The Scarab's Curse (The Savage and the Sorcerer, Book 1)

by Craig Halloran

  “Yes, you have a heart of coal that beats. What a shame.” He arched his brow. “Besides, I never said I’d kill you. Perhaps I’ll do the same to you that you did to me—probably worse. All I can say is that if you surrender, I’m willing to be merciful.”

  With Crawley’s sword dripping in his hand, Moth started forward.

  Ingrid’s hand drew back. “Call your dog off before I send his bowels to the floor.”

  “I don’t have any more control over him than you do,” Finster replied. “Believe it or not, unlike your citadel guardians—who are all dead—he has a mind of his own. A small one, but still his.” His heightened intuition stretched out. There was another presence in the room. He couldn’t see it. To his surprise, Moth stayed his advance, nostrils flaring. “This isn’t going to end well for one of us, Ingrid. But it is going to end… unless you surrender.”

  “Do you remember what you told me once, Finster? You said that artifacts of magic take a great deal of time to master. You’ve barely had the Founder’s Stone for a day.” She showed him her hands. Every ring twinkled with life. “I’ve been acquainted with these rings for quite some time. I like my chances against a washed-out wizard who was never able to control the power that he had to begin with.”

  Finster knitted his brow. His chin dipped. “I promise that I’ll hold your youth and inexperience against you. One last chance, Ingrid. Hand over the rings. Surrender.”

  She laughed. “And give them to you? Finster the Rodent of Whispers. You would end up doing things worse than even I’ve imagined. In the order, you were known as the master of disorder. There were reasons they forced you out.

  “I wasn’t forced. It was mutual, very mutual.”

  “No, no, it wasn’t. I came to know more of you later. Your experiments were quite abominable as I recall. The people of Reenik—remember them? Reenik is now the Sleepless City because of your atrocities.”

  “That’s a misunderstanding, and it happened a very long time ago.”

  “Not so long ago. You’ve only been banished for the last ten years. The guilt shows on your face. That fragile frame of yours bears the burden.” Her index finger toyed with the armrest. “You were so handsome and dominating back then. You could have had me. After all, I wanted you. Now look at you. A shadow of yourself. Your sagging jaw complements your potbelly.”

  “Really? I’m feeling quite spry at the moment. I think I’ll exercise my regained vitality once I’m finished with you.” He placed his hands together as if praying. “Time to get on with this. Good-bye, Ingrid. You had your chance.”

  The throne came to life. The arms of the chair seized Ingrid’s wrists. As she struggled against the bonds, her chest heaved. She gripped the chair’s arms. The grand chair—ancient and priceless—turned to ash. “Pathetic attempt, Finster!”

  The Founder’s Stone sent a warning pulse through his back. A blur, coming right at him, blocked his view of Ingrid. He took a quick step back, hands up, fingers firing radiant power. His heel caught in his robes. He stumbled. Power erupted from his fingers, striking the ceiling. A blur pounced right at him.

  Sharp metal sliced through the air.

  Moth sank his sword into something invisible but tangible. Cartilage and skin ripped. An invisible citadel guardian appeared, gasping his last breath.

  Unseen forces came at them in a rush of soft footfalls. Steel cut into flesh. Moth counterattacked with the striking speed of a cobra. The heavy blade driven by his powerful arm found its mark time and again. Blood sprayed. Bodies fell.

  Out of nowhere, a small ball of green fire blasted Finster from his feet. The only thing keeping his ribs in place and his skin from catching fire was the protection of the Founder’s Stone. “Admirable try, Ingrid, but I’m not all about animation.” His hand filled with a glaring red fire. A stream of flames shot from his hand, arching over the floor and toward her.

  The fires danced and sizzled off an icy orb that shielded her body. The flames were extinguished in a hissing cloud of steam. Ingrid’s platinum hair clung to her face, damp and wet. “It’s good to see that you can still dance, Finster, but for how long?”

  Finster flicked his fingers out. The marble tiles in the floor rippled in waves. Ingrid stumbled. The tiles piled up on her by the hundreds. She was covered in ten feet of rubble. “How long doesn’t matter, so long as I can dance better than you can.”

  Nearby, Moth struck out and hacked into another invisible body that had appeared the moment Ingrid was buried. Two more citadel guardians became visible. He charged them. A hand’s breadth from the tip of their swinging swords, he leaped high and came down hard, driving a big-boned man to the ground. He smashed the metal face of the guardian into the floor several times.

  Finster turned the last guardian’s sword against him, bending it around the man’s neck and choking him to death. Gazing at the pile of tiles that covered Ingrid, he said, “That should do it for the witch. Now, where’s that servant girl? I could use some wine.”

  Behind him, a sweet voice said, “Here I am.”

  He turned. Ingrid punched him square in the chest with all eight of her shimmering fingers.

 

  CHAPTER 19

  Finster sailed through time and space. He could see Ingrid and Moth. His eternal soul had separated from his body. He hit the wall on the other side of the room hard. His essence hovered over his crumpled form. He was dead, yet he wasn’t. He was cold like the bottom of the layer of ice between the water and the frozen lake.

  Ingrid turned her attention to Moth. The barbarian was lifted off his feet by the unseen strings of a master puppeteer. The sorcerous eyes of the woman were stars of radiant purple. Moth slung the sword at her. The blade stopped inches from her face. She shook her head. The blade turned handle over end and shot across the room like an arrow. It impaled Moth’s chest. He hung in the air, chin on his chest, bleeding.

  Ingrid cracked her neck from side to side and moved toward Finster. He looked between her and his motionless body sprawled out cold on the floor. Ingrid lorded over him. She was speaking, gloating maybe, but he couldn’t hear a word she said. He couldn’t hear anything at all. One more chance. I just need one more chance. I won’t go like this.

  She pulled down his robes, revealing the beetle lodged in his back. She touched it and let out a scream, clutching her burning hand. Without warning, Finster’s essence jumped back into his body. A wave of sound hit him first. It was Ingrid cursing. Fighting the numbing pain that coursed through his body, he swept his leg underneath hers, making her fall. He pounced on top of her. Filled with the breath of life that he’d never take for granted again, he said, “I will end you!”

  “You live!” she yelled in his face. “You die!”

  Hands locked together, he and Ingrid wrestled over the floor in a tangle of limbs. The rings on her fingers sent deadly energy coursing through his hand, and his skin sizzled and smoked. Minds entwined with the artifacts, locking them together. Ancient, fathomless powers reared their ugly heads. The will of one magus was pitted against the other. Their bodies lifted from the floor. They soared back and forth, smacking into the walls.

  Finster fought back with a surge of his own energy. Tapping the stone’s awesome power, he shoved back against the rings and Ingrid’s will. Their arms changed from fire to ice to stone. They locked eyes while spinning through the air.

  “I hate you, Finster!” she said with breath as hot as coals.

  “You shouldn’t hate me, Ingrid.” He pushed back against her limitless strength. His mind was burning. “I’m more than just your mentor. I’m your father.”

  Her raging eyes softened. “What?”

  One with the Founder’s Stone, he turned loose everything he had from his core. The might of him and the stone blasted her wrecked body away from the rings she’d been wearing. She hit the wall and fell to the ground. Her robes were smoldering. Yellow vapors rose.

  Finster sailed across the room. His bo
dy, ravaged by magic powers, began to cool. He landed in front of her, holding the rings of power. “Surprise, Ingrid. I’m not your father. But I am an old fox.” He took a breath. His knees quaked. His limbs ached. He wheezed again. The powers within him drained.

  Her face showed it all. Failure grew with the creases in her face. Up on her knees, she swayed. “I should have known,” she said, shivering. “If anyone could stop me, you could. Perhaps I wanted that. There is an old saying in Shangley.”

  “Oh, really?” Finster said, panting. Hands on his knees, he glanced away, looking for Moth. Then he looked back at Ingrid. “And what might that be?”

  A dagger appeared in her hand. She stabbed him in the gut. The rings fell from his fingers. “Always hide your dagger inside your enemy’s belly.” She scooped up the rings, closed her fist, and slugged Finster in the jaw. He skidded over the blood-smeared floor.

  Ingrid rose. The hot-eyed woman’s battered, nubile figure radiated with power. She glared at Finster, marched right to him, and said, “Good-bye, Finster.”

  A massive man rose up from behind the broken tiles.

  “Good-bye yourself,” Finster replied.

  A spear tip burst from her chest. The purple gleam in her eyes turned cold. The rings slipped from her scorched fingertips. They tinkled on the tiles. Her body flopped sideways on the ground. Moth stood with Crawley’s sword still protruding from his body then sank down to his knees.

  Clutching his belly and spitting blood, Finster laughed. “You know what, Moth? You make a fine barbarian, if there ever were such a thing.” Life turned cold. His vision blurred and blackened. “Too bad you’re not half the barbarian that I am a sorcerer. I just wish we had the time to share a drink. Cheers, Moth. Cheers.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Eyes fixed on the rings, clutching his bleeding gut, Finster scooted. Somehow, the Founder’s Stone was keeping him together. His body was a wreck. Every breath was painful. Moments before, he’d felt his life slipping away toward the cold land of death. He hung on, striving for a few more moments.

  Almost there.

  Moth hadn’t moved. Eyes closed, his head was bent down. Blood seeped around the sword in his chest. His only set of fingers rested on the ground, twitching.

  Stretching out his fingers, Finster leaned over. His fragile limbs gave way, and he fell on his side. Lances of pain streaked through his eyes. His fingers still strained for the rings. Any one of them might aid his cause. Inches from one lone ring made of black iron and decorated with rubies, he scratched at it.

  Oh, let me live. A little closer. Let me live.

  The Founder’s Stone magnified his powers. It protected him as well, but it wasn’t an object that could heal. Matched with his own stubborn will, it gave him enough strength to press on.

  I won’t die like this.

  His fingertip touched the ring. He made a toothy smile. “Heh-heh-heh-heh,” he muttered in a deranged manner. Trembling, he clutched the ring in his hands. There was warmth. A vibrant energy.

  Lucky day.

  A hand the size of two of his seized his wrist. Moth plucked the ring from his grasp. He eyed it, popped it in his mouth, and swallowed it.

  “You gigantic eejit! Why would you do something as insane as that?” Finster’s belly wound no longer burned. The gem-studded iron ring had closed his wound. He felt like his old self again. His eyes went to the other rings. He lunged.

  Moth scooped all seven rings up with one hand and swallowed them whole.

  Holding his face, Finster screamed, “Noooo!”

  Moth pulled the sword free of his chest. Blood pumped out a little then stopped. The gaping wound closed. The gigantic man, smeared in blood and with new scars aplenty, appeared refreshed. Sword in hand, he stood, nodded at Finster, and exited the room.

  “Come back here, Moth! You can’t just leave.” Finster summoned a charge of power. “Don’t make me rip your stomach out of your back!”

  Moth trod down the blood-damp stairs.

  Finster levitated a foot above the floor. He drifted after the barbarian and down over the steps of carnage. Oh, sometimes I long for the days when I wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you—or anyone, for that matter.

  Moth made his way through the citadel and down the stairs with Finster close behind him. He squeezed into the alcove of Constance the Chameleon. Finster gave a quick nod to an image of the former magus made out of shards of broken glass. Finster had made it for her. I think she might be proud of me, wherever she may be.

  The black portal in a nook in the room led the two men to the cave far outside of the Red Citadel. The horses were still there. Moth climbed up on his dapple-gray steed.

  Finster mounted his horse. “You aren’t going anywhere without me. Not with those rings in your gut. They’ll come out eventually. Sadly, I’ll be there, but I’ve done worse.” He gave the citadel one last look. “I should stay, but the hell with the order. Let them figure it out for themselves.”

  Moth sheathed his sword in a scabbard that hung on the horse. He opened a saddlebag and fished out his severed hand. Its vibrant brown skin had grayed. The cut was clean, though. He matched it up with his stump.

  “You can’t possibly think that will happen,” Finster said.

  The barbarian butted the hand against the stub a few times. Then he held it firmly against the stump for a long minute.

  “Feed the birds with it, I say, Moth. Don’t waste your time.”

  But thin tendrils of sinew grew out of Moth’s stump like worms. They fastened to the hand. The hand grafted to the stump with the sickening sound of muscle, bone, and skin coming together.

  “The one thing I hate about magic is it’s so unpredictable.” Finster shook his head. He had all the power he ever wanted, but with the rings so close, he felt incomplete.

  Moth urged his horse onward. Down into the plains he went.

  Finster dug his heels into his horse. The beast lurched forward. “I don’t know where you are going, Moth, but until I get those rings, I will be your constant companion. Your shadow. Only death will take me away.” Your death, that is.

 

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  Readers, friends, countrymen, I hope that you enjoyed this short story. In regard to my tales, at least short ones, I tend to think of a clever or catchy title and try to build a story around it. That’s how those ideas come to me. In the case of Moth and Finster, I really liked these guys when I thought them up, and I needed to get them on the page, so I squeezed them in between my bigger books. I’ve got too many stories now, so I had to make this a one-shot project. I can’t promise any more Moth and Finster adventures. The purpose of this book, aside from some delightful entertainment, was to join an unlikely pair and try to make them work together. Mages and barbarians don’t mix. I knew I could have fun with that. Being a Robert E. Howard fan, I hoped to bring to life a barbarian and sorcerer in the truest sense of those classifications. I think I did pretty well, but it’s your opinion that truly matters. Also, I wrote this story in eight days, which included a break on Christmas Eve and Christmas. But now I can celebrate the new year with a toast to Moth and Finster! Oh, and download, Book #2, The Scarab’s Power, Now! See image below.

  Please, share your thoughts with me at craig@thedarkslayer.com. More importantly, Please leave a review here(link)!! I need them. Also, if you are new to my work, I have plenty of stories that you need to try out. Just take a look at the long list below. I’d love for you to try them out.

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  OTHER BOOKS AND AUTHOR INFO

  Craig Halloran resides with his family outside his hometown of Charleston, West Virginia. When he isn’t entertaining mankind, he is seeking adventure, working out, or watching sports. To learn more about him, go to: www.thedarkslayer.com
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