Cold Cave

Cold Cave

They stood at the grand entrance to Cold Cave. The wind blew hard, ushering them inside, almost pushing them into the dark maw of the infamous locale; Cold Cave - the ultimate testing vehicle for magic practitioners and melee warriors alike. For centuries it has stood its ground, oblivious to civilization and change. For centuries it has stood, unrelenting in the centre of a large forest.

For centuries it has claimed many of those who have dared enter its darkness.

Over the years, people have come to think of Cold Cave as a testing device. Whether for beginners to test themselves against a serious environment or for those already skilled to prove they’re still able, it has managed to pull hundreds into its beckoning jaws, willing and even unwilling. Bets have been settled over trips through Cold Cave.

Why? Because Cold Cave is an insane labyrinth of black and damp which houses the deadly Beast. The Beast is the main peril of the Cave; even those who are negotiating the labyrinth in a successful manner tend to die eventually at the claws of the ferocious Beast. It has no proper name. It has no description. It is the ultimate terror and therefore the absolute trial.
Anyone who exits the Cave alive is guaranteed a round of applause.

So preliminaries behind - They stood at the grand entrance to Cold Cave. The wind blew hard, ushering them inside, almost pushing them into the dark maw of the infamous locale.

“Do we really have to do this?” Londor groaned, searching for a way to escape the challenge that he had accidentally given in to.

“You have already agreed to the confrontation. It would be unwise to turn your back on it now,” Seraldon replied in his forever cool, composed manner.

“But... we can find another way to settle your doubts,” Londor stuttered. Truthfully, he had never been inside Cold Cave; after a fight with Seraldon in a tavern about whether or not magic was more powerful than brute force, Londor had for some reason suggested they both compete against each other in Cold Cave. Seraldon being a sorcerer and Londor a simple knight, it would be the perfect set piece for determining which was greatest.

But now, after the alcohol had worn off, Londor was beginning to see the insane depth of his suggestion; after all, Seraldon was a truly powerful magician - no match for sorcerers like Merlin or Zulok Gant, but still a worthy opponent. The labyrinth would of course complicate the battle and even the Beast would probably show up at some point to interfere. Nevertheless, Seraldon was intent on proving that magic was superior to weapons and strength.

“Londor, please,” Seraldon sighed. “Cease your babbling and let us get it over and done with.”

Londor stared at the surrounding forest, at the trees waving in the wind. They seemed alive. He knew that Imps lived in this forest, and it was possible for their movement in the tree branches to make the trees seem alive... but somehow he also knew there were no Imps in the trees then, and that maybe they were alive, wishing him luck.
Did the trees think that magic was more reliable and powerful than strength?
Never mind.

They entered Cold Cave.

Sparing no time for Seraldon to begin an eventual monologue, Londor immediately drew his sword. It was long and its silver was dark after years of battle. Seraldon, however, had been anticipating this; he burst into a bubble of protection as Londor brought his blade down upon him. The sword twanged suddenly and was thrown aside.

“Ha!” Seraldon chortled. Londor fell to the ground, searching for the sword in the semi-darkness that was the first corridor of the maze. When he found it, Seraldon had disappeared down the corridor to his right. Londor got up and charged after him; he could still hear Seraldon’s running feet. Luck was obviously on his side; as Seraldon wasn’t too far off yet.

“I can hear you!” Londor mocked as he tore through the stone veins. “Make a stand, Seraldon, show me some magic! I thought-”

Silence. Londor stopped. Seraldon had stopped. Or... maybe he was still running with a silencer spell covering his shuffling escape from Londor’s ears.

“Damn,” he muttered, and started running again. “Seraldon! We can’t fight if I don’t know where you are!”

Londor decided he was lost when the walls had become narrower. He had followed Seraldon through twists and turns and hadn’t bothered to memorize the way.

Left or right?

Stop or keep going?

If he kept going he’d surely get more disoriented, so Londor stopped again. Maybe Seraldon come looking for him. With this thought, Londor leaned against a wall and waited in the dark.

He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to be there. He’d probably lose, anyway. And what if the Beast was on its way to kill him at that very moment?
Londor brushed off the wall and started forward, slowly. He was armed only with his sword and small shield. He was wearing no armor, which troubled him; Seraldon’s spells could blow him clean off his feet. He had seen him fight before. Magic was powerful. Deadly.

Darkness was enclosing him in a web of fear. His eyes should have adjusted to the dark by now, but for some reason he his vision was hazy and not focusing correctly. What was happening? Was it one of Seraldon’s spells?

“Show yourself, goddamit! I came here to fight! This is my first time in Cold Cave and I want to fight!” Londor barked into the deep absence of sound.
Still no sign of Seraldon. Or the Beast.

“If you’re there, and you beat me by cheating,” Londor continued, “that doesn’t prove anything. Magic? No, that’s just plain cruel.”

And then with a swish of his cape, Seraldon detached himself from the wall and fell into focus. “So you want to fight?” he grinned.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Londor nodded, and charged.

With incredible reflexes, Seraldon pulled back his left hand and shot forward a ball of water. It shattered on Londor, taking him down, spilling over him in a wash of stalling. He slipped on the flooding water and fell. He hit the hard stone with his head and grunted. Upon opening his eyes, seconds later, Londor noticed Seraldon equip his staff and stick it into the ground; it made a sharp crack and a consequent hole from which more water flooded the corridor. It was coming from, seemingly, nowhere. The small hole Seraldon’s staff had made couldn’t possibly lead to a water pipe or something remotely like it, could it?

Magic.

Deadly.

Londor got up, slipping as he did. “What the hell is this!?”

“It’s magic,” Seraldon breathed, his smile now ominously missing. “The great flood has begun, Londor, and the ultimate confrontation is afoot.”

“What do you want?” Londor asked, watching the water run to other passages along the corridor. It was flowing fast. Very fast.

“Victory and acknowledgement.”

“Of?”

“The superiority of magic.”

“To hell with you!” Londor yelled, ducking forward. His sword swung. Seraldon blocked it with a mere nod of his head as an invisible hand batted it away. Londor attacked again. The invisible protector jumped back into action and Londor found himself flung into the rising water.

“You honestly don’t expect to beat me, do you Londor?” Seraldon taunted him.

Londor wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth.

“Because you obviously won’t,” the sorcerer finished.

And with that, Seraldon sprung forward. He grabbed Londor by the throat and lifted him in the air, simply staring at him; at his eyes. His eyes were burning. Seraldon’s eyes were burning into Londor’s. After a quick moment Londor was feeling his own eyes melt. He could feel the channeling energy. He could sense Seraldon's trademark calm seep into the holes of hate and the adrenaline of violence and no longer existed.

But Seraldon was abruptly forgiving. “How ‘bout we draw this out a bit more?” and Londor flew across the corridor, driven by an incredibly powerful gust of wind. He finally hit a wall and winced as his bones broke. He fell into the water but was still pushed back by the suddenly awoken and aggressive air.

He grabbed the corner of a corridor and his hands dug into the crumbling stone. The wind was pushing harder.

Seraldon strode forward, clearly impervious to the wind. He walked slowly, almost strolling. And, over the roar of the running air, he said, “Having fun, Londor!? These are the elements of life! Of magic!”

Londor screamed. He attempted to regain his footing but was instantly kidnapped by the wind and taken away. He soon hit another wall and fell once again. The water was higher now and Londor found it impossible to lie in it without having his mouth covered by it. His whole body, in fact, was now immersed in the water.

He got up and pressed forward as hard and fast as the wind would let him. With great effort, he managed to take a few steps forward but was stopped cold by the sudden apparition of Seraldon.

“Still alive, I see...” he muttered. The water reached his upper legs and sloshed there hungrily.

“I’m not... going... to give up!” Londor insisted, clenching his hands into fists and grinding his teeth against the blowing gale. “Strength shall prevail.”

“Is that so?” Seraldon laughed over the roaring wind. With a flick of his finger the corridor erupted in a bright red explosion of fire that crept over the walls and leaked out through hidden crevices. The water glowed and became transparent against the licking fire.

Londor was instantly taken aback. The heat was unbearable. His face threatened to melt in on itself.

But Seraldon stood, oblivious to all. The fire wrung his dark but steadily victorious features. It danced around his eyes and shadowed them. He grinned.

“Is it me or is it a bit hot in here?” he said in as serious a tone as he could. Londor fell into the water and cooled off inside it but even the water seemed to be burning.

“Get up from under there!” Londor heard Seraldon yell. “Or have you had enough?”

Londor stood his ground and held his breath. He was about to swim away from Seraldon and escape, battle be damned. He had had enough and wasn’t going to waste his life for nothing. Magic and brute force had no need to challenge one another.

As for which was greatest... well.

Knights and warriors: “Brute force, it is the way of the true fighter!”

Sorcerers and Magicians: “Magic, it is the way of the intellectual mercenary.”

It was, quite obviously, a battle that could never be won.

So Londor was about to escape but the walls of the corridor suddenly began to move. With a loud grinding, they started closing in on each other, tightening the corridor. The fire grew ever so much closer now, creating an almost inconceivable atmosphere out of the water.

“The force of the earth, Londor, feel it!” Seraldon called. But Londor was escaping. He turned the corner and sighed in relief. He was, however, in an instant flurry grabbed out of the water and shaken against the closing walls. Much to his surprise, he was being held by greasy and rough hands; claws. The Beast.

So with a roar, the Beast tore Londor apart and fed his body to the flames. Seraldon died moments later. No magic could save him from the Beast. It appeared out of nowhere and crushed Seraldon in a heap. The Beast, on the other hand, died also in the merciless and converging walls of Cold Cave.

And so it ended. From then on, Cold Cave was sealed and considered an abandoned and prohibited area. Travelers and wandering pilgrims would often stop and rest at its entrance and listen closely to the conversations and stories of the nearby Imps. Their spreading and ever-changing tales soon wove a classic legend of one Londor and sorcerer Seraldon; two people of opposite classes who challenged each other in the darkness of Cold Cave and settled a bet. Their dispute is now widely renowned and still spoken of today; it is, nevertheless, no more than an unanswered doubt.