Demon of the Black Gate

The room was the color of dust, created by the worn fragments of old paper. The ochre of papyrus and limp browns of leather bindings, some oiled by dirty palms, mixed their scaled remains with others that were dehydrated and forgotten.

A lone figure sat stuffed in among the old scrolls and manuscripts and hide-bound books, his clothing the same stale and colorless dun as the room.

Rovinkar’s unshaven face added to the aged and unkempt surroundings, the stubble appearing like flecks of parchment gathered about his chin as if he had taken to nibbling on the contents of the room as he read.

The trail of his studies led to the private study of Seled the Strange over two fortnights ago. Seled was very old now, and had probably forgotten that he was even here. The old wizard may have even lost the memory of the library in which Rovinkar now sat, crammed in among the artifacts and literatures from three kingdoms which were in turn stuffed into cubicles and gathering dust. Seled’s absence made Rovinkar’s job easier, for he was uninterrupted save for the occasional meal he had arranged to be brought in by the cook who may have been as old as his host. A brown roll lay in crumbs at his elbow, the bits of baked flour merged with the grains of papyrus and paper eventually to be carried off by some small mouse.

It was years ago that Rovinkar had heard of an old incantation, one powerful enough to control kingdoms. An old priest had been speaking informally to a gathering of other practitioners of the magic arts, most of whom were regretting the lost ways of the past and the world that had gone on without them. While they spent their toothless fury on berating the present, Rovinkar had pretended to listen, his mind wandering to the view, the opulent luncheon, and the pleasant looking servant girls. The grizzled prelate was extemporizing on what he would do if he had but the power, claiming vehemently that he would call upon the obsidian demon if he could just find the spell. None of the other priests and mages understood what he was raving about, save one, an old wizard from the high in the Stands, who said merely that it was a secret that was lost and best forgotten.

The buffet had been far more interesting, but now he was all attention. There wasn’t much the old priest could add when he pressed him further, but the seed had been planted, one that germinated quickly in his fertile and ambitious mind.

The search for this rare magic began then in the Stands. The one adept that had remarked had studied there, and so he sought admission to the abbey of Kasamir, located in the remote mountains beyond Bridash. There, in the quiet halls that clung to the steeps, the training benefited his magic greatly. The aesthetic monks practiced the most ethereal of arts. It was an energy that circled the enclave like the mists, vapors that some said embodied the arts within. Had he stayed there, who could have said what he might have become: contemplation is its own magic.

In the ways of magic, one cannot experience light without dark, and so the darkest magic was on the edge of everything. Those fringes had long ago wormed their way inside Rovinkar’s ambitious mind, and the power of the mythic demon still obsessed him. It was during the study of elementals that he raised the question of the obsidian demon to his teacher. The monk raised his eyebrow in curiosity and concern.

“There are things of nature, and natures of things that should not be allowed. Can they be done? Yes. Should they? It is a purity few have that can withstand nature.”

He would not discuss it further. It was Rovinkar’s own impatience that betrayed him. He discovered the reference he was looking for, but in doing so, he violated the abbeys most sacred space, causing him to be expelled.

Having found what he wanted, the elemental secrets of the spells, his debasement and dismissal from the abbey was of no account to Rovinkar. The spells were written in the language of the Jamals, the rich and ancient kingdoms to the east. A recipe for creating a djinn from sand told of a much more powerful spell.

The greatest library remaining of the ancient Jamals belonged to an old mage who lived on the eastern edge of the Sultan Sea where the Darii River spilled the silts of the ancient Five Kingdoms into its waters.

He shifted in his seat as he remembered the long ride. He pored through the Jamalian accounts. Rovinkar could dissect the ancient script, a combination of sigils and pictors. Reading such a language was a matter of interpretation.

At last there was one scroll that revealed a tale of destruction, a satrap’s enclave high in the old mountain kingdoms of Jimal laid to waste. By the dating of the event, nearly 800 years had passed.

“The pass to Tenigra was disrupted and destroyed, riven by the tempests of stone and fire and the wrath of a monstrous spirit that dwelt in them. The satrap and his vizier found a contentious nature after this event, and before he descending to madness, the vizier was destroyed of his sanctum and the palaces of the satrap.”

Rovinkar read the rest without much interest. The pass leading from the grand valley of Manistra to Tenigra was the only path open to the lucrative trade route to the east. With the pass destroyed, the satrapy was ruined for all practical purposes. Routes around the imposing mountains added months to trader schedules, and it wasn’t long before Tenigra became isolated and forgotten, an afterthought in the history books. Even today, the remote kingdom was unknown to most.

Rovinkar didn’t look any further. The answer lie in the ruins of Tenigra. He gathered up the manuscripts and a few other scrolls he found interesting during his research, and fairly fled the library of the ancient mage in his haste to continue his quest. The old man wouldn’t miss the scrolls and various antiquities, Rovincar reasoned. He probably didn’t even know they were there.

The old sage may have been dottering, and his eyes bleary, for age slows one down. Energy is spent in breathing and thinking. But his mind was sharp enough to notice his guest’s sudden departure and the hefty weight of the packs he had lashed to a pony in tow. Age also imparts a certain wisdom, or detachment. He had no idea what the man who called himself Rovinkar was looking for. The loss of a few artifacts was immaterial to him. He had read and digested the contents of his library long ago.

He had enough thought on the matter to wave a parting gesture in the direction of the thieving magician. The spell was nothing more than a karmic blessing. The old wizard turned his attention again to the west, facing the sea, and renewed his contemplation. Few things were as important as observing the pace of nature, or a nap. He continued to indulge himself in both.