Oran rose, his adrenalin beginning to surge. Doubt provoked his thoughts again as the footsteps drew nearer, their sturdy march confirming, they did not belong to his ward—the Samurai’s being much lighter and rhythmic. Concealing his amulet, he regarded the great door, feeling agitated. With eyes fixed in apprehension, he joined his hands together, as if in prayer, then raised them to his mouth… watching and waiting.
Oran hesitated, drawing his head back when the footsteps suddenly ceased on the other side. The fading light from the lanterns forced him to strain his eyes. It would not be long before they extinguished themselves.
‘Why are you waiting?’ he whispered, in the lingering silence.
He flinched at the sound of the large, iron key, being slowly turned in the lock. He cast a sideward glance when the light from one of the lanterns flickered before going out. The key grinded as the hand that controlled it prolonged its turning. Oran moved closer, with caution, ready to meet the individual on the other side.
The lock clicked, signalling their entrance.
When the door was pushed towards him, Oran held his breath. But as it opened, it invited a small draught, extinguishing the second flame, instantly plunging them into darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The great door creaked as it swung wide, revealing a shadow in the space between it and the long, dark corridor beyond. Oran had no knowledge where the passage led, or of his placement within the walls of the citadel, where she had chosen to reside; nor did he care, at that moment.
The individual, who now entered his holding, concealed their face behind the flaming torch in their hand. Oran surmised, by their silhouette, they were male—and as tall as he. Nothing was said as the figure re-lit the two lanterns, illuminating his surroundings once more. The Warlock squinted as his eyes readjusted, then focused hard on the unknown visitor, who remained with his back to him.
‘Where is Asai?’ he blurted, with a sense of unease.
Placing the torch in its walled bracket, its bearer lingered before turning to face his prisoner. Cautious, he approached Oran, stopping within inches of the invisible barrier dividing them.
Standing in complete silence, they regarded one another. Oran dared to step closer to the barrier, mindful of its precarious presence—aware of its fatal purpose, should he touch it. He stopped abruptly. Eyes wide open, his lips parted slightly, as a familiarity about his guest struck him.
Where have I seen you before? he thought.
In the awkward silence, Oran strived to retrieve the memory of where they had met. It suddenly dawned on him: they never had. The images forced on him by the Ushabti, now returned as his reminder. He had seen this face in the battle—as shown to him—and yet could not recall their role.
Are you my ally, or rival? he thought.
Frustrated by his visitor’s un-nerving stillness, Oran wondered how long it would be, until the silence was broken. The wait was short-lived.
‘So, you are the Warlock,’ he began. His voice was low and lacked emotion.
‘I am,’ Oran replied, lifting his head slightly.
The stranger turned, keeping his eyes fixed on “her guest” as she referred to him. ‘In my mind,’ he continued, slowly pacing back and forth, ‘I had formed an image of you, and I must admit, Warlock—’
‘Oran,’ he snapped. ‘My name is—’
‘And… I must admit… I am rather disappointed.’
Oran raised his brow at the insult placed upon him, then watched as his guest surveyed the chamber with a keen eye.
‘She has kept you well in your standards,’ he sneered. ‘It appears you are of some importance to her.’
‘Do not be fooled by what you see here before you…’ Oran paused, hoping he would reveal his name; it did not come. ‘And, do not judge your friends’ notion of me; he is a good—’
‘Man?’ he interrupted, with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. ‘Take my advice, Warlock… you should not be fooled by what you see.’
Oran took a step back to observe his guest, all the while still searching for his face in the image shown to him by the Ushabti.
‘Tell me, Warlock,’ he said. ‘What, precisely, do you see?’
Oran observed him closely. They stood almost at eye level. He then noted his striking features: his hair was black, and unusually short; his piercing, green eyes stared back at him like glowing emeralds; his cheekbones were high and obvious; and his lips full, and perfectly shaped. Oran then lowered his eyes, observing his clothing—it was that of a hunter’s. His leggings were made from buckskin—dyed black, and tied inside dark, brown leather boots. His long, sleeveless waistcoat was the colour of ox blood—made from thick leather. About his waist, he wore a wide belt where his sword or knife would hang. Oran was under no illusion; it was evident his guest had no use for them at that given time.
Oran could not help but notice the array of old and new scars on his visitor’s bare arms—some, were thick remnants of deep wounds, while others, mere scratches. Had they been concealed, Oran would not have known he had seen many battles, for his face remained unscarred, save for the tiny puncture wounds at the base of his neck—clearly visible, when he turned.
‘Well? Have you made your assumptions, Warlock?’
‘You’re not like the others?’ said Oran.
‘No—they are young and impetuous,’ he replied, rolling his eyes. ‘And too easily led.’
Oran sensed annoyance in his tone, speculating he had little or no time for them. ‘Am I to presume it is the reason why their guard on me is changed regularly?’
‘Changed? No,’ he returned, with a slight grin. ‘They are… replaced.’
Oran narrowed his eyes, confused by his tone; it was one of permanence.
‘Do you know who’—he lowered his eyes, then grit his teeth with distaste, having to admit his unwanted disposition— ‘what we are?’
‘I have my theories,’ said Oran.
‘I assure you, it is no theory, Warlock,’ he retorted. ‘Asai, it seems, has neglected to tell you the facts, relating to our on-going presence here.’
‘Somewhat,’ replied Oran, recalling the sadness behind this individual’s story.
‘Then let me enlighten you. We—I, am what the mortals refer to as…’ He sighed, loathing the mere thought of uttering the word. ‘Dhampir.’
Oran stepped forward, taking a closer look.
‘But you look so…’
‘Human?’
The Warlock nodded.
‘It is because of my age—as with Asai—we did not succumb to the foul side of our character. We were—are stronger than the younger ones, and well taught in battle. Those who are clever enough—as few as they are—have been fortunate enough to retain many of their human qualities.’
‘Am I to assume, Wareeshta did this to you?’ said Oran.
‘How did you—’
‘I saw her… once,’ he began, before briefly relaying how he had witnessed her attack, on the young man with the stone in his boot.
‘She and Kara are bonded to the Sorceress.’
‘Willingly?’ asked Oran.
‘I have my misgivings,’ his guest replied. ‘According to their mistress, Wareeshta is the one with the true gift. She has been more than useful… to put it mildly. You see, her mother was human, her father—’
‘The Undead!’ said Oran, cutting in.
‘You are aware of them?’
‘I’ve had my dealings with their kind, in the past, however, I have seldom come into contact with…’ He hesitated, not wanting to insult his guest, but on reflection, chose to return it. ‘… Dhampir.’
Oran caught his sideward glance but held his gaze. He would not be intimidated.
‘Those who become Dhampir,’ his guest continued, ‘are unwilling victims. If they are young, their human qualities can be controlled, by the more powerful and sinister side being forced on them. It is their newly acquired powers that entice and excite them, at first. They are lur
ed into a false sense of invincibility. Many give in to its trap, eventually losing all self-control.’
‘Therefore, destroying themselves?’ Oran surmised.
‘No. They grow weaker, until every human quality they once knew has been taken from them—pushed to the depths of their subconscious—never to be re-awakened.’
‘Have you ever tried to escape?’ Oran enquired.
His visitor approached him, drawing apart his waistcoat. ‘Do you see these scars, Warlock?’
Oran observed the thick, pale lines scattered across his exposed, lean torso.
‘Too often, I have tried… to the point of death.’
Oran lifted his head slowly, staring at him, confused.
I see by your expression, you wonder how I am still alive.’
Oran shook his head.
‘No man could endure, nor survive the multiple wounds I see before me,’ he replied.
‘This is true. But I am no mortal man. I have felt the pain of each wound inflicted on me. I can recall every sword, dagger and arrow that has entered my body. It is ironic that, in her captivity, I have tolerated more inflictions than on the battlefield of mortality. In other words, it is not so easy to destroy us.’
‘She did this to you?’ said Oran, unable to comprehend the brutality of the woman he thought he knew.
‘It does not matter who, or how, for I ceased in my bid to escape long ago. From the moment Wareeshta administered her “gift” upon us, we, too, were bonded to the Sorceress. We cannot leave. We cannot touch her.’ He lowered his eyes, in a moment of thought, and smirked.
‘What amuses you?’ said Oran.
‘Did you notice the scar below her—’
‘left ear?’ he interrupted, nodding.
‘I am impressed by your observation, Warlock.’
Oran bowed, acknowledging the compliment.
‘It was a… gift from Asai,’ he revealed. ‘A true master of his kind—one skilled in the art of the sword. I have great admiration and respect for him.’
‘And yet he still lives?’
‘Against Kara’s wishes. In fact, the Valkyrie would see us both “dispatched” had she her own way. This is why we need to be wary of her. Also, Kara’s behaviour, of late, has become unpredictable, and something of a burden to the Sorceress.’
‘In what way?’ Oran enquired, leaning forward.
‘Have you asked yourself, Warlock, what happens to the younger Dhampir? Why they are replaced, and never seen again?’
‘Perhaps… because they lack the experience of a gaoler?’ Oran remarked, jokingly.
His visitor shook his head, unable to see the wit in the Warlock’s reply.
‘Kara bores easily,’ he said. ‘She seeks amusement, targeting the young and… more willing Dhampir. They have appetites she is quite happy to satisfy. At first, the Sorceress turned a blind eye. But it was when their numbers began to diminish, it came to light who the perpetrator was.’
‘Kara,’ said Oran.
‘Not all, but some of her willing candidates are… discarded, when she tires of their company. She regards them as weaklings. Think yourself lucky, Warlock.’
‘Lucky?’
His guest grinned.
‘That you are… old!’
‘That’s twice!’ said Oran, gritting his teeth.
His visitor tilted his head, puzzled.
‘You have insulted me… twice!’
Unperturbed by Oran’s comment, he shrugged it off, before continuing. ‘It seems Kara is not to be left alone in your company. It is my belief, the Sorceress holds a place in her heart for you.’
‘And, it is my belief,’ Oran suggested, ‘You may be her surveillance.’
The Warlock recoiled when his guest suddenly lunged forward—the invisible barrier between them, glowing its warning, as they felt its surging heat.
‘You think I have come to spy on you, Warlock?!’ he snarled, his eyes wild with fury. Offended, he turned on his heel.
‘Forgive me!’ Oran blurted. ‘I had to be certain of your reliability. I beg you… stay?’
He hesitated, his hand wavering over the door handle, sensing the Warlock’s eyes, pleading for him to remain.
The door slammed.
‘What do you want of me, Warlock?’ he asked, his face hardened with frustration.
‘Your help,’ Oran replied, keeping his voice low and calm.
‘You think you can trust me? A Dhampir?’
‘I see your human qualities,’ said Oran. ‘They out-weigh the other. I saw it in Asai, too. You both cling to a past buried deep inside—one you still crave.’
He watched his visitor’s expression soften to one of reflection. Leaving him, momentarily, in his personal thoughts, Oran mused over his own memories. ‘I know and feel your pain,’ he stated, his voice soft and sympathetic.
His visitor glared back at him. ‘You cannot begin to know how I feel, Warlock!’
‘The fact that you “feel” is a reflection of who you truly are—who you once were. I believe we can be of assistance to one another. I believe, should the opportunity arise, you and Asai would give anything to be free of your bonds. You would never again have to fight for her, against your will.’
His visitor paced the stone floor, his thoughts racing as Oran’s words churned over in his head.
‘I can help you,’ revealed Oran.
‘You?! Help me?!’ he said, sneering under his breath. ‘And what of my colleague, Asai? Look around you, Warlock. Have you forgotten where you reside? You are a prisoner among your own grandeur.’
The Warlock smiled at him. ‘Listen to me!’ he said, maintaining his poise and patience.
‘This is no ploy on my part. I can, and will, help you both… in more ways than one.’ He noticed the Dhampir’s slowing pace. He appeared interested. Oran knew he had to risk it.
It’s now or never! he thought, taking a deep breath. ‘I will help you both escape.’
His guest halted. Oran regarded him, concealing his own smugness, as the cynical look was wiped from the Dhampir’s face.
‘Is this true?’ he asked in a firm voice. ‘For you are in no position to make vows you cannot keep.’
Turning his back on the Dhampir, Oran approached the plain, little mirror and stared at the image reflecting back.
‘It is a reminder of who you once were,’ he whispered, echoing her words.
‘Who you once were?’ the voice behind him repeated.
‘Foolish words!’ Oran answered, turning to face him. ‘I am a High Warlock of the Elliyan, bonded to the vows we make to whom we offer them. Ask what you will, and I shall share with you all I know.’
‘Do you know the one thing I fail to understand, Warlock?’ he put forward in disheartened confusion. ‘The senseless killings we are forced to perform. There seems no logic in it. She strives to prove how powerful she is. And for what? Her own vanity? For vain she is. Our lives are nothing more than an endless journey of pointless battles. Our duty is simply to… kill!’
‘You say, you have no knowledge of her purpose?’
The Dhampir moved to say something, then hesitated. His eyes darted across the stone floor as if searching for something—perhaps a memory. He looked at it, momentarily confused. Frustrated, he shook his head.
‘No—she reveals nothing—not even to her personal aids, although…’
‘Tell me!’ Oran urged, prompting him to recall the memory, anything that may prove vital to his plan.
‘I have noticed, since you have been here, there is no talk of leaving. We never stay in one place for too long, and yet we remain here. But of late, she appears agitated. Asai brought this to my attention. Her attempt to mask it only ignites and feeds our curiosity. In our discreet observation of her, we have become suspicious. Something is afoot.’
Oran nodded as he listened with appreciation. A brief stillness washed over the chamber, as a glimmer of trust passed between the two, signalling the Warlock to speak.
; ‘Then let me tell you this,’ he said, aware of what he was about to tell the stranger in his company. ‘I know her plans. I know her intentions; they are aimed at my son.’
The Dhampir scrutinised Oran’s face, searching for a hint of deceit; but saw none in his eager expression. Convinced by his honesty, he promptly turned, retrieving a small, wooden stool from the shadow of a corner. Placing it before the Warlock, he sat on it—straight and focused—resting his hands on his knees.
Oran had surveyed the Dhampir’s actions with a sense of accomplishment, noting the added intensity in his green eyes. Maintaining his gaze, he now waited for him to speak….
‘I am Reece,’ he finally revealed. ‘And you have my attention… Oran.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The woman stole herself from her inquisitive company, having ordered them to remain; she needed to be alone for some time. The route to her quarters had become too familiar, antagonising her more with each passing day. She grew restless—eager to move on.
Inside, she cursed the Warlock for retaining his silence; even though she had given him everything he required, within his means. She had been nothing but civil and patient with him, and yet was still unable to win him over. She recalled a time, when a mere glance would entice him to her bed.
Her secret visits to him had proved uneventful, and fruitless. Even the promise to remove the barrier, during their conversations, had failed to loosen his tongue. However, she lately noticed a difference in his demeanour. There was an air of duty about him—slight, though enough to provoke her thoughts. But time was pressing, and it grieved her to admit—should desperation take its hold—that Kara may have her way with the Warlock, after all.
Needs must! she thought. You will regret your silence, Oran!
The long, narrow hallway, leading to her solar chamber, stretched before her. Though well-lit, she knew herself capable of finding her way in the dark. She had chosen it with care, giving her the privacy, she required. The hallway led to a small passage, taking her to the steps leading up to her personal rooms, near the citadel’s keep.
Beyond the Darkness Page 22