The Immortal Mystic (Book 5)

by Sam Ferguson

  “Hard fighting?” Marlin asked. He hadn’t needed to ask, however. He could see the red anger swirling through a sea of black doubt and blue sadness in the commander’s aura.

  Mercer spat. “That ain’t the half of it. Lepkin has nearly exhausted himself every day. He has even taken the dragon form, but the orcs keep coming. It is like we are fighting a tidal wave, instead of living creatures. Kill one and three take their place. I don’t understand it.”

  “The tribes have united,” Marlin surmised.

  Mercer shrugged it off and grunted his displeasure. “Lepkin told me where you went, did you find the boy?”

  Marlin smiled. “Tu’luh is dead.”

  Mercer nodded. He didn’t smile. He didn’t shout or cheer either. In fact, there was no change in his expression whatsoever. “Well,” he began, “a dead dragon is a good start, but I doubt it will stop the legions at our gates.” Mercer sighed and then pointed to the door. “Come inside, I have need of your healing arts.”

  Marlin dismounted quickly and walked with the commander. “Do you have a lot of wounded?”

  Mercer shook his head. “It isn’t that,” he said. “I have field surgeons for my soldiers, and the walls are holding off the enemy well enough despite their never-ending assaults.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Dimwater has taken ill. She has been feverish the last night and vomiting everything she eats.”

  Marlin frowned. According to what he knew, it was too early for Dimwater to have morning sickness. Even if it was that, she shouldn’t be suffering from fevers. “I will go to her right away.”

  “See that you do,” Mercer said. “And make sure you get her healed up. Not only do I need her magic on my walls, but Lepkin is losing focus. His worry for her is tempering his effectiveness on the field.”

  Marlin paused and looked at Mercer. He studied the man’s energy for a moment.

  “You think me hard,” Mercer guessed. “I am. That’s why I am a good commander. I know what it takes to win wars. Right now I need a hero. I need a champion my men can look up to. Lepkin is the best I have for that role. Fix his wife, and do it fast.”

  The Prelate made his way through the halls and stopped only when he came to Dimwater’s door. He raised his hand to knock, but then stopped short. He leaned in close to listen. His hand went down for the knob and he turned it slowly so as to not make any sound. He pressed the door open and craned his neck around the door. Dimwater lay upon the bed, breathing quickly with short, shallow breaths. Her aura, and that of her baby, were tangled in an awful web of sickly green and brown. He moved in and closed the door behind him.

  Dimwater turned. “Erik?” she asked between breaths.

  “He slew Tu’luh,” Marlin said. “The dragon is dead. He and Tatev are on their way to find the Immortal Mystic.”

  A small flicker of yellowish joy rippled through her heart, but faded quickly as a wave of scarlet pain rolled in. Marlin stepped to her side and placed a hand on her forehead. His palm slipped on the slick, greasy sweat. He moved his other hand in and felt that the sweat not only ran down her face, but matted her hair to the bed and drenched her neck.

  “Lady Dimwater…” Marlin didn’t finish his thought. He ran his hand down her shoulder and arm, pushing rivulets of water down her skin. “How long have you been like this?”

  Dimwater forced a laugh. “Do you mean sick, or pregnant?”

  Marlin smiled. “Well, you still have your humor about you. That is a good sign.” Marlin moved his hand over her body and sent a stream of green energy into her. It wasn’t the dark, mold-like color of the webs in her body, but a crisp, clean green like that of a healthy pine. Dimwater twisted and moaned. The Prelate could see the pain writhing in her. “The infection is deep,” he said.

  “My mother warned me of this,” she said in a harsh whisper. “She said there was a curse upon us, from my father.”

  Marlin nodded. He knew of what she spoke, but talking about it now was not going to help her. “If there is a curse, I will lift it,” Marlin pledged.

  “How can you?” she asked. “You know who my father was.”

  “Light always scatters the shadows, Dimwater.”

  “Not always,” she said. “Sometimes the shadows win.”

  Marlin had no response. So he poured himself into his work. He amplified the energy and sent it into her. The pain came again, but this time Marlin had prepared for it. He sent an icy blue stream into the pain center with his left hand while his right continued to give the healing energy. The sickly green and brown webs contracted, unwilling to release their victim. Marlin wrestled with the energies. He focused in on them, concentrating his attack, but they would not yield to him.

  After a while, one of the webs grew a tendril and stretched it outward toward Marlin. It stung his hand and began to burrow in. Marlin sent a shock of white down his left arm and let it engulf his hand. Instantly the tendril dissipated and Marlin was safe. However, he knew he would need additional items if he was to have any chance of defeating the disease that captivated Dimwater.

  “I will be back soon,” he said.

  Dimwater groaned low and the connection broke.

  Marlin rushed out from the room and nearly stumbled into the two women carrying trays up the hallway. They chided him, but he didn’t stop to listen. He pressed on without apology and rushed out to find Mercer. When he stepped outside, he spied the commander atop the wall shouting orders to a group of archers and pointing down. Marlin raced up the nearest set of stairs and shouted for Mercer.

  “What?” Mercer groused back when the Prelate finally reached him and grabbed the front of his breastplate. “I am busy.”

  “I need four scouts and horses. I have to locate sage, rosehip, wolfs bane, epar root, star claw, and several other herbs.”

  “So go and find them, I have no men to spare,” Mercer shouted. He pointed to the wall. “Do you not see the battle?”

  At that moment a large boulder impacted the side of the wall and the tremors sent cracks through the first foot of stone and mortar. A moment later ladders carried atop orc shoulders rushed forth from the charred trees. Marlin spied the auras and went to the wall. He raised his hands and sent energy down to the grasses nearest the wall. Up sprang barbed vines and horrible plants with razor sharp spines. They grew outward, away from the wall and caught the orcs dead in their tracks. The orcs had to drop their ladders and begin to hack at the vegetation. However, Marlin was not finished yet. He muttered a few short spells and several vines came to life, lashing out and attacking the orcs. A score of the creatures were cut down in the blink of an eye.

  Marlin then turned and moved to Mercer. “I need the men.”

  Mercer signaled with his arm and the archers let loose their arrows. The cry of dying orcs rang out through the sky. “I appreciate what you did, but I still have none to spare.”

  “I can’t save Dimwater without additional supplies. If you can’t spare men now, how will you fare when your champion has lost his reason to fight?”

  Mercer stopped and brought his face nose-to-nose with Marlin. “Are you threatening me?”

  Marlin didn’t relent. “I am reminding you that you need your champion. I can help her, but only with the right tools.”

  Mercer grunted and backed away. The anger flowed through his aura, but Marlin also saw understanding. “It appears I am not the only one who is hardened,” Mercer commented. “Go, I will have four men meet you at the gates.”

  Marlin nodded and left. By the time he arrived at the gate with his horse, four men were waiting for him. He led them out to the fields, giving each a specific herb to find, and instructions on how to locate and harvest it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gilifan disembarked the ship and walked down the long plank to the dock. A light rain fell from the grey clouds above. A faint rainbow shone in the distance. Foul, salty air rolled in from the sea with the wind. Gilifan looked down and his lips curled at the sight of the wate
r marks along wet rocks and mud. He despised the smell of low tide. Still, he was grateful the ship had managed to get in close enough to dock, for he loathed using row boats. Gilifan gathered his cloak about himself in an effort to keep dry as he strolled farther down the main thoroughfare. On either side of him merchants were shouting and displaying their wares in front of the stone and wood row houses lining the cobblestone road. The people along the road didn’t seem to mind the rain. They bantered back and forth as they quibbled over fishing nets, fruits, pots, and many other items that Gilifan didn’t even bother to inspect.

  The sun sat high in the sky, keeping the area warm despite the drizzle. Guards and patrolmen pushed through the crowds, eyeing everyone around them and making quite a nuisance of themselves as they barreled through and shouted at passersby. Walking in pairs, the guards wore black tunics over rustling chainmail with black, shiny greaves protecting their shins and thighs. Their helmets were simple, open faced steel caps with a sheet of chainmail sloping down the back of their necks and a few inches down their shoulders. Most of them carried spears or halberds.

  “Pinkt’Hu, the pride of House Finorel,” Gilifan mumbled to himself.

  He continued onward to the wrought iron gate that sealed off the manor at the end of the thoroughfare from the rest of the city. He stood for barely more than a moment before the gate was opened from the inside by a large, gray haired man.

  “I will escort you inside,” he said. “Is Lord Finorel expecting you?”

  Gilifan shook his head and followed the large man up the gray slab walkway as it wound around a circular pool with a pair of cherubs spouting water in the center. The necromancer hardly glanced at the bubbling fountain. He just walked past it, keeping his eye on the grand, arched mahogany double doors and the trio of guards standing before them.

  When the gray haired man waved, the three door guards all scrambled to the side, well out of the way. The burly guard barreled into the doors, hardly seeming to slow as he pushed his way inside. Everything unfolded exactly as it had the last time he had arrive. The light from the foyer was almost blinding, even during the daytime. A rush of warm air, scented with lavender and vanilla wafted out to greet Gilifan.

  He stepped onto the tan marble floor and just as before, the same servant rushed in to close the doors behind him.

  “May I offer you some tea, or perhaps a brandy?” the servant asked.

  Gilifan shook his head. “I would prefer—”

  The servant held a finger up. “Mulled wine?”

  Gilifan arched an eyebrow. He was not accustomed to being cut off. However, he let it go and simply nodded.

  The servant bowed slightly before backing out of the large entryway to disappear into a hallway on the left.

  The guard nodded and pointed through the arched hallway before them. “I can lead you to the drawing room, unless you prefer to go in alone.”

  “I can manage,” Gilifan said. He strode beyond the guard, down the marble hall. He passed ivory colored pillars alternating with busts and statuettes, mostly of famed warriors past. He walked beyond the first two doors on his left and then turned to enter the third. He pushed it open and moved quickly inside toward a red, high-backed velvet chair near the hearth.

  Unlike the last time he visited, there was no fire crackling in the hearth. Not that that bothered Gilifan. He removed his over cloak, shook it out from the rain, and then draped it over the chair. No sooner had he done so than the door opened again. In walked the servant with a silver goblet. The smell of cloves mixed with the aroma of warmed wine. The necromancer took the drink and offered a small nod of appreciation to the servant.

  “Anything else?” the servant asked.

  “I don’t suppose Lord Finorel has any roast duck around?” Gilifan asked.

  “I am pleased to say that he does. After your last visit he made a point of acquiring several ducks. We keep them in the east garden. If you are staying long enough, I can have one dressed and prepared,” the servant said.

  “Delightful,” Gilifan said as he took another sip of his drink.

  “As you wait, I can offer a fine selection of cheeses and fruit, or perhaps some fresh rolls.”

  Gilifan shook his head and waved the servant out. “I can wait for the duck.”

  His wine was nearly gone by the time the door opened again and Lord Finorel walked into the room. The man was dressed as regally as ever. Black leather boots polished to a high sheen, laced with golden silk cords and topped with a pair of tassels. Billowing blue pants swept out to the side, exaggerating the man’s girth. A thick black leather belt held the ridiculous pants up around Finorel’s wide waist with a gold buckle prominently displayed over the man’s bulbous belly. A purple, velvet shirt fitted with two vertical rows of gold buttons clung tightly around him, straining to hold itself together. The white sleeves puffed out like the legs of his pants, making his arms look as though they were fancily wrapped stuffed sausages. A high, ruffled white collar emerged from the shirt’s opening to hide the man’s thick, flabby neck and double-chin. Whatever wasn’t covered with the collar was discretely buried under a reddish-brown beard which was always oiled and impeccably neat.

  “I apologize for the delay,” Lord Finorel said in his rough, husky voice. “There was some business which needed tending to.”

  “More trade matters?” Gilifan asked nonchalantly.

  Finorel closed the door and stomped over to the drawing table. “No,” he said with a laugh. “It seems Demaverung has erupted. The tales from the traveling merchants has caused quite a stir among the city. I have been working to maintain productivity and calm.” Lord Finorel winked. “I assume that means Tu’luh has returned and claimed the mountain as his own again?”

  Gilifan set the silver goblet down and locked eyes with Finorel. “Tu’luh is dead. For their failure to secure the mountain, I destroyed it and everyone inside.”

  Lord Finorel bunched his brow together and nervously stroked his beard for a moment. Then he smacked his bulbous belly and laughed. “Ha!” He wagged a sausage-like finger in Gilifan’s face. “Who says necromancers can’t have a sense of humor?”

  “I would not jest about the master’s death.”

  Lord Finorel sucked in a breath and took a step backward. He shook his head and his hands trembled. Beads of sweat formed over his brow and he clumsily reached for a cloth to dab the moisture away. “It’s over?” he asked.

  Gilifan shook his head. “It isn’t over,” he said definitively.

  Finorel turned and looked for a place to sit, but finding none he pointed to the red, high backed chair where Gilifan’s cloak hung. “I need to sit.”

  “Where do your loyalties lie?” Gilifan asked as he watched the fat noble collapse into the chair.

  Finorel exhaled with a high-pitched wheeze and flung his left hand out over the arm of the chair. “Where they always have,” he said.

  “Is the egg safe?”

  “Of course it is!” Finorel shouted. “I have it exactly where we agreed. My men are there, every day. It is safe.” Finorel shook his head then and placed a thick, meaty hand over his eyes. “How did Tu’luh die?”

  “The boy got to him. I wasn’t there. I don’t know all the details. However, I have culled the order. We are left to start anew.”

  “How do you do that without…” Finorel sighed and leaned forward in his chair, gripping the sides of his head with his hands.

  Gilifan folded his arms. “Take me to the egg. I will speed it along.”

  “Bah,” Finorel shouted. “It would still take years for the egg to mature. Even then, it would need to have another dragon to guide it and help it develop in the way it should.” Finorel stood and crossed his arms over the narrowest part of his body and let them rest on his stomach. “I agreed to guard the egg because it was Tu’luh’s. Now that he is gone, there is no reason to protect it. It cannot help us.”

  Gilifan shook his head. “I have a different idea.” Finorel stopped fuming just lon
g enough to listen. Gilifan smiled and pointed to Finorel. “I can not only speed the egg’s development, but I can bind Tu’luh into the new dragon’s body.”

  “Are you saying you can bring Tu’luh back from the dead?”

  “Perhaps. I am working on it. I may not be able to bring him all the way back, but I may be able to accelerate the rate at which the egg hatches, and then accelerate the hatchlings development to maturity. If I am successful, I may be able to bind Tu’luh’s soul to the new dragon.”

  Lord Finorel tugged at his beard and shook his head. “So you would sacrifice the hatchling then? Wouldn’t that anger Tu’luh? My understanding was that he was adamant about protecting the egg.”

  “I will worry about bringing his spirit to the plane of the living. Tu’luh will make the choice himself when that time comes. However, when faced with the choice of waiting decades for a new dragon to mature, I suspect that he would sacrifice even his own son for the cause. A dragon is necessary to make use of Nagar’s Secret.”

  “How will you accelerate the hatching and development?”

  Gilifan sneered. “I need sacrifices,” he said clearly.

  Finorel blanched. “Human?”

  Gilifan nodded.

  Finorel shook his head. “How many? I have maybe seven in the dungeons.”

  Gilifan scoffed. “I will need scores just for the egg. I will likely need hundreds to accelerate the dragon’s maturity.”

  Finorel reached backward with his hands, fishing for the chair. He sat backward and only narrowly caught the edge of the seat. “How can I do such a thing?” he asked.

  “Pinkt’Hu is a large city. You have what, twenty thousand residents? Each day you see ships come and go. A crew member here, a pirate there, a random child playing in the streets or a vagabond from the streets. I don’t care how it is done. I just need it done.”

  “Oh but you are a serpent full of venom and piss aren’t you?” Finorel said.

  “Careful there,” Gilifan warned. “If I need to I can easily depose you and replace you with someone willing to do my bidding.”