Quest for Knowledge (Volume 1 of the FirstWorld Saga) by Christopher Jackson-Ash (ebook reader wifi TXT) 📕

With his face streaked with tears, earth, and wolf blood, he made his way towards the caves. The camp was quiet. The fire was burning, but everyone had retreated to their caves. They would be replaying the events of the night, over and over, trying to make sense of things. Simon wondered how the old chief would take the loss of his daughter. Tomorrow, there might be similarities between the tribe and the wolf pack.

What was Ubadah’s plan, he wondered. It must have something to do with the baby. He went to his cave but there was no one there. The familiar items made his heart ache again. He donned a loincloth and moved on. Where would they take the baby, not to the chief’s cave? Of course, Wa would take it. He made his way to the medicine woman’s cave. As he approached, he heard a woman’s scream from the cave. He drew Kin Slayer and approached cautiously. He crept to the entrance and peeked inside. A fire was burning, casting enough light to see shadows moving. He paused, letting his eyes accommodate to the reduced light in the cave. What he saw shocked him and he rushed inside the cave, screaming “No!”

Wa lay dead against one wall of the cave, her head smashed like a watermelon against the wall. Next to Wa, one of her apprentices lay gurgling with blood pouring from a deep wound in her neck, her jugular severed. She died as Simon looked at her. He registered the fear in her eyes as her life force departed. At the back of the cave, barely visible, but illuminated by the fire as shadows on the wall, Ubadah stood. He held the baby by its feet. He swung the tiny boy in his hand, like a cruel child might swing a cat by its tail. Simon was too late. He could do nothing but watch in disbelief and horror as Ubadah smashed the child’s skull against the wall of the cave.

The next few moments seemed to Simon to take both an instant and an eternity. Barely had the child died when Kin Slayer’s tip found Ubadah’s heart. The Sword sang like it had never sung before. The ruby glowed bright. In his head, Simon heard the sword scream in ecstasy. We are complete! Ubadah, as he died, looked deep into Simon’s eyes. “It cannot be. You cannot live. I have just killed your ancestor.”

Simon pitied him. As Ubadah died, the last words he heard were Simon’s. “You fool, Ubadah. You have just killed your own son.” Simon saw agony, despair, and then understanding in Ubadah’s eyes.

The baby died.

The child that carried the genes of the Everlasting Hero died. The child that would be the ancestor of Ubadah died. The child that would be the ancestor of Simon Redhead died. He died at the hands of his father, who was also his descendant. The credulity of Time itself was stretched.

Ubadah died. He died before he was born, at the hands of one of his descendants who could not exist, because he had just killed his child. The foundations of Time itself were under threat.

Simon Redhead lived. He lived, despite the fact that his direct ancestor had just died as a baby. The fabric of Time itself was broken. It could not accept the paradox. For an instant, Time stalled. Then there was the equivalent of a second big bang.

As the Great Old Ones had foreseen and had prepared for, the two who were one returned to the son and the multiverse was born. All of the probabilities were now possible. Their experiment was a success.

In his cave, Manfred slept, unaware that the greatest event since the Big Bang was taking place under his nose. When he awoke, he was back at Wizards’ Keep and he didn’t know how he had gotten there.

Simon staggered from the cave, waves of previously unexperienced emotion flowing through him. Dawn was breaking. The rising sun illuminated something in the distance. He got only a glimpse before the familiar tingling sensation took him and he was sent back to his own time. When he stumbled onto the parapet at Wizards’ Keep, he wasn’t even sure whether he had seen it or if his eyes had been playing tricks on him. Floating above the landscape he could have sworn that there was an exact replica of Melasurej. The Wizards’ Keep was perfect in every detail except that it was constructed in pure white stone. He soon forgot about it when he saw the events unfolding below.

The Battle for Elannort

Dammar had made his decision and no one, not even Manfred, could dissuade him. With Captain Ventris of the Tower Guard and sixty of his best men, they would mount a pre-emptive strike into the heart of the enemy camp. There, Dammar would kill Weylyn and the battle would be over before it had hardly begun. Dammar was supremely confident, but Manfred was worried. No one knows what deal Weylyn made with Gadiel. Manfred busied himself organising the defences in case Dammar was not successful. Some words that he’d heard a great leader use before came into his head. Never have so many depended for so much on so few. Well, something like that. He stood now, with Aglaral, Dawit, and Taran as Dammar prepared to leave. “May the Balance be with you, Great Sage! Return victorious and let history honour you as the saviour of the multiverse.” Perhaps that’s laying it on a bit too thick?

Dammar seemed to like it. He sat erect on his horse, a golden youth, unprotected by armour or clothing. He carried no shield, just a large broadsword. He was the image of arrogance, the picture of supreme confidence. “Prepare a feast in my honour tonight, Manfred.” Then, turning to Captain Ventris, he issued his orders. “We ride direct to the heart of the enemy. Your job is to make sure that we get there unimpeded by the foot soldiers. Have no mercy on them, they have already died once.”

Dammar raised his sword above his head and screamed, “Charge!” Sixty-two horsemen charged out into the midst of the enemy camp. Like the Charge of the Light Brigade. Manfred couldn’t avoid the thought. The attack initially went well. They had the element of surprise and they had covered three hundred yards into the enemy encampment before the realisation that they were being attacked sank in. Once the troops realised what was happening it became more difficult. Troop commanders quickly organised the massed ranks of the undead. The undead were mostly human, although there was an occasional elf or dwarf amongst them. They were armed with short swords, best suited for hand-to-hand combat. They moved slowly and deliberately, without thought or feeling. They were no match for Melasurej’s crack horsemen. The riders cut a swathe through their ranks, hacking off limbs or heads of the foot soldiers. It was disconcerting to the riders that they did not bleed. It was frightening that the loss of a head often did not stop them advancing. A few horses were brought down by the tangled mass of undead flesh. When that occurred, a score or more of the undead fell upon the warrior. His screams of agony would have curdled milk. If he died, he was lucky.

Captain Ventris had lost almost a third of his men in this way by the time they broke through the ranks of the undead. He would have liked a few moments to regroup, but Dammar was filled with bloodlust and galloped on. The cavalry did its best to keep up. Now Weylyn, alerted to the attack, deployed his wargs. They attacked in packs, from all sides, picking off the horses first and bringing them to the ground. The riders perished at the wargs' leisure, throats torn out as they gorged on human blood. Several wargs died on the swords of the valiant riders, but there were far too many of them to be resisted.

Dammar was unaffected by all of this. It was as if he were being allowed through. By the time he reached the centre of the camp, where Weylyn’s standard flew, there was only Captain Ventris with him. Dammar reined in his horse. Above him, Weylyn’s standard fluttered in the warm breeze. It was a blood red flag with a black anarchy symbol sitting above three white corpses. The corpses were clearly an elf, a dwarf, and a human. In front of him, on a portable gold throne lavishly decorated with gemstones, sat Weylyn the Wolf. Only his green eyes, full of hatred, distinguished him from any other wizard. He didn’t deign to get up.

Dammar spat and the white gob of spittle hit Weylyn in the face. Weylyn didn’t move, but his eyes turned from green to red. Dammar turned to Captain Ventris. “Unfurl our standard.” Ventris sheathed his sword and removed a small flag he had been carrying on his saddle and unfurled it. It was much smaller than Weylyn’s banner and it seemed puny in comparison. It was a pure white flag with a black balance symbol. The Captain looked around. They were surrounded by Weylyn’s army. He appeared to say a prayer to the standard. Dammar appeared unperturbed.

“So we meet again, Weylyn the Traitor. For that is what I have named you and your pedestal in the Avenue of Heroes is so marked. You will go down in history as the one who turned against the Balance and became corrupt and evil. Tell me, what part of your soul did you sell to Gadiel? Did you laugh behind my back as you plotted together in Illium? Prepare to meet justice. Will you stand, or shall I cut you down while you sit on your petty throne?”

Weylyn stood. In one hand, he carried a whip. The handle was jewel encrusted and marked with ancient runes. Its lash seemed to flow like a liquid beam of fluorescent green. With his other hand, he wiped away the spittle from his face. “I have looked forward to this day Dammar. I didn’t expect it would come so soon; that you would be so foolhardy. Look at the poncy youth, all bronzed and cock-sure.” The milling crowd laughed on cue; at least, those among them who were still living men. “I sold my everlasting obedience to Gadiel. In return, he made me master of the dead. My army is invincible. I shall take Elannort, seize Melasurej, and rule FirstWorld on Gadiel’s behalf. What about you, Dammar? What did you trade for your fresh young body and your good looks? You thought that you were too clever for Gadiel. You thought that you could trick him. Yet, all the time you played into our hands. It was my suggestion that he played his little trick on you. Have you enjoyed that?” Weylyn laughed, and the crowd followed suit, although they had no idea what they were laughing at.

“You bastard!” Dammar was angry but calm. “In the name of the Balance, as sole remaining Great Sage, I sentence you to death for your crimes.” He lifted his broadsword to strike Weylyn down.

“Get down from your horse, Dammar.” Weylyn spoke softly. “Put down your sword.” He spoke more loudly. “Kneel before me!” He shouted. Dammar didn’t want to, but he