‘The threat is, to our great misfortune, all too real—and must be stopped.’
‘As you are so reluctant and determined not to give up your son, willingly,’ sniped Tuan, ‘then we must come to an arrangement.’
‘What kind of arrangement?’ Oran retorted, now suspicious.
‘A vital one!’ added Greer. ‘If we are all to survive.’
Oran stared into the faces observing him as they waited for his reaction; he gave them none.
‘I assume, by your silence,’ said Tuan, ‘that you are willing.’
‘That all depends.’
‘We will allow your son—what precious time we can afford—to stay with your family. But there is something you must do in return, to earn that time.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘I would not recommend it,’ Tuan hit back—the tone in his voice, low and hostile.
‘Then… what must I do?’
‘You will search for the one who keeps Magia Nera’s amulet,’ Tuan maintained. ‘And when you find them, you must destroy them.’
‘Destroy them?!’ Oran blurted, craning his neck forward, his eyes telling and full of apprehension.
As they scrutinised his response, a contemptuous grin appeared on Tuan’s smug face.
‘Behold, the admission,’ he sneered, while Greer shook his head in annoyance.
‘Who is it?’ Lothian asked, calmly.
Oran regretted not speaking sooner. The past always finds its way back, he thought, reminded of Rosalyn’s grim warning. He should have taken heed of it. He sighed, longing to see her, then panic gripped him. Think! he told himself.
‘It is most likely, the one who possessed it is long dead,’ he lied, sensing the need to defend her. ‘I’m sure of it; it was a long time ago. How do we know it has not fallen back into Magia Nera’s hands? After all, he is no longer of our kind. It would prove difficult to find him. Remember, perpetual darkness is now his Realm. He reigns over it.’
‘There is probability in what he says,’ said Lothian, defending the High Warlock.
Again, Oran was aware of Greer’s watchful eyes as he stood defiant in his deception.
Tuan mused over the possibility, before addressing Greer. ‘Send word to the Servitor,’ he said.
‘The Servitor?’ Oran enquired, narrowing his eyes.
‘They must be informed,’ Tuan added, ‘to be mindful of your family’s comings and goings, from now on.’
‘You still spy on them?!’ Oran’s face flushed crimson as he struggled to master his anger.
‘It is our priority now, in order to protect your son.’
‘Tell me his name!’ demanded Oran. ‘This… spy, who knows my life.’
‘With regret, we cannot reveal the name,’ said Lothian.
‘Why not? Surely I have the right to know.’
‘Not quite,’ said Tuan, maintaining his smugness. ‘For we made a solemn vow to her.’
Oran’s eyes widened.
‘Her?!’
Quiet and subdued in his detachment from the emotion dominating the Hall, the Ushabti continued to watch with a keen eye. Oran’s heavy footsteps echoed as he paced back and forth, searching his mind for the traitor. He then paused briefly, in front of the pillar dedicated to the memory of his lost friend.
Damn you! he cursed the Elliyan inside, for neglecting to inform him of Tekkian’s passing, then felt the guilt of his absence. Had he known….
‘We are all allies in this together, Lord Oran,’ said Lothian, interrupting his moment of reflection. ‘Even the Servitor and—’ Lothian stopped himself. ‘They are not your enemy.’
In their male-dominated world, the possibility of the “spy” being a woman was inconceivable to him. He mused over it, regarding his elders. ‘An unlikely source!’ he admitted, sliding his eyes toward Tuan. ‘And a clever move… on your part, no doubt.’
The Great Warlock smirked, then tilted his head in admission of his plan.
‘May I ask her name?’ he enquired, his tone falsely polite and probing.
‘What is the importance of a name?’ Greer questioned. ‘She has been keeping a protective eye on your son. Her duty will be fulfilled when he is placed into our care, before entering his new life,’ he added, acknowledging the Ushabti.
‘Do I know her?’
‘Once a vow has been made, it cannot—’
‘And will not be broken,’ said Tuan, interrupting Greer—obstructing Oran’s persistence. ‘Try as you may, Lord Oran, you will not hear it from those present.’
Bound by the Elliyan’s laws, Oran sensed defeat in his enquiry, secretly vowing to seek out the spy—and deal with her in his own way. Reluctant, he nodded in agreement.
‘Good,’ Tuan responded, satisfied. ‘The time in which your son—’
‘Gill,’ Oran snapped. ‘His name is Gillis. If he is to be our ruling Magus, you will speak his
name with respect.’
Oran’s insistence surprised the three Warlocks, who sought the others’ approval, with the exchange of a subtle nod.
‘If you wish it,’ said Lothian, on their behalf.
‘I do. Although, what I truly wish for is clearly no longer possible.’
‘And, for that, we are sorry,’ Lothian replied, glancing at Tuan, whose face retained its disapproval of any apology. ‘We know how much you desired a mortal life. Perhaps this could have been so, if…’ Lothian’s voice trailed as he slowly lifted his shoulders.
‘I feel no shame in it,’ Oran stated, defending his past. ‘I was simply weary of the fight. For centuries, I—we—have fought too many battles, seen much blood-shed, witnessed innocent people die, needlessly. Is it so wrong to desire a peaceful life?’
‘There is a great evil coming, Lord Oran,’ Greer warned. ‘It must be stopped!
‘And without our kind, secretly protecting the mortals,’ Tuan reminded him, playing on his emotions, ‘they would not survive.’
Insulted by his superiors’ ploy to emotionally blackmail him, Oran, however, knew it had worked. Also, Tuan was right; no, the mortals would never survive, should they fail them.
‘Therefore, from this place,’ said Tuan, raising his voice of authority, ‘you will go to the Realm of Ockram…’
‘Not before I see my family,’ said Oran, adamant in his request.
‘We cannot afford to waste time.’
‘I want to see them before I—’
‘Your wants and needs have long expired!’ snapped Tuan, approaching him with intent.
‘Then find another!’ Oran lashed out, clenching his fists, determined not to make things easy—Tuan bringing out the worst in him. The two Warlocks stood face to face in defiance—eyes blazing. ‘I will not do this!’ he insisted. Oran now turned to the Ushabti, who had been absorbing every word.
‘Do you hear me? I refuse!’
Greer moved to step between them, then stopped, when the Ushabti raised his hand, preventing it.
The Ushabti then turned his intense gaze on Oran until their eyes locked—the pressure mounting in the High Warlock’s head. Oran tensed, closing his eyes tight from the pain of his energy being drained. His body shook, along with his racing heart. A blinding light flashed through his mind, as realistic images played out their scenes of death and devastation. Faces, both strange and familiar to him, battled against an enduring force. One by one, they fell, defeated. He saw his son challenge the unknown force, ready to strike it down. Clutched in its hand, for all to see, the Shenn glowed in its true magnificence. It was a warning—a display of power—letting one and all know who ruled. The image of the bearer was distorted. Oran struggled to see, letting his subconscious guide him. A gradual sense of clarity began to unveil their features. But as quickly as they had appeared, the images were torn from his mind. He breathed in deeply, grasping for air.
‘Lord Oran?!’ Lothian cried, rushing to his aid.
The High Warlock’s wide-opened eyes stayed fixed on the Ushabti. Had he seen the face,
or had it been shown to him with discretion? He was unsure, and yet…
The Ushabti raised his hand, placing it gently on Oran’s crown. The Warlock felt the surge of energy gradually re-enter his weakened body, welcoming its return as his heart resumed a steady beat. With eyes still engaged, he began to understand the Ushabti’s forewarning.
‘Now you see why you must go.’
Oran nodded, grasping the full impact of what he had to do.
‘Your task will be a difficult one,’ the Ushabti warned. ‘Yet, I am confident. The Shenn waits for its true Master… as do I.’
With nothing more to say, the Ushabti smiled warmly at Oran before taking his leave of the Great Hall of Eminence. The Warlocks watched as he faded into the haze of light, returning to the place where he would wait in revered silence.
With a clear understanding, Oran turned to his fellow Lords. ‘Can you guarantee the safety of my family… while I’m gone?’ he asked, his voice firm, and unyielding.
‘Be assured of it,’ Lothian replied.
Oran felt comfort in the Great Warlock’s words. If there was one, he trusted, it was Lothian; his word was governed by truth.
‘Although I’ve no choice,’ he told them, ‘I am willing. Now, what must I do?’
‘The portal will take you directly to Ockram,’ said Tuan, relieved there would be no further objection. He now had the High Warlock’s undivided attention. ‘Your amulet will guide you. Let us hope the bearer of the fifth still resides there. If not, you must find them. The Shenn’s power will grow stronger, over the time we have left, eventually leading them here. We cannot risk that. It must be prevented.’ Tuan paused for a moment of thought. ‘Perhaps… it is wise, after all, to leave your son in the safety of his surroundings… for the time being.’
Oran smiled with a sense of self-satisfaction.
‘But remember, Lord Oran, your son… Gillis, is now priority. Nothing must stand in the way of him taking his rightful place, here, in Urquille. Stop this threat… no matter what!’
No matter what! Tuan’s words echoed in his mind. He knew exactly what they meant.
Torn between his past and his son’s future, Oran desperately hoped she was still not the bearer. His thoughts raced, with visions of them in conflict. And, should their paths cross, on the journey he was about to undertake, he questioned his ability to destroy her… despite his orders. However, if the opportunity presented itself… could he? Would he?
Without doubt!
Chapter Eighteen
Balloch: 1630. Three years later.
‘I told you not to go far!’
The young woman stopped and raised her hand, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun. ‘Gill!’ she cried, searching through the gaps in the trees for a mere glimpse of her young brother. Instinct told her he was near. Still, she preferred him to be in her sights. She looked down towards the loch, beyond the tree line, observing two, familiar figures at play, by the water’s edge.
Satisfied, she smiled before making her way to them. Then something caught her eye. She hesitated, catching sight of a dark shape moving swiftly, just beyond her view. Narrowing her steely-blue eyes, she stared through the foliage, waiting; nothing presented itself—not even a sound for her to follow. Shrugging, she dismissed it, concluding it to be nothing more than a wild animal. But as she turned to call her brother, she had a sense of being watched. Quickening her pace, she cast off any foolish notions, while discerning eyes observed her… waiting… until she had gone from sight.
Eleanor Shaw stepped out into the openness of the loch. Looking above, she squinted at the dappled sky—the sun’s hot rays still penetrating through, onto her bronzed skin. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the late morning air, filling her lungs with the freshness of the water and
surrounding beauty.
‘Nori!’
Her eyes flickered open at the sound of her name. She waved, acknowledging him.
‘Will you come with us?’ her brother pleaded.
‘No, lad,’ she replied. ‘I think you are old enough to go hunting on your own… as long as Rave is with you,’ she added, throwing him a mindful look.
‘Are you certain?’ he returned.
‘Go!’ she urged. ‘Give me peace, and be sure to—’ She had not completed her sentence, when the boy and his loyal companion scurried by, before disappearing into the woods.
‘And don’t go far!’ she called after him, rolling her eyes.
Eleanor approached the water-line, removing the light-blue shawl from her waist. Although the day was hot, she had taken it for one purpose only: to use as a comfortable, make-shift cushion for herself. Folding it carefully, she laid it on the pebbled ground, then sat on its softness before removing her mochs. She dipped her toe, checking the water’s temperature, then smiled. Content, she let her feet slip gently into the coolness of the loch.
Laying back, she stretched out her tired body, releasing all her tensions; her limbs felt weary after the week’s work—helping her mother at the Burgh. Rising early most days, she assisted with the baking of scones, breads, pies and tablets for their stall in the village. But for now, she was contented, stealing herself away from the bustle of the market, to enjoy the peace and quiet of the loch’s surroundings.
Calm and relaxed, she let the heat of the sun bathe over her before rising. Though convinced she was alone, Eleanor still could not help but cast a wary glance about her, feeling the need to protect her modesty. Now, certain no-one was watching, she clutched the length of her skirt, raising it to her shapely thighs. Before tucking the hem into the belt, around her narrow waist, she removed the small item attached to it, tossing it back onto her shawl, then entered the water, as far as she’d dare go.
Worn from the heat of the day, Eleanor’s long, fair hair began to weigh heavily on her. As she caught its thickness, before tying it above her head, nature’s soft, warm breath brushed the nape of her neck, then glided down over her, swirling around her bare legs. She watched how it made the water dance and sparkle like tiny jewels, as it travelled over its surface. Then, cupping some water in her hands, she threw it over her round, sun-kissed face—the glow of summer radiating its youth and vitality. As the water trailed down her front and back, she languished in its cooling affect. Refreshed by its purity, she could not help but repeat the glory of it, in awe of how something, so simplistic, could arouse the senses.
Sitting back on her custom-made cushion, Eleanor absorbed the beauty of nature’s garden. Although late September, and the sun already displaying subtle shades of gold and amber, as leaves still clung to the branches of overgrown trees, summer had decided to lengthen its stay. Therefore, she was determined to enjoy its lengthy reign, for as long as possible, before its inevitable surrender to the winter.
Feeling the burden of tiredness on her eyelids, she lay back once more, slipping into a light slumber. But, just as sleep was about to take her into her world of day dreams, Eleanor jolted and sat up—uneased by the sense of being watched again. Promptly lowering her skirt, she glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes followed the crest of trees ascending the hill behind her, until they reached the top. There, alone and domineering, stood Balloch castle.
Though unoccupied, she had a sense of the old, residential fortress looking down at her, commanding her attention, and shuddered at its ominous presence. No number of countless taunts and dares from her young brother, had ever persuaded her to venture near it—not even as far as the courtyard.
Almost three years divided brother and sister.
There lies the difference! she concluded—the bravery of a sixteen, “almost seventeen”, year old, as he regularly pointed out. Displaying little or no fear, Gill enjoyed relaying stories he had collected from their neighbour, Heckie Grant—especially the more effective and sinister ones.
“According to Heckie,” he once informed her, in that foreboding tone he loved to use when taunting her, “there are strange goings-on up there. He says it’s haunted, by the ghost of a w
oman.”
Eleanor had sensed an element of truth behind the tale. More than once, she had heard of the wrongful death of a local woman—burned at the stake over the death of a child. He had been the youngest of three, born to a wealthy English family who had resided at the castle, almost a century before. A sickly child, since birth, the woman had been called upon occasionally, to tend to his needs. When the bairn became dangerously ill from a winter sickness, the woman made a potion from local herbs to ease his pain. Known for her healing skills, a full recovery had been expected. Yet, despite all her attempts, the child finally lost his battle, when the fever took its toll, taking him from his parents. The poor woman, in all her innocence, had tried, through the best of her knowledge, to help the dying child. Distraught, and influenced by claims of witchcraft, the parents had the woman put on trial, leading to her demise, before they returned to England… or so the story went.
“… and Heckie says, on the night of every new moon, the cry of a woman and a child can be heard, coming from within the castle walls. Also, Heckie says an old man, from across the great sea—from a land no-one has heard of—lives there, alone, with all his wealth, and no-one to share it with, waiting for the return of his lost love. And, Nori, do you know what else Heckie told me?”
“Aye, right” she would always reply, slowly nodding—amused by the numerous expressions on his face, as he relayed the tales in one sweeping breath—engrossed in every word. Eleanor learned to control her laughter, displaying feigned looks of shock and horror, so as not to offend her brother. However, it only encouraged him further—no thanks to their neighbour.
Heckie Grant and his wife, Blair, were loyal friends, and had been for as long as she could remember. Blair, like her husband, was large as life, as was her frame. A woman of staunch pride, she loved to wear a bodice, showing off her ample figure, without a care in the world. She paid no heed to what people thought and possessed a tongue as sharp as a blade. Her crowning glory was a thick mane of black hair with strands of grey—visible from root to tip—and worn down in a bid to hold on to her youth. Her hazel-eyes were warm and kind, like her features. For a woman of middle years, Eleanor saw nothing but youth in her character.
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