by Russell Pike
June 24, 2024
Genre: Military fantasy
One spell to change everything. A wizard of immense power, Kryn Darien stands ready to cast the greatest spell he has ever conceived, one that will alter the fate of the universe but cost nothing less than his life. He’s prepared for centuries, forged tools of terrifying arcane might, developed his craft beyond what any other mortal has achieved, and yet the task before him is so monumental his many sacrifices may be in vain.
As a young priest, Kryn never imagined such responsibility would fall to him. He only wished to live a life in service to those he loved. But the world is more complicated than he believed. War, death, loss, and betrayal strain his dedication to the utmost, and his vows will demand a price far more dear than he ever dreamed.
Throughout Kryn’s journey he must survive bloody battlefields, thwart murderous magic wielders, and uncover a secret older than humankind. His life will offer no easy choices, and his enemies are steeped in godlike power. But Kryn has never been able to turn away from those in need, even if it costs him everything. One spell to change everything. A wizard of immense power, Kryn Darien stands ready to cast the greatest spell he has ever conceived, one that will alter the fate of the universe but cost nothing less than his life. He’s prepared for centuries, forged tools of terrifying arcane might, developed his craft beyond what any other mortal has achieved, and yet the task before him is so monumental his many sacrifices may be in vain.
As a young priest, Kryn never imagined such responsibility would fall to him. He only wished to live a life in service to those he loved. But the world is more complicated than he believed. War, death, loss, and betrayal strain his dedication to the utmost, and his vows will demand a price far more dear than he ever dreamed.
How
did a man sign his own epitaph? In his many years of life, Kryn had
never considered the question, and yet, that very task lay before him
now.
Emotion churned through his chest like the eddies of a river, murky guilt, icy dread, gnawing frustration, and at last, a silvery thread of hope. Hope for others but not for himself. Before the sun set, the man known as Kryn Darien would be no more. That much was assured.
There were a hundred possible forms his end might take, each offering its own measure of shame, defeat, and bittersweet victory. Success or failure would decide what portion of each would be his to swallow. Of course, the only true question was whether his countless sacrifices had been in vain. One final gambit would settle it all, and the day to cast the dice had come at last.
He'd spent centuries preparing himself for this very hour, laboring each day until his body ached and his mind was exhausted. Even so, he wished he had another fifty years, perhaps seventy, for more preparations. But it was a vain hope.
A wizard had ways of extending his life, but such magic could only sustain a man for so long. He’d long since wrung those spells out like a wet towel, draining every last drop of power he could squeeze loose.
He’d slowed his aging dramatically, but time’s march could not be halted altogether. After nearly eight hundred years, his body was ancient. The day’s ordeal would have been daunting enough in Kryn’s youth, and century by century, he’d spent his vigor like coin.
Nothing had been wasted. Indeed, every ounce of precious vitality had been exhausted in pursuit of his goal. But after so many long years there was little man left to spend. He felt like a deflated money sack with but a few pennies remaining to rattle about the bottom. What if he’d worked too slowly? Labored in vain to seize a window of opportunity that had closed decades ago? What if in the end he proved too small a sum to surmount his great and final task?
The full gravity of that potential bore down on him, and Kryn felt as though a titan’s hand was squeezing his ribs. For a moment, he struggled to find breath. His hand faltered over the parchment, unable to write anything but useless scratches as the pen shook in his bony fingers. A single tear rolled down his cheek though even he was unsure which of his turbulent emotions had called for weeping. Most likely, it was the loneliness.
Isolation had been his only companion for longer than he cared to remember. Desperate as he was for the warmth of human company, he didn’t dare travel amongst his fellowmen except in direst need, and even then, only in utter secrecy. His enemies were too vigilant, their vengeance too sure for anything less.
Nowhere was truly safe. He'd spent so long glancing over his shoulder, fear was an emotion he knew almost as exquisitely as loneliness. Year by year, decade by decade, the paired burdens had grown in his heart like a spiritual tumor made of chafing thorns and powdered glass. But he would not allow himself to collapse beneath the strain. There was simply too much at stake. So many counted on him, even if they knew it not.
Recounting the years in his mind, it seemed impossible he’d made it so far. He’d never lacked for determination, and through effort he’d developed raw magical talent into something truly formidable, but luck had been on his side as well, at least in part.
One truth was clear. The combination of circumstances which had granted him this chance was less a door and more a freak cosmic oversight, like a fluke in the tides which momentarily exposed the bottom of the sea. He had seen it and seized it, but the opportunity would not come again. Not for him. Not for anyone else. This unique moment in history rested on his shoulders and his alone.
Despite the risks, despite the cost to himself, he’d chosen this path of his own free will. It was he who’d claimed this unnamed mountain in the depths of the frigid northern seas. It was he who’d wielded the mighty spells which had carved a fortress within its icy slopes and he who’d named his citadel the Final Bastion. A stronghold built for one man and to one purpose.
The study in which he now sat lay just beneath the Final Bastion’s peak, hidden below dark slabs of stone and layer upon layer of protective spells. His study was a gloomy place with just enough mage lamps spiraling about the ceiling to cast the room in a dim violet glow. The cramped space between the smooth stone walls was barely large enough for his chair, his desk, and the woolen rug he used to keep his aged feet warm.
Even so, it was one of the few places within the Final Bastion he felt at ease, or at least, as close to ease as he ever came. Any lower, and he’d sense the magical monstrosity lurking in the fortress’s heart, hear the pulse of power humming through the Final Bastion’s walls like the vibrations of a plucked piano wire. The fact said artifact was his own creation offered no comfort. That it represented the sum of his purpose, even less.
And yet that purpose must be fulfilled. He’d cast his life like an arrow from a bow aimed at a single target, and now so close to the culmination of his life’s work, it was no time to balk. He straightened his shoulders and pressed the nib of his pen to the parchment.
I am Kryn Darien, and these are the final words I shall write. Though I suspect the world has long forgotten me, I was once known as Kryn the soul warden, also Kryn the betrayer, and Kryn the profane. In truth, I am all these things.
I am also a practitioner of magic. For more centuries than I care to count, I have prepared to cast a single spell, the cost of which will be nothing less than my life. However, if I succeed, it may change everything. I hope for the better.
I speak no more on this matter for your own protection, for if you were even to know my purpose, you would be damned as I. If you wish to return to your normal life, simply cast this letter away. The spells wrought upon it will quickly erase the memory from your mind, and the letter shall find another.
However, if you wish to know the truth, burn this letter and inhale the fumes. You will fall into a trance and see a vision revealing the location of a hidden journal. The words upon those pages explain my purpose in full. Do with this knowledge as you will.
Kryn waited for the ink to dry then rolled the letter and placed it inside a bottle. Weaving the spells of fate and dream over the vessel was simple enough, in fact, he could barely remember a time when such magic required little more than thought and will. One final spell sent the bottle on its way, sailing across time and space on a current of magic.
Even as he finished the spell, he knew the letter was more for himself than for anyone who might find it. But was the message a manifesto? A desperate plea to be understood? Or a suicide note? Kryn wasn’t certain, save that the next few hours would decide the truth.
Emotion churned through his chest like the eddies of a river, murky guilt, icy dread, gnawing frustration, and at last, a silvery thread of hope. Hope for others but not for himself. Before the sun set, the man known as Kryn Darien would be no more. That much was assured.
There were a hundred possible forms his end might take, each offering its own measure of shame, defeat, and bittersweet victory. Success or failure would decide what portion of each would be his to swallow. Of course, the only true question was whether his countless sacrifices had been in vain. One final gambit would settle it all, and the day to cast the dice had come at last.
He'd spent centuries preparing himself for this very hour, laboring each day until his body ached and his mind was exhausted. Even so, he wished he had another fifty years, perhaps seventy, for more preparations. But it was a vain hope.
A wizard had ways of extending his life, but such magic could only sustain a man for so long. He’d long since wrung those spells out like a wet towel, draining every last drop of power he could squeeze loose.
He’d slowed his aging dramatically, but time’s march could not be halted altogether. After nearly eight hundred years, his body was ancient. The day’s ordeal would have been daunting enough in Kryn’s youth, and century by century, he’d spent his vigor like coin.
Nothing had been wasted. Indeed, every ounce of precious vitality had been exhausted in pursuit of his goal. But after so many long years there was little man left to spend. He felt like a deflated money sack with but a few pennies remaining to rattle about the bottom. What if he’d worked too slowly? Labored in vain to seize a window of opportunity that had closed decades ago? What if in the end he proved too small a sum to surmount his great and final task?
The full gravity of that potential bore down on him, and Kryn felt as though a titan’s hand was squeezing his ribs. For a moment, he struggled to find breath. His hand faltered over the parchment, unable to write anything but useless scratches as the pen shook in his bony fingers. A single tear rolled down his cheek though even he was unsure which of his turbulent emotions had called for weeping. Most likely, it was the loneliness.
Isolation had been his only companion for longer than he cared to remember. Desperate as he was for the warmth of human company, he didn’t dare travel amongst his fellowmen except in direst need, and even then, only in utter secrecy. His enemies were too vigilant, their vengeance too sure for anything less.
Nowhere was truly safe. He'd spent so long glancing over his shoulder, fear was an emotion he knew almost as exquisitely as loneliness. Year by year, decade by decade, the paired burdens had grown in his heart like a spiritual tumor made of chafing thorns and powdered glass. But he would not allow himself to collapse beneath the strain. There was simply too much at stake. So many counted on him, even if they knew it not.
Recounting the years in his mind, it seemed impossible he’d made it so far. He’d never lacked for determination, and through effort he’d developed raw magical talent into something truly formidable, but luck had been on his side as well, at least in part.
One truth was clear. The combination of circumstances which had granted him this chance was less a door and more a freak cosmic oversight, like a fluke in the tides which momentarily exposed the bottom of the sea. He had seen it and seized it, but the opportunity would not come again. Not for him. Not for anyone else. This unique moment in history rested on his shoulders and his alone.
Despite the risks, despite the cost to himself, he’d chosen this path of his own free will. It was he who’d claimed this unnamed mountain in the depths of the frigid northern seas. It was he who’d wielded the mighty spells which had carved a fortress within its icy slopes and he who’d named his citadel the Final Bastion. A stronghold built for one man and to one purpose.
The study in which he now sat lay just beneath the Final Bastion’s peak, hidden below dark slabs of stone and layer upon layer of protective spells. His study was a gloomy place with just enough mage lamps spiraling about the ceiling to cast the room in a dim violet glow. The cramped space between the smooth stone walls was barely large enough for his chair, his desk, and the woolen rug he used to keep his aged feet warm.
Even so, it was one of the few places within the Final Bastion he felt at ease, or at least, as close to ease as he ever came. Any lower, and he’d sense the magical monstrosity lurking in the fortress’s heart, hear the pulse of power humming through the Final Bastion’s walls like the vibrations of a plucked piano wire. The fact said artifact was his own creation offered no comfort. That it represented the sum of his purpose, even less.
And yet that purpose must be fulfilled. He’d cast his life like an arrow from a bow aimed at a single target, and now so close to the culmination of his life’s work, it was no time to balk. He straightened his shoulders and pressed the nib of his pen to the parchment.
I am Kryn Darien, and these are the final words I shall write. Though I suspect the world has long forgotten me, I was once known as Kryn the soul warden, also Kryn the betrayer, and Kryn the profane. In truth, I am all these things.
I am also a practitioner of magic. For more centuries than I care to count, I have prepared to cast a single spell, the cost of which will be nothing less than my life. However, if I succeed, it may change everything. I hope for the better.
I speak no more on this matter for your own protection, for if you were even to know my purpose, you would be damned as I. If you wish to return to your normal life, simply cast this letter away. The spells wrought upon it will quickly erase the memory from your mind, and the letter shall find another.
However, if you wish to know the truth, burn this letter and inhale the fumes. You will fall into a trance and see a vision revealing the location of a hidden journal. The words upon those pages explain my purpose in full. Do with this knowledge as you will.
Kryn waited for the ink to dry then rolled the letter and placed it inside a bottle. Weaving the spells of fate and dream over the vessel was simple enough, in fact, he could barely remember a time when such magic required little more than thought and will. One final spell sent the bottle on its way, sailing across time and space on a current of magic.
Even as he finished the spell, he knew the letter was more for himself than for anyone who might find it. But was the message a manifesto? A desperate plea to be understood? Or a suicide note? Kryn wasn’t certain, save that the next few hours would decide the truth.
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When I was twelve my mother gave me a copy of Robert Jordan’s Eye of the World, introducing me to the world of epic fantasy. I was hooked. Since then, I’ve also read Anne McCaffrey, Tad Williams, Brandon Sanderson, Jim Butcher, Steven Erikson, Frank Herbert, David Farland, and more. There’s nothing quite so sublime as spending a quiet evening sojourning in a world other than your own, and maybe learning something important about yourself along the way.
I’d played around with writing in grade school, but took my first real foray during my late college years. Over the next ten years, I gave up on TV, movies, and all too often sleep, wringing every hour of writing I could from my schedule. During that time, it was my pleasure to meet a host of fantastic writers, editors, and artists, including David Farland, whom it was my great privilege to work with.
When I’m not writing, I love a good camping hike (so long as there’s enough trees to hang my hammock). I also volunteer as a sled dog handler, and I have a long standing love affair with fast cars and lonely mountain roads.
