The Tale of Denaviim
- Enekos
- Aug 15, 2023
- 10 min read
“Anyone?”
From the moment his flint knife had begun hovering and making sounds like sheet metal rusting in the wind, life was no longer making much sense to Jean Flint. He’d arrived in the citadel of Denaviim with questions and now only had more questions. The Lord of Eyes had made veiled threats, blood had been spilled, one of his crew had obliterated a wall, turned his eyes purple and to top it all, the damn Behemoth comes floating in the sky and Mr Leaf was reacting like it was any other day in the port of Ghenu. And to top it all, there were four new faces on the deck. But they could wait as there were more pressing considerations. Around them the citadel was crumbling, and lava ejected from the forge reaching perhaps a hundred men high. The Behemoth was some 30 men above the ground where people ran In some confusion.
“Mr Leaf!”
“Captain!”
“Where are we heading and how do we get down?”
“I reckon the ship is handling the getting down part on her own. As for where, it looks like the Endless!!”
Damn, this was not a good day. To those who have never seen a map, the Endless refers to an ocean that never seems to end. Heading north leads to death, south leads to the Unknown Lands of the mages and several weeks at sea.
“I have no desire to visit Ragezhine again. Options?”
In a time before he was Jean Flint, he was a farmer in Ekrinaya, and before that, Jean Flint was a soldier in the Battle of Ragezhine. Returning there was something he’d much prefer in a different lifetime. He scanned the ship looking for familiar faces – but the ash, dust, and smoke – nevermind the wind, was making this challenging.
“Mr Wick!” Flint called out, but no answer came as he felt the Behemoth lurch forward and head for the ground. He doubted Mr Leaf seldom and yes, they were headed for the Endless, but they would surely miss and hit the hard earth long before then. The Behemoth pitched down as if heading towards the trough of a deep wave in stormy seas, Barrels and crates became dislodged as anyone on the deck scrambled to hold anything secured to the ship. And now the rains came, lashing the pirates while flashes of light ripped across the sky high above the volcanos which sang their deathly tune as Jean Flint clutched the hilt of his dagger, and he closed his eyes.
Athenaeum di Magi
3000 years ago, the world was ruled not by men, but by the mages. They created the first cities of Ghenu and Denaviim: a holy place where magic seemed limitless. The known world was peaceful, yet alive and busy. The mages created a sanctuary in Menavam and very rock they touched retained the memory of their powers and the sun and stars turned in the heavens as they waited for the Shadow Realm.
3000 years saw progress in men, but also greed, famine, disease, and wars. The mages were slowly pushed to the brink of extinction. So, they retreated to the Isle of Mhy, nestled in the Blue Sea and remained hidden from the world as new towns and cities emerged. The old spires crumbled and were replaced anew by those who imagined a world that revolved around trade. The old ways were forgotten or became mere stories told to children.
227 years ago, the Magus Remvarma left isolation and began to travel the world. He saw the strides forward and the great city of Veraku – it’s King a benevolent soul who made the first trade route across the Menavariyam. But other creatures born as men but something else – perhaps at darkness had also come to be. Remvarma crossed the great Qarbah and reached the foothills of the Pashtarak where the magic felt raw and untamed. He stayed close to the northern shore and visited numerous villages before reaching the bustling town of Tsarinaya which thrived among thermal springs and the scent of magic in the air. While this was a land of men, Remvarma felt the presence of other mages but the white noise left him unable to ascertain whether others had left the Isle of Mhy or whether new mages had evolved. He suspected the latter and it filled him with pleasure. It was here he chartered a sailing vessel to take him through the Eldo-Uma: a deep gorge in the Pashtarak that would lead to Denaviim: the eternal well of all magic. A gentle breeze through the chasm made the journey swift until they reached the idyllic lake of Eldo-Yara.
Jean Flint could hear the screams around him as he felt the dagger’s hilt become warm to the touch. The Behemoth was beginning to roll on the unseen wave. He caught a brief glance of the Endless, perhaps a league away but there was a lake towards his left. He screamed for the main sail to be set free and demanded the gods of the sea send the ship to that water at least. They’d figure out the rest later.
The Citadel of Denaviim with its white spires tipped with gold had weaves of ivy growing around them, was a vibrant place of people calling out and industry (of what, Remvarma was unsure) springing left, right and forth. None paid him much attention: each person consumed by their task. The Citadel itself was carved into the Pashtarak, and he briefly trailed his hand against the rockface. It bristled with energy and Remvarma watched in awe as an amber light chased up the cliff, sparking every so often.
High above him something cracked.
Dust began to swirl in the winds – imperceivable to the eyes of men or mages, but there was dust and as the wind whipped the place it resided, there was another crack. High above the head of Remvarma the first pebbles began to roll down the mountain. Another crack – this one louder and enough to send a clear message across the valley. Remvarma heard this one, but the noise of magic made it hard to focus. 40 men high, his eyes caught sight of the boulders that were beginning to rain down the cliff. He weaved his hands in archaic knots but suddenly felt the air knocked out of him as another body crashed into his ribs and the mountain smashed into where he stood moments earlier.
Remvarma fought for his breath and turned angrily to his attacker.
“Delayed magic, my lord,” said the voice; he too slightly winded.
“What?”
“Denaviim has delayed magic,” responded the other man whom he judged to be young enough not to be grey, but old enough to have travelled the known world. “The boulders were upon you, but Denaviim delays what you see. It’s something you get used to. Or…”
“Or?”
The other man a gesture that indicated a short trip to the Shadow Realm. He mouthed the word ‘splat’ and Remvarma considered this, softened his demeanour, and managed to gruffly say thank you.
The amber energy bristled and cracked through the Pashtarak, arcing across voids withing the rocks and reaching deep into the earth. It had been eons since ancient magic had reached into the heart of Denaviim. In a far-off chasm, the mountain shook and grumbled. Lava began a slow climb which soon gathered pace. Life in Tsarinaya continued as ever before, until the first jet of steam ejected from the mountain.
A time delay in the magical properties. That’s something new. Remvarma considered this. Was Denaviim now within a new realm of existence? It had been thousands of moons since the mages went into exile, so had Denaviim had evolved without the control of those same mages? Were the rules here different and what else was waiting to be discovered?
“So, who do I thank for saving my life?” asked an uneasy Remvarma.
“Ah, well most people call me de Careno…” he paused, expecting the old man to have heard the name. “Alfonso de Careno. You have heard of me?”
Remvarma shrugged. “I’ve been away for a long time.”
De Careno shot him a puzzled look. “But I am known in Ghenu and Veraku… They talk of statues and titles.” Remvarma stared blankly at him. It had been a long journey and he simply wanted to rest.
“Well Mr de Careno, thank you once more for your kindness but I rather would like to go home now.” Remvarma looked at the Citadel and the other man laughed. “Ah that’s where I’m going too. Fate has dealt us some cards today.”
The Citadel of Denaviim is ancient. It has witnessed time passing beyond the scope of a civilisation. It bristles with magic, and it recognises it too. It recognised Remvarma: an ancient spirit. And deep below, within a chasm it allowed the forge to re-ignite. The mages were home.
“You said this was your home?” de Careno enquired as he bit into the wonfor – a stew made from various plants grown to the south of Denaviim. This de Careno seems tedious with his questions, thought Remvarma he was also curious. “You’re not a mage and I sense no amulets or talismans. So how did you see the rocks?”
De Careno shook his head slowly. “I’ve been here a long time. Not always here. I do go home from time to time. I have a watchmaking business in Ekrinaya. They call me a master, but it’s simply something I love to do. But your question is a fact of time. Across the world we recognise time as a thing that can be counted, and we can make metal and springs that record that counting. And everyone who makes such devices use the same principles – a code. Designs may change with the seasons, but each device works the same way, counts the same way, and stops counting after the springs have reset. But I use some slivers of stone from Denaviim in my devices instead of the springs. So, they count for much longer. And they seal the devices too, so no one can see inside. Break it and the stone evaporates like boiled water.”
With Denaviim now ripping itself apart, the Pashtarak split asunder as ash and lava thundered into the air. Jean Flint ears heard nothing more than a single high-pitched tone and the dagger from de Careno’s body now caused an ache in his hand. The Behemoth was surely finished, and his mind searched back to those first moments he discovered the Athanasia. The parchment, the detail. The name de Careno. The seal. The seal of…
As de Careno stumbled out of his chair to help the unexpected visitors, he called back at Remvarma, “This,” he pointed to his pocket watch, “…keeps me anchored in the counted time, so I saw the rocks before you.” He turned to the visitors and reached for a flagon of ale and pushed it into the hands of one of the black robed men who grabbed it and took a mighty gulp. “Nice ring,” offered de Careno as he helped the other man. Behind them, with the wind howling he swore he saw the citadel engulfed in fire. The man with the ring dropped the empty flagon and grabbed de Careno, “When are we?”
The seal of… the mage. “Bia!!”
“Denaviim.” Even for someone who counted time, the question of when, not where threw him briefly. “Err 1295. September.” The man released his grip and collapsed.
He woke later, laying upon a bed which seemed much comfier than he’d become accustomed to on the Behemoth. As ever, he checked for the ring on his finger, an old habit that refused to die. Of course, it was there: fused to his bone as ever. He glanced around the room and saw several figures and recognised one; the skinny man who had greeted him. “You.”
“Oh, welcome back. We wondered what happened.”
He grabbed de Careno once again. “How long?”
“Only a few minutes. No need to move. You and your friend are quite safe. I’m….”
“Need to get back,” the hooded man forced himself upright and touched his ring once more. Nothing happened. He touched it again. Nothing. Two birds fluttered away when the frustrated roar ripped through the Citadel.
“Who was the mage? Your mage? What was his name? Bia, what was his name?” The Behemoth lurched and pitched on the unseen ocean as the sky thundered around him.
“Remvarma!” Bia called back, perplexed, and terrified in the same moment.
The hooded man sat down again and buried his head in his hands. The old mage approached him, knelt, and whispered, “Your friends are quite safe my old friend.” At this, the hooded man raised his eyes and… “Magus?” Remvarma smiled at his former apprentice. “Quite safe. Things are almost complete.”
“Mr de Careno, a word if I may,” the mage took the watchmaker to one side. “Our guests are old friends and please take good care of them.” De Careno nodded. “Here, I want you to take this to Ekrinaya. A gift – my eternal thanks to you.” He handed de Careno a parchment with his seal. I feel you will live a long life, my friend who counts time and one day someone will come and ask you to make this. You should. They have great things to achieve in our world.” Alfonso de Careno opened the parchment and read one word. Athanasia.
The main sail ripped with a thunderous crack and for a moment time seemed to slow for Jean Flint. The Behemoth had changed course but not enough. It would miss the lake and smash into the ground. The flint dagger now burned in his hand, and he shouted to the gods of land and sea, “De Careno, Athanasia, Remvarma!” before hurling the knife in the abyss.
Suddenly. Time. Stopped.
The wind died and the lava froze but glowed orange in the night sky. The whistle in his ears stopped too and each one of the crew were motionless. The dagger hovered in front of him and shone with a purple glow whose intensity caused Jean Flint to shield his eyes. Soon the devastation of Denaviim was bathed in this eery light.
Athanasia, Alfonso de Careno read the parchment to himself, skipping the hand-drawn diagrams, are the forever stones found in the Eldo-Sulo and Eldo-Yara. Take only what you need for the balance of nature will be upset and strange manifestations will occur. Athanasia can recall life, protect life, or hinder it. Some are mischievous and some are benign. But each should be inscribed with the sigil of the House Remvarma in woven gold. Here de Careno checked the diagram. The sigil looked like the letters JF.
“Mr Leaf. Where are we?”
The storms of Denaviim were gone and the Behemoth had not crashed into the ground but was simply bouncing through gentle waves between an island and the shore of a land covered with trees and a far-off city. Mr Leaf shrugged as he helped others regain their footing.
“Oh crap. I’m home,” a despondent Bia said to anyone who was listening.
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