Emperor of Legendia
The Soothsayer

Wriggling its way through the mesh of low grasses, a snake disappeared into a tiny burrow. The Legendians were marching hastily for the last few hours. They had been walking for one whole day. Soon, nightfall greeted them. A full moon had cleared its way out of the clouds in the midnight. The wind, soft and cold, clicked through the branches of the few scattered trees and stirred the bushes that sprinkled the path. Peter preferred walking down rather than riding his horse like the other knights. He calmly observed Marco, through the thick crowd of soldiers, walking besides Zimon submerged in a deep discussion. Peter smiled to himself, wondering how Marco would be feeling about who he was almost half a year ago and where he stands today.

“I thought, I mean... I felt like help from Yulisa’s army would have been very helpful to us.”, Marco said in a rather questioning manner. Zimon sighed, “More killings, more deaths, just for my sake...”, Zimon shook his head, “Even if less number of her army die, I don’t want that to happen.”

Marco kept quiet.

“You must have sensed fear in me, am I right Marco?”, Zimon raised his eyebrows while Marco kept quiet, “No wonder... no wonder.” Zimon hummed for a while.

“I don’t fancy bringing fear into myself, but when it comes to my people and my friends,”, Zimon stressed the next words, “Fear shakes its hands with me.”

“Enough of wars, bloodshed.”, Zimon continued. “Now I’ll sort it out myself, finish it off, once and for all.”

Sometimes Marco wondered how these bunches of men are going to sort it out themselves. He knows they all are heading into a death pitch. ‘But why to Die???!!!’, Marco thought to himself. Marco felt like blurting all his questions at Zimon, ’Why to get killed if we can win when the Irasian army joins us...when Yulisa’s army aids us, when magicians Zimon knows can lead up an army? And we can end up with a nice full fifteen to twenty thousand, and defeat the Dark Lord, then why the hell to die? And will our death bring any change? The Dark Lord will soon conquer the world, then why??

But Alas! He did not dare question Zimon when those words Zimon once told him crept in his mind, ‘You know what I like about you, Marco?’ And then the cold water of River Tuks gently splashed over his ankles, ‘...and yet you never questioned my decision, unlike many others including Marvelo and your fellow men’, and Marco answered, ‘What you do, speaks so loud that I need not wait for your justifications for your actions. I trust you with my life and believe you blindly’

Marco gazed down and took a deep breath and looked up in the sky. Tiny twinkling stars surrounded the full moon, as if trying to have a war with the moon. A war...

Zimon broke the silence, “Alright, now let’s hurry up. We must reach Sooryu by the dawn.”

“Yes, my lord.”, Marco turned and nodded to Marvelo.

Marvelo nodded back and passed out the order.

Tints of green appeared in the sky at dawn and at dawn and as the day light broke into splits through the dark clouds, a tiny peaceful town appeared across the low terrain. The Legendians climbed the slope slowly. The heavy footfalls alarmed the Sooryuns. There was no entrance or any fort fencing structures around the town. Barbed wires were all they could spot in the reigns of the town. There were no guards to be seen anywhere. The town was nothing but a cluster of huts, shacks, houses, stalls, sweetshops and the likes around everywhere. The lanes that snaked around its perimeter echoed to the sounds of yelling and shouting of little kids running around. The air was heavy with the smell of morning tea.

People gazed at them from inside their windows as the army passed through the narrow lanes. Some of them even bowed at Zimon’s appearance on his horse. Marco glanced over his shoulder and found young ladies gossiping noisily from their doorway. A while later, Marco found himself standing in a much wide and open compound, followed by a very old house. It was quiet in here and to his surprise, none of the noise and bustle of the town seemed to filter into the compound. Only Marco, Marvelo and Zimon had walked in the compound with the rest of them waiting outside fighting the uneasiness of such a huge army jammed in the narrow lanes. Suddenly the front door of the house opened slowly and the two men came hurtling down towards the three.

One of them looked very startled and frightened. He wore an old ragged cloth wrapped around his bare chest. A thin white cloth was wrapped around his waist falling down to his feet; not what one would quite expect him to wear in such a freezing place. Fat beads of long rosary hung around his neck cluttered as he jolted down to Zimon.

“Is that you Lord Zimon?”, he asked.

Zimon smiled, “Melda.”, he answered assuringly. The man was taken aback.

“What are you doing here my Lord? You are so close to the frontier of the Dark Dume. I heard about your battle. I’m so sorry... but what can I do for you my Lord?”

Zimon raised his hand, “Take a breath, Melda. I am heading to the Dark Dume, so just thought to bid you a farewell for old time’s sake.”

The man named Melda shook his head wildly, “But what will you do? And you have crowded my small town, I see now.”, Melda was startled to see the huge troop waiting outside his compound.

Zimon looked back, “I’m sorry, but it won’t take long. We are not staying here.” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“And food?”, Melda asked, “Should I arrange...”

“No, the potion Yulisa gave us will take care of that.”

“You met her too?”, lines stretched across Melda’s forehead as Zimon nodded.

“Now I just want to have a word with you and you help me with some information as a favour...”, Zimon stopped when his eyes settled on the man standing besides Melda.

Marco was observing this man more than Melda, since they both arrived. He wore a long blue cloak with hundreds of tiny white stars embroidered all over it. His head was covered with a silver pointed hat, tall and like an inverted cone. Specks of brown and golden little beard filled his lower face. Unnaturally green eyes twinkled under his thin slanted grey eyebrows. Heavy mesh of multi coloured crystal jewelleries hung around his neck resting deep between his breasts. Each fingers of his both hands were occupied by a ring, each one of them bore stones of ten different colours. Marco tried to figure out the colours when the man pulled his hands back and hid it behind his hips. He made an arrogant expression to Marco and gave a more disgusting look when he found Zimon staring at him.

“You well? My great soothsayer...”, Zimon said, his tone unaltered.

The soothsayer glanced away with an inaudible remark.

“Never mind my Lord... you know how he has been after the war... making innumerable predictions which has been disturbing his mind.”

The soothsayer gave a what-do-you-mean glare to Melda.

“Sorry!”, Melda squeaked.

“Alright, let’s make this quick. I don’t have much time. Marvelo, you can come with me... and Marco”, Zimon paused and looked at the soothsayer, “Would you mind Marco being your company?”

The soothsayer tilted his head giving a tired look of irritation and indicating Marco to get in to the house.

“I’ll take that as a hearty yes.”, Zimon said, straightening his staff as he turned away with Melda and Marvelo.

The wooden house seemed very old. The wood had been discoloured by the sun or rain. On reaching the slits, Marco peered at the dappled underside of the house.

“What are you looking at?”, the soothsayer grunted in a flat harsh voice.

“Nothing.”

Marco was sick of encountering cranky old men and women now and then. He thought speaking less would be a better idea. Retracing the soothsayer’s steps, Marco quietly followed him inside the house. He found himself in a cavernous, wood-panelled room. On the walls, there were fading portraits in heavy frames; the pictures were of what seemed to be some sort of official members, all in their knee length breeches. Marco narrowed his eyes when he saw Melda standing in the front most row out of the three rows. And to the very left of Melda was a much younger face that Marco knew. It was Zimon. His beard was black and short. Both looked young and the faces were so clear although it was a mere portrait.

“How come it’s so neatly painted?”, Marco’s words slipped out his mouth, he being a naturally inquisitive person.

“Huh?”, came the reply.

“The portrait... It’s so magnificent. I can feel Zimon’s true self standing in there. How can it look so perfect?”

The soothsayer sat down on a cushioned chair with a slight groan, “That is not just a simple portrait. It is a magician’s portrait. They capture real life moments and pull it over a photo sheet.”. Marco remembered he had seen one of those in Irasy.

The soothsayer had replied respectfully, so Marco tried to indulge in some more talking, “So... you stay here?”

Marco waited as the soothsayer lit his long black cigar, “I and Melda.”, he replied.

Marco looked around. He reckoned that he won’t be offered a glass of water; Marco opened his bottle of potion and sipped some. “So... er... it seems that you are a very...”, he paused to insert a flattering word but he failed to do so, “... good predictioner.”

“Oh am I?”, this came immediately but soon the smirk changed into a scowl, “But who cares, anyway?”

“Why? Does someone say so?”

No reply.

“So... ahem... what’s your good name?”

“I’m Orthodoxylcamiphrocino!!”, the soothsayer replied with a straight face.

Marco gulped huge thick air to digest the name he just heard, “So what can I call you?”

“You can call me Orthodoxylcamiphrocino!”, his voice rising.

If the sunlight had not directly poured onto Marco’s face, he wouldn’t have stopped glaring at Ortho-whatever!

“Er...right... so Mr. Ortho...”, Marco coughed on purpose so as to cut short the name, “I’m Marco. Can you predict my future?” Marco shrugged when Mr. Ortho looked into Marco’s face, “Just was curious... you know...”

“Sit...”, his tone like an order and Marco obeyed like a child, taking the chair facing him.

“Show me your right palm.”

Marco did as he said and Mr. Ortho took his hand delicately. While examining the palm, his eyes settled on the sign on the lower arm. Mr. Ortho jolted his head up immediately with a sense of shock and amazement. “You are Irasian? And... Olgreg’s successor?”, he let Marco’s hand go.

“But wait, NO!”, he grasped Marco’s hand again with more enthusiasm. His voice turned heavier and faded every with every word. “Legendia?”, he murmured. Marco sat glued on his seat with a worry look on face. He let Marco’s hand go and Marco breathed in relief.

“Marco Hymes, you are... son of Troswood. Magnificient!”, Mr.Ortho remarked, his tone changing to more respectful manner. “You shall rule Legendia, not Irasy. Interestingly, you will conquer many regions and empires.”, his voice not yet normal. It was as if he was under a spell or trance. Every word came out scratching his throat with large release of air, as his eyes were transfixed into Marco’s, “You shall attain great power, name and fame, all over the world, but...”, his voice dropped to a whisper, “at the cost of some losses, which I’m afraid I know not. But fair and true, you shall rule half of the world and your name shall add to the list of best conquerors of the history!”

A silence settled in the room and Mr. Ortho closed his eyes, “But Alas!”, his voice had transformed back again to the same old grunt, “You will never be a magician.” He ended in great dismay.

“Does that matter?”, Marco asked, startled at his last comment.

“Ofcourse it does!”, Mr. Ortho jumped up on his feet, “The sole reason what makes me feel so sad all day and night and people think I’m losing my mind.”

“I don’t understand.”

“All my predictions... They are always true. You’ll see... And when I predicted the coming future, it makes me feel worse. Oh! Those beautiful days, when every city and village were full of powerful wizards and magicians.”, Mr.Ortho shook his head in dismay.

“What do you mean exactly, sir?”

“Don’t you see? Magic is all going to wither gradually. No one learns it anymore. I see the defeat of the Dark Lord eventually, but my vision is all foggy about this particular war... it’s unclear as to who shall win... you or the Dark Lord... but I foresee that evil shall not rule this land anymore. And as a consequence, people shall stop the need of learning magic. And as I predict that after many years, but not so long, the last of the magicians shall wither away with no more magic in this world. The last traces of magic will be lost when a man shall be born... one of your descendants he shall be.”

“And who is this man so specifically outlined?”, Marco questioned.

“One of your descendants... He shall be a great king, a conqueror. He will conquer a great part of the world, including the unexplored part of the world which has not yet been sketched on the maps. He shall go by name ‘Zul-qarnain’. But alas when his time arrives, no such beautiful magic shall ever live thereafter.”

Marco nodded in acknowledgement, “You surely are a great soothsayer to predict things so distant in the future. Tell me but... what still makes you walk away from Zimon?”

Mr.Ortho raised an eyebrow, “I have no personal disregard for him but the fact that he is walking into the death trap with all the remaining men he has, makes me frown over his decision. If he dies... with his death, the last wizard on earth shall be finished forever and this will be an end of an era of wizards.” He stopped suddenly shuffling his feet and quickly pulled himself to Marco and placed his hand on Marco’s shoulder and said, “Wait a moment... I see you becoming a king. How would that be possible if you don’t win the war? Hmmm...”, Mr. Ortho gazed down at his feet, confused, “I am uncertain about Zimon’s death now.”

Marco stood up slowly, his feet trembling a bit, “I think I am starting to understand what you are going through. Look, the more you think of these matters, the more you are going to strain yourself. Let what fate wants, be it done. We cannot change one’s destiny, isn’t it? Let’s not dwell in the agony of future’s loss. Why don’t we enjoy every beautiful moment of this present magical world we live in?”

Marco waited at the compound gates for Zimon and Marvelo to arrive. He saw them coming back. Zimon barked some words at Melda laughing blaringly, which elicited a muttered response from Melda.

“Aah, dear! Thank you now! I must proceed...”

“Yes my Lord...”, Melda replied, “I hope I meet you soon with good news. Take care.”

They had passed the outskirts of Sooryu. The sun was at its peak now, but it did not slow them down. The power of the potion lasted for long. Marco had observed an unusual change in Zimon’s mood since they left Sooryu. An unhappy face kept lurking behind his silent face. He did not speak much as he rode quietly. Marco cleared his throat so as to catch Zimon’s attention. Zimon looked at Marco and gave a weary smile.

“Everything okay, my lord?”

“Not sure.”

“Any useful information, did Melda yield?”

Zimon nodded silently, “He says the Dark Lord is recruiting a much larger army after he came to know of the disappearance of the path to the treasures. Much worse, he claims that the Dark Lord will be heading to Legendia in around ten days.”

“How does he know that?”

“The soothsayer predicts that.”

“Is he always right, my lord?”

“Most of the times... He was the one that predicted the battle would take place in Salaha desert. He told it to Olgreg.”

“Really??”

“Yes and what did he entertain you with?”

“With loads of predictions...”, Marco grinned, “Interesting ones though, tell me first... what do you call him?”

“Oh, no one likes calling his full name and he hates it when nobody calls him properly. So we just play safe... we call him the great soothsayer.”

“Funny... My Lord, how many magicians are there presently alive?”

Zimon glanced with a confused look, “Around twelve to fifteen roughly... why do you ask?”

“Nothing... just wondering...”, Marco said. His instincts told that the soothsayer may be right about magic’s end. His thoughts were again interrupted by the sad face of Zimon gazing down at the horse’s back.

“Any problem?”, asked Marco.

“I see my plans failing now, for the first time.”, Zimon quietly said, “The Dark Lord has been gaining more strength since the last battle. After their victory, many people were impressed with the Dark Lord’s powers... and the plan to capture the treasure has attracted many cities now. However, I believe, that the only way we could come to know of his army and strength is by entering his own terrain. It’s the only way to keep them away from Legendia.”

Marco for once agreed with this for a hundred reasons, the first one being his mother’s security. “Please excuse me, my lord...”, Marco slowed and slowed his horse down to catch up with Peter.

“Hey mate... any news?”, Peter asked scratching his forehead. The sunlight caught three points of gold on his face and once Marco was reminded of stars, lined up in a constellation. Even though his knight helmet was drawn carefully over his head, there was restlessness in the tilt of his face that was at odds with the demure draping of rest of his warrior suit. Marco knew that Peter had been much grimaced for a long time by the memories of Fred sacrificing his life for Peter’s. Marco tried to cheer him up by accounting about his weird encounter with the weird soothsayer. Peter had laughed at every prediction of Mr.Ortho but somewhere in his and Marco’s mind felt that there was a lot more than just truth in the soothsayer’s prediction, his prophecy.

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