Lorace did not turn toward the voice. His sight revealed the man quite clearly, and his senses followed the air that flowed around his ornate black armor and in and out of his lungs. The lanky man in brown tattered robes behind him stood in equal detail—the leader of the Zuxran army and his adviser.
A slight breeze rustled through the leaves of the overhanging trees as Lorace spoke, just loud enough to be heard by all, “Best you tell your men to fire-”
There were gasps and curses all around as his wind snatched the bolts out of every crossbow stock. Many of the Zuxrans convulsively fired their empty bows, but a few of them had the presence of mind to reach for new bolts out of their quivers.
Long before the fastest of them could reload, the tip of Tornin’s massive sword pricked at the throat of their leader, just below his assertive beard.
In the same manner he had made his bolts, Lorace compressed huge amounts of the surrounding air into solid rings encircling the limbs of each individual soldier. He clamped down with his will and held each soldier immobile, even those who remained in hiding. The wind, air rushing in to replace that which Lorace had gathered, tossed the treetops above in a passing gale.
“-After all, we would not want them to disobey orders,” Lorace said. “You may signal the remainder of your men to attack now if you wish, but that order will be disobeyed.”
Their leader raised his hands slowly, his eyes squinting to see beyond the blazing light enshrouding the sword at his throat.
“Hethal, what have you done?” the man groaned, shoulders slumping in surrender.
The brown robed man spread his hands at his sides. “What I had to do, brother. I did what I had to, to save us. I said we must attempt to capture them, not that we would succeed.”
Oen stepped up beside Lorace as he pulled free his chain. “Except for the man in robes, the spirits of these men are blacker than the gear they wear. Remember Adwa-Ki’s warning.”
Lorace acknowledged the priest with a nod, before turning toward the Zuxran leader.
“Let us start over again. My name is Lorace,” he introduced himself. “My companion here is Oen, Guardian of the city of Halversome, and my brave friend standing before you is Sir Tornin. And you are?”
The robed man stepped forward before the taller, bearded man could complete the curse on his lips. “He is General Moyan, commander of Queen Ivrane of Zuxra’s army—while she yet lived. I am his brother, Hethal, priest of Lord Lorn, the Great Leveler.”
Hethal concluded his introduction with a humble bow.
“Much better,” Lorace said with a genuine smile. “Tornin please lower your sword, we are all going to be good friends.”
Tornin stepped back and lowered his sword, willing its flaring brightness back to a steady, illuminating glow.
“I am not your captor,” Lorace said toward the bound and struggling Zuxrans. “I only restrain you so that I may have a sociable conversation with your General. You shall all be released soon and your fates will be your own.”
Lorace held up Sakke Vrang, its links reflecting the illumination of Tornin’s blade like a swath of stars. “This chain will not imprison you or enslave you. The dwarves named it Sakke Vrang, Chain of Vengeance. It is godstone.”
Several of the Zuxrans looked about with eyes wide as they recognized the name of the legendary substance. The substance of the spear that had slain the great dragon whose emblem was tattooed on their shoulders. Tornin stilled them with a level stare.
“It is no spear to slay dragons,” Lorace continued while slowly stepping to Moyan, “nor is it a sword to cut through anything; what it is, is a weapon against all fear, against hate, and against corruption.”
He stretched out his hand with the coiled chain to Moyan. “Are you a brave man, General?”
“Yes, of course,” Moyan snarled, his waxed beard twitching furiously.
Lorace looked the general up and down—measuring the hatred, rage, and fear radiating off the man.
“Good, because this is going to hurt you,” Lorace said, gazing back into Moyan’s blazing eyes. “Touch the chain and I will release you to go back to your war.”
Moyan did not move. He searched Lorace’s open expression with distrust drawing a fresh scowl on his face.
Hethal placed his hand on Moyan’s shoulder only to have it roughly shrugged off. Moyan sneered into Lorace’s face with bravado as he slapped both hands onto the coils of chain.
The General screamed until there was no more air in his lungs. A cloying black fire leapt from his entire rigid body, to flow into the arcing chain like a deluge swirling down a culvert. The Black Hands, hard-trained veterans, cried out and strained against the force holding them. They stared, helpless while their commander took a deep shuddering breath and staggered backward.
The air binding the soldiers did not slacken when genuine darkness impacted Lorace, the battering miasma of hatred and corruption flowing out of Moyan struck like a blow. He could not turn his head from the flashes of killing and death, memories of Moyan’s atrocities in battle, yet they come nowhere close to matching the nightmare memories of his own years under possession of a demon’s spirit. Beyond the corruption and the selfish climb to power were obsessive images of the gray cloaked and hooded Scythe. Lorace let it all flow into the gulf of tranquility within where it became strength and substance expanding through his being.
“Shall I release your men as they are, Moyan?” Lorace asked in a level voice, betraying none of the mounting energy rippling through him.
“No!” Moyan cried, clutching his brother in a close hug. “Please, do this for them as well.”
Hethal’s eyes gleamed wet as he returned his brother’s hug with equal intensity.
Several of the Zuxrans clamored in confusion, eyes wide and rolling. All were at the limits of their comprehension, like hunting dogs watching a treed fox become a bird and fly away.
Lorace took one end of the chain in his free hand and flung the coils up into the grasping wind, unraveling it to descend onto the shoulders of the soldiers standing exposed before snaking into the woods to touch all of those held in hiding. The energy flowing within him made lifting and moving the chain with caresses of the surrounding air, pure simplicity.
Tornin willed his sword to brightness, and held it high to push back the darkness of the black flames erupting all around them. The wails and howls were brief. The chain hungrily sucked in the darkness until only sparking golden light coruscated down its length.
The sparks of energy rushed into Lorace like a crashing avalanche, arching his spine and lifting him convulsively onto his toes. Images, many of them red with blood or black with fear were many and too brief for him to focus on any single glimpse. The growing sense of solidity and expansion at his core transcended into a ponderous sensation of raw power. He shifted his sight, now the simplest of feats, until the spirits around him were vibrantly clear; his was now a dense mass of gold sparks that whirled in clouds and vortexes like a wheeling flock of birds without number.
Oen slid up beside him as he lifted the chain from the Zuxrans. A strong gust of wind marked the release of their restraints, and the links of Sakke Vrang coiled into Lorace’s hands like a gossamer ribbon floating in a light breeze.
“The light of your spirit is simply incredible, Lorace,” Oen said, his wide eyes traveling over the whirl of golden spirit. “How do you feel?”
“Incredible is a good word for it,” Lorace said with a steady smile.
Releasing himself from his brother’s embrace, Hethal stepped forward and Lorace held the chain out to him.
“I have longed to receive your blessing,” Hethal said as he reached out and reverently laid his hands upon the mass of Sakke Vrang.
Several dark blotches formed over his chest and flowed into the eager arcs of light on the chain. Hethal never tensed or gasped, he simply sighed in relief like a man on fire, suddenly doused in cool water. Lorace saw only a blur of images from the priest of Lorn’s moment of con
tact punctuated by dead, skeletal trees, and the endless expanse of a blood-red sea.
“It is wonderful. Brother, we are purified!” Hethal crowed. “Thank you, Lorace!”
General Moyan unbuckled and shed his armor and surcoat, like they were diseased things, leaving him standing in only a lightly padded linen shift, soiled by sweat and rust. His sword he kept, and kneeling, he laid it sheathed at Lorace’s feet.
“You have freed me,” Moyan said, bowing low, “from a prison I was unaware of. I have done wrongs that can never be forgiven, but I am free from the control Scythe had over my mind and heart. What she took by force I give you willingly, allow me to serve you with my life.”
“I do not ask for your oath, just your friendship,” Lorace said, motioning for Moyan to rise. He raised his voice to be heard by all the soldiers around them, many of whom were emerging from the woods. “You are all free to live your lives as your spirits now tell you.”
“You are Black Hands no longer,” Moyan told them with his arms uplifted. “I can no longer command you as a General of Zuxra, I renounce such a title. I would serve Lorace in friendship—he has freed me as he has freed all of you.”
One man among them stepped forward and knelt, “As a free man, I would serve you, and Lord Lorace, in the same capacity.”
“Lord Lorace!” cried many throats as the score of black clad men knelt before him.
Lorace shook his head with a smile as he raised his hands dismissively. “Please, just call me Lorace. I have no lands or holdings to offer you, but I will do my utmost to see that you are well received among the peaceful folk Halversome.”
Hethal clutched at one of Lorace’s sleeves and spoke urgently, “We are not free yet, friend Lorace!” he gestured across the lake to the south. “You must still return with Moyan, or all will be lost.”
All eyes turned toward Hethal.
“What do you mean?” Oen asked. “This war is over—Halversome will stand secure until every Zuxran on the field has been blessed by Lorace’s chain.”
“Look to the south, Lorace,” Hethal implored in a whisper.
Lorace focused on Hethal, He knows of my sight?
He cast his awareness over the host of Zuxrans once more. Voradin had risen in the east, waxing full, yet his awareness revealed the entire encampment clearly, without the aid of its blue light. Seeing nothing there that he had not studied already, he looked further south—along the cliff-top he had walked after he woke on the beach. Continuing far beyond that point he finally saw what Hethal forewarned, a vast horde of black shapes, each different, each monstrous. They walked, hopped, crawled, and slithered northward in a broad column extending a league or more. At their rear was borne a vast iron litter carried by fully a hundred of the more burly monsters. On the litter itself rode the most chaotic being yet, a bloated slug-like demon of truly mountainous proportions.
“Demons,” Lorace murmured as he surveyed the advancing horde. “There is an army of demons moving north toward Halversome.”
“The demon lord, Aizel, has opened the ways from Nefryt,” Hethal said tremulously. “His initial strike was half a moon ago in Zed. His advance soldiers raised the city to provide a staging area and the strength for him to bring his entire host to Vorallon.”
Hethal looked hard at Lorace, with a measuring gaze.
“He is coming personally—the father of demons,” Hethal said, “to attempt your destruction and the end of us all. I see what is to come. I am gifted with prophecy.”
“You knew all this?” Moyan asked Hethal, spinning him about by his shoulder to face him. “Before you convinced the Queen to send her army to these shores, you knew this.”
“That very morning, yes,” Hethal confirmed with a loose nod. “I manipulated you and the Queen to bring this army to the walls of Halversome, not to conquer it, but to be saved from an even worse fate than that posed by the coming demons. This I foresaw and more, but from this point on, our fates will depend on Lorace.”
Hethal turned back to Lorace. “My Lord Lorn has asked me to be careful what I reveal to you. The future I see can be changed by the decisions you must make.”
“You see more than one future, do you not?” Lorace asked, piecing together the implications of Hethal’s words.
Hethal nodded with his lips drawn in tight line.
Radiating with purpose in every gesture and movement of his body, Lorace turned to Oen and Tornin. “You must both return to Halversome,” he commanded. “Tornin, I know you are sworn to protect me, but you must go to Captain Falraan and warn her of the demon horde that comes. Also tell her to prepare to welcome the host of Zuxra into the city. Oen, you must prepare your priests to defend the walls, their wards are all that may slow down the demons. Hethal, please accompany Oen, Guardian of his people, guide him if you may not guide me.”
Tornin and Oen embraced Lorace before they parted company. Tornin did not hesitate to follow Lorace’s command, though the longing to stay at his Lord’s side was clear on his face. He turned toward Halversome’s river gate with a devout certainty to his step.
Hethal clapped his brother on the shoulder and pulled him into a quick embrace before breaking into a lanky jog to catch up with the two.
Lorace turned to Moyan and held out his hand. “My friend, I must accept your oath of service after all. Take up your armor if you wish.”
Moyan accepted his hand in a firm grip and nodded with no reservation. “The trappings of Zuxra I leave behind.”
Lorace nodded. “Please take me to your army, my General.”
Moyan sent his men, more eager to follow him than ever before, into the woods to fetch the punts from where they had been hidden. Moments later the boats rode upon the calm water of the lake.
“There is one other thing of which you must be warned,” Moyan said as he was bending to an oar. “The Lady Scythe is coming for you. She is a powerful sorceress, and she controls the emotions of all Zuxrans. Hethal told her of you and she plans on taking your life for her Master.”
He traversed the oar to the other side of the craft while the slight mist that hovered over the water parted before their prow. “Lorace, I do not know who this Master is, but with Scythe’s magic, she may be arriving any time. She may even be among the host already—so desperately does she want you.”
“So it was her command that you capture me?” Lorace asked.
“Yes, Hethal manipulated her into ordering me across the lake to capture you after I had refused him. He simply referred to you as ‘The Stranger’, and she became obsessed with you. Do not look into her eyes. Hethal always avoided her eyes, and she seemed not to hold sway over him. But all of Zuxra believed him mad, myself included at times, so she may just never have tried.”
“I look forward to making her acquaintance,” Lorace said while a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Moyan looked at him earnestly. “You are not afraid, are you? Not of Scythe, not even of an entire army of demons.”
Lorace smiled wide at him and shook his head. “Are you afraid? A horde of nearly invulnerable black-skinned demons will cover this battlefield by dawn from cliff to forest. Does that frighten you or do you feel determination to stop them, an urge to protect the innocent and pure within those walls? While you think about the changes within you since touching Sakke Vrang, remember that I was the first one to feel its cleansing fire. It remade me as much as it has you and your men.”
Chapter 7
A DOORWAY OPENED
Twenty- Seventh day of the Moon of the Thief
-In Ousenar
Scythe had to rest for a moment, drinking deeply from a flagon of water a guardsman with a vacant smile had fetched for her. She surveyed her work very carefully, unconscious of the chalk smudging her hands and face. A complex circle of arcane glyphs now covered the cleared area of floor in her chamber. The intricacies of it, copied from a massive tome propped open on her desk, had taken her many candle-marks to complete. This would be her second use of the d
istant journey spell. The first casting of the spell had been years ago, it had brought her to the threshold of Blackdrake Castle and marked the beginning of an entirely new chapter of her life. If these newly laid designs were accurate, and she could summon the magic that would empower the spell, it should take her almost instantly to whatever destination she wished.
The working of complex spells required every thread of her concentration. That deep concentration had originally drawn her to sorcery. Her gift had served to bring her every scrap of arcane lore she could hope for. The best kept secrets of every Zuxran sorceror or captured slave with any hint of magic had been hers with just a word.
Every returning raider longed to make gifts to her of any ritual tome they came across. None but priests, who could write in the divine script, and the fledgling mages who bastardized the same script to document their efforts, had any knowledge of writing. Any rare book, handwritten by either source was a wealth of valuable information. They never knew what they were bringing her, only that it would earn them her love, her stock in trade. It was an exciting day indeed when a half mad pirate had laid the soggy remains of the wizard Losqua’s manuscript at her feet, his warped treatise on magical crafting and enchantments.
His documented trials and errors had paved the way for her creation of the scrying mirror about her throat and the black sword. Items of exquisite artistry were required to hold any real power. The amulet she had made Hurn, gave him the power to walk among the pure in Halversome without raising a brow among its citizens or the priests of Aran.
Power was not what she sought from magic use; her gift gave her all the power that mattered. It was the complex acts of focus and concentration demanded by the spells themselves, which drew her to sorcery. They gave her peace, a distraction to mask her own internal screams of fear and self-loathing.
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