Oran had detected the threats between her lines; it was a hidden reminder how indispensable he was. And there was no doubting, the luxuries bestowed upon him were a vain attempt to draw any information she could from him. However, in the fourteen months of his imprisonment, not once did he waver.
How could I have been so negligent? he asked himself, reliving, in his mind, the irresponsibility of the error—his error—which lead to his present state.
After his impromptu departure from Elboru—on the Elliyan’s insistence—he had, after a lengthy search, picked up her trail in the far reaches of Ockram—in the south. But he had been too late. It was evident from the trail of destruction left behind, she had moved on.
Each village he came upon had indicated her presence, leaving behind a disturbing undertone. He had seen it in the villagers’ eyes as he listened to their mourning, for the mysterious loss of a number of their young men. He had over-heard some of the local gossips utter a name he had once been associated with. At first, he had sneered at their small mindedness, before realising the truth behind their myths. He recalled witnessing the burial of a young woman of abstinence, her tragic demise shrouded by a sinister motive. He then later discovered the innocent victim had been stabbed clean, through the heart.
He had taken great care in concealing his identity, the closer he drew to his goal. Keeping his distance, he had taken the form of a wild animal—the kind no one would pay heed to. It had been a necessity, as he was unarmed and unaware of her powers—avoiding the risk of being found out.
I should have had the Albrecht, he regretted. Damn them! But despite his frustration, however, he realised the sword would have provided him with little, or no protection, after witnessing her powers in Triora. He was now glad of his amulet.
Over time, he had noticed a pattern in her behaviour and movements. With each departure, taking her to pastures new, her company grew larger. Also, she was never alone—always accompanied by the two females—one, small in size and frame—the other, matching the stature of a man. He mused over where he had seen her kind before—convinced she hailed from the high north, beyond the boundaries of Urquille.
He had maintained his distance while secretly scrutinising her notable growing legion. It soon came to light they were not willing recruits, having witnessed it through the eyes of his camouflage.
The small female would frequently leave the company for a short time. He had taken it upon himself—in the early light of one morning—to follow her in the guise of the small deer—such was her swiftness. Twice, she had seen the little wild animal, paying no mind to its presence—too pre-occupied by something else.
A young man—no more than the age of his son—walked alone in the early mist of dawn, his long, wavy, black hair wet by the dampness. Upon his person, he had carried a satchel over a grey, heavy cloak. Little did he know, his well-worn, thick, brown leather boots would become his fatal distraction.
The curious deer watched from the brush, as the lad paused to remove one of his boots; some tiny pebbles had made their way through the sole, causing him discomfort. It was then—as he leaned forward to return the boot to his aching foot—she pounced. Her frenzied attack had been so swift, he doubted the young man knew what had happened.
He had watched—with added curiosity—as she hovered over the lifeless body, preparing her next move, when something distracted her. That was when she had seen it: the small, wild animal—the one that had been watching her.
She had caught him off-guard, prompting him to flee. But as he fled, he heard the rustling sound, before the hunter’s snare had hoisted him into mid-air.
The young woman, with the long, chestnut hair then approached him, leaving her victim behind stretched out on the lonely path. Wiping the fresh blood from her mouth, her pale-red eyes looked up at the little animal, its lack of fear in its imprisonment intriguing her.
She had stared at him a while, regarding him with interest, and when their eyes finally met, he had noticed the obvious change in hers; they were now deep, and dark—a vague reminder of someone else.
He recalled her first words:
“Te vad!” she had whispered. “I see you!”
He had been surprised by the softness of her tone and gentle demeanour, after witnessing the vicious attack on her victim.
He had struggled in vain against the netting, his mind searching for a way to escape. He had contemplated returning to his true form but was unable to. The female then glanced back at the young man, lying dormant on the path.
“La naiba!” she had muttered under her breath, frustrated. “He should have lived! You distracted me, little one, and it is too late to find a replacement. My mistress will be disappointed. I think it only right to show her who is to blame. You, my little curiozitate, are coming with me.”
Still caught up in the netting, she had then cut him down before hauling him away to meet her mistress.
He would never forget the overwhelming feeling of the unknown power that engulfed him, when the female took the “helpless deer” into the presence of her mistress—the great strength emanating from her, weakening him. He recalled the moment she looked down at the little, wild animal with curiosity, her familiar face devoid of all emotion.
“And what do we have—”
The instant her eyes latched-on to his, it was evident she knew exactly to whom she was addressing.
“Looking for me… Oran?”
It was the last thing he had remembered, staring into her knowing eyes, before waking to find he had been transformed back to his true form. He had, at first, being confused by his surroundings, noting the lavish furnishings. It was when he glanced up at the small window, observing the grotesque iron bars, crossing its opening, he had then understood their meaning.
But all was not as it seemed; he had detected something else—something familiar—something unseen to the eye. He had felt its ominous presence. His instincts had warned him to take heed, forcing him to glance at the locked door. Something was not quite right; the space between them was unusually wide, arousing his suspicions.
Cautious, he had paced back and forth across his personal space, contemplating it. After much deliberation, his curiosity had urged him to approach the door, when his instincts made him stop. However, uncertainty coaxed him to step closer, taking two more steps, before he had felt it: the tingling inside his body, warning him of a familiar force. But he knew he had to brave another step. He had to know. As he drew closer, he had felt its defined energy strengthen in a threatening manner. But it was when he stretched out his hand, its burning influence had forced him to wrench it back, letting him know what he was up against.
“Do you think this invisible barrier can keep me here?” he had muttered, reaching for his amulet. But trapped in the confinements of her world now, he quickly discovered his amulet had been drained of its energy. Despite several attempts to break the barrier, all his efforts had proved worthless.
It was at that moment—for the first time in his life—he had felt utterly defenceless and powerless against her might.
He had become her prisoner.
‘How could I have been so negligent?’ Oran asked himself, again, dismissing the memory; he had wallowed in self-pity for long enough.
He stared at the emptiness between his personal chamber and the heavily-bolted wooden door. He still had mixed feelings as to whether to accept the locked door as a compliment, or an insult. He then noticed the lanterns hanging on each side. They would soon dwindle, eventually needing to be replaced.
His powers had diminished greatly since finding himself in her company. The reunion had been indescribable. Her features, save for the eyes, were exactly as he remembered, yet more intense. She had not aged a day. It was clear, by her sustained youthfulness, there had been others to satisfy her obsession, since Lucia. The image of the young servant’s charred remains crept back to haunt him—the guilt of her demise having never left his thoughts.
Beneath his loose s
hirt, remained the one item the Sorceress did not remove from his person. Oran was aware she still possessed the other amulet, however, several attempts had been made by Kara, to obtain his. He surmised the Valkyrie may have wanted it for herself. He grinned, recalling the frustration on her seething face when it scorched her hand.
Despite claiming ownership of the one the Sorceress had stolen from Magia Nera, it pleased him to know she still lacked the knowledge of the amulet’s true purpose. Hence the reason he was still alive—hence the reason for his comforts—in the hope she could coax it from him.
“I know something of great importance draws close, Warlock,” she had said, sneering at him. “For you to come in search of me, after all this time, leads me to suspect the urgency of it”.
With every pressing enquiry made upon him his return was silence, and had remained so, ever since. But now her visits were becoming more frequent. At times, she would venture to his holding alone, while on other occasions, accompanied by her two aids. He grinned, staring at the space before him; she had almost tempted him. Almost!
Removing his amulet, he held it to the fading light. The jewel within its centre gleamed, its brightness having intensified since the last time his eyes looked upon it. He could now clearly distinguish its yellow colour, clear in the knowledge it would continue to radiate, until it reached its fullness: the day his son would come of age.
Closing his eyes, Oran delved into his memories, searching for them. He could see Rosalyn’s face vividly, wondering had she forgiven him, for his disappearance? It had been his choice to keep her in the dark—for her safety—for the safety of all his family.
His thoughts turned to Eleanor. She would now be in her twentieth year. She had developed qualities like her grandmother, during her adolescence—no doubt taking them with her into womanhood. He mused over the possibility that she may have claimed a husband—even become a parent.
I could be a grandfather now! he thought. His heart ached at the idea of it, giving him hope, encouragement, and determination.
And then there was Gill, his only son. In the next few months, he would be…
Tortured by his own thoughts, he cast them away.
Time to act, Oran! he told himself. There was still time—not much—but enough to complete his plan.
His hopes now rested on the source he had befriended.
Three individuals had been selected to tend to his needs—changing shifts at random. Thanks to his little spider’s movements, he had carefully noted their habits and routines, engaging in
regular conversation with them, in a bid to become familiar with their character. Oran paid particular attention to their changing personalities, noting, as time went by, they appeared to come into their own—some more than others. And, by those observations, he soon discovered which one he could best acquaint himself with.
The younger, he surmised, had been a recent addition to her legion. Wild and reckless, his time spent watching over his prisoner was unpredictable and restless. It was evident the young
recruit’s preference was to be elsewhere, rather than the confinement of his assignment.
The second, had once been like the younger, their differences divided by time. He discovered his name was Dakkus—and could not be trusted. His pale, brown eyes—unlike the redness of the younger ones—warned him of betrayal. His face was round, his lips, full and prominent. His black skin had lost its richness, becoming dull over time. Oran had noticed his habit of running a hand over his head, as if searching for the remnants of the hair that had once belonged there. Constantly suspicious of the Warlock’s casual questions, Dakkus had been, and still was, reluctant to share any information, making it clear where his loyalties lay. Therefore, Oran kept their conversations civil and cautious.
The third, hailed from the Realm of Saó. The great warrior—a Samurai—had been under her bond for almost sixty years and, apparently, had not aged a day, since. There was something mature and tranquil in his demeanour. His skin was olive in tone yet retained a hint of its darkness. Oran saw trust and honour in his dark-brown, almond-shaped eyes. His thick, straight black hair ran the length of his spine. The front was pulled high, off his forehead, and into an elaborate top-knot. His garb was simple yet striking: a long, black kimono, making him look taller than he was. His torso was sturdy and well-muscled—visible through the upper, patterned part of the kimono. The wide sleeves hung loosely, midway down his sinewy arms. From the waist down to his sandaled feet, the gown was made of rich, black silk. A sturdy, crimson sash,
about his waist, housed a large, curved sword that clung to his left side. On the opposite, a small, lethal dagger peeped out. Though barely visible, its presence was noteworthy.
Reluctant, at first, to discuss his past, the Samurai had been content to engage in intelligent
conversation with the Warlock, and it soon became apparent, the warrior had clung to many of his human qualities, enabling Oran to determine his temperament, and character.
Oran enjoyed the calming influence of the Samurai’s company and, over time, had begun to detect hidden meanings in their discussions, eventually leading to an element of mutual trust. It was what compelled him to finally make the bold move.
“There is something I would like to share with you”.
That was how it begun.
Oran knew his own words were of immense risk at the time of his asking. He recalled the lengthy silence, staring into his ward’s dark eyes, as he waited for his response, fully aware of the consequences, should their conversation be passed on. But his intuition had told him differently.
“You have my trust, Oran-san,” came the reply—eventually—followed by a sharp bow.
It was at that moment, the Warlock knew he had judged his new ally well.
Oran braved revealing his identity to his ward, with the understanding he was of influence, and could perhaps help him in some way. Concerned it may not be the case, the Warlock had limited his information, at first, for fear of being subject to betrayal.
“There is another who may also be interested,” his ward had revealed.
“May be?” Oran had replied, with immediate regret.
“He is my loyal friend—against her wishes. But… there is nothing she can do to influence it. She relies on her best. She relies on him.”
“Can I trust him?”
“He is no betrayer. But his temperament is fused by his stolen past. I, however, have been more accepting of the life I have been forced to lead. I have kept my humble beliefs locked inside, which have been my guidance and saving grace. It was difficult for him to accept his fate, in the beginning. However, the years I gained on him, helped in his adjustment of the life inflicted on us. Despite our cultural differences, we formed a unique bond under the forceful one of the Sorceress’. She did everything in her power to separate us… but failed.”
The ward had then proceeded to tell Oran his confidant’s story, letting him form a picture in his mind. He had then assured him of his support, though, nothing was guaranteed.
“Take care in your conversations with the others who tend to you,” he had warned him. “They will surely betray you. I will speak with my colleague and return with his reply”.
Since their conversation, Oran had waited daily for news, but none came. He paced the small space of his holding, watching the door with unease. It had been more than a week, since, and still the ward did not appear; his routine had, in the past, comprised of two visits in one week— sometimes three. He also noted, the younger, restless one had now been replaced by another; and when he enquired, Dakkus had simply stared back at him with distrust:
“You are not entitled to an explanation, Warlock,” he had replied, in his broken English.
Oran paused, catching a glimpse of his own face in the plain mirror hanging on the bare, stone wall. The item looked out of place among the splendour of his furniture.
“Every time you look at it, it will be a reminder of what you were,” she had on
ce commented, seeing him stare at his reflection.
Her remark had had a sense of victory about it, making him feel somewhat defeated by her. Had it not been for his amulet, he imagined the probability of it. But a mere glimpse of its gold chain reassured him: there was still hope.
Oran sat on the edge of his bed patiently waiting for the return of his confidant—certain of his visit. The minutes felt like hours in the hum-drum of his silence. He began to second-guess his decision to trust the warrior. Doubt slowly seeped in, playing on his insecurities. Perhaps he had been found out… or betrayed.
No! he told himself, rising from his bed. I sensed no betrayal in him.
Oran approached the ornate little table, feeling the need to occupy his mind from the negative thoughts fighting to influence his thinking. He handled the playwright’s works, contemplating which one to read… again!
‘You will have to do,’ he said, picking one up, before returning to his bed.
Lying back, he flicked through the worn pages, more than familiar with the story.
It was the tale of the tragic Prince who feigned his own madness, to bring to justice the perpetrator who had murdered his father. The crime had been committed by the hand of his mother’s new husband. The young Prince eventually proved his stepfather’s guilt, but at a cost.
No matter how often Oran looked over the pages, the story had the same ending: the Prince dying tragically, along with those he loved, and hated.
He sighed, returning to the first page, when the faint echo of distant footsteps caught his attention. He looked sharp towards the door, listening. Had he imagined them? He held his breath a moment. He could now hear their distinct sound, descending towards his chamber. Prominent in their approach, they were footsteps he did not recognise.
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