The Children of Isador

by Sam J. Charlton

  Arridel nodded; his face grave. “The warlock you describe is Morgarth Evictar”

  Adelyis’s eyes widened. “It cannot be,” she whispered. “He was slain in battle over two millennia ago.”

  “It seems that the Ennadil study history more thoroughly than the Orinians,” Arridel Thorne commented dryly. “Yes, it is true. He did fall at the Battle of Hammer Pass but he did not perish as believed. He survived and somehow managed to leave Isador. Magic prolonged his life for over two thousand years, but he has now returned to the land which spurned him—and he has brought an army with him to do his bidding.”

  “The Morg are his slaves,” Adelyis murmured, “just like the Ennadil and Orinians they have captured, they have been forced to his will.” She looked across at the others who, with the exception of Taz, were watching her with bemused expressions. “The Morg are suffering and their master makes no effort to help them. Their bodies cannot cope with the onset of winter and the drop in temperature. They have tried to create weather spells, but these raise the temperature only temporarily. It is for this reason a sulfurous cloud covers the land.”

  “But what of the warlock?” Taz asked Arridel. “Do you have the means to defeat him?”

  “Now that we have found Adelyis we may have,” Arridel replied, turning to Jennadil. “Do you have the stone?”

  Adelyis looked across at the younger of the two wizards, acknowledging him for the first time. She watched Jennadil dig into the pocket of his cloak and retrieve something. He stretched out his hand towards Adelyis and opened his fingers.

  “This is for you,” Jennadil said. “Please put it on.”

  Adelyis looked down at the pale, milky stone with an opaque surface. It was attached to a fine chain. “A Mist Stone,” she murmured, reaching out her hand.

  “Yes, this is Didliar,” Arridel drew back the collar of his cloak to reveal a flat brown pendant around his neck. “I carry Bruarn, the Earth Stone, and Jennadil carries Arkaheth, the Water Stone.”

  Adelyis stared at the wizards, her face frozen with surprise. “You cannot mean to use the Power of Three?”

  “Again, I am impressed,” Arridel replied, raising a dark eyebrow. “There are few who know of that spell.” He shot a withering glance in Jennadil’s direction. “I see we are lacking in more than just history lessons.”

  Next to him, Jennadil was glowering. Adelyis did not notice his reaction however; her gaze was still riveted on Arridel. “But that spell needs an Ennadil, an Orinian and a Tarzark,” she pointed out.

  “It will still work with the three of us,” Arridel insisted. “The most fundamental part of the spell is the stones and reciting the incantation together without error.”

  “That spell could kill us,” Adelyis looked down at the stone in her hand. After a few moments, she looked up and gazed upon the two Orinian Wizards with new respect. She lifted up the pendant and fastened it around her neck.

  “Excuse me Adelyis.”

  Adelyis looked up and met Jennadil Silverstern’s gaze. The wizard’s brow was furrowed in concern.

  “Forgive me for asking, for I know we must now concentrate on the task at hand, but I was told the Captain of Serranguard’s Army, Will Stellan, had survived and was with you. Where is he?”

  ***

  Another day dawned—heavy, cloying and sunless. It was as if the weather itself knew war was approaching Falcon’s Mount.

  Myra walked amongst the townsfolk in the lower levels of the city and watched them make the final preparations for war. Every man, woman and child had taken part in the preparations. Myra noted that everyone she passed carried at least three visible weapons—swords, knives, clubs, maces, axes and long bows. She felt ill equipped carrying just Lord Brin’s ceremonial sword. Myra would not last long, fumbling around with a sword she did not know how to use.

  Spotting a sword smith’s workshop, Myra joined the queue of townspeople waiting to pick up the last of their weapons.

  “You already have a fine sword lad,” the smith squinted up at her as he sharpened a blade.

  “It was my father’s, and I am not confident with it. Do you have another, smaller, weapon I could carry?” Myra did her best to roughen and deepen her voice.

  “Take this,” the smith passed her a small dagger in a worn leather scabbard. “I use it for peeling fruit but it’s sharp enough. If it is a decent weapon you want, get yourself a long bow. Do you know how to use one?”

  Myra nodded. She and her sister had been given numerous archery lessons; it had amused her parents to see her shoot an apple off a barrel during Harvest Fest. “Where can I find one?”

  “Down in the Market Square, they should have a few left.”

  “Thank you,” Myra strapped the dagger to her right thigh and turned to go.

  “Lad.” A large hand, scarred from years of work over a furnace, clamped over her arm. Myra looked back at the smith’s careworn face.

  “You will need steel and arrows for the battle ahead but remember the best weapon you have lies here.” The smith tapped his chest, over his heart. “Even the sharpest sword is useless in the hands of he who lacks the courage to use it. ‘Tis not the weapon you hold which matters in the heat of battle but your ability to inflict harm on another; your ability to kill. Many do not have it in them, even when their very life is at stake. They are always the first to fall. Remember that.”

  Myra nodded; the implication of his words, true as they were, made her feel queasy. Shaken, Myra left the smith’s and wove her way through the crowds down to the city’s lowest level. There were a number of soldiers about—most wore the blue and black armor of Falcon’s Mount but a few carried Serranguard’s colors. They seemed preoccupied with readying the city for war but Myra was careful to avoid them. Theo would have sent soldiers out to look for her.

  The Market Square was filled with people taking last minute archery practice. Myra took a long bow and a quiver full of arrows, mixing with the crowd until she was sure everyone was ignoring her. She tested her long bow before taking a couple of practice shots. She was a little rusty but her aim was good.

  Deciding it was time for breakfast, Myra strapped the long bow and quiver to her back and wandered out of the Market Square back towards the wall separating the first and second levels. An elderly woman was handing out fresh bread rolls to hungry townsfolk, and Myra was half way through hers when a deep horn sounded from high up.

  The mournful sound reverberated throughout the city. The hair on the back of Myra’s neck prickled. She knew what it signified. Stuffing the last of the bread roll into her mouth, she ran up the narrow steps onto the top of the wall. Soldiers, armored in leather and steel, stood atop of the battlements. Myra had to move along behind them for quite a distance until she found a gap wide enough for her to see through.

  An ocean of bobbing heads and fluttering grey and red capes approached from the east. The sheer size of the Tarzark army made Myra’s breath stop in her throat. She, like the others who looked on, had not believed King Grull capable of amassing such numbers. As the army neared the gates, she could see that it was at least twenty thousand strong. As a child, her nanny had terrified Myra and her sister with stories of these beasts. The Tarzark were terrifying; far taller and more muscular than she had imagined.

  It was an army primed for war; and Myra could smell their blood lust and savage desire to lay siege to the city.

  One of the soldiers upon the wall slotted an arrow into his long bow, noticing as he did so, that a young man was jostling against him trying to get a view of the army below.

  “Get outta here!” he snarled. “You’ll get your chance to see these beasts face-to-face soon enough!”

  Myra hurriedly backed off. Further along the wall, a narrow watch-tower jutted out from the main structure. Myra climbed up and found that from here she had a clear view and shot of the Tarzark. She peeked timidly over the edge of the outer wall and saw, standing a few feet before his front line and baiting the so
ldiers within Falcon’s Mount to take a shot at him, a huge Tarzark who could only be King Grull himself.

  As Myra watched, Grull made a hand signal she did not understand and bellowed a challenge. His voice, low and guttural, echoed over the citadel’s walls. Myra did not understand the Tarzark language but Grull’s words needed no translation. The Tarzark gnashed their teeth, clanged their weapons and stomped their huge feet. The sound made the very earth tremble.

  Myra’s knees went from under her and she clung to the edge of the wall for support, terrified. The smithy had spoken the truth—what good were weapons when she lacked the courage to fight? Her hands were shaking too badly to be able to handle a long bow.

  Myra never saw who fired the first shot. One moment, King Grull was strutting up and down in front of his troops bellowing insults, and the next arrows rained from the sky.

  The Tarzark surged forward and broke upon Falcon’s Mount’s outer wall like a great silver wave.

  ***

  Will Stellan lay on his side upon the flagstone floor high in Serranguard’s Lord’s Tower and watched two ants make their way across his field of vision. His gaze followed the ants as they made their way across the last flagstone and disappeared into a fissure in the wall. He too wished he was small enough to be able to slip away but the chains that bound his wrists and ankles were heavy and bit into his chilled skin. His rib cage hurt from the two wounds he had sustained. He had lost a lot of blood. His body ached, and he felt weak and light-headed from lack of food.

  The hem of a black cloak swung into his field of vision.

  “Recovered your strength yet Captain Stellan?”

  The voice, beguiling and sibilant, made him cringe involuntarily. He felt the chill of the stone wall at his back. He had nowhere to go.

  “I must thank you for the information you provided me,” the voice continued, “even if it was not given willingly.”

  Will brought his knees up and curled into a fetal position. This creature had employed a form of torture not even the most battle-hardened soldier stood a chance against. He had used dark, cruel magic to force his way inside Will’s mind. He had seen Will’s innermost fears; the part of his mind and soul that no other had access to. He had tortured Will from the inside out and left no exterior wound.

  “Do not tell me I have broken you Captain?” the voice mocked him. “I can do a lot more than that.”

  Will rolled his head back slightly to look up at his tormentor. The creature’s face was hidden within the recesses of his deep hood. Only his monstrous hands; gnarled, sallow and tipped in black nails, were visible. He slowly paced the wide chamber, back and forth, as if the action helped him think.

  “So there is a secret tunnel underneath Serranguard,” the creature mused, “and you told your friends to take it and make haste to Falcon’s Mount to warn them of me. Well let me tell you, if your friends have taken your advice they will soon die for you do not know that at this very moment a massive Tarzark army is attacking the last Orinian bastion.”

  Will groaned in distress and twisted against the irons that bound him.

  “Yes that is correct. You did not guess the Tarzark would aid me did you? You thought I would send the Morg to Falcon’s Mount.”

  The cloaked figure crouched down in front of Will. A cold hand took hold of his chin and forced him to look into the creature’s shadowed face.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Will squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

  “Morgarth Evictar is my name—do you know of me?”

  Will shook his head, more violently this time.

  Morgarth Evictar sat back on his heels and looked down at the man he had reduced to a trembling wreck through the unique torture method he had spent the last two thousand years perfecting. The man had resisted for a time but Evictar had broken him eventually.

  “The vanity of the world of Men; that you would forget one who once nearly brought your civilization to its knees.” There was a touch of injured pride in Evictar’s voice. “So foolish, so short-sighted.”

  Morgarth Evictar let go of Will Stellan’s chin and stood up. He walked over to the window and looked down upon the city of black tents that studded the desolation below Serranguard.

  “You revealed more to me than you realized Captain. You told them to leave you here but you secretly hope that they will come for you. You are in love with the Ennadil witch, even though you have not admitted it to yourself. You threw your life away to save her.”

  Will Stellan remained silent; his eyes squeezed shut as if he was trying to shut his mind to Evictar’s words.

  “Men are so fragile,” Evictar continued, his voice softening, as if he was speaking more to himself than to Will, “emotion interferes with your judgment. My mother was one of your race and she had the same weakness. She was an Orinian witch who was captured by the Tarzark for a time. She fell in love with one of her captors. He was a Tarzark sorcerer—my father. Pregnant, she escaped the Tarzark, fearing they would kill her baby once she gave birth. She fled to Falcon’s Mount but there, once I was born, she was shunned for mating with a Tarzark and for giving birth to an abomination. The Freak they called me until I grew tall and strong enough for them to be frightened of me.

  When I was ten my mother, an outcast in her own city and love-sick for my father, left me behind and tried to return to the Tarzark Kingdom. That was her last, foolish mistake. She was captured and killed, by my father’s own hand, I heard. He was right to do so. She had lost her honor and shown terrible weakness. The Tarzark do not mate for life, my mother knew this. But she believed my father capable of loving her.”

  Evictar broke off and gazed out of the window, his eyes unfocused. He was looking far back into the past, at the events that had shaped his life. No one had ever shown him compassion so he was devoid of any himself. He found emotions such as love, loyalty and friendship incomprehensible.

  “It is all for revenge then.” Will’s voice, low with pain, cut through the warlock’s reverie. “You have laid Isador to waste to soothe your injured pride.”

  He could feel Evictar’s eyes burning into him from within the recesses of his hood.

  “Ignoramus!” Evictar hissed. “I care not for the fate of those who bore me. They are two millennia dead! But Isador is mine and I was born to rule it!” The caped figure whirled towards the man in chains before him. Will closed his eyes, expecting the Warlock to finish him off this time with an energy bolt that would stop his heart. Seconds passed and when nothing happened, Will opened his eyes. Morgarth Evictar stood once more before the window. The only sign of the anger he was struggling to contain could be seen in his clenched hands. They were enormous—the hands of a strangler.

  A loud rap at the door interrupted them.

  “Elgurik!” Evictar barked. To Will’s ears the word sounded like an insult but since the door to the chamber opened it was obviously not. A bent and withered form swathed in the folds of a voluminous black cape shuffled inside. Several days had passed since Will had last seen the Great Chak of the Nidu clan, but it seemed as if many weeks had passed.

  Chak was now but a shriveled husk. When Will had first encountered him in the woodland to the west of the Cradle Mountains he had seemed ancient but in good health. Now he was horribly wizened, his skin was mottled, his nose ran uncontrollably and he hunched inside his heavy robe. Will could see he was trying to hide the shivering that wracked him. Adelyis had been right; the drop in temperature was dangerous for the Morg. Despite the heavy cloud still hanging overhead, the air now had a chill to it. The Morg’s spells could not prevent the onset of Isador’s harsh winter.

  Morgarth Evictar was clearly irritated by the interruption but Chak stood his ground. Despite his ill health, he spoke clearly and at length, gesticulating as he spoke. Finally, he fell silent and waited for his master to respond. Will watched them, not understanding what Chak had just said but guessing that the Warlock was not pleased
to hear it. When Morgarth Evictar replied it was brief and with a cool tone that brooked no argument. He spoke the Morg’s language with the sibilant ease of a native speaker.

  Chak bowed his head and replied to his master, clasping his trembling hands before him as he spoke. Evictar nodded and turned his back on the Morg. The Great Chak shuffled from the chamber, throwing Will a look of smoldering resentment on his way out.

  The Warlock stood, unmoving while the door shut and Chak’s footsteps receded down the stairwell. He then turned back to Will and watched him silently for a while.

  “You’re wondering about the Morg’s role in this are you not?”

  “No,” Will wheezed. His wounds were starting to hurt him badly. Then it occurred to him he was probably still alive because this creature desperately wanted to talk to someone. The warlock obviously felt he had two-thousand years’ worth of conversation to catch up on, but Will felt like a field mouse caught between the paws of an overfed tomcat.

  Evictar ignored his lack of enthusiasm.

  “Long ago, as I lay dying in the mud in the middle of Hammer Pass, while the bloodiest battle this land has ever known raged around me, I realized what must be done. I knew that the Tarzark army I had led would not win the battle—not against a united army of Ennadil and Orinians. I was able to muster the last of my power and I released my soul from my body before death took me. I floated above the battle until I could not bear to see any more of it, and I then entered the body of a hawk, that had been nesting in the peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains. I flew south.

  On and on I flew until I left the southern coastline of Isador far behind. Over a vast blue ocean I traveled until I spied another land mass on the horizon. I arrived in a land of desert, rock and searing heat inhabited by a proud, warlike race—the Nagarduruk. I entered the body of one of their clan leaders and began to exert my influence over him. A few years later, after a bloody clan war, he was victorious over his people—and I renamed them the Morg. They became my slaves, every one of them.