The Tower of Sorcery

by James Galloway

  "Good. Let's get moving. It'll take this many people time to get organized and start marching, and we have to get there before services are over."

  The room was small, lit by a single lantern that hung from a hook on the low ceiling. The room was cool and somewhat damp, and Irvon hated it. The fat cleric sat behind a stone bench, glaring a bit at his Sorceress visitor. Irvon hated Sorcerers. They were tainted by the foul goddess that commanded their magic, and none of them could be trusted. That she would bring that creature into his cathedral, right under the nose of the thrice-damned Tower, was an outrage. He stood there with a blank expression on his face, right to Jula's right, seemingly as stiff as a statue. Jula herself looked very smug, sitting in the chair he reserved for visitors, her hand patting the paw that creature had placed on her shoulder like he was some kind of pet.

  He had no idea what came over her. He knew that Jula was operating under instructions from her own superiors, but they should have warned him. That creature was too dangerous to have around. That she would bring him there, to their hidden base, rather than simply run with him, was quite beyond him.

  "I don't care who sent you, Jula," Irvon snapped at her. "I want that Were-cat out of here. If they can track him, then you'll bring the katzh-dashi down on our heads. I have orders from Kravon himself on the matter. I'm not to do anything to compromise our base here, and you can't get any more compromising than that," he said, pointing a fat finger at the Were-cat.

  "I can't outrun the Knights, Irvon," she said calmly. "When they find out he's missing, they'll take Suld apart stone by stone looking for him. This is the last place they'd think to look."

  "I don't care," he snorted. "What you have to do doesn't concern me. You bringing that thing here is endangering the Black Network's operations in Suld."

  "I think it's funny that you're worried about it," she smiled. "Tarrin's amulet prevents anyone from finding him with magic, and nobody is left alive that saw me bring him off the grounds or into the cathedral." Irvon glared at her. That she killed four acolytes and a priest, the ones from above that had no contact with, or even knowledge of, the dark tunnels under the Cathedral, was going to be hard enough to explain. Irvon was High Priest of Karas, but he was also a ranking member of the Black Network. Irvon's position made the Cathedral the perfect and ultimate base of operations for the ki'zadun, their name in the Old Tongue. Nobody would expect a bastion of law and goodness to be the base of an organization that sought to subvert such things.

  "I thought you had orders to kill him."

  "They changed their minds," she shrugged. "He's a Weavespinner, Irvon. That alone makes him a valuable asset. We can find ways to use him."

  "I'm glad you think so."

  "Trust me, the collar controls him utterly," she smiled. "Tarrin, come down here and give me a kiss," she ordered. He bent down and kissed her gently on her upraised cheek, then raised back up. "Now be a dear and break Irvon's desk in half."

  Irvon gave a strangled cry as the Were-cat raised its clasped paws and stepped forward, and just barely managed to get his legs out from under the desk as the creature's paws slammed into it, shattering the polished wooden desk into splinters. Irvon was dumped to the floor, falling backwards out of his chair, and he came up spluttering, with his fat, narrow-eyed face spotched red with anger.

  "As you can see, he's completely subservient," she said with a light laugh. "And he will only obey me, Irvon. Keep that in mind. If something were to happen to me, he'd stand there until someone took off the collar. And you really wouldn't want to be here when that happens. Trust me." She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him. "Tarrin, come back over here," she commanded, and the Were-cat returned to its place beside her, paw resting lightly on her shoulder.

  "I still don't have to like it, witch," Irvon snapped. "I want you and it out of here."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to live with it for a day or two," she told him. "Unless you'd like to explain to my Mistress why the ki'zadun refused to harbor a fellow member, especially one operating under direct orders from her superiors. She would have a very long talk with you about that."

  Irvon paled, and swallowed. Nobody crossed the Black Mistress, the ranking katzh-dashi in the Tower. She had a very ugly reputation. "Alright, but I want it in a dungeon cell, and in chains," he snapped.

  "Why?" she asked. "Tarrin is just as obedient as a little puppy. Aren't you, my dear?" she asked with a laugh, patting his paw. "He's just as good here as there."

  "I want to keep it out from underfoot," he said bluntly, "and keep you from getting any ideas."

  "Oh come now, Irvon," she sighed. "I do despise you, but I've been ordered to let you live. I think we can be civil to one another. Yes, well, I do have to let you live. Now there's an idea. Tarrin, be a dear, and go over there and bite Irvon."

  When Tarrin took a step forward, Irvon gave out a squealing cry and backed into the corner, preparing to call on the magic of Karas to defend him from the attack. That only made Jula laugh. "Tarrin, stop," she commanded, and he stopped moving forward. She stood up and smoothed her silk dress, giving Irvon a horrifically evil smile. "Tarrin, come here," she said lightly. Tarrin returned to her side, and Jula gave Irvon a smug look. "With him, we will win, Irvon," she said triumphantly. "He has the power to defeat the Guardian, and he has the power to get the Firestaff. And once we have it, then Val will be reborn, and we will rule. I'm certain that your part in that glory will be remembered. If you're not too much a nuisance, that is," she said with a cold smile.

  "H-how? He's mindless!"

  "Ah, yes. You see, the collar only subverts will, not intelligence, memory, or ability. If we give him instructions, he will carry them out. He won't have any choice. He'll know he's being controlled, and rage against it in the tunnels of his own mind, but he will have to obey. He knows what we're talking about right now. He can hear us, and he'll remember it. But he can't do anything about it. I'm sure that he'd just love to take me and strangle me with my own intestines. Wouldn't you, my dearest pet?" she asked of him, patting him on the cheek, but there was no outward reaction. "Yes, I know you would. But he can't," she told him with that same cold smile. "The collar makes him mine, and I am the only one he'll obey."

  "You are deranged," Irvon told her seriously. "I have a service to conduct. Get that animal out of my office."

  "Yes, go mouth your platitudes and demean yourself to replenish your pitiful power," Jula sneered. "If only Karas knew what kind of bootlicking sycophant he was granting his magic to."

  "Yes, well, that's something between me and Karas, isn't it? Now take him to the dungeon. That's an order."

  "Only because it pleases me to do so," she said. "I need to change my dress, and I don't relish the idea of baring myself in front of him. Why, the shock of my beauty may snap him free, and I'd have to fight off his advances. I've seen him naked, you know. I must admit, he's, impressive. If not that our lovemaking would change me into a Were-cat, I may be tempted."

  "Sick," Irvon growled, stomping out of his office. "Just get rid of it."

  "Indeed," she said. "Come, Tarrin. We have something to do."

  The entire city of Suld knew that there was about to be war.

  The entire order of the Knights of Karas, both from the Tower and from the chapterhouse, trotted in perfect rows along the streets of the old city, sweeping everything out of their way. They were resplendent in their black armor and snapping pennons, row after row of lances held at perfect angles, and visors lowered for battle. Among them rode two hundred Wikuni in mail shirts and carrying heavy broadswords, as well as perhaps a dozen Sorcerers. They were followed by rank after rank of smartly marching cadets, keeping a perfect cadence with the striking of armor-shod boots upon the centuries-old cobblestones. They had the grim demeanor of men about to do battle, and those expressions did not change. Two thousand armored warriors, human, Knight, and Wikuni, sent civilians scattering before them, crushing carts and wagons out of their way, and causing total confu
sion that spread along and before them like a wave crashing on the beach.

  Leading the column was a rather unusual commander, a slight, slender fox Wikuni wearing an Inititate's dress, the indigo color marking her as a middle-grade Initiate. But her expression was hard, stony, and she was attended by the commanders of that host who made all who looked upon them realize that the slender little Wikuni was defitely in command. She looked infuriated, and her tail writhed behind her like a living thing of its own free will, like a dancing flame with a black tip caught in a stiff wind. She gave sharp, incisive commands, and they were relayed and carried out by Wikuni and Knight alike with the smooth, precise coordination that marked good military units.

  They caused an instant wildfire of gossip to rise up and sweep across the city, gossip of what they were doing, why they were there, and what was going on. It only intensified as they approached the Cathedral of Karas, but all gossip stopped when the Knights, an order under Karas, quickly and efficiently encircled the waist-high iron fence that surrounded the Cathedral, forming a wall of flesh and steel that nobody was permitted to cross. The Knights parted and the Wikuni rushed out, seizing anyone on the grounds but not yet in the church's walls, picking them up and carrying them back outside the wall of horse and man and armor that the Knights had created. The cathedral's bell began to toll, as if it marked the completion of the besiegement, telling all outside who were paying attention that those within had no idea they had been surrounded.

  Keritanima nodded once the maneuver had been carried out, and gave Lilenne, who had become the leader of the katzh-dashi accompanying the host, a calm look. "Alright, Lilenne," she said in a cold voice. "Cut the Cathedral off."

  The swallow-necked Shacèan nodded calmly, and she dismounted along with her other Sorcerer companions. Seven stepped forward, and then joined into a circle. The other seven also joined into a circle, and after a moment of preparation, the two circles reached out to the Weave.

  Hands erupting in the wispy white aura of High Sorcery, the two independent circles erected poweful Wards that cut the entire building off from the Weave, a complete sphere that went high above the steeple and well below the crypt, an invsible bubble that isoloted everything within from the delicate matrix of magical energy that either powered all magical spells, or provided other magic a pathway from its origination to complete a circuit to the caster. Within that sphere of Sorcerer-conjured anti-magic, there was no magic to power spells.

  And no magic to power magical devices.

  Deep within the Cathedral, a large bronze-bound door with three heavy bolts locking it in place shimmered in a brief display of magical light, and then fell dark.

  Chapter 19

  It was as sudden as it had been the first time. In a rush so abrupt that it almost took his breath away, his conscious roared back over the numbing magic which had it under his control, even as that magic seemed to wane and fade away.

  Blinking his eyes, Tarrin instantly stood up from the filthy straw in which he'd been sitting, and he was angry. Anger wasn't quite the word. Pure, sheer, abject utter rage was a better definition. But instead of going mad and acting like an animal, he focused that sheer rage into his surroundings.

  He was in deep trouble. He had indeed heard and remembered everything, so he fully appreciated where he was, and what was standing between him and freedom. He was deep in a vast underground complex occupied by a large number of armed men. From what he heard, many of the priests above knew about this place, and were indeed members of it. But many others were not. He had been brought down through a series of secret passages that led off a side corridor in the quarters area. He heard every word of what Irvon and Jula said, and then she had brought him to this tiny cell, and a man had locked huge manacles on him, with a thick chain designed more for a Troll than they were for a human. A chain ran from the manacles to the wall, secured into it by a huge eye bolt.

  Something had disrupted the magic on the collar. That's what freed him. He could feel a very powerful force blocking off the entire area from the Weave...it had literally peeled back the strands and pulled them away from the entire area. Very powerful Sorcerers were maintaining that barrier, even now. He could feel it on the edges of his awareness.

  Had they found him? They had to have. Why else would they be blocking magic over the entire region? They had tracked him down somehow, and had cast the barrier to do something. But it also had the side effect of freeing him from the collar's magical control. That meant that they had to be close to him, and they may be armed and in force. If he could reach them, he could get himself to safety.

  He had to get out. He was having enough trouble controlling his rage, to keep from snapping and going berzerk. This was the time to think, not to fight, because he couldn't afford being caught without getting close to the exit. And he was chained to a wall, with a collar around his neck, inside a tiny barred cell. Every fiber of his being screamed out to be free, building inside him an almost uncontrollable instinctive need to break out, to escape, to do anything he had to do to be free. It caused him to tremble, to lose control of his breath, as it built into a cold thing in the pit of his stomach that threatened to tear him apart.

  The first thing was the collar. Desperately, he grabbed it in both paws and pulled against it, wrenching it side to side, until he felt the metal begin to give way. It squealed faintly under his pads, until it came loose of his neck with an audible klink. He threw the collar into the straw, resisting the urge to jump up and run, fighting against the impulses that sceamed nothing but flight into his mind.

  Chains rattled as he pulled them taut, testing the bolt. It wasn't that large, but it was solid. The chains themselves were very thick, and seemed to be well made. The fear built and built and built, and every tug on the chains made it stronger and stronger, until his heart was pounding in his ears and his breathing came in short, ragged gasps. He had never felt fear like that before, and it terrified him almost as much as the fear of being imprisoned did. His heart began to race, and he could see his pulse behind his eyes, hear it in his ears, feel it in myriad places under his skin, as he pulled and jerked and snapped at the chains, desperation beginning to take firm hold inside him.

  "Ere now!" a voice came from outside. "They ain't never said nothin' about you makin' a racket! Shaddup and sit back down, mangy critter!"

  Tarrin put a foot against the wall and yanked, pushing off at the same time. Metal squealed, groaned, and then rang as the bolt twisted in the wall, and then was broken off at the mortarline even as one of the chains broke free of the right manacle.

  "Hey!" the voice outside shouted, and the door thumped loudly.

  Tarrin could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, and the incessant, undeniable, animalistic urge to be free. Grabbing the chain on the left manacle, he twisted the eye where it was connected to the manacle and twisted it off, and then set his paws as far apart as he could to make the chain connecting his paws taut. Snarling soundlessly, his inhuman strength suddenly attacked that chain, as Tarrin pulled his arms apart with every ounce of his incredible power. The chain did not break, so he put his wrists together and yanked them apart, giving out a bestial cry as manacles tore skin, muscles ripped from anchors on bones, and ligaments tore and snapped. His overpowering need for freedom had overwhelmed his sensation of pain, and those arms inexorably pulled further and further apart, straining the heavy chain connecting them together.

  The sound of the chain snapping under the irresistable force of Tarrin's augmented strength was accompanied by the sound of the throwing of the bolt on the door, and murky torchlight suddenly flooded into the room. "I said sit down and shaddup!" the voice called again as the door opened.

  The pain had been too much. The pain, the rage, the inescapable fear, they assaulted Tarrin's mind in harmony, and he could no longer control them. His consciousness was again shunted off to the side, overwhelmed by his animalistic urges, conquered by the Cat. The Cat would be free.

  The Cat
would be free!

  The man, a slim, unshaven sellsword, with a rank scent and a scarred face, took one look at the hunched Were-cat, arms free of the chains, a broken chain the size of a man's wrist hanging between the manacles. His eyes glowed from within with an unholy greenish radiance, and the look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated hate. He took one look at the man, his ears laid back, and he roared, his claws coming free of their sheaths.

  "Sweet mercy!" the man screamed, slamming the door in the face of that apparition, even as it lunged forward.

  But there was no mercy left. Tarrin's paw exploded through the closed door, opening up and grabbing the man by his arm. The man shrieked in agony when that inhuman grip closed over his arm, crushing bones beneath it, but it turned into a whoosh as Tarrin yanked, shattering the door by pulling the unfortunate man through it. The sound of the imploding door echoed through the passages, and they were quickly accompanied by horrified, agonized shrieks and screams as Tarrin systematically savaged the guard. Unsatisfied with simply killing him, Tarrin unleashed his full rage upon the man's body, tearing, breaking, ripping, destroying, feeling the rush of flesh tearing against his claws, revelling in the sound of bones snapping within his grip. Tarrin's voice, a screeching roar of pure animalistic rage, drowned out the man's weakening screams and pleas, which were cut off when Tarrin grabbed the man's head between his paws and pushed, utterly destroying everything above his neck. Blood, bone, brains, and worse flew in every direction, spraying Tarrin and the walls with grisly ichor, and the smell of it drove him utterly mad. Even that was not enough. After the body fell to the floor, Tarrin continued to destroy it, sending gibbets and shredded bits of flesh, bone, leather, organs, and cloth in every direction, to stick to the walls and ceiling, to hang from Tarrin's body like grotesque jewelry, to slick the floor with blood and gore. When there was nothing even remotely human left to identify, when the remains of the man were spread all over the floor and the walls of the small cell, Tarrin raised his head to the ceiling and screamed, a raging howling roar of pure hate, pure rage, the purity of the need to survive at any cost.