by Mark Shane
“And what makes you any different from the other fools who sought me out? What can you offer me in exchange?”
“I can free you.”
Aleister felt himself being lifted into the air, weighed by unseen eyes.
“Others have promised as much. The well you entered from is too small.”
Aleister licked his lips. When did they become so dry? “In Dalarhan...I control Dalarhan. I stand at the final barrier to the well.”
“What of the Eye?”
“Dead. No one can touch it.”
“Hmmm, perhaps you are worth a moment.”
Pain worse than before enveloped Aleister, every part of his being burning with unseen fire, mind-searing in white-hot agony. The pain lasted only an eternal instant then Aleister fell to the floor gasping.
“Why must His creation be so fragile?” the deep voice growled. “A useless vessel to possess, but you may serve me yet.”
A black sword appeared before Aleister, tip down, a topaz gem set at the end of each curved quillion like the eyes of a serpent.
“Take it,” the voice commanded.
Aleister raised himself to his knees, reaching for the hilt, but then recoiled as a stray memory of Mary, his only love, streaked across his mind. Her beautiful blue eyes gazed at him invitingly, willing him away with a smile that could warm his heart even in this evil place.
The vision of her was ripped from his mind and he was flung backwards through the air, slamming into the white marble wall of the well chamber. Stunned, he slid to the floor. Something glinted yellow and then the black sword flew out of the maw, embedding itself into the marble a hair’s width from his ear, the topaz eyes glaring at him.
“Sacrifice six magichae, six warriors and six innocents,” the deep voice commanded. “Use the sword to overpower the barrier and release me. Succeed or fail, I will reward you accordingly.”
The magichae lost their hold on the tear and the black maw closed.
Aleister used the wall the climb to his feet. Pulling his eyes away from the spot where the tear had been, he looked at the black sword. For a moment, he thought it hissed at him.
Taunting voices filled his mind, chanting “Almighty Aleister”.
Aleister looked around for those laughing at him. Only shocked faces looked back.
“You could be great if you only had range,” he heard someone say.
Enraged Aleister grasped the hilt of the black sword and pulled it from the marble. “I’ll show you greatness!” His yell echoed down the halls.
“My lord,” Sterling said, eyes flicking to the black blade and back to Aleister, “are you well?”
Aleister barely heard the question. When he grasped the sword a surge of power flooded through him, raw, unrestrained power. He felt like he could level the city. Perhaps he could. Part of him seethed to try. Then he heard the laughter again. His eyes fixed on the twin topaz gems. They glared back at him, taunting him with memories of his inferior powers while teasing him with the power held within the black blade.
“My lord,” Sterling repeated, “is everything all right?”
Aleister looked at his followers, their faces contorted by confusion and fear. He nodded to Sterling and walked out of the chamber.
“Graham!” he bellowed.
The mousy man appeared the moment Aleister exited the well chamber. “Yes, sire,” he replied giving the black sword a curious glance as he handed Aleister back his sword belt.
“We are returning to Dalarhan,” Aleister said, setting the black sword down to put the belt on. “I want you to round up six street urchins. A thousand gold marks if you can find that whelp for me by sunset tomorrow.” It would be fitting to use Alex to break the barrier. No one defied him. No one.
“Very generous, sire. Consider it done.”
“Tomorrow at sunset I want six magichae prisoners and six soldiers waiting in the courtyard.”
“Only six soldiers, sire?” Graham replied, taking the finely crafted sword Aleister pulled from his scabbard. “Even with the magichae shackled and their powers impeded, I would feel better if you took more.”
Aleister picked up the black sword giving it a quick flourish, the blade singing as it spun a full circle. The blade’s design was perfect. Relishing the newfound power emanating from the sword, Aleister slid it into his scabbard. Not a perfect fit but he could quickly remedy that.
“Six is all I need, Graham. Six is the perfect number.”
CHAPTER 45
A New Direction
Mist shrouded the ruins of Desid in the grey of early morning. The dust had long settled and the soldiers long gone. Only the dull roar of the river’s rapids made any sound.
A pile of rubble moved slightly, stirring the crow sitting on it. Then it shook and the crow took flight, his angry call echoing as the pile of stone heaved and burst open. Dalan and Darela stepped out warily, drawing twin swords. Fanning out, they searched for signs of danger as Garen helped Max climb out of the hole. With a nod to Max, they loped around the remains of the gatehouse and disappeared.
The ruins of Desid were more piles of rubble than crumbling ruins now. Gaping holes and black streaks scarred the two walls facing the battlefield. All that remained of the keep was a ten-foot section that refused to fall.
Max looked at the southeast tower.
“He got his shield up in time,” Garen stated.
“I know.” Max’s response was laced with resignation.
“Do you think he’s nearby?” Garen asked.
In his mind, Max saw Michael get blown off the roof, disappearing behind the castle. He shook his head.
“He got his shield up in time,” Garen insisted. “He’s alive. We need to find him.”
“We can’t,” Max said.
His connection to the Eye told him the Sword rested at the bottom of the river. Perhaps Michael survived the fall, perhaps he made it out of the river, perhaps he managed to survive the freezing night. Perhaps. Max could not depend on perhaps. That luxury died when he felt his barrier to the well in Dalarhan fall. Only the original barrier remained.
Max had used a black soul stone to fuel the shield. A relic from the Warlock wars, used by Warlocks to enhance their dark magic. It had drawn Max to a dark part of himself he never wanted to visit again. Some in the Wizard’s Order would have excommunicated him for simply possessing the stone. Regardless, the shield was a stroke of sheer genius grounded in desperation. With Dalarhan falling into chaos, the shield was the final protection Max placed before fleeing. Only a force of dark magic greater than the stone could break the shield. Considering no warlock had ever possessed such power, it was as impervious as Max could hope for.
Buried under the castle rubble, they had discussed all this before. Deep in the darkness of the castle bowels it had all been hypothetical. Max had pondered their options while they waited for the soldiers to give up and move on.
After Michael was blown off the tower, Max had pulled Garen away from the wall, forcing him toward the keep. With Dalan and Darela right behind them, they had ducked into the castle subfloors as stones rained down. With a last glance at the southeast tower, Max had pulled down the keep walls on top of their hiding place.
Put up a fight, get the enemy to commit their catapults, then pull the keep down on themselves making it look like they had been killed in the battle. It had been a good plan. An old quote from a famous general sprang to Max’s mind.
Plans are great till the first arrows fly. Then chaos reigns.
A bitter reality that left Max seething.
The catapults had pummeled the castle for another hour, their payloads sounding like thuds from underground. Afterwards, they had heard scraping for another hour or so. Max was surprised they had not dug around more. With Falon dead or captured perhaps no one traveling with her was worth the commander’s attention, magichae or not. The man must not have known what Falon was wanted for.
Max looked at the jagged tower. Even half-formed, Michael’s sh
ield could have saved him. He shook his head. The Eye rested at the bottom of the river. Could haves would not save his people. “We must go to Mistenthar.”
Garen spun on Max, fists clenched. “You’re just gonna leave? Not even try to find him?”
Losing Michael had always been a possibility, not one Max had been fully prepared to embrace, but a fearful possibility. Creating a contingency plan had been a necessity, but the broken barrier forced him to live by it. He had to trust the Eye would take care of itself. A thousand years of existence, surely the Creator would not let it pass now. Max could pull it out of the raging water, but without anyone to wield it there was no point. Better to let it remain lost until Aleister was defeated.
“We don’t have a choice,” Max replied firmly. “The well is almost exposed. How long before Aleister creates a rift? Falon is lost, perhaps Michael–”
“No!” Garen’s yell echoed off the walls.
“Either way,” Max continued, “we don’t have time to look for him. If he’s alive, then he will find his way to Dalarhan. We must go to Mistenthar.”
“Why? What’s there?”
“An amulet. For Aleister to break through my barrier, he must have found a source of dark magic, something very powerful. The only chance to defeat him is to disrupt his magic.”
“And this amulet will do that.”
“Yes. And we need a certain teleporter who is hiding there. Walking through the front gate of Dalarhan as another band of ragged pilgrims passed with yesterday’s sunset. Our only chance to get close to Aleister is to jump into the castle and catch him by surprise.”
Garen looked at him askance. “Won’t he be protected against such a scheme?”
“I’m sure he will, but good luck stopping a teleporter like Jerrod.”
Dalan and Darela reappeared, squeezing in between two sections of fallen wall. Dalan shook his head. “There is no indication he landed on solid ground. The river surely swept him away.”
“Then he could be alive,” Garen said.
“We don’t have time to look for him, Garen.” Max was truly sorry, but he could not sacrifice the world for one person, no matter how much it hurt.
“Go without me, then. I’m going to find Michael.”
“Garen, I need you. I can’t do this alone. Aleister is far too good with a sword. The amulet will disrupt my magic just as it will his. Provided Dalan and Darela can keep his guards busy, this fight is likely to come down to your sword.
“All the more reason to find Michael. He can wield the Sword and—.”
“The Sword rests at the bottom of the river.” Max pointed at the base of the destroyed tower. “Twelve, maybe fifteen feet below those rapids. Michael held it in his hand when he was blown off the tower and he dropped it when he hit the water. I need you, Garen. Aleister is at the final barrier. And it will take all our skills to stop him. If you want to honor Michael then help me stop Aleister.”
Garen looked at the jagged tower for a long moment. “Fine.” He brushed past Max, heading for a gap in the castle wall. “I’ll honor Michael all right. When we find Aleister, I’ll run the bloody bastard through and shove his head on a pike for everyone to see!”
CHAPTER 46
A Lone Journey
Something deep within Michael registered he was being pulled from his watery grave, his skin prickled at the sting of cold air on his wet skin. His eyes opened slightly, a red form enveloping his vision, then blackness took him again.
Floating in the blackness, void of time, void of form, he drifted past images of people; twin brothers, a wiry man, a youthful swordsman. He was certain he knew them, but he couldn’t place their names. Sound, almost imperceptible, penetrated the blackness. With nothing else to direct him, he sought out the sound. Approaching the source his alertness improved. He still felt frozen but could tell he was lying on solid ground. His limbs refused to work, his eyes unwilling to open, but the sound transformed into voices arguing, distant but distinguishable.
“...bloody fool to be here,” he heard a deeply resonant voice say, sharp and perturbed.
“He’s our charge, like it or not.” The second voice sounded calm and steady, familiar. An image of a wolf slid across the blackness.
“He’s your charge. Yours,” the deep voice shot back. “Don’t call me to save his hide again.”
“When did your heart become as calloused as your scales?”
“Give it time fur ball. Your penance has only just begun. You still live by the delusion you can actually make a difference.”
The ground vibrated. Waves of air pelted Michael’s frozen limbs, jolting him awake enough to open his eyes ever so slightly. A red-winged creature broke above the pine trees and disappeared. The wolf stood looking at the departing form.
Through the fogginess of his mind, Michael caught the sadness in the wolf’s voice. “The only delusion is believing you can’t make a difference.”
Blackness overtook Michael again and he dreamt of wolves chasing dragons, a dragon wrapping its talons around him, and a room full of doors with people calling to him frantically from behind each one. He tried each door and found them all locked. A woman screamed. It was such a familiar scream. It driving him to pound and kick on her door until it broke open. Blinding white light enveloped him.
“Ah, the pup finally stirs,” the calm, steady voice greeted him.
Michael rolled on his side, feeling the warmth of the fire, trying to focus his eyes. His blurry vision sharpened into the image of the wolf sitting across the fire watching him.
“You had me worried there for a while,” the wolf said.
“Ahhh!” Michael yelled. “You...you talk!”
The wolf glared at him. “Yes,” he replied slowly.
“In my head. How is that possible?”
“Because Yesula wants it that way.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“All the answer you need. Can you explain how you wield Fire?”
Michael had no response. He laid his head back down and closed his eyes. He couldn’t even win an argument with an animal. He must be delirious. His head wasn’t swimming and the ground beneath him felt solid. No, delirium was not the culprit. A talking wolf. The world truly had gone mad.
“How long was I...” His voice trailed off. What had he been? Unconscious? Dead? Somewhere in between?
“A full day,” the wolf replied.
Michael looked around at the forest, a wall of pine and fir trees surrounding them, snow blanketing everything except a small patch around their camp. “Where are we?”
“Few miles south of the ruins. Now that I know you will survive I suppose I’ll get you something to eat.” The wolf disappeared into the forest.
Michael managed to sit up, every muscle protesting, and scooted closer to the fire. The warmth brought life. First his fingers began to work, flexing them open and closed, then his arms. Before long he attempted to stand but his head spun and he fell to his knees. Then he spied his knapsack resting near a tree trunk. He crawled to it, desperate, like it possessed the one thing that would save him.
“Luckily you never take it off,” the wolf said, laying a rabbit by the fire. “Kept you afloat. Would’ve lost you otherwise.”
Michael cradled the knapsack. His father had made it and he had never seen another like it. The outer shell was covered with beeswax, impervious to water, and the long flap hung down the length of the pack, sealing the opening nearly watertight. Inside there was a second chamber at the bottom that provided another layer of protection for anything stored in it.
Michael unbuckled the long outer flap and rummaged through the pack, pulling out the journal he had been reading lately. The leather cover and edges were wet, but the oak gall ink held fast, not even a single smear. He clenched his jaw, seething inside as he inspected the pages. He had gotten lazy, putting the book he was reading on the top. All the books tucked in the inner shell were dry. He held the pack close, feeling a little less lost with hi
s father’s words back.
Michael cocked his head and looked at the wolf incredulously. “How did you build a fire? Or pull me from the river?”
“Eat,” the wolf said, “and get more wood” he added as he loped back into the trees.
Michael gritted his teeth. Why would no one answer any questions? He set the wet journal on top of the knapsack to dry and used the tree to steady himself as he stood. Once his head stopped spinning, he set out to find firewood with questions rolling around in his head. When he returned with an armload of sticks a second rabbit had joined the first by the fire. He cleaned the pair, spitted them over the fire, and sat warming his hands.
Strange how he could wield Fire yet not warm himself through magic. Elementals could manipulate the elements. Someone had told him that, someone he knew, but their name escaped him. Perhaps there was a distinction between manipulate and emanate. True the fireballs formed a finger’s width from his hand, but he felt something emanate from him. It wasn’t heat, but it was a surge of power. It all seemed paradoxical and convoluted to him.
He stabbed at the fire with a stick and his thoughts drifted to the wolf. There was no logical explanation for the animal. None. His tummy growled and he pulled the rabbits from the spit, licking juices from his fingers. With his belly full, exhaustion crept into his bones, but every time his eyes closed he shook himself awake.
Do not worry brother; we will keep watch.
Michael looked around seeing only trees. We?
Sleep.
He looked around again.
Trust me.
Michael settled back, asleep the moment he closed his eyes.
Michael twisted in his sleep, images assailing him in the blackness. Explosions wracked the stone parapet he stood on. The young swordsman stood thirty feet to his right, releasing an arrow, and beyond him the wiry man released fireballs from each hand. Twin brothers were farther down the parapet releasing arrows of their own. Oddly, everything was cast in shades of black and white.