The Lost Mage of Eldharn V e r o n i c a a rt e r b u ry The LosT Mage of eLdharn The LosT Mage of eLdharn Veronica Arterbury ovi ebooks are available in ovi/ovi ebookshelves pages and they are for free. if somebody tries to sell you an ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 ovi ebookPublications - all material is copyright of the ovi ebooks Publications & the writer C The Lost Mage of Eldharn The Lost Mage of Eldharn Veronica Arterbury Veronica Arterbury An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 ovi ebookPublications - all material is copyright of the ovi ebooks Publications & the writer C The Lost Mage of Eldharn I n the twilight of the Fourth Age , when the sun bled red over the eastern sea and the stars still whispered secrets to those who dared listen, Eldharn reigned at the heart of the world, its tow- ers bright as beacons of wisdom, its banners un- furled across the realms of men and dwarrow alike. The wind bore the scent of lilacs and lightning, and the land knew peace, for the Imperial Mages stood watchful, and their power was vast. But peace is a fragile fruit, easily bruised. And pride, the worm within it. Eldharn had stood for three centuries, a jewel of arcane mastery. The Circle of Nine, greatest mages of their time, wielded powers drawn from flame and frost, blood and bone, star and shadow. They were bound to the Crown by sacred oath, protectors of the realm. Veronica Arterbury Yet oaths are as brittle as old stone, when ambition finds root. * * * * * The storm had been building all day, thickening over the Veil Mountains like a living thing. By dusk, the sky had turned a colour not found in nature, sick- ly violet streaked with black veins. Thunder rolled like the drums of distant war, and lightning flickered above the spires of the Sanctum Arcanum. Inside, within the grand Hall of the Circle, the air was thick with the scent of ash and betrayal. Mage-Lord Taranis knelt, blood dripping from his mouth, pooling on the white marble in slow, crim- son petals. His cloak, once bright as dragon-fire, now hung in tatters. Before him stood the Imperial Throne, empty. Instead, it was High Chancellor Elan- dor who presided, draped in ceremonial robes laced with gold sigils that pulsed faintly with borrowed power. Behind him, on raised tiers, stood the Imperial Guard and the five remaining members of the High Council, all silent, stone-faced, and complicit. Around Taranis lay his Circle, slain not by sword, The Lost Mage of Eldharn but by spell. They had fallen one by one as the treach- ery unfolded. Lysel the Wind-Weaver, throat cut by her own conjured storm. Vaelros, whose fire de- voured him from within. Even gentle Marra, keeper of the moon-ward mirrors, now lay crumpled like a doll, her soul torn free. “You would bind me, Elandor?” Taranis spoke, voice raw and quiet as thunder before a storm. “After all I gave to crown and kingdom?” The Chancellor stepped forward. He was not a mage, not truly but he wore arcane glyphs etched into his very skin, tattoos inked in demon blood by the traitor-scribes of the Whispering South. He held in one hand a book, its cover bound in scaled hide, its corners marked with runes of sealing. In the oth- er, a quill of bone, still glistening with ink and ichor. “You gave us much, Taranis,” Elandor said smooth- ly, his voice like oil over ice. “But what you are ... must never walk free again. You would not bow to our will. And that, old friend, is treason.” Taranis laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “ Your will? Or the will of the wraiths you serve?” The room shifted. Shadows coiled behind Elan- Veronica Arterbury dor, where no torches flickered. A tall, robed shape loomed behind the Chancellor, a thing of forgotten ages, cloaked in dread, with a face like cracked ob- sidian and eyes that bled light. It said nothing. It did not need to. Taranis’s gaze did not flinch. “So the stories are true. The Dread Court walks among men once more.” Elandor merely smiled and opened the book. “And you, my dear Archmage, will be our warning and our weapon. The age of mortal mages ends tonight.” He dipped the bone quill into the ink, and the book began to hum. Chains of golden light snaked through the air, wrapping around Taranis’s limbs, his throat, his mind. Runes flared in the air, ancient, binding, cruel. Taranis screamed, not from pain, but from the tear- ing of his very essence. His soul was being unrav- elled, strand by strand, and rewoven into ink. “You cannot hold me,” he rasped, even as blood trickled from his ears. “Not forever.” “Perhaps not,” Elandor replied, “but long enough for the world to forget you.” The Lost Mage of Eldharn With a final word, the last of the incantation was spoken. The marble floor cracked. The air screamed. The Book of Binding slammed shut, the echo rip- pling through the stones of Eldharn. Where Taranis had knelt, there was nothing but scorched marble, a red ember smouldering in silence. The silence lingered. Outside, the wind rose. Somewhere beyond the city, the first flame of rebellion sputtered to life. But within the halls of power, the empire rejoiced. For the Circle was no more. The age of mages had ended, not in glory, but in chains. And so the book was sealed. Guarded. Forgotten. Until, in the filth of Mirehall’s alleys, in a future not yet written, a thief reached where he should not have and the last flame of Eldharn stirred once more. Veronica Arterbury I. It began, as such things often do, with a very bad idea. The moon was old and sickly that night, wearing a veil of smoke that drifted down from the charred chimneys of Mirehall, a city that had once been called Mirandel in better days. Now it was a place of guttering lamps, crooked alleys, and dreams traded for coin. The wind carried the stink of ash, cabbage stew, and cold regret. And through it moved Kellan, street-rat, pickpock- et, and part-time ruin enthusiast. He crouched atop the rain-slick roof of the Broken Chapel of St. Adric, watching the Watchmen trudge by below with the slow gait of men paid too little to care and too much to rush. He counted their foot- steps. The Lost Mage of Eldharn “Four,” he murmured. “Five. ... And here comes Lazy Horric, late again.” Right on cue, the sixth guard appeared from around the corner, fiddling with the straps of his helm. Kel- lan grinned. Not all magic was arcane, some of it was timing, instinct, and an unhealthy disregard for au- thority. He swung down from the roof, landed on the stone sill of the old chapel’s north window, and slipped in- side. Dust greeted him like a lover. The air was thick with it, clinging, ancient, laced with forgotten in- cense. The chapel had been gutted years ago, its relics melted down or sold to spice merchants and grave robbers. But the library beneath? That had remained hidden. He lit a stub of wax and dropped down into the crypt stairs, whistling under his breath. “Kellan,” he whispered to himself, “this is madness. You’re talking to yourself in an abandoned crypt. Again.” His voice echoed softly. He hated echoes. They Veronica Arterbury sounded too much like ghosts. And he hated ghosts more than he hated vegetables. Down below, the crypt opened like a rotten tooth into a round, vault-like chamber. Shelves had col- lapsed in heaps, parchment long since gnawed by rats. But one pedestal remained untouched in the center, a stone plinth with silver fittings. Upon it sat a book. Not just any book. Bound in dark, iridescent leather, the thing looked as though it might slither away if not pinned down. A faint glow pulsed from the runes etched along its spine. Kellan slowed. “Well,” he breathed. “You’re either very valuable... or very cursed.” He touched it. And the book sighed. Not opened. Not cracked. Not growled, as books sometimes did in the darker corners of Mirehall’s book markets. It sighed , like an old man waking from a long nap in a chair he never meant to fall asleep in. The Lost Mage of Eldharn “You,” said a voice from the book. Deep, cultured. Slightly annoyed. “Are not my apprentice.” Kellan stumbled back, knocking over a stack of mouldy hymnals. “Spirits and socks!” he shouted. “The bloody thing talks !” “Indeed I do,” said the book, rather coldly. “And you are far too loud for someone in a crypt.” Kellan stared. “You’re... you’re alive ?” “No,” said the book. “I’m Taranis .” “Oh,” said Kellan. Then after a pause: “Should that mean something?” The silence that followed was withering. “I am ...or was, the Archmage of Eldharn. First of the Nine. Binder of the Flame. Slayer of the Lurker of Darnal Deep. And I once turned a mountain inside out because it offended me.” Kellan blinked. Veronica Arterbury “...Well. That sounds exhausting.” The book groaned, a sound like rust and regret. “I’ve been asleep for three centuries and this is what wakes me? A mouthy alley-brat with a candle and a death wish?” “Oi,” said Kellan, offended. “I’ve got a proper death wish, thank you very much. I steal from necroman- cers.” “You steal from unattended corpses.” “Not my fault necromancers have poor housekeep- ing.” “You’re an idiot.” “And you’re a book.” There was a pause. Then, faintly, the edges of the tome glowed a faint red. “You’ve touched me, boy. The spell is bound. The seal is cracked. My prison weakens.” “You don’t say.” “I do. And whether you like it or not, our fates are The Lost Mage of Eldharn now entangled. I require your assistance. And you require mine.” Kellan crossed his arms. “In what world do I re- quire help from a sarcastic talking book?” Just then, the ground trembled. The plinth cracked. And the far wall of the crypt split open, revealing a gaping hole and beyond it, a low, guttural growl. From the darkness emerged three shapes. Skeletal hounds. Their eyes burned with blue fire. Their limbs moved like marionettes with too many joints. They smelled of soot and tomb rot. Kellan took a step back. “I told you,” the book said dryly, “I’m cursed.” * * * * * What followed was chaos. Kellan ran. The book bounced under his arm, glowing with sudden heat. Veronica Arterbury The hounds gave chase, claws clicking on the stone like knives on tile. Kellan dodged a collapsed arch- way, vaulted a fallen column, and burst out into the Mirehall night with the sound of snarling on his heels. He sprinted across rooftops, nearly missed a chim- ney, and cursed every god he didn’t believe in. “Any time you’d like to help!” he shouted to the book. “You’re not ready.” “I’M ABOUT TO DIE!” “Exactly.” Kellan ducked behind a butcher’s stall, heart ham- mering. The hounds leapt and exploded mid-air. A wave of blue fire rippled outward, incinerating the nearest stall, a fruit cart, and, inexplicably, a goat. Kellan looked down. The book now pulsed with living fire. The Lost Mage of Eldharn “You’ll learn, Kellan of Mirehall,” Taranis whis- pered, voice low and burning. “Magic answers the call of the desperate.” “Wonderful,” Kellan panted, smoke in his lungs. “So now what?” The book’s voice was quieter now, almost thought- ful. “Now we run. The Empire will have felt the seal break. And if they find me again... I will not survive another binding.” “And me?” “You? They’ll flay your soul.” Kellan groaned and shouldered the book tighter. “Right, then. Let’s steal a horse.” * * * * * And so, beneath a dying moon and over the roofs of Mirehall, a thief and a book fled into the night— one hunted by the past, the other cursed by it. But destiny has long fingers, and even a broken kingdom remembers the taste of flame. Veronica Arterbury The last mage had stirred. And the world would burn before it forgot him again. The Lost Mage of Eldharn II. The wind howled across the Iron Dells like a beast denied meat. It carried with it ash and grit from the south, rem- nants of cities burned in the name of progress, or power, or peace, none of which remained. Grey hills rolled under a roiling sky. Lightning danced upon the spires of the dead towers of Eldharn, and thun- der cracked with the sound of hammers upon stone. Kellan stood atop the last ridge, soaked through and shivering, the talking book tucked under one arm. “You didn’t mention the part about lightning,” he muttered. “I didn’t think you’d come if I had,” said Taranis. “And the part about me being bait?” Veronica Arterbury “That was... implied.” Below them sprawled the ruins of Eldharn, the Im- perial Seat of the mages before it had crumbled into a grave. It had once burned with a thousand lanterns. Now it only smouldered. In the center of the ruin, half-buried in the bones of the past, rose the Spire of the Flame, the place where Taranis had been bound in the final days of the Mage Purge, when the Empire turned its steel upon the ones who had built it. Kellan’s jaw clenched. “And you’re sure this is how we free you?” “I do not know,” said the book, with the weary honesty of an old general returning to a battlefield he once fled. “But this is where the spell began. And where it must end.” They descended the slope in silence, lightning striking the ground with growing fury. Halfway down, the book stirred. “They come.” And they did.