Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two

by Brian S. Pratt

  A man of advanced years and wearing a robe naming him a priest of Asran stood just within. Clutching his side with a fearful look was a young girl who couldn’t have had more than seven summers behind her. He bobbed his head as Leathers approached.

  “Milord,” the old man said, “your man here explained what you came here to do; my heart sings to hear that T’Lea is no more.” His expression darkened as his gaze flicked from Leathers to swordsman, then back. “And… and what else you are commanded to do.”

  He wrapped an arm around the girl tightly as tears came to his eyes. “But, milord, my daughter remains untouched by the evil of this place.”

  At that, Leathers arched an eyebrow. “Your daughter?”

  “Yes. Asran has blessed me after many years of devoted service with a child. I beg of you, do not allow his gift to be wasted.”

  Leathers gazed to the child and pity welled within. Yet, his orders had been most explicit. Allow none found within the temple to live. Then he noticed a body lying at the rear of the cell; a woman with dark hair. The dress she wore had seen better days. Her left arm lay bare and the three dots forming the points of a triangle with lines running between them yet not touching were clearly visible where it had been tattooed onto her skin. His eyes narrowed.

  “Her mother by chance?” he asked, gesturing to the body.

  The priest of Asran nodded. “Yes.”

  “How is it that a priest of Asran fathers a child with one of Dmon’Li’s?”

  “After the war, she left the priesthood and in my travels, I found her. She forsook her false god and from that day forward did naught but good. She was a good wife and mother.”

  He could see the conflicting emotions within Leathers. Hoping to sway him into saving his daughter, he said, “Please, milord. I beg you to take her with you. Spare my daughter for she is yet an innocent soul.”

  Caught up in a moment of thought, the last words spoken by the priest snapped him back to the here and now. He gazed at the girl intently. Then reached out to lay his hand upon her head.

  She shied back out of reach.

  “It’s okay,” her father said. Urging her forward, he coaxed her to within reaching distance of Leathers.

  Terror was etched clearly upon her face.

  Leathers laid his hand upon her head and it began to glow with the power of Gyomias.

  She shrieked.

  He grabbed her hair in a grip she could not break. Then sent his senses into her.

  Thrashing and screaming, she tried to break free.

  “What are you doing?” her father demanded.

  He slammed his fist into Leathers’ forearm and dislodged the offending hand from his daughter’s head.

  The glow vanished and Leathers took a step back.

  Next to him, the swordsman stood with sword drawn. He glanced uncertainly at him. “Milord?”

  Leathers didn’t answer. He stared in disbelief at the girl.

  “Milord?” the swordsman asked again. Just then his partner arrived, golden pouch in hand.

  Confusion and uncertainty vanished as resolve took its place. Leathers turned his gaze to Asran’s disciple. “Kill the priest. Bring the girl.”

  Fear passed momentarily across the father’s face, then he nodded.

  The girl shrieked as the cell door opened. Her father pushed her toward the swordsmen and one grabbed her. He then knelt, prayers to his god issued forth and were quickly silenced when the blade fell.

  Leathers felt true remorse at the death of a man who had only done good throughout his life. But he dared not allow him to live; so were his orders.

  Screaming, “Father!” the girl struggled to free herself from the swordsman and reach his side, but the swordsman’s grip was too strong. He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder and then followed behind Leathers as they headed back up the steps.

  Her crying filled the passageways where so much evil and horror had once lived. The few remaining Gyomar accompanied them until they departed the temple.

  Shadows filled the valley; the sun was very near the horizon. Leathers gauged they had less than an hour before sunset.

  Only eight of the multitude of Gyomar remained; the rest had given their essence in destroying the Heart of Darkness. To them, Leathers said, “Take us to the rim. We have one final task before the setting of the sun.”

  Gyomar took hold of the mortals and launched into the air.

  From where she was securely held in the arms of a swordsman, the girl screamed again. Though he offered her words of comfort, her screams did not subside in the slightest until they were safely deposited upon the western lip of the valley.

  The flight had taken time, time Leathers could ill afford to waste. The sun had reached the horizon and there wasn’t much left before he would lose its cleansing rays.

  Pointing to the girl, he said to the swordsmen, “Hold her.”

  “Milord?” one questioned.

  “Take her by the arms and hold her secure.”

  Not understanding, but obeying their master, the two swordsmen took the girl by the arms and held her fast.

  The final rays of the sun bathed the scene and shone full upon her. The clouds above were breathtakingly beautiful; and Leathers felt a profound sadness for what he was about to do. But he understood the need and dared not shirk his responsibility.

  He came around behind the girl so he would in no way cast shadows upon her. Placing a hand upon her head, he called upon the power of Gyomias.

  She screamed and thrashed all the harder.

  “Forgive me, Gyomias for what I am about to do.”

  Tears filled his eyes as he drew his knife. Her father had forced her to accompany them thinking they would keep her safe. But such could never be. Sending a powerful burst of holy power into her, he tried to calm her. It had the reverse effect. Screaming turned to shrill gibberish; thrashing transformed into seizure-like spasms.

  He plunged his knife into the breast of the girl, just below the heart. Then with a mighty upward draw, felt ribs part.

  Her screams diminished and thrashing quieted as blood gushed from the wound.

  Gyomar circled just overheard. They gathered the light of the setting sun unto themselves, growing every brighter with every passing second.

  Leathers gripped the severed ends of her chest and pulled it apart in a sickening, snapping of bones.

  For a brief moment, a dark metallic object was visible where her heart should have been. The last rays of sunlight fell upon it and it cracked. Then the Gyomar added their majestic power and the newborn Heart of Darkness shattered.

  Once the Heart was fully and utterly destroyed, the Gyomar let go the sunlight and came to land. Leathers released the power of Gyomias.

  “Lay her down, gentlemen.”

  Taking great care, they laid her down and arranged her arms and legs as if she was but sleeping. One removed his shirt and laid it over her.

  “Only a union of good and evil can produce a Heart of Darkness,” Leathers explained. “When it came to light that her father was of Asran and mother of Dmon-Li, I suspected.”

  “That poor girl,” one said.

  Leathers nodded. “Now we understand why none could be brought out of there alive. Had she lived, T’Lea would have returned to this world. And with only a handful of the Gyomar remaining, it took the light of the sun upon the Heart to sunder it.”

  He walked to the lip of the valley and gazed down to where the temple lay. “Bring forth her mother and father. We shall bury them as befitting children of Asran. May their souls find one another beyond the Great Veil.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  While his men gathered torches from their supplies to return for her parents, Leathers gazed off toward the west. Somewhere out there was the last vestige of evil on this planet. Half of his mandate had been accomplished. Only when Dmon-Li’s priests were vanquished and the Fire destroyed would evil be gone from this world forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Three
r />   “Should we even be on the road?”

  James turned to Father Vickor. “We need to move fast to put Tapu behind us.”

  “I agree,” the priest said, “but in remaining on the road, we run the risk of encountering those sent to investigate its destruction.”

  “We’ll deal with that should the situation arise.”

  In the four hours since crossing the river and following the road south, they had yet to encounter anyone. Had someone been nearby and sent to investigate, they assuredly would have already met them. Providing they encountered no opposition, he planned to follow the road until reaching Morac some two to three days farther south.

  Something happened back in Tapu, something he couldn’t quite explain. His spell had been corrupted. It was the only way to describe what occurred. All was going well, and then… somehow it changed. The why and how of it eluded him.

  He could understand how in the course of the five years since he first put the seed of destruction in the wagon the spell deteriorated, maybe, though never before had any spell of his done such a thing. On his island there were spells that had been active for just as long, yet they remained whole and unchanged.

  So what happened in Tapu? Could the locals have had it right and the place was cursed? He doubted that. In any event, it was best to put that place as far behind them as fast as possible even at the risk of being discovered. So he had them set a quick pace and the miles passed quickly.

  They reached Inziala mid-afternoon the next day and skirted around its southern edge. James felt tempted to take the southeast road. It led to the Empire’s School of the Arcane. He was curious as to what was going on there.

  His two apprentices, though seemingly totally devoted to their new master, exhibited reticence in divulging specific information concerning the School. Their answers to his inquiries, though fact-filled, didn’t feel as if they held the whole truth.

  But such was not to be. A side-trip would cost too much time and he was antsy to reunite with his lovely Meliana and son, Kenny. He’d thought about them much the last few weeks. For a brief moment every day, he watched them in his mirror thankful they were alive. They still remained at Meliana’s family’s estate in Corillian. A few times her father Kendrick had been with them; they all seemed rather solemn. It would be a happy day when they reunited.

  And so they passed the road leading to the School and instead took the one heading more west than south. If they kept a fast pace, they would make Jihara late tomorrow morning.

  Fellow travelers upon the road seemed not at all concerned that a group of northerners were in their midst. Five years ago they wouldn’t have gone a mile without being accosted by a patrol inquiring as to their business.

  Azhan explained that the Warlords encouraged trade with their northern neighbors. Each needed the added revenue from northern caravans to fund their wars. His words proved true as between Inziala and Jihara, they passed no less than three caravans crewed by predominantly northern teamsters.

  His apprentice had given one bit of warning. Between Jihara and Morac the road would pass through a range of hills. Those hills marked the boundary between the Warlords Kazan, through whose lands they currently passed, and Lord Cytok. They would certainly be heavily patrolled by both sides.

  “Would love to get my hands on Lord Cytok,” Scar mumbled.

  “As would I,” agreed Potbelly.

  “If we learn he orchestrated the attack on my island,” James announced, “we will take him out. Until then, we avoid confrontation. At least until reaching Corillian.”

  Where the road from Inziala to Jihara had been moderately busy, beyond Jihara held nary a traveler.

  “Seems as if few care to venture to Lord Cytok’s lands.”

  Azhan glanced to his master and nodded. “Well-armed caravans brave this route, but no one else. The border is a dangerous place to be these days.”

  James nodded. “Patrols from both sides?”

  “In part…” he began then hesitated and finally clamped his mouth shut and grew still.

  Sensing he had left something unsaid, James asked, “What is it?”

  Azhan cast a brief glance to his fellow apprentice, Hikai before returning it to James. “There have been rumors coming from the lands bordering The Great Waste.”

  “The Great Waste?”

  “Yes. It was once called The Mists of Sorrow, back before the war. Now, nothing lives there and few who enter ever return.”

  Miko rode forward and came abreast of them. “What have you heard?”

  “Nightmarish creatures spawned by Dmon-Li; the god’s curse falling upon anyone who enters; those who manage to make it out unscathed die horribly; weeks, even months later.”

  James glanced to Miko. “Go on.”

  “Two months ago, I shared an ale with Akim. He’s a mage riding with Captain Edi’s patrol. They keep watch on the area from the hills up ahead to the Waste. He was pretty shaken up.”

  Azhan paused a moment, looked to Hikai once again, then continued.

  “He told of their patrol encountering a monster from out of the Waste. It was a nightmarish creature twice the size of a man. Fangs the size of daggers and its body was a motley-mix of matted fur and oozing flesh.”

  “Oozing flesh?” Miko questioned.

  The apprentice nodded.

  “He claimed yellowish-green pus oozed from open sores that marred wherever there was no fur.”

  “And what happened?”

  Azhan looked to his master.

  “It killed half their company. Not all died during the battle, though many did. Akim said that Captain Edi thought it was the green pus that had killed the others. Every man that came into contact with it grew violently ill.”

  “How so?” questioned Miko.

  “Three days after the battle ten men grew fevered and had the flux something awful. The next day vomiting ensued and red patches formed over most of their skin. They were in so much pain, Akim said. Captain Edi tied them to the backs of their horses and they raced for the nearest temple. Akim said the screams of those men will forever haunt him.

  “By dawn the next day, those patches had spawned sores that oozed the yellowish-green pus just like the creature. They were no longer conscious by that time. Not one ever regained consciousness. Captain Edi ordered the bodies burnt.”

  James nodded. “Smart idea.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Miko.

  “Captain Edi no longer patrols so near the border of the Waste.”

  “Don’t blame him.”

  They turned to find Kip riding behind them.

  “Attend Father Keller, Kip,” Miko told him.

  Bobbing his head, the young novice replied, “Yes, Reverend Father.”

  Azhan turned to James. “We should avoid the Waste, Master.”

  “I wish we could, Azhan. But there is something within the Waste that must be recovered.”

  His face blanched and looked on the verge of arguing with his master. But then he lowered his head, “As you wish.”

  “Do not fret, young apprentice,” James said, “You and the others will remain far from its borders. Only,” he gestured to Miko, “he and I need enter.”

  “But you will die,” Azhan insisted. “None who enters, survives.”

  “I understand your concern. And trust me, if there was any other way, we would not step one foot in that accursed place. But this is something that must be done.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  That evening gathered around the fire, they discussed their route the following morning. Should they remain on the road and continue on to Morac? Or instead skirt the hills and head to the town of Cyzt that lay further to the east. Both routes rested along the northern border of The Wastes.

  “I say we head to Cyzt,” Scar said. “With Corillian being our final destination, we would have to go through Cyzt in any event.”

  “But that is only if we waste our time going overland,” argued Potbelly. “We could go to Morac and
then to Azzac where we could commandeer a ship and sail the rest of the way.”

  “You got rocks for brains, Potbelly,” countered Scar. “Lord Cytok’s in Azzac; and we can assume so will most of his forces. That way is suicide.”

  “Bah! We been there before.”

  “Yeah,” chuckled Shorty, “we have. Let me see…seems we barely got out with our skins.”

  “I agree with Shorty,” James announced. “Azzac is too dangerous. If there is anyplace I am likely to be recognized, it would be there.”

  Taking a stick, he drew a line in the dirt running left to right. “This is the road running north to southeast along the boundary of The Waste.” Then he poked two dots, one at the far right, “Morac,” and the other a little left of the first, “Cyzt.” At the far left he poked another dot. “Hyrryth.” From there he drew a line southwest as long as the first and poked a dot at the end, “Zixtyn.”

  Moving the stick to above the indentation denoting Morac, he made some rough-looking upside down “U’s.” These are the hills.” Tracing a line in the dirt above the hills and around to Cyzt he said, “We’ll go this way to Cyzt. There we acquire sufficient supplies. From there, we head into The Waste.”

  Turning to Azhan, he said, “Am I right in thinking they have put some kind of warnings outside the area where people keep dying?”

  His apprentice nodded. “Half a day’s ride in you will find poles with red banners. To go beyond the poles is to die. Or so I have heard.”

  “Then that is where we’ll part company. Miko and I will continue into The Waste while the rest of you pass around it and make your way to Zixtyn. Once there, get more supplies and wait for our arrival. It’s safe to say we may be some days longer in getting there.”

  “If at all,” mumbled Hikai.

  James rounded on him with a fearsome expression. “What did you say?”

  The young mage’s face turned pale and his knees nearly buckled but he managed to reply, “Nothing, Master.”