The Staff of Tyrus

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The coins the old man had placed in his hands were enough to gain Ortello’s interest. The promise of many more were enough to move him to action.

Ortello’s family had struggled for years, and this season’s draught promised to ruin them. But it was more than just a drought. Year by year it seemed a poisonous creep wormed its way inward from the western edge of the farm. At first it was barely noticeable. But now, grain that would have once filled his cart barely occupied half the bed. Still, he would sell the meager supply in town to the east and hope it was enough to keep starvation at bay.

As he finalized his sales at the market, the old man approached him.

“Young man, I see you did not have much to sell.”

“No,” Ortello said. What was the point of denying it.

“One imagines that a smaller crop means less to feed your family.”

Ortello nodded, not wanting to either respond to or confront this man.

“I can make you a proposition that will more than make up the difference,” the man said.

Ortello said he would listen.

The offer sounded simple enough. Somewhere, perhaps two-days ride from town, to the west was an abandoned village. One night decades ago the people suddenly moved from the town. No one knows where they went or what drove them away. There is speculation of curses and ghosts; raiders and far-away armies. No one can say.

All that is known is that the town was abandoned suddenly and that little was taken away with the villagers.

Among the inhabitants of the town, the story goes, was a powerful enchanter named Tyrus. It is said that Tyrus left behind a staff of great magic. It is said that one who possesses and knows how to use it can wield great influence. To those not skilled, it is little more than an ornate walking stick.

“If you were to bring the staff to me, I would pay you handsomely.”

“Why not get it yourself?” Ortello asked.

“Well, I am old and there are dangers in the wasteland. Besides, I am not good with directions. I am afraid I would never find the village.”

“How would I find it?”

“With this,” the old man said, thrusting a map into Ortello’s hands. It is clearly marked there. If you have any sense of direction, you can find it.

Ortello looked at the parchment. The map was well drawn and intricate, and he could easily find the village with it.

“And, if I go, how will I know the house I seek?”

“Do you know anything of magic and magic symbology?” the old man asked.

“I do not. We do not tamper with such things,” Ortello said.

“Wise,” the old man said. “Look for a house with a door on which is carved a six pointed star that seems to connect within itself. It was said to be painted red, but the sun may have long ago faded that. Once you get there, inside you will find a locked and wardrobe. You must simply break the chains and open the door. The staff should be inside. According to legend.”

Ortello nodded.

“If, no when, you retrieve the staff, return here. I will be staying at the Morning Rooster Inn, just across the marketplace,” the old man said pointing in the general direction of his lodgings. “I will remain here one week.”

“And what will my pay be if I bring this item to you?” Ortello asked.

“Twenty times what I have already given. Do we have a deal.”

“That, we do,” Ortello said. “I will see you in under a week.”

Towards the end of the first day of his journey, Ortelllo had passed to the south of his home. He could not risk the time that a stop would take. His family would understand when he came home with a purse stuffed with coins.

As he moved further west, Ortello noticed the grass was more sparse and yellowed. By the second day of his travels, the grass yielded entirely to dust, and the trees were dead and bare. As the sun began to set, he saw the village in the distance. He also heard the howling for the first time. As the sun set and the sky was in the liminal space between light and darkness, the howling came again. It was closer and more insistent. His horse neighed and chuffed, refusing to move forward. Ortello prodded the horse’s sides with his heels, but the stubborn beast would not be persuaded.

Ortello cursed the horse. He climbed down and grabbed his mount’s leads, entreating it to follow him. The horse dug in. Then the air was filled with a growl. The horse reared, knocking Ortello to the ground. While Ortello recovered his footing, the horse ran.

Ortello rose, yelling for the horse. At that moment, he was knocked to the ground once again, as a dog-like creature lept onto his back. Ortello spun onto his back as the snarling animal lunged at him. On instinct, Ortello rolled, and the jaws clamped on his left shoulder instead of his throat as it had intended. The pain was sharp and his shoulder felt like it had been set ablaze. Ortello screamed as the creature raised its head, blood dripping from its mouth.

Ortello fumbled for the dagger he carried in a scabbard on his belt. The beast snapped at his face, missing by so close a margin that Ortello felt its foul, hot breath.

The dog snarled and lunged again, as Ortello buried his dagger in its neck. The animal whimpered and staggered as its blood pumped out of the wound. Soon enough it was dead.

Ortello recovered his knife and looked around. He was disoriented due to the fight, and the night was now dark. He could not see the village. Nor could he see his horse. He tore strips from his shirt and fashioned a bandage. He applied pressure to his shoulder to staunch the bleeding. It hurt. It would hurt for some time to come, he determined. But, the wound would not kill him. Not tonight.

Ortello decided the wisest course of action was to stay put. Stumbling around in the dark to find his horse would have been a fool’s errand, as would moving towards the village that may or may not be in front of him. Daylight would answer that question.

Exposed as he was, Ortello determined he would stay awake. Within the hour, exhaustion burned away his determination, and he fell into slumber.

The light of sunrise awoke him with a start. Ortello’s shoulder hurt terribly, but he had slept safely. He looked around him, and saw no sign of his horse. He did, however, see the brown stone walls of the village to his left.

The hike did not take long - an hour at most.

The walls of the village were mostly intact. Ortello could have climbed the wall in places, but decided instead to follow it in search of a more convenient opening. Soon enough, he found the main entrance to the town. There were no gates. Had there been a door, it was gone.

He entered the village and began to search the buildings. It did not take long for him to find a house with a carving of a star. The paint had faded to a light red.

As he approached the entrance, a man in ring armor with a helm that covered his face emerged from house. He carried a large sword in his hands.

“I command you to stop,” the man said.

Ortello did so.

“What do you want here?” the man asked.

“I seek this, the House of Tyrus,” Ortello said.

“Are you mad!” the man said. “Who sent you?”

Ortello shook his head.

“Why do you seek this house?”

“I have been paid to recover something. A staff.”

“You must turn away. Go home,” the man said.

“I cannot.”

“And I cannot allow you to pass,” the man said. Ortello noticed the voice was shaky and unsure.

Ortello pulled out his knife. “I wish no trouble, but I will do that which I have set out to do.”

The man ambled toward him, unsteadily raising the sword. Ortello easily dodged and tripped the man, causing him to tumble to the dust.

Ortello grabbed the man’s helmet, and yanked it from his head.

The face of an old man with scared eyes looked back at him.

“Please. Listen to me,” the old man said. “I know I cannot stop you, not with my sword, but perhaps with my words. Will you hear me out.”

Ortello kicked the man’s sword away, and then extended a hand to him, helping him to his feet.

“I will listen.”

Some forty years earlier, the village had been prosperous. Farmers tended to plentiful crops in what were then verdant fields, and trade with passing merchant caravans made the village wealthy. And then Tyrus appeared.

He was an odd fellow who kept to himself. He wore dark robes and always carried a black staff with odd carvings. Odd carvings also adorned the door to his home. A blood red six sided star was in the center of his house’s door.

Not long after his arrival, the fields and crops began to wither. And not too much later, people started to die. Nothing suspicious, mind you, but it was as if a kind of sickness had come to town.

Within six months, the ground looked as it did now, bereft of grass and vegetation. The area of blight spread and spread by the day.

And every day, more people died.

One day, a young stranger arrived in town and met with the elders. He told them there was dark magic afoot. And it was spreading throughout the land like a disease of the blood.

The elders were convinced that this man meant to help, and they told him of Tyrus. The man asked if there were any odd markings on his door. The elders confirmed this was so, and described it to him. “The Horns.” the man said, and asked if Tyrus had a staff. When the elders said he did, the man set out a plan.

The bravest and strongest in town would bind Tyrus as he slept. The man said he would do the rest.

The plan worked.

As Tyrus lay in bed one night, two soldiers held him down as another two secured him to his bed. They stuffed a rag into his mouth.

The young man entered Tyrus’ house put on a pair of thick gloves. With those he picked up Tyrus’ staff and roughly threw it into a wardrobe. “Secure this shut with locks and chains. And then secure it to the wall. Do not open it, and do not let anyone touch the staff.”

“Why not just take it away or burn the damn thing?” one man asked.

“Destroying it will release enormous and horrible power. Moving it will only spread the poison. The damage done here is done. We must not let it grow.”

The man then approached Tyrus who was trying to scream through the rag. The man took the glove of his right hand then placed his palm on Tyrus’s forehead. He spoke a few words in a language that no one around could comprehend. And with that, Tyrus fell asleep.

“He will sleep for a week. You must either kill him or take him far from here and leave him. What I have done to him will make it so he can never find or enter this village again, no matter how hard he may try. As for the rest of you, you must leave this village tonight and forever. You must travel to where the grass is green and the crops grow in the sunlight. But I beg that one of you sacrifice and remain behind to protect this house and prevent anyone from entering. The staff must never leave here. And it must never be destroyed. At least not until my brothers discern the way to stop it. This may take time. Generations, perhaps. But, whoever guards the staff will be performing a duty beyond our ability to thank him for,”

The man nodded at them and left without another word.

One of the soldiers who had bound Tyrus volunteered to serve as guardian.

“And, as you might have guessed, that was me,” the old man told Ortello. “It took a few days for the elders to convince everyone to leave town, but they did upon hearing the evidence of greener pastures elsewhere. As for Tyrus, we could not bring ourselves to murder a man based on the word - convincing though it may be - of a stranger. So, when my brothers-in-arms left, they took Tyrus with them. I do not know if they killed him or dropped him somewhere in the world. But, I suspect he is very much alive.”

Ortello stood, listening.

“For reasons I cannot explain, I have not needed food nor drink since I took this post. In the early days I had occasional battles to protect the house. I have killed men, yes. Most of them I was able to scare off. But you are the first to arrive in years. And, truth be told, I doubt there are many men I could best now.”

“So, what now?” Ortello asked.

“Now, I simply beg you to leave.”

Ortello nodded and walked to retrieve the man’s sword from the dirt.

“I cannot do that,” Ortello said.

The man nodded. “I know. But I beg you reconsider.”

Ortello turned and walked towards Tyrus’ house.

The man moved towards Ortello and grabbed his shoulders. Ortello turned, and the man weakly punched him in the face. Reacting out of surprise more than fear, Ortello swung the sword into the man’s side. The blade did not pierce the armor, but the man fell to his knees in pain.

Tears rolled down his face. “Don’t be a fool, I beg you.”

Ortello walked into the house as the man bent over sobbing.

The room was simple with a modest bed and furnishings. The only unusual thing was a wooden wardrobe chained shut with chains holding it bolted to the wall.

The locks were old, but still would not budge. Ortello set down the sword and pulled out his knife. He pounded a lock with the hilt, breaking it with surprising ease. He soon had the wardrobe open. And the staff was inside.

Ortello may have imagined it, but he felt bathed in a dark, cold light. He grabbed the staff, and it was cold. He could swear he heard light whispers in the air, but could not be sure. But he knew he had to leave with the staff immediately and return to town.

As he left the house the guard lay on the ground, motionless. Ortello shook him by the shoulder and turned him over. He was now only a skeleton.

Ortello walked out of town. And, awaiting him was his horse. The horse seemed different somehow, and it moved mechanically. There was no sound of breath or life coming from it.

Ortello mounted the horse, and rode towards town.

As he crossed back to the fertile land, he could sense the grass dying as he passed.

He looked towards the green grass and crops in front of him. He turned and stared at the desolation behind him. The town and the promise of payment to support his family lay ahead. Ortello turned the horse around and returned to the village. He placed the staff back in the wardrobe. He knew from experience that even in the cabinet, the staff’s venom would still spread, but at least it would be slow and would possibly give time for those who knew how to deal with such things a chance to stop it.

He took the old soldier’s armor and helm. They fit.

As he wore them, he realized he was neither thirsty nor hungry.

He placed the sword in the scabbard on the belt he had taken from the guard, and then walked into the House of Tyrus, closing the door and hoping against hope it would not open again until the time came that there was no longer a need to guard the staff.

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