Erich's Plea: Book One of the Witchcraft Wars

by Tracey Alley

not have come from this scrawny, non-descript excuse for a wizard. Nikolai looked closely at Roulibard’s face, seeing embarrassment, injured pride and something else, something the necromancer could not readily define.

  Before Nikolai had a chance to puzzle it out an enormous fireball exploded and the whole clearing erupted in flames. Nikolai staggered back, the super heated air burning his lungs. Incredibly the huge fireball had dropped cleanly along the opposite wall from where Trunk was standing, incinerating all the remaining spiders in the process. The flames were so intense that the moldy straw, rotten blankets, along with most of their provisions had been reduced to ashes as well as the spiders. The wall Trunk was leaning against was free from the raging fire all the way to the other end of the clearing, giving Trunk, Lara and Roulibard a clear passage to the tunnel leading outside. Darzan, thanks to her position at the mouth of the tunnel, also had a clear passage through the flames. Nikolai had also miraculously escaped the effects of the fireball, however, Wulfstan, Slade and Tares had not been so lucky.

  Tares had been at the very edge of the blaze. The flames had rapidly burned through his chain shirt and ignited the linen tunic he wore underneath. Slade’s ancient quarterstaff was ablaze and there were small tongues of flame licking the front of the young druid’s linen overshirt. Both the minotaur and Slade staggered backwards, dropping to the hard floor and rolling to extinguish the flames.

  Wulfstan was not so lucky. He appeared to be completely engulfed by the flames, his screams of pain filling the sudden gap left by Trunk’s abrupt silence. Although Nikolai could cheerfully have left the royal bodyguard to his uncomfortable fate he was well aware that neither Slade, nor Tares would approve of such a course of action. Regardless of his personal feelings, Nikolai was going to have to do something, the question was, what? Behind him he could hear Roulibard muttering very softly under his breath, something which sounded like ‘what have I done?’ Roulibard’s whispered comment confirmed the necromancer’s half-formed suspicion that the amnesiac mage had caused the huge fireball.

  Nikolai’s mind was racing, although only seconds had passed he knew if they did not act soon the situation, bad as it already was, would become completely out of control.

  “Run, everybody just run for the exit,” Nikolai screamed as loud as possible, hoping that the others would hear him over the roar of the flames. The necromancer could see no answer other than flight. As he began to run Nikolai wondered whether or not Wulfstan would even be capable of following his instructions assuming the soldier had heard him over the roaring noise. Yet the heat from the flames combined with the acrid smoke was making the whole clearing area toxic. If they did not perish in the fire they would surely die from breathing the increasingly poisonous atmosphere.

  Tares fought to retain his concentration against the pain from the flames and the burning in his lungs. He had heard Nikolai’s shouted instruction and observed the necromancer begin running for the exit. As the minotaur spun around he saw at a glance that Wulfstan, engulfed in the fierce heat of the flames, was unable to follow the mage’s life-saving order. Muttering hurried and frenzied prayers to Belenus under his breath Tares was torn, he would surely die if he entered the flames to try and rescue the soldier, and that would serve no purpose. Reluctantly, yet accepting that sacrifice was a natural part of life, the minotaur turned away from the flames and began to run after Nikolai. The big minotaur had barely begun to move when he noticed Trunk walking slowly and purposefully, straight into the flames towards Wulfstan.

  “Nikolai, come!” Trunk’s clear ringing tones stopped not only Tares, but also the necromancer in their tracks, “We save friend now!”

  Trunk continued to walk calmly into the flames as Tares watched in horror. Trunk was half ogre and half troll, and the woodland trolls were unbelievably resilient creatures, extremely strong and capable of incredible feats of self-repair that other beings could only hope to emulate. Yet despite their strengths they were extremely vulnerable to only two things, acid and fire. As Tares watched he could see the flames licking at Trunk’s green skin and, as though he were viewing the scene in slow motion, Tares could see the skin of the giant creature melting off his huge body like candle wax from the flames and heat.

  “Trunk, no, you can’t,” Nikolai screamed incoherently as he stopped running and saw Trunk walking resolutely into the flames. Tares could feel his enormous heart pounding inside his chest. In minutes or less Trunk would be consumed by the fire and the soldier, screaming from the agony of being burned alive, would still die. From behind him Tares heard Nikolai, mutter a truly foul oath before running into the flames after Trunk. The minotaur priest could not even begin to comprehend the magnitude of the necromancer’s act of self-sacrifice. Nikolai was risking his life, and not, Tares knew to save Wulfstan. The young soldier’s arrogance was plain to all and Nikolai’s growing disdain for Wulfstan was equally obvious. The necromancer was risking everything for Trunk, because the giant creature was risking his own life, Nikolai had returned to save the ogre-troll. It was, Tares knew, an action worthy of a Knight of Belenus; although the minotaur knew he would never tell Nikolai that.

  Tares spun around as Roulibard, still standing frozen in the same position he had been in since the attack began, screamed loudly, as though he too were in pain. Before Tares could even begin to pray to Belenus, pure, clear, icy cold water poured down from nowhere. The inexplicable rain extinguished all the flames and soothed the burns on Tares’ back. Although Tares automatically offered a prayer of thanks to Belenus he knew well that the mysterious rain, which had already begun to slow to a drizzle, did not come in answer to any divine prayer of his.

  Despite the fact that the flames had lasted merely minutes Wulfstan, Trunk and Nikolai had all been severely burned. Tares reached out to touch Nikolai, who despite his burns still emanated the strange cold, and began to pray for the necromancer’s healing, putting off the moment when he would have to turn his attention to the horrifically burned Wulfstan.

  The Hidden Palace

  The reception room, like all of the rooms in the Hidden Palace, was exceptionally large, and very luxuriously furnished. Despite huge windows all of the Hidden Palace was generally kept in a state of semi-darkness, as though The Dark One could not bear the light.

  Today it was lit only by small, glowing crystals placed strategically around the room. First time visitors to the Hidden Palace were always surprised by the Palace’s elegance; not that there were many first time visitors, The Dark One valued his privacy above all else and so visitors were not encouraged. Still, those few who did enter the private sanctum of The Dark One could not fail to be astonished at the beauty of the palace he had created. If it were to become known throughout The Kingdoms it would surely be listed among those other wonders of beauty such as the elven city of Specularum or the elaborate mazes of the Kingdom of Kemet. Yet of course, it was not, and never would be well known. The Dark One had no interest in the location or treasures of his Hidden Palace becoming public knowledge.

  Arndern walked across the mosaic floor barely glancing at the beautiful scenes depicted there, he was a frequent visitor to this room although never a comfortable one. Arndern had been born into slavery as part of The Dark One’s household thirty summers ago, the son of one of the many women who served The Dark One’s most intimate needs. Most of the slaves in Ixlan were villagers, primarily fishermen and their families. A few, however, a very special few, were brought to the Hidden Palace to become a part of The Dark One’s household. Thembelani, Arndern’s mother, had been one of them. She had long ago captured the attention of one of The Dark One’s many lieutenants with her striking beauty.

  Arndern alone knew the true reason behind his mother’s captivating looks and would never betray that secret, for if The Dark One knew that one of his concubines was half-elven he would surely have her executed. The Dark One’s hatred of what he termed ‘half-breeds’ was legendary. Time
itself would soon enough betray her heritage, already she was nearing fifty summers yet her face and body still remained as lithe and unlined as a young girl. The Dark One was not a fool; he would soon know the reason for her youthful countenance. It was in hopes of saving his beloved mother that Arndern had eventually chosen the dangerous path he now walked, for Arndern was a spy and not only for The Dark One.

  Reaching the approximate centre of the room Arndern knelt on the floor, head bowed while he waited for The Dark One, either to speak or to appear, even after all these years Arndern was never sure which one it was. As he knelt there Arndern wondered at himself, that he would dare to spy on The Dark One. A man so immured in evil he no longer had a name, just a well deserved reputation for unspeakable acts of cruelty. A man so divorced from humanity that he could enslave his fellow beings, treating people as nothing more than pieces of property, to be used or discarded according to his own needs. At times Arndern was astounded at his own daring, yet, in his heart, he knew the true reason he had accepted the offer from Lord Nexus; he had no other choice.

  “Arndern,” as always The Dark One’s voice was a shock; low pitched with a pleasant, almost musical lilt, it was not what you expected to hear, “I hope you return to me with good news.”

  “News master, I know not whether it be good or bad,” Arndern replied keeping his head bowed.

  “As always Arndern you manage to amuse me,” The Dark One answered with a low and musical chuckle, “I sometimes wonder just how far your cleverness truly extends. I hope it does not exceed that which is good for you,” now his voice held a hint of steel, the tiniest indication of veiled threat. Beyond his power to stop it Arndern felt sweat break out upon his brow and a tremor rippled through his slim body.

  The first years of Arndern's life, unlike the vast majority of the other slave children in Ixlan, had been pleasant and carefree, spent in luxury in the Hidden Palace with his mother. He had not, at that tender age, known the truth of the ugly circumstances of his birth. As his tenth year approached Arndern noticed his mother becoming increasingly distracted, watching him for hours at a time her beautiful eyes filling silently with tears. Though Arndern had questioned Thembelani repeatedly about her ever increasing sadness she had always put him off and reassured him with silly excuses. It had not been through his mother that Arndern had learned the true reason behind her sorrow; one of the harem guards had told Arndern the fate that awaited him when his tenth summer was over. All male children in the Hidden Palace, Arndern was told, were ritually gelded at the close of their tenth summer, their genitals offered in sacrifice to Vadatajs. Those who lived through the ritual were returned to work in the Hidden Palace but many of them died, their broken bodies tossed into the sea as shark food.

  In that short, horror-filled conversation Arndern had understood why his mother was so preoccupied and upset. He had learnt the true nature of his own existence. That he and his mother Thembelani were nothing more than slaves. They were The Dark One’s property in the same manner one would own a cup or a sword. Although at that time he had not yet grown to manhood Arndern had made a vow that day. Not to Vadatajs, the only deity he had ever been permitted to worship, but to Belenus, the forbidden god of sacrifice and mercy whose teachings Arndern had been encouraged to mock and scorn. Arndern vowed in his heart that should he survive the ritual he would spend the remainder of his life searching for a way to destroy The Dark One. He had vowed that he would put an end to The Dark One’s practice of trading people as though they were nothing more than animals or produce.

  Arndern, however, had not reckoned with his mother’s single-minded determination, nor the lengths to which she was prepared to go in order to save her only son from the horror and possible consequences of the ritual. As The Dark One’s favorite concubine Thembelani had risked everything including her very life, in an attempt to bring Arndern to the attention of the formidable ruler. Once that goal had been achieved Arndern's own native intelligence and cunning had secured a future for them both. In Arndern, The Dark One had found many desirable qualities; a quick intellect, a knack for finding information and knowing things he was not supposed to know and a curiously indefinable personality. All of which had combined to make Arndern the perfect spy.

  Despite his hatred for The Dark One, Arndern had performed his duties exceptionally well, so well that he had eventually come to the notice of Lord Nexus, the only person it was said that The Dark One feared. By accepting Nexus’s service Arndern risked his life at every moment of every day, but the risk was well worth it for the promise Nexus offered of finally destroying, forever, The Dark One and his tyrannical regime.

  As these thoughts and memories flashed rapidly through his mind Arndern, still kneeling with his head bowed, could almost feel the steady, speculative gaze of The Dark One upon him. Arndern had a brief, terror-filled moment of wondering if The Dark One had managed to master these new powers of the mind. The gods all knew that the elven witch Shallendara was a frequent visitor to the Hidden Palace, always in The Dark One’s company. Even as the thought crossed his mind Arndern knew it could not be true, if it were he would be dead already.

  “Well, clever you may be,” The Dark One said softly, “but you remain respectful. So what is this news, you know not whether it be good or bad, that you bring?”

  “The creature called Trunk lives, he escaped with the prisoners,” Arndern answered not daring to raise his head.

  Although he did not know why, Arndern knew that this creature posed a great threat to The Dark One. A serious enough threat that his master wanted the creature dead yet was unwilling or unable to act directly against the ogre-troll, operating instead in a roundabout fashion that made little sense. Arndern knew his master well though; there would be a very good reason why The Dark One did not simply kill this Trunk. All he wanted to know was whether that reason could be used for the benefit of Arndern, and his mother.

  “I see.” At The Dark One’s comment, Arndern risked a quick glance up at his master whose back was turned towards him. He was surprised to hear a note of, not fear exactly but certainly disquiet in The Dark One’s otherwise level tones.

  “And what of the other?” The Dark One continued after a brief pause.

  “The necromancer also, your informant was able to leave a list of names…” Arndern began to reach into the pocket of his vest for the parchment left behind but The Dark One cut him off.

  “I have no interest whatsoever in any of the others,” The Dark One said harshly.

  “So, they are together again,” he continued, his voice once again low and dangerous, “and yet, I believe my instructions were clear, surely there can have been no misunderstanding. It would appear that someone has deliberately disobeyed.”

  The Dark One turned and Arndern saw for the first time that the wizard, Malachi, The Dark One’s current chief lieutenant was also in the room.

  “Bring him to me,” The Dark One ordered Malachi before turning once again to Arndern saying, “You have done well as always, you may go.”

  “Yes master,” Arndern replied and began backing out of the reception room in a semi-crouch without raising his head, eager to escape quickly from The Dark One’s palpable rage. There was no need to ask who ‘him’ was. Arndern knew exactly who it was The Dark One had sent Malachi to fetch, Luca, the prison’s governor and the only one who could truly be held responsible for allowing the creature called Trunk to escape.

  As Arndern jogged down the corridors to his own set of rooms he wondered at the human governor’s folly. Luca would certainly die for his treachery, and slowly, in ways that were too horrific to even think about. Arndern cursed himself that he did not know why Luca had taken such an enormous risk. The escape of Trunk, the necromancer, Luca's treachery, any one of these things could easily have driven The Dark One into a towering rage, all of them combined had made his fury terrible to behold and yet Arndern, deep in his secret heart, cheered. In som
e indefinable way Arndern sensed that events were drawing close to a time when The Dark One would be vulnerable, a time when he could finally be destroyed once and for all.

  Run For Your Life

  While Tares began to pray over the charred and blackened, yet still breathing form of Wulfstan, Lara decided to use the time to go through what was left of their meager possessions in order to determine if there was anything that could still be salvaged. As she worked the halfling woman carefully avoided looking in Wulfstan’s direction.

  The burns that the soldier had sustained were beyond anything she had ever seen before, even during her long career as an assassin with the Silent Hand. Wulfstan was easily the most badly burned with Trunk a close second, the large creature’s skin, almost liquefied by the heat of the flames, now oozing and puddling at his enormous bare feet. Fighting down her nausea the halfling woman was determined not to watch and not to think about those horrible injuries and concentrate instead on finding anything useful that may have escaped the flames.

  Unfortunately the fire that had reduced the soldier and the ogre-troll to their present conditions had also wrecked its havoc among their belongings. Clothing, armor, weapons and what small amount of stored food they had carried with them, virtually all of it was completely incinerated. In all her scrounging Lara found only two salvageable items, a small dagger with an elaborately worked hand-guard that was obviously more decorative than functional although she could not readily remember where it had come from. The dagger had been on the edges of where the firestorm had broken out, which explained how it had been spared destruction. The halfling woman had also found a delicate gold locket, missing its chain, cut in a perfect oval shape with the initials ‘P.S.D.’ carved on the face. Lara tried but could not get the locket to open. As neither object could be considered terribly helpful in their present situation she slipped both items into her pocket; old habits die hard.

  Lara had been aware of the near continuous murmur of Tares’ prayers on the edges of her hearing ever since the unnatural rain had fallen, first praying over Nikolai and now Wulfstan. Sitting nearby, and wondering what to do next, Lara’s sharp ears caught another sound, a sound she could not immediately identify. Standing up slowly