magic that initiatively transports indicates a need of a connection between the host and the transported matter!” Liandrix blurted out.

Wald slowly shook his head, smiling with a hint of sorrow. “So much yet to learn, Liandrix of Stratholme.”

Liandrix looked straight into Wald’s eyes, and they suddenly showed much more than confusion and merit. It was like gazing into a spell book of both wondrously powerful and terribly perilous magic. There was more hidden in those dark orbs of his than he dared imagine. He wished he could look away.

“Who are you?” His voice shook.

Wald suddenly smiled a wicked smile. “That,” he said in a strong voice, deeper and steadier, “you already know.” The voice was so powerful now that it seemed to press in on Liandrix’ ears, and he was astonished that it did not make the windows rattle.

Liandrix felt as if he had somehow gotten in deeper trouble than he was an hour ago and suddenly he craved for the simple anxiety of being chased by a magical creature. This was different. This was dangerous. This man was dangerous.

Wald extended a hand, shrugging it out of the long sleeve of his plain, old robe and put it to his own chest where he grabbed the filthy garment and pulled it forcefully away. But instead of ripping it to shreds he simply cast it aside as he would a cloak; and instead of dropping to the floor, it vanished. The robe that was now visible made Liandrix’ knees buckle.

The robe was clearly intended to be purple, but it was adorned with so many rich cloth patterns that purple was not the dominant colour. From neck to sleeves to feet the robe was adorned with green leaves encircling magical patterns ornamented in white silk. In the middle of his chest was a sphere of pure spun gold that housed the language of the high elves. It surrounded a mark that Liandrix had so often before seen in the city of Dalaran: it was the golden eye of the Kirin Tor. But not the eye as he had seen countless of times. This eye was embellished with a crossed wand and stave, the sign of an archmage, yet it even surpassed that, for the emblem in the eye was in turn surrounded by two entwined silverleaves in the colour that matches its name.

Liandrix had heard the description of that emblem and the man who bore it only once, and that was enough never to forget that the emblem belonged to the head archmage, the guardian of the Kirin Tor, the leader of all the mages in Dalaran, the most powerful sorcerer in Azeroth …

“… David Spellsword,” Liandrix muttered weakly. “I did … not know that,” he added half-heartedly.

“Oh?” the mage said. “And what was my name as you recall it?”

Liandrix answered automatically. “Verdwald Slopes, and that—“

Liandrix stopped in midsentence and cast his eyes at the ground. Of course: an anagram. Verdwald Slopes spelled Dave Spellsword. How had he not seen that before?

Liandrix looked back up at the old man. “This is a joke. This is some horrible trick you pulled. Did you cook this plan up with Derreck and Falen?”

The old man smiled. “No, though I am glad I found out about the plan you cooked up with Derreck and Falen. Had I not, I might not have been on time.”

Liandrix felt like denying again. It made no sense: the archmage of the Kirin Tor living with him in an old wooden house. But deep down he realised that the facts were undeniable.

“Go to the window,” David Spellsword said gently.

Liandrix moved to one of the golden windows on either side of the bed as if spellbound. It was still dark outside, but Liandrix could tell from the way he could look over the city of Dalaran that they were in the Violet Citadel, and on one of the highest floors as well.

For the past weeks the man he lived with had been the archmage of the Kirin Tor, but had instead acted as a madman, surprising Liandrix with his irrational behaviour almost every day.

Liandrix turned away from the window. “Why?”

“Why what?” the old man said innocently.

“Why are you living in a place like that? Why me? Why did you put me through that ordeal? Why didn’t you reveal who you were?”

“Sit down, Liandrix of Stratholme, and I will tell you everything.”