Snorting, Lorkayn ridiculed himself for feeling so tense. He was Lorkayn, he was master of all on this world. What matter to him another poor unfortunate soul, dead on the ground before him? With unconcealed contempt, the sorcerer kicked the bundle before him, sending the body sprawling out from its concealment and rolling across the barren earth.
As the rain streamed down, washing across his face, Lorkayn received his first real shock that something was not quite right with his triumphant return to Mincalen. Aghast, Lorkayn stared at the body before him, his mind awhirl with how this could be.
There, lying in the dirt in front of him was Elanakin, the magician he had sought to kill.
Collapsing to his knees before the magician, Lorkayn stared at the corpse, blinking, as if that simple motion was enough to make the scene in front of him disappear. He had come here to murder Elanakin, and take his power. Something or someone had already destroyed him, and now his body was nothing – a mere husk, without any power.
Lorkayn cried out in anger and defiance. Without Elanakin’s power absorbed, he could not face the majesty of the gods. The rain poured down, the deluge becoming stronger, more violent. Lorkayn sensed the gods above, laughing at him, even now, tormenting him.
“Damn them,” muttered the sorcerer in palpable fury. “Curse this soil, and all living upon it!”
A sparkle caught his eye, a glint in the eyes of the corpse before him. At first the sorcerer took it as a trick of the light, but no, there was something there. Inching forward, Lorkayn knelt over the body, his hand reaching out to investigate.
A water droplet, a lone, single tear, glinting with a hint of magick, hung, suspended, from one of Elanakin’s dead eyes. Lorkayn immediately knew it wasn’t the rain trickling off the dead man’s face. This was something, else, perhaps a token of the magick the magician once had.
Eagerly, without pausing for thought, Lorkayn snatched the tear into his hand. Any power that was left in this body was gratefully received by him! Instantly the magick within the tear shot through his palm and up his arm. Yes! He could feel the power there, coalescing with his own.
Yet, something was wrong. Instead of ebbing away, the force in his arm grew strong, until it raced upward, directly to his brain. Suddenly Lorkayn’s mind filled with images, so startling and so real it was as if he stood within the picture, watching on.
Tears flowed from his eyes. He stood in an eternal void, blackness so deep, so opaque no light or sight could be seen. He could feel the watery tears flowing down his cheek. He knew not why he was crying. Perhaps these tears were not small droplets of undisguised grief, nor trickles of ecstatic joy, but made of an emotion too complicated to understand.
Suddenly a burst of colour exploded into his vision, so blinding, so immense that he had to shield his eyes with his hand less he go blind. It was as if he was seeing a birth, a start to all things. All the colours of creation whirled around him, seething into a mass of white, intense heat.
Lorkayn’s mind came back to the corpse in front of him. His body shook, the power within him, within the tear he had taken, sending him reeling and shaking. Yet he felt imbued, stronger somehow. Look! Another tear, appearing in Elanakin’s eyes once more. There was still power in this dead man. There was still power to take. Reaching forward, Lorkayn again took the tear in his hand, and again images assaulted his brain.
The tears poured from his eyes, a warm river across his face. He stood in a tavern, the smoke around him intoxicating, somehow. Was it the smoke that made his eyes water thus? He could not tell. He looked through the smoke, and could see smiling faces, the customers of the tavern. There was a human, giggling with glee and delight with a man who was at least twice his height, a giant from the north. Behind them, sharing a joke and drinking together, were a loving couple, yet one was the skin of pure midnight, the other pale as midwinter’s snow.
Lorkayn looked, and found himself thinking that friendship and love seemed to take many forms, even blossoming between people of different cultures and races.
The image faded. Lorkayn’s body now bubbled with raw energy, enough to light a whole city aglow. Shaking, sweat suddenly pouring off him; he did not notice the flare of light behind.
Appearing in the world of Mincalen, Keldoran and Vergail were greeted with the pouring rain, and the extreme cold. Vergail rubbed her shoulders and arms, trying to hang on to a vestige of warmth despite her ruined robes. Oblivious to them, Lorkayn could see another tear welling up in Elanakin’s eyes. How many more were to come? Each one seemed to hold an image for him, and a tantalising concoction of power. He did not understand the visions he was getting, but he could feel the immense forces pumping through his veins. He dare not stop now. A few more of these tears, and the gods would quake at his strength!
Another tear and this one hurt his eyes as he wept in the vision. He reached up and touched his face, and was startled to find blood on his fingers when he looked. Yet had it been the tear that had caused his injury, or something else? He could not say.
He felt an overwhelming sense of euphoria, of delight and joy. He stood in the centre of a crowd, and everyone around him cheered and applauded. They were looking up, at a bright light in the sky, a sun, and they seemed to worship it.
The pure excitement in these people, the adrenaline rushing through them, was captivating, and the intensity of their emotion hit Lorkayn, and he could do nothing but share in their excitement. This was one of the most incredible feelings he had ever felt, and the result shook his entire body.
Jolting back to reality once more, Lorkayn cried out in pain. He felt his eyes, and his fingers drew blood. The power was almost too much to bear. It was overtaking his body, his mortal thought, transforming him
into…something. Although his body shrieked with the pain and the torment, his mind raced for another tear, another portion of Elanakin’s magicks. He could not stop now.
Another tear and this one was like lightning running down his skin, scalding and burning. His face contorted into agony as the fierce energies struck.
He felt a hand just out of his vision stroke his face, soothing all pain there. Lorkayn spun round to see who had touched him, and looked at a woman, someone he knew. The priestess, so beautiful and caring towards him, touching him and easing his pain with her healing hands. She must have such trust in him, he scoffed. She trusted him as much as she trusted her god. It was folly, to put such trust into her heart. He would betray her, and so would her gods. Yet, for an instant, was that remorse he felt towards her? A small sliver of compassion?
Lorkayn’s heart throbbed with pain, trying to calm his blood flow, the intensity of power surging through him. He found breathing difficult, laboured. He dare not take another tear from Elanakin. It would destroy him. He must contain this power, focus his will and nurture this new strength.
He could not control it! His blood pumped through him, his heart rate hit the roof. Clutching his chest, Lorkayn swayed and fell atop the body of Elanakin. He looked down in terror at the corpse, who shed tears. Many, many more tears, and, despite dribbling onto the dead man’s cheek, Lorkayn felt each segment of power splash. The images tore at his being, his very soul. He found he could not break free from his contact with Elanakin. It was as if an unseen, invisible hand pinned him down, forcing him to drink the waves of power.
Another tear raced across his cheeks, and he was crying in pain and fear. He could not stem back the flow of the water.
He stood still and silent, when all the world around him changed and evolved. One moment he stood in a cave, surrounded by bestial creatures and men, the next he was in towns, cities, structures in the sky, but, throughout all the changes, there remained one thing constant: the undying love for the gods that created all of this magnificence. The people prayed, in every culture he saw, and they prayed to the same gods.
He roared in rage, trying to shake these people out of their habit. The gods will betray you, they will cause death and pestilence! Do not worship them.
As the image spun away, Lorkayn felt a twinge of loneliness, as he seemed to stand all alone with his impure thoughts. He grew sad, and more tears flowed.
Another tear fell, and he saw the people around him helping others that had fallen. He saw them, with no gain for themselves, merely helping others in need, striving to be good people. He saw the yearning in their hearts, their ambition to constantly improve themselves.
This is lunacy, screamed Lorkayn, but his shouts fell on deaf ears. Can these people not see, not understand that they are above these simple desires? If they but snapped away from this sickly path, they could have power, and knowledge like they would not believe!
Lorkayn’s mind raced, and he again felt compassion, not just for the priestess earlier, but for all these people. They were so good natured, so loving, so trusting. How could this be wrong? He shook his head angrily. No, he resolved to himself. They are dust, microbes in a small twilight. They would soon bow to him, and pay homage to their new master.
A new tear flowed, and now he saw people more to his liking. Murderers, tyrants and thieves, burning, killing, stealing. Yes, he could feel their pleasure at taking from the poor, goodly souls. Yes, he could feel their satisfaction, their dominance over these insignificant souls. This was his life, his journey. The immense exultation at crushing other’s lives, there was nothing quite like the taste of someone else’s blood.
Yet, the image mocked him again! These brutes, these people who killed, he looked on at their lives, when alone, when all was quiet. Some cried, their feelings rapt with guilt and regret for the crimes they had caused. Others, although not regretful, were alone, outcasts, shunned by society. Some were considered psychopaths, mad lunatics. He could sense their pain, deep inside. He could sense their urge to belong somewhere, and yet they did not, could not.
He felt his own regret then, and his loneliness increased. The image faded away, and another tear fell. This time, Lorkayn was shown the kingdom of the gods, the gods he had threatened to attack and usurp.
His body peeled away, the scrutiny of the gods looking beyond flesh and bone, to the core of his being. There, they showed him what was inside of him, what made him tick.
His soul was in turmoil, anguish and pain, and a refusal to believe in the goodness of the gods. He knew the pain inside of him was due to this hatred, this malice. The gods had created him, and his body had been weak. His mind had been taunted. His younger years were brought back in flooding memories: the jeers, the fights, the children labelling him as an outcast. He had blamed the gods for all of this. He had sought revenge.
Tearing each piece of this festering hatred, the gods dug deeper, boring into the heart. There, Lorkayn could see his soul, free of all infection, in its purest, simplest form. It danced! It moved with such vigour, such excitement at being alive. It yearned for the touch of another soul, another to share such wonders with. It was not a question of power, but of love, of freedom, of simply existing! The gods had just set off the spark. It was up to him to learn, to nurture this soul, and to become great.
Only when his soul had learned sufficiently could he then be considered on the next plane, following his death, to become a god. To be one who set off the spark.
All images faded, and Lorkayn shuddered and collapsed on Elanakin’s body. The dead man’s body no longer shed tears. Lorkayn knew the purpose of the wizard, now, and why he had come to be on this path. It was a gift from the gods. It was to show him his true self, and why he could never become a god, simply because his reasons were all wrong. No amount of power could travel to their realm, he could see that now. He had become a sick, twisted, lonely man. Lorkayn began to weep, violently, his shoulders shaking in spasms of grief.
He wept for a million souls he had ravaged.
22. A Priestess’ Love Vergail watched in horror as Lorkayn collapsed to the ground, sobbing. She exchanged a very quick glance with Keldoran, who appeared incredibly puzzled by this turn of events, then, without warning, she rushed over to the sorcerer’s side.
“Lorkayn,” she said softly, her hands inching out to touch the man’s shuddering shoulders. “Let me help…I am your lover…your spirit’s soulmate…”
The sorcerer looked up then, as if noticing her for the first time. His face was lined with tears and sweat, but his eyes looked at her in anger. “I betrayed you, and still you come here, seeking me out? Why, woman? Why do I need you? Can you not see I cast you aside? You meant nothing to me then, and nothing to me now!” In a cold fury, Lorkayn lashed out, his fist striking the priestess, sending her toppling to the ground.
This was what he remembered, Lorkayn thought furiously. The power, the control, the anger at all life! This was better than weeping. This was what you had made me, gods, he thought. I am evil, I am corrupt. I will never change. Only death will stop me from hurting, and slaying. I am everything you did not want, everything that you cursed. Well, here I am, and I plan to stay, not wallow in the misery you have shown me.
With an inhuman snarl, Lorkayn pounced on the fallen priestess, his hands around her throat, squeezing the life out of her. She would be the first to die, this one, not just for her stupidity and stubbornness, but because he could. He would defy the gods one more time; show them they could not reach him now. He was beyond anyone’s reach. Although his soul cried out for those he had killed, his mind shut it off. It was better for him not to think, but merely to act, to be in control once more. To have power!
Vergail’s eyes bulged. She tried to speak, tried to talk to the sorcerer, but his hands were firm around her throat. Even now, he could see the look of love in her eyes, even as he was killing her. Her face was horrible to him, a reminder of his soul yearning for release from the evil he had enveloped himself in. He would crush it, and see her face no more!
Keldoran could not watch this without acting. The pain of the land magick inside him was burning, making his movements slow. He was dying, but he could not, simply could not look and see the priestess, the embodiment of goodness and love, be killed by this insane sorcerer.
Staggering, clutching his stomach in agony, Keldoran lurched forward, throwing himself with his last breath onto the sorcerer, pulling him away from the priestess. At that moment, Keldoran let the land magick overwhelm him and his body, letting it spill out into the open.
Vergail fell backwards, clutching her neck, rubbing the pain with her fingers. She stared in awe at the two combatants before her. A halo of bright, blue energy enveloped them both, a scream coming from both their mouths. Keldoran’s body seemed to melt in this power, as his land magick burst forth, eating into Lorkayn’s already damaged body. Slowly, she watched, as the two bodies seemed to entwine, seemed to dissolve in the gathering energies.
Lorkayn, with his last strength, hurled Keldoran away from him, to collapse onto the harsh, wet ground. The connection severed, the blue energy no longer ate his body. The land magick, still pouring out of Keldoran, shot upwards, into the sky, and a large explosion of sound erupted from the heavens. Then, it was gone. With an almighty sigh, Lorkayn fell to the ground, scorched and wounded beyond repair.
Vergail crawled over to the sorcerer, and almost retched at the sight of his body. Charred and burned beyond all recognition, the skin hissed and sputtered, blood oozing and melting before her very eyes. Lorkayn, although breathing, his lungs filling the air with their rasp, was dying, and there was no way she could heal him.
“My love…” she choked, resting her hand on the burning torso of the sorcerer. “I have failed you.”
Lorkayn coughed in response, a horrible sound, no longer a cough, but a burning spit of blood and flame. His mind was closed to his pain, now, except one. The pain of loneliness, of anguish at the tortured life he had led, and the tortures he had done on others. The gods’ images still etched themselves in his mind. He had hoped, by getting angry, he would be able to banish this pain from his soul, but he could not.
The voice of the priestess came to him, begging for forgivenes
s, and in that moment, he nearly laughed. It would have been the first, genuine laugh to have come from his lips. Yet he did not have the strength. He merely lay, hearing her pleas, and each plea was the finishing arrow in his slowly beating heart.
She was touching him; he could feel her hand on his chest. Why, after all of this, after he had tried to kill her, why was she doing this? He would have expected her to spit on his remains, not this undying love. It was too much to bear. He would have cried, but his eyes were smoked over, and there was no water left in his body to shed.
Vergail mourned for him. She had travelled worlds to be with him. She had touched his soul, and for a fleeting moment, had seen a glimpse of goodness. It was this goodness, and their intimate linking of souls, that had brought her to this moment. She would never feel the same again. All of her life she had been seeking such a bond. She thought she had had this with Untaba, the god of survival, but she realised what that was now. That had just been a cover, a way to live, to gloss over the real yearning in her heart.
She had been lonely, and this man had come into her life, evil and corrupt, but made her whole. She had made it her mission to save him, to redeem him. At first, she had been charmed by him, by her dreams. She wondered why she had dreamt of him, and maybe now she knew the answer. The gods, here, in this ravaged world, had wanted her to redeem him. It was their way of sowing a seed, planting a reason in her for her life. It was a very profound thought.
She would not pity this man, nor ridicule him, at his time of death. She would do what the gods had asked of her, and what her soul demanded of her. She would love this man to the end of her days, and be forever bonded to him. Even in death, she knew that the gods would honour her, and send her soul once more to his, so they could again entwine and dance the dance of dreams.
A gap in the clouds above formed, and she smiled as a stream of sunlight washed over her and Lorkayn. The gods are watching, she thought.
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