Happy Halloween! 3: Prologue

Greetings, readers!

When I was 16 years old, I revamped a story from my childhood--a story called Happy Halloween! This gradually unfolded as a series, beginning as Happy Halloween! 1 in 2005 and finding its fourth installment in the brilliantly illustrated Santa Claws in 2018 (credit again to Derek Nochefranca for the incredible artwork).  The fifth and final story of the series begins here.  I intend to post the entirety of this final installment in six parts; the last portion should go up the day before Halloween, 2019.

To read the other stories in the series (highly recommended, as you will probably not have any idea what in Ghost's name I'm talking about in the latest release), click on the following links.  Enjoy! Have fun! Don't talk to strangers (unless you want to)!

Happy Halloween! 1 (2005)
Happy Halloween! 2 (2012)
The Day the Thanksgiving Turkey Ran Away (2014)
Santa Claws (2018)

Prologue

Armenor

They need to know.

He was lying on a rock, his energy expended.  The sky, blurred in his fading vision, was painted with long strokes of dark cloud.  Every few moments his consciousness would lapse, but only momentarily; then he would awaken once more, and only one thought pierced his mind.

They need to know.

He hoped that he might have some untapped reserve of strength, but it did not come to him.  And so he waited.  He waited, and the chilling wind that heaved the clouds from south to north dissipated.  He waited, and the murmur of the beasts around him died down.  He waited, and energy was revived anew in his limbs.  Breathing in and bracing himself, he rolled over until he was facedown and pushed himself up to his feet.  He tottered for a second, dizzy with the exertion, but managed to steady himself long enough to allow his vision to clear.  He was alive.  No, he was not in the underworld of which the world’s lore often spoke, and for that he felt a degree of thankfulness; he had long doubted that he would be permitted eternal bliss, where there was light and joy and peace, a place devoid of pain and tears.  Perhaps this was a second chance for him to attain to that perfect realm.

He turned to the side and almost fell onto his back once again—not from exhaustion, but from fear.  The massive eagle loomed above and looked down at him.  He was not quite sure if he was being considered as a snack or commanded—with an unflinching glare—to quit his trespassing.  It would be better not to linger for the answer, he decided.  Slowly and cautiously, and fixing his eyes on the preposterously grand creature before him, he backed away until he was nearly on the opposite side of the summit.  It was only then that he remembered to breathe and survey the rest of the landscape.

To his right stood the rudimentary, elevated building off of which Jonathan had kicked M.D.  He shuddered as the scene replayed in his mind: the sorceress berating the boy and hinting at sinister plans, the battle across the mountaintop, and using the last of his power and physical energy to knock the cauldron off the cliff.  He had collapsed and watched with relief as his companions had disappeared into the portal and the turkeys swarmed over him...but he was alive.  He lived, because the cauldron and its contents had been destroyed upon impact; Melhrir and the turkeys had instantly become docile and the portal had vanished.  Now he was alone and without direction...but not without purpose.  In fact, he quickly realized that another mission lay ahead of him.  But how would he begin?

Melonir permitted view of the surrounding world for seventy leagues, so he moved to the nearest edge of the summit and gazed at the lands beyond.  The Zedroc Plain extended in every direction, but to the south and southeast the jagged Shadow Hills prodded the heavens.  He knew that, beyond the great huddle of hills beyond, stretched the Vale of Val-Neor, the frost-tipped Casponin Mountains, and Sarnost Shores.  And beyond that? he asked himself.  The Eastern Sea and the islands of Kalunas and Volu-Nor.  Volu-Nor.  That’s my best chance, and the nearest.  Off I go, then! There is no time for delay.

The journey was lengthy and painstaking.  He was thankful to stumble upon a spring of fresh water after an hour’s descent down the mountain, where he refreshed himself and managed to regain some of his strength.  Nonetheless, his body was so weighed with exhaustion following the battle that any attempt to exercise his power was fruitless; the final act of blasting the cauldron off the cliff had drained his magical reservoir.  There was no telling when he would make a full recovery, or if this was even a possibility.  After all, it was not until recently that he had learned that he could use magic to fly—and not once had such an exercise so depleted him.  All he could do was walk and wait to see if he would be granted his powers once more.

Walk he did, taking over a day to reach the base of the mountain; then he made slow progress southeast along the plain.  He hoped to find respite in some of the towns of that region, inhabited by humans, but they shooed him away and threatened the use of dark magic if ever he showed his face there again.  The plain was calm and safe in the evenings, so he often began his treks at sunset and ended prior to sunrise.  During the day, fierce and ravenous hounds roamed the land in packs; he would therefore deny sleep until he had come across a tree capable of cradling him, or a rock capable of concealing him.  Save for a week-long stay in the hut of three amicable desert gnomes, this was how he passed the month before reaching the southern Shadow Hills.

It was there that he nearly despaired.  Although he was able to travel by day in these parts, the hills were so lofty that they blocked his view of the sun most of the day.  It was not until he ascended the peaks that he would find how far he had traveled, and in which direction.  To make matters worse, in most places the hills were blanketed with slivers of rock the color of obsidian (the scales of war-fallen dragons, in fact), causing him to slide far more than he liked.  Being a pumpkin, and therefore round in form, the slightest slip often resulted in the most absurdly long and excruciating tumble.  He imagined that he was now hardly recognizable as the appetizing squash of his former life.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.  Though he did not know it, the ninth month of his journey was coming to an end when he crested a hill overlooking a dense cluster of trees.  Unfolding on either side of the forest was an expanse of untrodden fields and golden patches of earth.  The only forested region in the Vale of Val-Neor is Soira Forest, he thought.  He turned to the west and saw the faint glint of buildings.  That, then, must be Tarsen Town.  I will find relief there before starting on the final stage of my quest.  But alas, I am far too weary to continue today.  He sighed and sat on the nearest rock.  His travels had exhausted him in both body and mind, and he was doubtful that his stubby legs could carry him the rest of the way.  Perhaps Tarsen Town had donkeys for sale.  But there is no steed capable of fording the sea beyond; I will need a ship.  The Spine of Crel stood beyond the forest to the south, blocking view of the tumultuous seas.  M.D. said Jonathan needed a reason to kill Apo....

He was dozing when he felt movement beneath him, and he thought that he had set off a rockslide—a common occurrence in this area.  Now having grown accustomed to this phenomenon, he prepared to move to the side and set up camp for the night...but the movement was repeated with greater force.  As soon as he looked down, he noticed two craggy eyes meeting his gaze.

“A petrein!” he exclaimed.

The creature, a lustrous humanoid studded with bronze stones, let out an irritated grunt and rose to its feet quickly.  The squash was hardly able to believe the strength he felt in its body; he was propelled down the cliff in a single motion, and thanks to momentum, he found himself bursting down the hillside.  His disturbance of one petrein apparently resulted in the disturbance of the entire petrein community, for during his stomach-turning descent, he noticed the hilltop coming alive with their movement and grunts.  They were no more than dots in the distance when the force of some object knocked him unconscious.

“I have seen things few people would believe, and have fought battles with enemies more terrifying than you can imagine,” said a young man who was crouched in front of a tree.  “I have been acquainted with magic I may never be able to explain, and I grew up on a farm.  But among all the experiences of my short life, never have I encountered a pumpkin with consciousness.”

He realized that he was seated on a rock (not a petrein) in what was presumably Soira Forest.  Groggily, he hopped to his feet and surveyed the terrain; the trees were scant here, and the red light of sunset projected the silhouettes of their leaves upon the cold earth.  The ground ascended to the north, specked with the dark scales of the Shadow Hills.  Save for a light breeze flicking the leaves against one another, all was silent and still.  He turned his attention again to the young man and assessed whether or not he would be able to put up a fight if their meeting proved hostile.

“Pray don’t move too quickly,” said his host.  “You took quite a tumble down that hill; I imagine you’re a bit rattled.”

The squash sensed no deception or ill-will in his tone, but remained on guard.  “Your speech is unlike any that I have heard.  I presume that you don’t come from this area?”

“From the south, actually.” The stranger motioned to his left.  “Beyond the borders of this world.  My name is Hargolan, of the country Farlenas by the sea.”

“Farlenas.  Indeed, no region within these lands bears such a name.” He stepped forward and extended his arm forward.  “I am Gourdo of the city called Zierro, also to the south...though perhaps not as far south as Farlenas.”

Hargolan shook the arm-stem and smiled.  “Well met, friend.  I’m glad to see you awake and aware rather than falling helplessly down a slope.  What brought you to these hills? A solitary hiking expedition?”

“Not by choice.” Gourdo would have appeared mournful if he, a perpetually grinning jack-o'-lantern, could have accomplished such a feat.  “I am afraid I have been tasked with an urgent mission.”

“You have been tasked with an urgent mission,” said the young man, “or you tasked yourself with an urgent mission?”

The squash paused, rubbing the area where his chin might have been.  “The boy is astute, perhaps because he, too, has tasked himself with an urgent mission.”

“This is true.” Hargolan’s face fell, and his hand touched the pommel of a sword at his hip.  “But I sense that this is my fate; my path was chosen for me.  To deny it would be a breach of what has already been willed for me.  How can I possibly resist? If I do nothing...well, more than Farlenas is at stake.”

“Are you hinting that you must save the world?”

“Yes,” replied Hargolan, “or at least...I must find the one who has been foretold to save the world.  Someone far stronger than I.  Unless the prophecy is a false tale.” He took a seat on a nearby stump and studied Gourdo for a moment.  The wind died down and all was quiet, as if the world held its breath to better listen to an important conversation.  “You wouldn’t know of one called Sage, would you?”

“Sage,” said the squash contemplatively.  “Sage....Do you mean a sage? A seer, or perhaps a wizard of some kind? Or do you speak of the pungent shrub that people sometimes use for tea?”

“No, that’s not what I mean, though I could really use some tea right now!” The young man chuckled, but he seemed discouraged.  “Oh well, I guess my search continues.  And what about you, fair squash? What is your mission?”

My mission.  Pumpkin, his cousin, had been leaping, spinning, and slashing at the bellicose turkeys atop Melonir while he had been striking magical blows at the cauldron.  He had begun to feel exhaustion setting in, but even in his weakness he had used his magic to listen in on Jonathan’s conversation with M.D.  The boy is...well, just a boy.  It is unlikely that he made sense of anything that wicked woman told him.  But he had heard enough to surmise that a great evil would soon visit the boy’s world—assuming it had not already manifested during Gourdo’s long journey.

“You wanted me to kill Apo?” Jonathan had asked the sorceress.

The woman’s response had been smug: “Yea, even he willed to give up his own life—to please Mother Dearest.  Had thou properly disposed of the ashes of thy antagonistic professor that lay at the base of his cauldron…thou wouldst shoulder less responsibility for thy—and thy world’s—future.”

They need to know, Gourdo thought again to himself, if it isn’t too late.

“My mission,” he told Hargolan, “is to travel to the magical island of Volu-Nor, still a long way south of here, and take a portal to another realm—a realm that is in grave danger.”

“Another realm,” the young man whispered to himself.  He stared off into the distance.  “And you feel responsible for this...other realm?”

Gourdo moved his body in a nod.  “If it still exists, then yes.  Just as you are tasked with saving this world—or at least finding this ‘Sage’ and aiding him in doing so—I must not neglect to save a different world.  It is a world filled with love and family.  My cousin, and others dear to me, currently abide there.”

“That sounds like a world worth saving,” said Hargolan.  “May I ask what it is called?”

“It is called ‘Earth,’ though I am most familiar with the humble town of Vacaville.”

Hargolan pursed his lips and took a step away from the stump on which he had been sitting.  “You look weary with travel, and even wearier with your burden to protect.  I know that burden well, Gourdo, and I have a good feeling about you—even though we met just a moment ago.  My search continues...but there is no reason for yours to do the same.”

What in the world is that supposed to mean? the squash asked himself.  “If you mean to dissuade and deter me from my quest, then I must inform you that I am fully prepared to continue on despite the weariness and burden.”

“I would expect no less from a fellow hero,” said Hargolan with a smirk.  He muttered something unintelligible and waved a hand in the air.  Suddenly, rainclouds swarmed together in the heavens and cast deep shadows upon the forest.  The wind picked up again, at first intermittent gusts, then longer squalls, and finally heavy gales that nearly knocked Gourdo on his face.  He grabbed onto the rock behind him and watched the surprising display; Hargolan’s hand remained in the air, waving ponderously.  While the phenomenon was certainly unusual, Gourdo did not feel any fear as he watched the shadows deepen and the wind shake the trees.  The young man’s countenance, peaceful and resolute, put to rest any initial anxieties within him.

“Hargolan, what is this?” he shouted as thunder joined the wind’s chorus.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like dark magic!”

The young man laughed.  “You are correct, my friend!”

“But--but is not dark magic reserved for those who are evil?” His voice betrayed his befuddlement.  “Those who practice wicked deeds?”

“I wish I had time to tell you my story,” said Hargolan.  At that moment, a purple orb appeared in the space between them and expanded slowly.  “But alas, I don’t.  It’s quite long; I’m convinced it would take three books to explain it in full.”

“I hope to read it some day!” Gourdo clasped the stone more tightly, and the purple orb grew to the size of a small house.  It looked awfully familiar.  A portal, he thought.  Hargolan has created a portal.  What sort of power is this?

“Do me a favor, Gourdo,” said his new friend.  “Join your cousin and the others on Earth, and help them save it.  I am not sure if I will succeed in my quest, but you make sure to succeed in yours.”

“I will do everything I can!” he promised, noticing that his body was beginning to lift from the earth.  The portal was drawing him.

“Farewell, friend, until we meet again!”

“Goodbye!” Gourdo released the rock and spiraled into the portal, disappearing in an instant.