by Tracy Lane
Iragos heard a twig snap and stopped, marshaling his excellent vision and focusing it on where he’d heard the noise. Silence followed as he stood still, watching the spot near a cluster of old, gnarled trees at the edge of the forest.
Somewhere in the distance, a small cabin stood, smoke rising into the approaching darkness. But Iragos ignored it, staring instead at the shadowy cluster of trees where he’d heard the noise.
He made not a move, but instead peered closer and closer, until he saw the slightest blur of movement in the trees and the telltale whispering maroon cloak of his prey.
Iragos gently slid his walking stick into the earth and smiled, chanting a Transformation Spell that slipped from his muttering lips. “From the earth, spirits dwell, to the earth, let them swell; change my form, as I desire, set my human blood on fire; mystic powers, hear my plea: from this form, let me flee…”
With each murmuring of the incantation, his hand upon the crystal stick changed. His pale skin turned leathery and dark, his fingers stretched forward, longer and longer, as bones cracked painlessly and reformed effortlessly, while carefully tended fingernails turned to claws, while hair sprung from his leathery skin.
His cloak fell away, as did the tunic and pants beneath, as his form lengthened, shifted and morphed into something strange, beautiful and deadly.
Iragos felt the power deep within his bulging muscles, the venom in his blood as he fell to all fours, now covered in sleek, black hair, yellow eyes now spotting the shape of a human form lying in the shrub, curled like a ball.
Iragos leaped, a black panther at last, silently stalking his prey on powerful paws tipped with glistening claws. His shoulder muscles rippled with each step, ribs visible against his slinky black hide, whiskers sensing motion in the invisible air.
The figure in the brush stirred, startled, and rose to one knee — Kronos!
The panther Iragos roared, a biting sound that seemed to silence the very forest itself. Kronos shuddered, then stood, raising his own crystal staff, this one gnarled and bent, the glass smoky and spiked along its gleaming black length.
The dark mage’s lips began moving as Iragos leapt, front paws extended, mouth wide, slashing and tearing at Kronos’ maroon cloak with a fierceness that would have been impossible only moments earlier in his physical “man” form. Kronos screamed, stumbling back, too shocked to transform himself into something more powerful than a panther.
At least, for the moment.
Kronos lay on his back, scrambling away on his palms, backing into the trunk of a mossy green tree as his gorgeous cloak sagged off of him in tatters.
Panther Iragos stalked forward, claws itching to slice, teeth bared and drooling to tear into the dark mage’s weak, human flesh. It was forbidden to mortally wound a fellow mage, Iragos knew – even in animal form – but the Council said nothing of scaring one to death!
Kronos shivered, scared eyes half-lidded as he mumbled incoherently to himself. Iragos was half afraid he was plotting some spell, but Kronos was only cursing his fate.
Iragos neared, intending to slice the boots off Kronos’ feet, to shred the last of his magnificent cloak, to slap the staff away from his trembling hands when suddenly a crack rang out and the tree above Kronos’ head splintered as a bullet sheared off a towering branch.
It landed on Iragos’ head, causing him to yelp when another shot fired out, this one striking the dirt at the temporary panther’s paw. Iragos bolted, using his powerful legs to steal away from the rifleman’s sights and leaping deeper, ever deeper, into the forest.
He was breathing heavily when at last Iragos returned to his crystal staff, glowing black with the fever of his spell. As at last he returned to his physical state, he slipped back into his clothes and rested on the ground, chewing on a local root to get his energy back while he recuperated from the powerful spell.
He hung his head, tired from the exertion of the spell, frustrated that he hadn’t been able to do more to scare Kronos out of his plan. After all, the dark mage was still on Synurgus and clearly had found an ally among the people of the Valley.
Then again, as far as Iragos could tell, Kronos didn’t have the orb – yet. He stood, rested, and leaned more heavily on his staff than he had in the past. He would have to keep a close eye on Kronos, starting with finding out who his mortal ally from Below might be…
13
Lutheran Augustus waited until the sounds of the forest quieted to approach the wounded man. The muzzle of his hunter’s rifle still smoldered as he kept it cocked and aimed, awaiting the roar of the wounded panther at any moment.
He would have loved nothing more than to track the wounded animal into the brush where it had disappeared, not only to put it out of its misery but also to have that black, silken hide adorn the floor of his humble cabin.
But mortals came first, and the man in front of him looked gravely ill… if not already dying. He was an odd sort, and even as Lutheran approached him he felt wary, almost more wary than if he were approaching the panther!
The man was tall and thin beneath his shredded cloak of foreign finery, but clearly possessing a strength far beyond his physical stature to have survived such a savage attack.
His face was lean and severe, perhaps aided by the wiry black goatee that covered his thin, gray lips. His eyes were closed but they fluttered behind the waxen lids, as if the man was struggling to stay conscious, or already deep asleep.
Lutheran surveyed the landscape carefully before lowering his gun, listening closely for another black panther charge as he bent to feel the man’s pulse. It was soft and weak, although the man’s skin was almost inhumanly warm.
Lutheran slid his rifle over his shoulder awkwardly before lifting the man into his arms. He was surprisingly light for a man so tall, and his whole body vibrated as if he were fueled by a furnace instead of a heart and lungs.
Lutheran’s cabin wasn’t much to look at from the outside – or from the inside either, for that matter – but it was warm and hearty and safe from giant black panthers.
He knew that much at least!
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen an animal so wild in the Wandering Woods, but stranger things had happened and when beasts were hungry, he figured they’d hunt most anywhere.
Lutheran’s bed was soft and warm as he laid the injured man inside. His patient was unconscious, mouth slack, eyes no longer moving rapidly beneath their lids. Even his shimmering silver hair, which had seemed to have a life of its own during the attack, now lay limp and flat against Lutheran’s pillow.
Lutheran set about studying his herb cabinet, selecting various natural remedies and crushing or bending or flaking or pouring them into a large copper pot. He added water and set it over the fire to boil while he tended to his patient’s wounds.
The man’s gorgeous cloak was torn and tattered and his patient roused momentarily as Lutheran slipped it off his muscular frame. Beneath it the man wore a simple tunic of white and more gold thread. There were tears here, too, and fresh blood but when Lutheran unbuttoned the tunic to tend the man’s wounds, the blood had already dried.
He ground a fresh mixture of sulfur swamp mud and loganberry root to aid the healing, and dabbed it onto the scratches left behind by the giant, vicious panther.
“What are you doing?” the man asked, weakly, eyes fluttering open and then closed.
“You’ve been attacked,” said Lutheran gently, covering the home remedy with fresh camaroon leaves to keep the air and other irritants off of it. “This will help you heal.”
The man’s eyelids fluttered open and flashed impatience. “I need none of your barbaric home treatments,” he sputtered before his eyelids closed again.
“Magic,” he sighed, “is all I need.”
Lutheran chuckled to himself and shook his head. He left his patient to his incoherent mumblings and turned his attention to the simmering pot instead, using a metal ladle to spoon the steaming mixture into an earthen bowl.
> It smelled ripe of healing and goodness as Lutheran sat back down next to the man. His nostrils rippled and his patient opened his eyes.
“What is that hideous smell?” the man asked, trying to stir but too weak to make much of an effort before crumpling back into the bed linens with a grunt.
Lutheran ignored him and filled a wooden spoon with a helping of the cloudy brown broth. “Your body needs rest,” he instructed the man as he slid the spoon into his mouth and forced him to drink. “This recipe will help you find it.”
The man wrinkled his nose and waved his weak hands but somehow, Lutheran managed to pour most of the bowl’s contents down his throat just the same. He gasped and turned away the last spoonful. “Enough,” he said weakly. “I concede.”
Lutheran nodded and set the bowl aside. There was a tub of water and a fresh cloth and he wet the cloth before dabbing it across the man’s forehead.
“Where are you from?” Lutheran asked, admiring the cut of the man’s open tunic and the gold thread that marked its sleeves and collar. “You certainly aren’t a woodsman.”
The man smirked, though his breathing was softening, his eyes heavy lidded. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, then told no more for Lutheran to disbelieve. The broth worked well enough and soon the man was sleeping soundly, giving his torn and battered body time to heal.
Lutheran left him in peace, doddering around the quiet cabin as darkness fell and candles were lit, darkness illuminated by the flickering flames. Soon enough he slept himself and, in the morning, rose to find his patient still under the effect of the powerful herb broth.
Lutheran smiled and prepared a meager breakfast of root vegetables and harvest fruits and grains. Once Lutheran had roused him from his quiet slumber, the wounded man ate so heartily that Lutheran had to watch his fingers.
“I’m glad to see you up and rested,” said Lutheran as the man polished off a second loganberry scone smothered with allspice butter. “May I ask your name?”
“I am Kronos,” the man said proudly, waving his arms around at the humble breakfast. “And I appreciate your generosity. I will be out of your hair soon, I can assure you.”
Lutheran looked at the man skeptically. “Let me see your dressings,” he said, gently scraping away the dried mud and roots. While the bleeding had stopped and the healing had begun, the wounds were still open and would take some time. “Let’s not put the cart before the steed just yet, Kronos.”
Kronos waved a hand away and buttoned his tunic. “A little more rest is all I need, and then you’ll be rid of me.”
Lutheran nodded his head. “As you wish, but feel free to stay here until you’re back on your feet. I have some chores to do, then perhaps we can have lunch later?”
Kronos was surveying the tears in his maroon robe and barely acknowledged him with a half-mumbled, “Perhaps.”
Lutheran grabbed his sack off the peg by the door, slung it over his shoulder along with his rifle, and headed out for the day.
14
Kronos finished his meager breakfast and stood on weak legs. He paced the mortal’s meager cabin, frustrated that his powers were still too weak to perform his own healing spell and finish what the pesky mortal had already started.
He cursed Iragos as well. To think he’d been surprised by the light mage’s transformation spell! Kronos seethed with shame even as he plotted his revenge. He slipped into his robe, weak but unable to wait another moment longer to put off his search for the Orb of Ythra.
To think that Iragos might have been on its trail the whole night while Kronos slept in this mortal’s cabin made his blood boil boldly, increasing the mage’s healing properties.
Kronos reached for his staff, leaning casually by the front door in all its twisted, black crystal glory. At the moment, he was as grateful for its support as he was for its magical properties.
He stormed through the cabin door, only to find the mortal bent to his tasks in a nearby herb garden. There was a basket at the man’s feet, quickly filling with leaves and sprigs and twigs and fragrant flowers of all varieties.
Kronos wrinkled his nose at the sight. Mortals and their distasteful hobbies. God only knows what the man had poured down Kronos’ throat the night before!
A snuffle to his right made Kronos whirl, pointing the twisted crystal staff and ready to fight Iragos in the form of some other nature beast at the slightest movement. Instead a small Nayer, hungry and weak, limped forward out of the brush.
Kronos gasped. Could this be the Nayer Kayne had told him about? The one in whose saddlebags his young squire had hidden the mystical Orb? Kronos approached the Nayer eagerly and quickly snatched hold of its rope before it could trot away.
He used his free hand to root through the smelly beast’s saddlebag to no avail; he found nothing but spare bits of cloth and rancid jerky and dried fruit.
By now the mortal had come to see what Kronos was doing. He approached the Nayer with his dirty hands and petted its head smoothly, as if the two were perhaps old friends.
“There, there Falcor,” said the man with great affection. “You’re home now.”
“Are you the owner of this beast?” asked Kronos, eyeing the family reunion with disdain.
The mortal looked up at him, eyes questioning. “Yes, it’s mine. She got spooked in the brush last week and I’ve been looking for her ever since. Falcor’s a great help around the—”
“But what about the girl who had this beast earlier?” Kronos barked, advancing on the puny mortal with his staff extended menacingly. “I thought it was her Nayer.”
The mortal looked confused. “What girl?” he asked, still petting the mangy beast and feeding it fresh roots straight from his herb garden. “I live alone and couldn’t even afford proper crops for harvest time, let alone a field hand. I really—”
Kronos turned, staff at the ready, and aimed it at the mortal. “Tell. Me. Where. The. Girl. Is,” he insisted, emphasizing each word more than the last as he backed the man nearly to his cabin door. “I must find her! Now!”
The man, his back to the door, shook his head wildly. “I know not of whom you speak,” he said, pleading with Kronos. “There IS no girl here. That is my Nayer!”
Kronos raised his staff, eager to apply the Truth Spell to this common mortal; they were so much easier to weave spells on than squires. As he raised his staff, an explosion of light bounded from the brush. Kronos turned, just in time to avoid being struck by a surge of light from Iragos’ staff!
The fiend had been hiding in the bush again!
15
Iragos stood from the brush, his staff in one hand, his free hand engulfed in a white light of pure energy that sizzled around his fingers, his palm and his wrist like a great ball of light. He aimed it at Kronos and let fire, the air whiffing with danger and sizzling with power.
The dark mage only just managed to avoid the Paralysis Spell, spinning at the last minute, the hem of his maroon robe twirling, white hair crackling around his head as the ball of power sizzled just out of reach.
Clutching his staff for support, Kronos summoned his own charge of power, fiery and yellow as it flickered to life around his free hand, and shot it at Iragos.
Iragos managed to dodge the dark mage’s powerful spell, feeling the tree behind him catch fire as the scorching circle of light launched itself into the dry, bare trunk at his back.
A mortal cowered by a humble cabin, clinging to the rope of a frightened Nayer as the battle between the two mages began in all its fiery, crackling glory. Iragos turned his attention to Kronos and bellowed, “Move away from this mortal; this is not his battle nor does he wish to join it and risk the life of his beast.”
“Forget the mortal,” Kronos warned, eyes gleaming an unholy yellow as the fireball glowing in his hand. “It’s your skin you should worry about, Iragos!”
Another ball of pure, yellow power launched itself from the palm of Kronos’ bare hand, but Iragos quickly diffused it with his own
globe of hot, white light. Between the two strong mages, the sky glowed a radiant red where the two powerful orbs flew into each other, sending sparks and flame on high and low.
“I know why you came Below,” Iragos revealed, trying desperately to come between Kronos and the cowering mortal as the battle waged. “The Orb of Ythra is not yours to summon, Kronos. Nor is it yours to steal. Give it back and you will go unharmed.”
“Nor yours to retrieve,” Kronos cautioned as another ball of fire seemed to leap into his palm as if from mid-air. “That is my job, seeing as my naïve squire made the blunder of removing the orb from its holy resting place.”
Iragos watched as another powerful ball of hot, white light flickered just above Kronos’ raised palm, letting it remain there until it had reached maximum power.
“Your squire?” he bellowed. “That’s rich! And how is a simple squire to overpower the most deadly guards in all of Ythulia?”
Kronos narrowed his eyes but held his ball of flame in check. “That’s just what I hope to find out when I question him back in Mage City, Iragos. For now, leave me be so I can find the orb and return it to its rightful place.”
Iragos shook his head, the sound of steed steps thundering behind him. “You know I can’t do that, Kronos.”
Kronos was looking at something over Iragos’ shoulder, but the light mage could ill afford to turn his back on the dark mage for but a moment. Instead he watched as Kronos let loose his ball of flame, aiming it high above Iragos’ head.
At last Iragos turned to see the fireball sailing right for another mortal’s head. Instantly Iragos loosed his ball of light so that, before it could consume the frightened mortal it instead clashed with Kronos’ fireball and rendered both harmless.
But the mortal’s steed bristled and bucked and down went the mortal, landing on his back and shuddering away on his hands and knees as the tree behind him burst into flames.