The Legend Of Luthor StrongHeart

Chapter One

Luthor awoke suddenly, the after-image of the circlet of flames still burning in his eyes.

StrongHeart blinked several times as the glare slowly faded, shifting color from yellow-red to splotchy green. He pondered this as he lay quietly in the dark. How could the dream cause such a reaction? The effect was like staring into the sun and averting one's eyes quickly, leaving ghost trails in one's sight. Other dreams left behind no such residues, as if they were lantern-lit shadow shows played upon the back of his orbs. No, this was yet another way in which his recurring vision of a circle of fire was different from a normal dream.

He sat up slowly in his poster bed and was assailed with vertigo. Another after-effect of the dream: a feeling of dislocation, as if he had been wrenched from somewhere else. Knowing from past experience that the disorientation would pass more rapidly if he moved about, Luthor put on the furred slippers and thick woolen robe lain for him on his bedtable. Now proof against the nighttime cold, he cautiously made his way in the dark to his washroom, using the stone walls of the castle for guidance and support. Excellent, he declared to himself with a wry smile, I have crossed the requisite dozen feet without falling!

The lavatory was well-ordered, as usual. He found his gold wash basin with a minimum of fuss, and felt rejuvenated after washing his face with some scented soap. Steadier now, he moved to the far end of his bed chambers and let wide the curtains and glass doors to his balcony. Silvery moonlight filled the room, followed swiftly by a light spring breeze. A glance at the stars informed Luthor it was midway between midnight and dawn.

There seemed to be no discernible pattern to the timing of the dreams, though of course they only occurred when he slept. Yet the vision was more frequent now, coming almost every night this week. Luthor's gaze wandered absently over his father's estates. From his third floor apartment there was an excellent southward view, and he lost himself for a moment in the surrounding landscape.

Around him stood Keep Shorblay, the home of Duke Stephan ManFred of the House of WhiteCastle. The keep rested atop a sloping hill and was ringed with high cyclopean walls, built for rugged defense. Sprawling beyond the fortifications was the heart of City Shorblay. The metropolis was over seven acres of stout-timbered houses and gravel streets, a respectable size for a city on the periphery of the kingdom. Further south were the rolling farmlands and green plains from which the city made its livelihood. It was still now, but would in a few hours come alive. Spring planting would soon be upon them, and farmers had been working almost ceaselessly this fortnight. Shepherds would be moving their flocks from pasture to pasture, grazing on the fertile grasslands and drawing off abundant streams. Ere the sun arose, thousands of people would be engaged in the cooperative industry of maintaining the cycle of life.

Yet StrongHeart knew the Keep had two faces. If the south saw order and life, then the north saw chaos and death. There be the Badlands, a vast untamed expanse. Shorblay, along with Norward, was the first bulwark of defense for Thandor's northern border. The kingdom proper had been civilized centuries ago, but this far out strife was not uncommon. Even now guards were standing vigilant on the parapets to spot potential trouble. A wild animal loose in the city, rampaging monsters terrorizing the countryside, or even a pillaging orc horde on the warpath, all were possible threats. Luthor's sire Stephan was the man ultimately responsible for the safety and security of the whole region. Being the Duke's fifth son he was unlikely to ever have that solemn duty, but he had long been resolved to find some other, greater capacity in which to serve.

Assuming, he mused, that I am allowed. The texture of the vision had been growing subtlely different these past several nights. Not that the dream itself had changed; the core of it remained the same slow formation of a ring of fire. But along with the round inferno there had been an increasing desire to quit the keep and head south. Tonight it had seemed almost a compulsion... and this dream had been the most debilitating yet. He shook his head ruefully. This entire turn of events could probably have been anticipated. Flanders, his father's Court Magist, had proposed early on that the vision might be some type of geas, an enchantment which forced the victim to perform an action or service. The compulsion started only recently, so the warlock had discounted his initial hypothesis and tried following other leads. StrongHeart was now convinced that the magic-user had seen truly at the beginning.

Yet how had he been ensorcelled? Who had done so? To what end, malevolent or benign? What task

A light knock brought him from his reverie. "Luthor?", a soft whisper questioned from the darkness. "Might I enter?"

"Please do," he replied aloud. He turned on the balcony to see his mother enter from the far side of the suite, wrapped in her favorite mink overcoat and bearing a large wax candle. Andrea Carreneve ManFred was a slender woman of medium height, the essence of a stately noblewoman. Though the Duchess was nearly half a century old, she appeared at least a decade younger. Her complexion, no longer silken, was still fair and free of wrinkles; long black hair, no longer lustrous, was still full and without grey. But what the years had taken from her once captivating beauty, they had replaced with poise and wisdom. Oftentimes people soothed by the velvet of her words listened unknowingly to the sagacity they contained, and many a court crisis had been averted in this fashion. Her husband trusted her judgment completely, and relied heavily on her in matters of state; they complemented each other well. Few outside the immediate family knew how extensive her administrative influence really was.

Yet StrongHeart knew she was here now in her capacity as a mother and not as a Duchess. He could see concern reflected in her sky blue eyes as she approached. Most likely for me. "What brings thou hither?" he said.

"I instructed thy page to fetch me shouldst thou awaken," she said, placing a hand gently on his neck. The wind abated for a moment, and the world outside seemed to drift away, leaving just the two of them. "Was it the dream again?"

"Yes, mother." Luthor considered his next words carefully. It will upset her, but she must needs be told. "The dream tonight was the worst yet. I believe it will worsen until I depart for points unknown."

Andrea stood still for a moment, and then drew Luthor into a warm embrace. Her normally refined voice was tinged with a touch of apprehension. "I am so afraid for thee, beloved son. Where didst this terrible dream originate? Why dost it afflict thee? What is its purpose?" Slightly moist eyes looked up at him. "What will happen to thee?"

Yet again, it is as if she reads my mind. In a private corner of his mind he smiled. I am blessed indeed. "Those self-same questions have I posed; alas, ignorant silence is their only reply," he answered gravely. "But I now believe this dream is a device which will impel me to do another's bidding."

Andrea stiffened imperceptibly. "What if thou art forced to do something..."

"I shan't allow it. Instead would I hunt down the author of this enchantment and destroy him. Barring that possibility, gladly will I live in torment to the end of my days, knowing that his dark design was thwarted."

The Duchess held StrongHeart at arms length, examining him carefully. Though no hint of it showed on her face, inwardly she was astonished and not a little awed. Luthor had spoken almost casually, yet his simple words belied tremendous conviction. Only twice before in her life had she heard such absolute certitude from anyone, one time from an Emperor and the other from a madman; in both cases they had made their seemingly impossible predictions come to pass. She looked on her son with new eyes.

There was a tall young man before her, solidly built, with the confident stance of a veteran fighter. He had fine white hair, speckled hazel eyes, and a sharp-angled nose, clearly marking him as a noble lord from the royal WhiteCastle line. His clean-shaven face was smooth and unblemished, free of defect and guile. That alone could not explain his unshakable presence, she considered. Something undefinable yet palpable had changed about him after his consecration. Last summer Luthor journeyed to the city of Brodsor to petition the Order of Sir Coriodor to become a paladin. The holy men there subjected him to numerous trials: physical, mental, and spiritual. Not one fighter in a thousand met their stringent criteria, yet StrongHeart had done so with apparent ease, completing in months what took most years to do. He was soon declared paladin by the Order, and thereby allowed to claim the novitiate title Gallant. The man before her was now member of an elite group, more select than even the Royal Line. There were perhaps two score paladin in the kingdom, but their small numbers in no way diminished their effectiveness. They were the staunchest defenders of law and goodness, unswerving in their holy mission to eradicate evil. Paladins were gifted with powers and insights beyond those of other men, and it was said the gods themselves smiled upon their endeavors. They were the stuff of legends.

She stepped back a respectful distance. Did she even know this person anymore?

Luthor clasped his mother's hands and held them tight, almost startling her with his intensity. He gazed directly at her and spoke in earnest. "Yet no matter what befalls me still will I be your loving son," he intoned solemnly. Then a childish grin spread across his face, radiating joy.

In an instant her cares were dispelled. "As will I be your adoring mother," she said sincerely. She hugged him fiercely, and laughed as he lifted her and spun her around. At some point without her noticing her boy had become a man, a very special man destined for very special things.

But that man was still her son.

* * *

The two sentries were rapt at attention in front of the Duke's study doors.

Both were large men and wore full chain mail, augmenting their already impressive bulk. Long tabards covered most of the armor, colored brightly in the Duke's white and blue. Each held a spear at the ready, and had a long sword buckled at his side. They seemed much like any of the other keep watchmen, but closer scrutiny revealed artful details to the discriminating eye. Armor was polished and well-tended. Livery was spotless and neatly pressed. Even the leather of their weapons belts had been oiled. To serve as the Duke's personal guardians was high honor amongst the castle guard, and only the most competent and dedicated were chosen for the post.

The wary duo recognized StrongHeart as he approached, and neither questioned why he wanted an audience; a respectful tilt of their burnished helms was their only greeting. The guards turned in unison and opened the steel-bound double doors. "Your son Luthor, your Grace," one proclaimed loudly. The guard stepped back and waved him in.

The den enveloped Luthor comfortably as he entered. On all sides large tapestries stretched from floor to ceiling. Rather than the typical patterns, these tapestries depicted open scenes like the sea and lightly clouded skies, giving the already spacious room the illusion of more space. Across from the doors was an exquisite white-speckled blue marble fireplace, flanked on either side by enormous panoramic windows. Bright morning sunshine streamed through the grated windows; the corner-mounted sconces lay fallow. Five cushioned chairs formed an arc around the hearth, placed along the outside of a plush half-moon shaped rug. On the right hand wall stood two identical oaken cabinets, meticulously carved and stained to a deep hue, each with exquisite stained glass doors. One held an assortment of scrolls along with a few rare books, while the other contained a wide selection of liquors and a platinum service set. Along the other wall was a collection of mostly ceremonial armor and weapons, ranging from the heavy full plate made in the FreeHold Confederacy to the curved scimitars common in the Coalition Of Nomadic States. Interspersed about the room were several small matching marble pedestals displaying pieces of objet d'art, treasured gifts from father's numerous friends.

This is his true seat of power, Luthor thought to himself. Though policy was formally declared in the grandiose main court downstairs, it was created in this very room. Luthor, like each of the Duke's many children, spent numerous evenings here with father as he stayed apprised of current events. At first they silently observed as he entertained some honored guests, counseled with close advisors, or questioned far-roving travelers. As the children grew Stephan drew them gently into the discussions, until each became a well-informed participant. Occasionally they might even sit in on long discourses between father and mother as they hammered out course the Duchy would follow. ManFred presently sat in his favorite chair, the right-most of the five, staring pensively out the window. The day to day affairs might be managed from the Duke's throne, but the demesne was led from that chair.

Stephan beckoned Luthor to take a seat next to him. "We presume thy visit concerns thy continuing affliction," he began without preamble.

StrongHeart nodded as made himself comfortable. "Yes, father."

"This has been uppermost in our thoughts after our conversation with thy mother earlier this morn," he said seriously, his mood considerably more sober than usual. "Thy visit is fortuitous, for we have just sent for our magician to discuss these matters at length. For reasons of economy let us hold our words 'pon this subject until he arrives."

"A sensible measure. What news from Meadowart?" he replied, wondering how his eldest brother and younger sister fared in the realm's capitol. Theodore and Valerie had spent the last year at the King's Court, learning the subtleties of national diplomacy and establishing vital future contacts.

"King Thandor is well, as is his family," ManFred said, handling the change of subject smoothly. "A delegation from The Hierarchy wintered at Meadowart Palace, and Theodore described events as proceeding well with our pious allies. Tension has developed with Kallear, as their settlements continue to creep westward across the Grisham Vale. The succession in Limba has become muddied, and the King has ordered the ambassador to withdraw to Bapak until things are more stable." Stephan's tone lightened. "Valerie writes that a feast was held in thine honor recently, to celebrate thine ascension to paladinhood. She also says that Theodore shamelessly dredged up thine every childish indiscretion to the great pleasure of the Court."

"Quite unnecessary," Luthor said with a sardonic arch to his eyebrows.

"Perhaps he was compelled by the Queen to disclose such improprieties," Stephan said wholly unconvincingly. Both knew not only of Theodore's humorous disposition, bordering on the outright mischievious at times, but also of the Queen's disdain for gossip.

"I meant the feast. I could probably do with a bit of humility," Luthor said loftily, head tilted skyward.

Stephan chuckled at his son's artificial pose, his mood cheered considerably. "Aye, perhaps thou mayest. Yet mayhap more likely"

The conversation was interrupted by the guards opening the heavy doors once more. "The Sorcerer Flanders, your Grace."

"Excellent. Please see that we are undisturbed," he directed.

The watchmen bowed and closed the doors firmly behind the magician. Jeffrey Flanders was a spare man, with a crinkled face weathered by an unknown number of years. Though the thick brown robe he bore covered his entire body it could not mask his bony, almost emaciated frame. Some nameless disease had crippled him ages ago, leaving him hunched and feeble, his hair grey and wispy. He hobbled over to the pair, relying on a stout ash cane for support, and lowered himself gingerly into one of the armchairs. It would be easy to misread him, to judge him a withered, bitter crone, Luthor observed. Close association soon revealed the Magist as a kindly, open soul, almost incongruous with his gnarled body. Time had not dulled his razor sharp mind one iota, and his knowledge drank deeply from the wells of many subjects. Most of all, he commanded extensive magical power which he used on occasion at the behest of the Duke.

"How may I be of service, my Lord?" he asked calmly, once he had settled in.

"We require your further advice on the matter of the phantasms plaguing our son." Stephan signaled Luthor to continue.

The paladin knew that Flanders would best be served by a short, concise description. "Four nights ago the dream began pressuring me, urging me to leave the keep. Last night it seemed almost a compulsion, and the dream was somewhat severe. I believe that it is a geas, as you first surmised."

The magic-user placed a bony finger to his lips. "I see. Where there any new symptoms?"

"My sight was obscured for several seconds after awakening, and the disorientation was particularly intense."

"Unusual, but not inconsistent. Was there anything else? Think hard. Were you sweating? Was your stomach upset? Did you have a headache?"

"Hmm..." he considered. "Now that you have mentioned them specifically, I do recall other difficulties. I had been sweating and my stomach was queasy. My head was clear and free from pain, though."

The magician's weathered jowls crinkled in a grin, and he turned to Stephan. "Your son is a treasure, my Lord. Any other man would probably be incapacitated by now. Luthor has inadvertently avoided the worst of the ravages."

A questioning look from the Duke indicated his lack of comprehension, so Flanders continued with an explanation. "You are familiar with the ability of the paladin to heal others by laying their hands on them? The curing replenishes itself daily, and grows greater with experience." Stephan nodded; it was common knowledge. "That same ability can be used to heal themselves nigh instantaneously. If any healing power remains it will be used to prevent life threatening injury to the paladin, and it is also employed at the end of each day before he gains more curing. This process is involuntary, engaging without the paladin's conscious direction."

I didn't know that, Luthor thought, taken aback. After his sanctification, the clerics of Sir Coriodor had instructed him in the use of his powers and warned him about his new limitations. Though they had shown him how to lay on hands, they never mentioned that he could heal himself, let alone automatically. It appears that I still have much to learn about the extent of my endowments.

Stephan reiterated the point, to be sure he understood. "So you are proposing that Luthor was indeed hurt by this geas, as you call it, but that his newfound holy abilities spared him the majority of the pain?"

"Exactly, your Grace," Flanders confirmed. "I am almost certain of it. Now that there is an element of coercion, these visitations fit the classic punishment pattern of a geas spell. The recipient is injured so long as he tries to balk the proscribed task, either by action or inaction. The difficulty in this case is that there is no clear indication of what that labor might be... though the strange dream may provide a clue." Flanders stared off into space for a moment, and then refocused on the Duke. He spoke gravely. "In any event, one thing is clear. Luthor must leave immediately; things will grow more severe the longer he lingers. I would strongly suggest he depart this afternoon if not sooner."

"Is there naught to be done?" ManFred asked quietly.

"I do not know, my Lord. For six weeks have I probed this dream, and have gained little for my trouble. It is no type of magic of which I am aware. It is not a cast spell of a magic-user, nor the voodoo of the Keybata, nor the witchcraft of the Covens. No spirits infuse him, earthly, demonic, or divine. Neither good nor evil do I sense. I must regretfully admit my impotence in this matter; I cannot dispel what I do not understand," he said the last sullenly.

"Bear not blame upon thy shoulders, good Jeffrey," the Duke said gently, using the affectionate forms. He rose and placed both hands on Flanders shoulders. "Thou hast ever served us in good stead, and we know of thy considerable efforts to aid our son." ManFred gave the mage a slight squeeze and then released him, returning to his chair. "We find ourselves placed into no small dilemma. We are honor bound to refuse Luthor aid if he leaves our care, though we feel our aid might be most crucial at this junture."

Both understood the Duke's quandary instantly. Though many generations had passed none had forgotten that WhiteCastle was the capitol of the kingdom of Blairmont, and that Stephan ManFred was the direct descendant of King Matthew GoldenFlare, the last sovereign of that august nation before its devastation. Centuries ago the realm was struck by the Creeping Plague, a unique and terrible disease which slowly consumed two-thirds of the population. GoldenFlare led the remaining people south across the Badlands to seek sanctuary near Thandor; half again never survived the trip. Thandor and Blairmont had ever stood as brothers in the cause of justice, and the desperate wanderers were given aid and allowed to shelter north of the kingdom. For three decades the flower of the Blairmonite aristocracy sallied forth to dispel the plague which still afflicted the land. Not one returned, and the nobility was seriously depleted. Matthew, ever a practical man, forbade further attempts to reclaim the homeland and refused aid to any who would attempt to do so. He then swore fealty to King Thandor and set about making his new Duchy a permanent settlement before he died.

It was no secret that Luthor intended to banish the plague and restore the monarchy, despite the ages-old prohibition. "No difficulty do I see, father. Never did I expect any assistance in my grand endeavor, and I understand full well the constraints which prevent your succor." Though he was technically released from his predicament by Luthor's polite words, the Duke looked unsatisfied at the prospect of sending his son away with nothing.

How very much alike they are, Flanders thought, both trying to aid the other. The magic-user glanced from father to son. Ignoring their clothes the two were nearly identical physically, with age being the only real discriminating factor. Even that gap was not so large; despite his fifty-four years Stephan was still powerfully built and could contest fairly with warriors half his age. Yet the similarities went deeper than the corporeal, the magician observed. Both men were cut from the same durable cloth of strong character, woven from flax of integrity and threads of duty, and embroidered simply with spiritual conviction. They wore this heavy garb easily, every day, and it lent them eminence more compelling than any real garments ever could. Of all the children Luthor resembled his father the most, and had inherited the older man's keen sense of rectitude. Yet that same over-blown sense of honor hamstrung them in this case; if only there were some way to use their principles to their advantage... "Your Grace, if I may suggest?" he said into the growing pause.

"Please do."

"What if Luthor were to pledge that he wouldn't start on his quest of reclamation until he returned from this journey? That way you could lend him assistance now, without fear that those resources might be misused."

ManFred smiled at the elegance of the solution. "You continue to serve us well. Well, son?"

The idea struck Luthor as being a singularly good one. It was of no inconvenience to him whatsoever, since his plans were still years in the making. And it will spare mother much needless worry. "Very well. I promise that I will not enter Blairmont ere I see you again."

The somber edge to the Duke dissipated, and he seemed immensely pleased. "Excellent! A horse shalt thou have, as well as armor and stout weapons. Our crest shalt thou bear, and funds shalt thou carry." He paused for a moment in his exuberance to consider. "In fact, everything that thy brother Christopher had when he began his adventuring career shalt thou have as well, no more and no less. Our family will bid thee farewell in privy over a noontime feast, and then shalt thou depart."

"This is likely the best resolution that can be had to the matter under the circumstances," Flanders said as he rose shakily from his seat. He pivoted on his cane toward Luthor. "I do not wish to dampen your spirits on the eve of your journey, but I would say one thing more. Do not underestimate the ramifications of this dream. Even had I the spell the casting of a geas would be beyond my ability; only a Wizard might attempt it and succeed. Someone very powerful has taken an interest in you, and will doubtless influence you for awhile yet. Your brave manner in meeting this dream is fitting, but be cognizant that your decisions are no longer solely your own." Wrinkled brows furrowed menacingly. "You may not have the option of pursuing your quest. Ever."

The paladin stood. "I hear your sober words and shall attempt to heed the wisdom contained therein. This dream shall I give the respect that it is due," Luthor said seriously. "Yet though a man's options might be limited by some exterior agency, even down to a single one, is not the final choice still his own?"

"You speak of philosophy, whereas I speak of power. There are some magics potent enough that even choice is eliminated," Flanders said bluntly.

He would not speak so harshly were this not of supreme importance. StrongHeart nodded solemnly in understanding.

"By your leave, my Lord?"

"Of course," the Duke replied. Father and son watched in silence as the elder shuffled across the room and knocked on the door. Flanders turned as the guards opened the doors for him. "Fare well, and good luck."

The Duke let out a long breath. "We, too, would have parting words with thee, though of a far different aspect." ManFred placed both hands on Luthor's shoulders. "Thou dost stand on the edge of a great adventure, my son. Before thou art taken far and away, we would impart thee with knowledge. Officially we have never encouraged thy lifelong pursuit, because we believe the injunction imposed by GoldenFlare to be a just one. Yet this lack of recognition stems not from lack of approval. We believe thy objective is most noble, and we wish thee good fortune in all thy endeavors, including this one.

"Thou art a fine and honorable man, Luthor StrongHeart. Thou hast already made us proud to have sired thee, and we feel thou wilt make us prouder yet. As thy quests unfold, know that thou dost have our love and our blessing."

Tears brimmed in Luthor's eyes and he gripped his father in a tight hug. Both were moved by powerful emotion and no more words were necessary.

After a long while Stephan ManFred released his son. He chuckled as he wiped a tear from his face. "We aid not thy humility this day."

Luthor laughed heartily. He is a great man. "That's quite all right, father. Thou mayest take great pains to humble me properly in the future."

* * *

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