The Gray Citadel Approaches

The parsecs of grass fluttered against the winds, as it rolled over the hills. Along the river Auer, the waters crashed along the banks in waves, dredging and tearing the earth into the rough, watery deep. The sky watched over, solid baby blue, and remained calm. This was an ill omen, thought the mystic.

"We must run."

The young protege lifted his attention from his training scroll. "Master, what is--"

"RUN!" bellowed the mystic as his legs pulled him toward the cave opening he called his temple.

The protege rose from his knoll and followed his mentor, scroll grasped in hand like a relay baton. Their brown robes, though heavy burlap, whipped against the thrush of the wind.

The mystic did not look back as he ran. His mentee could not resist. There was nothing for miles on the horizon. Only the gusts gave chase. What was happening?

The protege followed his master and dove head first into the temple. The master swooped behind him and lifted the wooden slap he used as a door. He struggled to lift the wood against the invisible invader. The protege thrust his back up on the slab and pushed it into place.

The howls of the wind reverberated in the darkness of the temple. The mystic grabbed his flint and lit the candles along the cave walls. His protege sat at the edge of the ceremonial mound to catch his breath.

As the last wick was lit, the mystic spoke, "That was close."

"What did we just run from, master?" the young man huffed.

Mystic reached over to the young man and grabbed his wrist. The young man locked eyes with the master, then followed the teacher's gaze. In the protege's hand was the training scroll. His fingers gripped the parchment cylinder like a vice.

Gently, the mystic pried the scroll free and replaced it on the shelf with other scrolls, documenting eons of history. From one of the higher pigeons holes, the mystic retrieved a scroll, covered in a blanket of dust.

"Let me tell you about the appearance of the Gray Citadel," declared the master as his unfurled the sodden scroll. "Ten hundred summers ago, along the banks of the River Auer, stood the city of Touigruem. It was then the largest merchant destination in the Elderan Kingdom, before it fell."

"The Eldran Kingdom? but it still exist today," remarked the apprentice.

"It does. But not Touigruem. The tall towers of white stone built on hills and hillocks along the waters of the Auer are long gone."

"It was washed away by the river?"

"No. Listen. The city was built by merchants, seeking to trade closer along the kingdom's borders. At first it was an outpost, barely five tents in all. Then, an emissary of King Lorgo's court was invited to capital of the Aurelian duchy in the south. On his way, he rested at the Touigruem outpost. There, on the hill that would later be named after him, Count Velhor was taken in by the verdant landscape. The richness of the unmolested hillside and blue sky drove him to canvas and paint. One canvass after another, Velhor painted what he saw: pastoral beauty. Virgin. Untouched. The Aurelian council he was to attend occurred in his absence, and thus began a souring of relations--

"The War of 328?!" blurted the young man. "Aurelia launched a hundred year war over a missed appointment?"

"If you cannot see someone face to face, it is much easier to stab them in the back. Aurelia assumed the absence was a slight and launched its aggression against Eldra. Touigruem turned from a trading post to military one. Velhor, stripped of his title and wealth for his truancy, died in the gutters of the bustling town.

"His paintings, however, lived on. They filled some forty odd chests, which were sold off not knowing its contents or shipped off accidentally across the two kingdoms. Once the war was over, tourist travel resumed, and many were desperate to find the location of Velhor's landscapes. And so, the military outpost became tourist destination for artists and aristocrats. Ironically, Touigruem became a place were political councils would held. Such as..."

"The Treaty... of Kastellomorhen?" guessed the student.

"No. Kastellomorhen was 754, much later. The Treaty of Kakoo Forge. It was there at the Eldra and Aurelia became allies against the Western Hordes. And Kakoo Forge was located in... Touigruem. So full circle, the beauty of Touigruem led to war and then to peace and cooperation."

"But, master... what of the wind we just escaped? and the Gray Citadel?"

The mystic stroked his beard. "Ah, youth. I long for those days of impatience. Eager to devour the world... In truth, my student... the winds we just escaped, as you said, are an omen. Velhor's curse, some call it. But... it has little to do with the count himself."

"What is it, then?"

"The paintings of Touigruem spread throughout the two kingdoms and beyond for decades to come. And with it, stories of similar hillsides and landscapes suddenly ravaged and destroyed. Rouleni, Forstal, Gougoujian, and FourQuartes all fell victim to a mysterious destruction in one year's span, as if a blade tore across the land and wiped away its existence. In the next seven years, all cities along the Auer were gone. Both kingdoms accused the other of sabotage, of crimes of war in peacetime. But the escalations ended when emissaries from both kingly courts laid eyes on the Gray Citadel."

The student sat on the edge of his dirt covered seat.

"At Touigruem, both emissaries wrote dispatches to their respective crown, detailing the following..."

The mystic read directly from the scroll in his hands, "My lord/ The animus between our neighbor and our kingdom is ill-conceived./ The sword of Forstal's Doom is not held by our neighbor, but another./ Whence you receive this missive, I will be dead./ But this letter will reveal the nature of the doom that befell/ the river cities of great Eldra as well as Aurelia. A spire/ drags across the land, tearing earth like a plough. Its movement/ is unknown. It appears at the center of a typhoon against a crystal clear sky./ The top of the spire sits a gray stone structure,/ a grand citadel like the Temple of Oggren in Feest./ We watched as the spire waylaid the walls of Journi, / and left the metropolis in rubble. Now it heads here to Touigruem./ We do not know its purpose. But when the Gray Citadel approaches/ run."

The mystic rolled a few feet of the scroll to reveal a painting on the parchment. Rolling hills of verdant grass, a deep blue sky above.

"Is that...Is that a painting by Count Velhor?"

The mystic smiled. "The emissary included it in the warning to the king. However, the Gray Citadel has never appeared since... Do you hear that?"

The student sat silent and listened. "..."

"...my dear boy. The winds stopped."

The young man and his master placed their ears carefully to the wooden slab. The winds had indeed stopped howling. All seemed still and quiet opposite the temple door.

The two men lifted the slab carefully, and gazed at the parsecs of verdancy and topographical elevations. The blue sky welcomed them from their subterranean haven.

The student surveyed the landscape: no torn earth. No dredges of destruction. No sign of spire or citadel. They were safe.

The master smiled. "Let us resume our training, boy. We are safe. For now."