Chapter 0 | PoV: Omniscient
A whirlwind encircled the caravan, traveling from the royal capital. The cavalcade stood alone in a bubble of safety, only two dozen paces away from an all-consuming storm of sand and dirt. The earthen debris whirled in the air, creating a haze impossible to see beyond. A relentless heat assaulted the group in contrast to the darkness, sweat dripped down the necks and foreheads of each member of the caravan, indiscriminate of light dress or shade.
Three mages sat hunkered down in a covered wagon, ornate-ended staves glowing with the use of magic. They bumped and swayed as the wheels turned on rocks, sand, and gravel. The mages uttered no words, not even for magical incantations. They simply stared at the floor of the wagon, solemn . . . tired, and wholly focused on their silent magic.
One mage kept the heat in check, making it just bearable for the individuals moving with the caravan.
The second mage repelled the winds, allowing the group to traverse through a normally impassable wasteland.
The third mage hastened the passing of time in and around the caravan, speeding up the traveling.
Together, they allowed for the movement between civilizations.
“We're almost to the Grand Spires!” The wayfinder shouted from the driver’s seat of the caravan. Beneath the howling winds, his voice—only faintly—reached the mages’ ears. An expensive lantern sat next to the wayfinder, illuminating the path. Each wagon had a lantern at the front and one hanging off the back. Inside, horizontal vines of fruit glowed instead of candles flickering.
There were two more direct routes to their destination city. Yet, neither of those had any opportunities for the mages to rest. For some reason, the caravan had only one of each of the mage types accompanying it, so the travelers had opted for a slightly longer route in exchange for a much needed break, lest they overwork the mages.
The wayfinder daydreamed about the Grand Spires—massive rock formations that encircled and occupied a deep, traversable canyon, offering some respite from the heat and winds without abusing their precious mages. Mages whose time ticked away.
The thermal mage's fever raged. He breathed in and out, gasping for air. With a free hand, he wiped away the sweat trickling down his brow.
The aeolian mage did not breathe, and yet, they had too much air. Their chest threatened to arrest them. Their vision wobbled.
The temporal mage held up a free hand and coughed, blood splattered her robes. She could feel the reaches of her life crawling ever closer. Instead of her free hand going back to a resting position, she flicked open the locket at the end of her necklace. The temporal mage wanted to cry. Conflicted emotions raged within her worse than the storm around her.
The mages could not stop their tasks, lest the caravan be overcome by the howling doom just beyond them, swept away, never to be seen again. Yet, they had signed their fates before the journey had even begun. They might very well end up cast aside by the winds.
The Grand Spires meant the caravan could rest for as long as their provisions allowed, before continuing on to their destination.
The thermal and the aeolian mages both doubted they would arrive . . . and yet, with such precious cargo, failure was not an option.
They did not know the world was against them.
Many caravans before had made this trek—most even succeeded . . .
This one wouldn't.
At the front of the caravan, tall spires of rock jutted out from either side of the path. The land began to dip into the canyon.
The wind screamed. The rocks groaned.
A spire broke near its base, sensing it crashing down onto the caravan’s path—and the only easy entrance into the canyon for leagues.
The wayfinder cursed. He urged his camels to stop. The hooves and wagon wheels came to a halt.
Multiple guards shouted.
“Now . . . What on Heliux's dried-up hellscape do we do about this?” The wayfinder cried out.
Four guardsmen rushed forward. The rock completely blocked passage by wheel or camel. Nobody could afford continuing on foot.
It would take precious hours to clear up these rocks with shovels. Unless . . .
A haggard man with a cloak stepped out from the middle wagon and slowly moved towards the front.
Cries of protest rang out from the guards at such a precious and weak individual doing anything extra. The mages too, could be considered a part of the cargo. Damages—like from any extra strain—would not be tolerated. Despite this, the guards did not dare lay a finger on the mage in any sort of restraining manner. They didn't want to get on any mage's bad sides.
The thermal mage set his sights on the rocks in their path. He aimed his staff and chanted a spell, the rocks began to melt.
The camels complained and stepped away from the creeping lava.
“Everyone! Back!” The wayfinder exclaimed, urging his camels back.
The guardsmen stumbled back.
Soon, the molten rock in their way hugged the sandy floor, expanding along and flattening out so wagon wheels could move over it if it solidified.
The thermal mage let out a brief content sigh as his body temperature plummeted. The tips of his fingers turned black, frostbite threatening to ravage his digits. It wouldn't last. The addition of heat used his body for fuel.
The thermal mage cooled the rock, letting it turn back into stone. With that exchange of heat done, his fever came back. His head pounded and throbbed. His fingers, freezing just seconds ago, now burned.
Out of energy, he dropped to the ground. His staff slipped from his hand and clattered. His hand stumbled to grasp it.
The heat around the caravan swelled like from the depths of Hell before the thermal mage gained control of it again.
“Forward!” The wayfinder shouted. “No time to lose!”
The guardsmen helped the thermal mage back up, and, after failing to walk, completely picked him off the ground and carried him back to the wagon.
The thermal mage grabbed the canteen of precious water he had left in the wagon and drank a much needed sip. It did little to aid his parched throat. He thirsted for more, yet it needed to last much longer.
In the caravan, a conflicted temporal mage was left with a difficult choice.
The caravan was close to entering the canyon. Did she let them all perish or continue forward? Would the three of them be able to hold back nature’s wrath for long enough to reach their ultimate destination?
The temporal mage clutched the end of her necklace—a locket. Inside rested a picture of someone she'd never see again.
Someone she could save.
Her fingers pressed tighter around the locket, holding it closer.
Those evil men . . .
Did she have to commit treason? The caravan was doomed. She could sit and do nothing and yet they would probably agree that she had finished the job once they realized the caravan would never arrive.
Better to be safe than sorry?
She dropped the temporal bubble around the caravan. The winds picked up speed.
Someone noticed. “Aye! Do your job!”
The temporal mage frowned. She was—just a different one.
She moved temporal bubbles to on top of her fellow mages.
She held her staff high and bludgeoned them. She swung it overhead with the remnants of her might onto the thermal mage. Then she repeated with the aeolian mage. In a few precious moments, both the thermal mage and the aeolian mage bled out their lifeless meat sacks inside the covered wagon. The extent of the carnage needn’t be described.
“What's going on in th—!” a panicked voice said from outside.
Without anyone to hold back the shredding winds or the relentless heat, the forces consumed the caravan.