The Writers' Circle

Chapter 1

The warm afternoon sun shone down between the trees that lined the road, the summer air grew thick and crackled as magic coalesced.  There was a flash, the air hissed and rushed away as Sharael Maldeen appeared from the ether.  Her long blond hair blew about her in the magical wind as she staggered trying to regain her senses from the teleport.  She wore dark, soft hide leggings, her shirt was a dull homespun cloth, her high dark boots were hardened and waxed, a short sword in a plain scabbard hung at her side.

Sharael trembled from the transformation of position she willingly underwent in order to preserve the White Circle from the events of three days past.  Her trembling hand grasped the amulet that dangled around her neck by a long silver chain.  It had been given to her by Porthalis, head of the Order of the Circle and Arch Magi of the White Circle (one of the eight circles that made up the Order).  Sharael pulled lightly on the amulet and the chain tightened, still weak she found herself crouching to keep from falling, and after a few moments, she struggled to stand.

Sharael stood still clutching the amulet; she could feel it warm and stir beneath her touch.  Knowing what she would witness, tears formed in her eyes as she opened her hand.  The amulet, a silver adamantine twelve-pointed star had encrusted upon it a large red ruby that was glowing softly.  A single facet on the gems impressive surface seemed to be a darker red than those around it.  The twelve points began to writhe and shift in the palm of her hand as two creaked in the act of joining themselves together to form a single eleventh point. 

Tears streaming down her face, the transformation did not surprise her, she knew what it meant, Arthessi of the White Circle, her dear old friend, was dead, his sentence imposed.

Sharael was jolted from her grief by the distant sound of metal, random beats, dull and sharp ringing over the land; she looked toward the trees where the sounds of battle raged.  With grave resolution, she straightened and dropped the amulet to her chest, wiping her tears on her sleeve Sharael started toward the sounds of clashing metal, disappearing into the trees as quickly as her weakened state would allow.

Growing closer, Sharael could see broken images through the trees, sunlight reflecting the gleaming edges of steel highlighting the movement of battle.  Arriving at the clearings edge, she could clearly see two men locked in combat.  One, a dark tanned man; his armour worn, dented and battered; the second wore an armour that gleamed of gold in the sunlight.  This man had a shield of dull silver in one hand, in the other, a great black sword, the sword Sharael was seeking, the sword known as the Black Razor!

As Sharael looked on, the dark tanned warrior swept his serviceable weapon through his opponent's neck and the gold warrior fell.  The tanned victor dropped his worn blade to the ground and reached for his prize, the Black Razor.  Prying it from defeated hands took effort; for even now the fingers gripped with defiant resolve.  The victor held his treasure with great reverence and beamed with pride as he admired this most famous and sought after weapon of legend.  He chuckled to himself, only a short time before he believed the Black Razor to be a myth, a story told in taverns, a tale told in bedrooms; but now there was no doubt, no doubt at all as he slowly ran his hand along the polished black blade. 

What in the world is this made of, not steel or stone, glass perhaps?  It didn't matter, ownership is what mattered and the Black Razor was his now, he swung the sword to get the feel of it, learning its strengths, learning his weakness.  His connection with this blade was rapture, the feeling of union and invincibility flowed through his body.  Suddenly fear lurched in his gut as his eyes fell upon a faint red glow at the edge of his vision.  The glow from an amulet that hung on a chain around the neck of a very small figure, immediately the feeling of invincibility wavered with doubt.

Sharael Maldeen moved from the shelter of the woods to the green sunlit grass of the clearing.  The warrior towered over her yet there was fear in his eyes.  He knew who she was and why she had come; the glowing amulet hanging from her neck said everything, for it was the same as the one he had left in his partner's possession.  Yes, he knew her, but to part with such a weapon, something he had worked so hard to possess, it was not a welcomed thought.  

The warriors eyes locked with Sharael's as she held her hand out to stress her authority, but he could only shake his head in defiance.  She took another step forward and motioned again for him to relinquish his prize.  He began to quake with fear, sweat dripped from the pommel as he tightened his grip, but still all he could do was stare into her determined eyes.  The feeling of invincibility was fading fast and his nerves were on fire, as an internal conflict raged.  How hard would it be to crush her?  He asked himself, what am I thinking, this is the White Circle!'  He had never been so angry and frightened all at once, so much preparation wasted!  A rage swept through his entire body, like that of a cornered beast, in a feeble fit he reared back with the Black Razor.  The moment he set his resolve, he felt the Black Razor's connection fade away and the Razor's rejection commenced. 

Sharael had been certain this confrontation would not come to a fight, certain her authority would be enough, that the amulet around her neck was all the influence she needed to obtain obedience.  A shot of fear stabbed through her as the warrior reared back with aggression.

"Coss Mezza.  Coss Messa Duo," but it was too late, she lost focus on the spell, realization of her predicament dawned and her mind began to race making time seem too slow.  In a living nightmare, struggling against her clouded mind and her body's lack of control Sharael unsheathed her sword and swept it skyward to meet his powerful blow.  
	
Her strength was no match to his, when the two weapons met the sword of black easily pushed through, hardly feeling the attempt to block.  Sharael felt the burning pain as the tendons in her wrist tore from the force to the warrior's assault knocking the weapon from her grip.  The clash of metal sent a droning ring through her head as the Razor's path remained unchanged, biting into her shoulder with a force that shattered bone and drove her painfully to her knees.
*kelly
Sharael swayed as she looked at the Razor's glistening edge.  She squinted as she moved her gaze from his hand down the blade to her impaled shoulder.  Her head lulled backward on her exhausted neck to look up at his face.  With fear still consuming him, he met her gaze once again.  Sprinkles of her blood dappled his chest plate and his tremors were making his armour chatter.
"What have I done?" he spoke aloud.  His eyes left hers and locked on the familiar blood covered amulet that hung over her chest.  In the bright daylight, he could hardly tell it was still aglow.  ".the White Circle..." he said in disbelief.  "He promised me they would not follow," he said as terror in the form of tears welled in his eyes.  He looked down at his hand, the hand that gripped the Razor, its sudden unnatural weight pulled at him though not at her.  Becoming impossible to hold the blade, he let it drop.  The heavy hilt fell to the ground, its blade still deep in her flesh.  He stepped backward tripping over the golden clad warrior and stumbled out of her distorted view.  

Sharael took a deep breath oblivious to her foe; her neck started to cramp as she tried to lift her head and failed.  She felt with her right hand and found the Razor protruding from her breast, her left arm dangled nearly severed.  Stunned she tried to move her damaged limb but the arm hung limp and useless.  

	A burning pain ripped through her body as the shock adjusted its form.  Her functional hand moved to the eleven-pointed amulet as a shriek of agony spat from her lips.  She desperately searched her mind for words that alluded her.  Paralyzed with pain and shock she began to fall forward.  The Black Razor, the sword of power, still deep within her pressed its pommel to the ground as her body tipped forward.  Slowly the blade slid through her as she fell to the grass mumbling the words she so desperately sought.  Words she had spent hours practicing in hopes she would never use.  
	"Coss Mobi Emergo!" she finally yelled after her mumblings were ineffective.  The trigger words of the emergency teleportation thickened the air.  With a hiss of magic and a flash of light, she was gone, leaving a small whirl of wind where she had laid.

 	"Sharael..."  Came the voice of Porthalis, Sharael opened her eyes peering into a deep blood red void that was the abyss.  Her pain was gone and she realized she was between realms, a haven for the Order of the Circle to retrieve her.  Like rain drops suspended in the air around her, droplets of her blood floated about, there was no weight to them, no weight to anything.  She could not move, and the only sign of life was the voice booming in her head.  "We feel your plight," Porthalis continued. "But we cannot assist.  All of our power is absorbed in keeping us from our destruction.  "The teleport cannot penetrate the barrier we have assembled, and we dare not lower it.  The amulet must care for you now; it will divert the teleport to one sworn in service, Lork Aven.  We will send a courier, the plan is in play, all is clear, have hope."  The voice died out.  

	The air thickened and crackled as magic coalesced in a yard a few strides from a small cabin.  There was a flash of light and the air hissed as Sharael appeared in the blink of an eye.  Bounding from the doorway was a huskily built man; around his neck was a softly glowing eleven pointed amulet.  The brief asylum from pain had passed as a metallic thud following the Black Razor's fall to the ground.  Sharael dropped to her knees.  In a brief moment of clarity, she thought to herself as she looked at the blood soaked blade, "I did it."  

	In the moment before weakness consumed her, she was happy.  The successful retrieval of the weapon quickly forgotten as throbbing pulses of blood pumped from her body and began to soak her clothes.  As she fell to all fours, her left shoulder collapsed from the weight and she fell to her side retching in dry waves of nausea.  Lork Aven stopped before her, chanting a spell she knew she should recognize, but did not.  She looked up to the sky and into the bright sun, everything fell out of focus and her world went dark.