“Well,” Elvar laughed, slapping his knees. “She goes to the Underworld to return what was stolen.” His pudgy cheeks turned red with more laughter. “That deceitful Goddess knows of the child she carries. It drives her insane with jealousy. Serves her right.”
Wyldelock did not confirm this. He nodded only.
“Oh, Sorcerer, I have not been so amused for eons. Pray, how does this story end?”
“Counselor, it still unfolds.”
A shadow of annoyance passed over Elvar’s face. “All the elements--lust, murder, jealousy, revenge--why for me to retell this story would grant me high esteem among my peers. I can’t retell this without a suitable ending. They would mock me.”
“You are cleverer than I, Counselor. Let us talk together and find resolution. The Others will honor you then.”
Elvar threw what was left of the shredded carcass to the wolves. They pounced, angrily snarling at each other for the largest piece. Elvar dipped his chin into his chest so long that Wyldelock assumed he slept. The fire burned low.
“The woman returns with his lost love,” Elvar said finally. “They must lie together in order to consummate the emotion. This gives her great strength. She will become his companion in battle.”
“A woman, in battle?” Wyldelock said with care.
“Yes, Sorcerer. Don’t you understand anything about the female mind? She will fight with energy not only for her child but for the one who has attained love for her.”
Wyldelock nodded in amused consideration. “The opponent is dangerous in the dark craft. If the two stand together will this be adequate?”
“Yes, the opponent, lest I forget. Called on the demons, you say?” Elvar said. “I think that he would summon souls of known enemies, for the power of hatred is the greatest power he clings to. This friend, did he have many enemies?”
Wyldelock was forced to think quickly. He had managed to distance himself from the story, and to make error now meant the Counselor would grow suspicious. “He grew powerful in his craft. Those of wisdom take from others of wisdom. Not all are willing to relinquish what they obtained.”
“Good. This flavors the meat. The brother would call on their help. He would amass an army of those who also felt jilted. The field of battle must be stained with blood. Otherwise, those who listen to the story will soon lose interest.”
“Blood must flow as a massive river,” Wyldelock emphasized. Elvar was drooling to the prospects of being the greatest of storytellers. So involved was he in detail that he had even neglected to place another carcass over the fire to cook.
“This battle can’t be one sided, however. The tale would end too quickly. This would not do, not do at all.”
“No, it would not.”
“This friend must armor himself with humility. The brother dresses for victory, his pride so great it becomes weakness. He wears the magic sword with arrogance. The army behind him has risen to his calling, the chest puffs with accumulated confidence. But deep, deep within he unknowingly wants only to win back his friend’s affections. So opposition must be paltry--the friend should shed all that the brother found appealing--his clothes must be dull, his sword rusted, his long hair shorn away.” Elvar squinted, sucking one finger as he pondered. “The challenger rides an eight legged horse to impress his army, so the friend must be on foot. He will be shocked, amused, and will assert victory long before obtained. Yes,” Elvar said delighted. “So certain of success he will approach without consternation. And then....”
Wyldelock hung onto the last word with enthusiastic expectation.
Elvar thrust a spit through another carcass and placed it over the fire. The scene was as when Wyldelock first arrived, the wolves retaining position beside their master, the fire spluttering to a cooking meal, Elvar watching the meat cook.
“Counselor?” Wyldelock said with concern.
Slowly Elvar lifted bead like eyes. A wry smile touched his lip. “You have your work cut out for you, Sorcerer. If you survive I wish to hear the sordid ending. This shall be the price for my counsel.”
Wyldelock bowed deeply, lowering his eyes with respect. “You are as gracious as you are wise.” Wyldelock knew luck followed him. Elvar could easily have slain him for the sin of trickery.
“I like you, Sorcerer. You amuse me. I wish you every success.”
Wyldelock kept his bow low as he backed away from the fire, the growling wolves and Elvar, the fat God known only as Counselor.
* * * *
It was impossible to regain her bearings within the fog. She had started off, through the dense gray cloud in the direction of the Keep, using the stones and clumps of weeds to guide her way. But she had walked on and on, taking far longer than usual, and still no building came into reach. Her hand extended, so thick was the blanket that she couldn’t even see her fingers. In every direction there was nothing except the eerie hue of the fog, and it seemed to take on a life of its own, swirling around her, taunting her with deception. Olivia was lost.
She couldn’t turn back for she didn’t know which direction back happened to be. She refused to stand still. “I must keep going,” she said aloud. “Sooner or later I will find the building, or the beach.” Olivia strained to hear the ocean’s song. Sound was as obscure as sight. Everything was muffled. All senses had deserted her. She carried on with care within the void.
“Sister.”
Olivia froze, her heart thrashing double time in her throat. Panic was on the verge of seizing what sanity she retained. The fog was blinding her, she was lost, and she wasn’t alone. He was out there. Only Dietrick called her sister.
She fought the urge to run. To do so meant she could inadvertently pass the Keep, fall off the edge of the cliff. In the senselessness the fog initiated she doubted she could concentrate quickly enough to transform into the image of a gull. Without sight the rocks might rise too soon and she would be broken by the force. She swallowed panic and searched the fog, urging it to part long enough that she could find one familiar landmark. The fog, however, was listening to another’s command.
“Sister.”
Olivia turned a full circle, streaking the haze with her flowing fingers. No image revealed itself even though the voice was against her ear. Her flesh crawled at the nearness of evil. There was no questioning he was close. But where?
“Leave me alone.” She sounded feeble and pathetic, her words dropping in the opaque mist like stones in water.
Mocking laughter came from every direction. It even seeped up from the earth beneath her. She sidestepped, expecting hands to grab at each ankle. The fog inched tightly around her. The ground vanished.
Vibration rumbled under her invisible feet. Horses’ hooves. Too many to count, the earth trembled with the force. The sound of their galloping grew louder. Harnesses jangled. The great creatures nickered. She expected to see a herd loom up all around her but none came. Logic had failed along with her senses. Her mind whirled with the irrationality of it all. She was surrounded by nothing, except fear.
“One last chance, sister. Follow me and live in victory.”
The plea seeped into her mind, its compassionate tone a lulling intoxicant. She swayed, dizzied by the feeling of urgent compliance. It was like struggling to wake from a dream that didn’t wish to unleash its surreal fantasy. And it was very comfortable. “No, deceit is all you know. Deceit and death,” she said, her denial contradicting the submission that was circulating through her body.
He was casting an enchantment, seducing her to follow him, join against William. The seduction was sticky, her struggle weakening to the blissful oppression. Each arm had become weighty. It was all she could do to keep her lids from closing to the lucid trance being thrown over her. “Never will I obey your demons,” she said, her lips moving in slow motion. She had sunk to the ground without realizing.
“Your fight is futile, sister. Come to me. Come to us.”
Think. Concentrate. Focus. She dug her nails into the soft warm earth. She smelled the herbs from
Gran’s garden, welcoming odors--a treasured memory that wafted up and helped to clear her mind. Rosemary. Mint. Garlic. Evil stained the fog but within it was goodness as well. Her cheek rested on the ground. She breathed deeply, rhythmically, focusing on the delicious scent of herbs, concentrating on the voices that had always instilled safety and love. Her grandmother’s voice. Mother’s. Father’s. They danced together inside her head, keeping her eyes from closing, keeping her from succumbing completely to the spell that filtered down over her weakened being.
She saw the hooves. Thin air, a clear layer between the ground and the fog, revealed the dozens of enormous hooves that pranced so close to where she lay. Black steeds, invisible from the hooves upward--huge creatures--their masters as sinister as the mounts on which they rode. She had no doubt of their existence, even though she was still blinded to their appearance. Dietrick and his army were upon her. They had been at the gravesite and they followed her here, waiting for the chance to pounce, taking advantage of the thick fog in which they traveled. Lost within the bleakness, and now she was captured, truly lost.
Boots thumped to the ground beside the largest of all the steeds. She saw them linger beside the animal. The tip of a glistening sword tapped the grass where he stood, the blade dripped blood. Murder. Hatred. Death. Dietrick’s instrument of carnage. Faithful soldiers were near. Worse were the ones that infested his soul.
“I shall be quick, sister. You will feel little pain. The Brothers thirst and what better wine than that of warm blood. Your blood.”
Other boots thumped to the ground. Dietrick stepped closer to her, the sword a malevolent walking stick. He was toying with her, letting final panic soak into her mind, numb her to the inevitable demise that waited.
She couldn’t move. Her limbs were useless. She couldn’t even blink away the tear that had formed on her lash.
“William,” she cried, her thought penetrating the fog like a short bolt of lightning. “I carry your rubies around my neck. Surely this evil knows they protect me.”
The blackened boots had stopped. Guttural snarls echoed through the twilight. Foul tongues clicked, their thirst unfulfilled. The amulet was working, but for how long?
Olivia took courage. “William,” she said aloud, no more than a faint whisper. If she were to have one last thought before the enemy pounced on her she would make certain it was of him. “I love you. Only you.”
The ground opened beneath her, the chasm so abrupt that the earth, like the ocean’s surface, rippled outward in every direction. Horses screamed. The boots retreated. Protective arms folded around Olivia. She was hurtling upwards, her face buried within the folds of William’s cape. Dietrick’s laugh rose with them but soon faded into the murkiness they left behind.
“He laughs,” she murmured into the chest that enveloped her with renewed security. “Why does he laugh?”
“Because he takes pleasure from the thrill of his hunt. A worthy adversary does much to gratify his lust for blood. Once it made him a vicious warrior.”
“He knew you’d come for me?”
“Yes. He knew. The amulet protected you. He could not cause harm, merely frighten you. He wishes to play games with our will by flaunting his strength. He wants us to believe there is no hope.”
“It’s working,” Olivia said, her mind clearing to logic alone. Entwined within the logic was the thrashing pulse of submission.
“No, Olivia. Do not speak so. I am the greatest of all warriors he could fight and you are my right arm. He will use whatever ploy he can to weaken our will before the battle begins. This is the advantage he seeks.”
“William, he has an army now. I heard the horses; I saw their feet. What chance do we have against an entire army?”
“Olivia, rid your mind of this doubt. Focus on the fear that he created, turn it to light, and see it only as strength. Use it to your advantage.”
“I can’t,” she said, trembling to the past trauma. “I’m so afraid.”
“Listen to the sound of my voice.” He took hold of her hands, placing them on his throat. She felt his voice box buzz. “I have sought counsel and have been given wise advice. The love you have is an impenetrable shield, a shield I must carry. To complete my armor you must return to the Gates, pass through, and reclaim what I have lost. The time has come for you to travel into the Underworld. We must make haste.”
“Not now, William. I have to rest. Look, I’m trembling like a leaf.” She held out her hands to him to prove what was true.
“My jewel,” he said, his tone inharmoniously soothing. He wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, warm and tranquil, and she felt tension melt from her shivering muscles. “My queen,” he cooed, softly.
As his arms tightened around her she felt him penetrate her body, eroticism flooding through her as a wash of ecstasy. No motion, no caress, just the fullness of him, deep within her. They floated together, the fog hanging without threat or persecution. Just the two of them, united together, in total bliss.
“All that I claim is rightfully mine,” he muttered in her ear. “Take this pleasure I give to you, sorceress. Take it and remain devoted to our quest.”
She constricted into him, burying her nose into cascading hair. The eruption was instant and she sighed, welcoming a sensation that was filled with beauty. He reacted to her sigh with his own, short and sharp, holding her with rigid brawn.
“Now focus on what I have given you,” he said softly, not permitting the flood of rapture to divert their goal. “Turn it to light. Turn it to strength. There is no time for further lessons. It begins.”
She hugged him, the joy of his breath tickling her ear fading as quickly as the pleasure he had given. She thought of light and energy and endowment. But she didn’t want to let go of him. Not yet.
“Olivia. My Shadow will guide your way to the Gate. From there, my son, Dagaz will watch your steps. Both are of me--spirit and blood. Both will assist. You will not be alone.”
She kissed his neck, listening, yearning for conclusion without separation. This was going to take more than what she was made of. He depended on her deeply and all she thought of was the prospect of inevitable failure. It was ripping her heart in two.
“Sorceress,” he said fiercely, impatient with her wretched fears. His fingertips dug into each shoulder, while dark cloudy eyes searched hers. “I have reached into you and brought forth all that is needed. Why do you insist on letting this courage sink back down, to be covered with layers of doubt?” He shook her, gently and firmly. “Your armor is complete.” With softness he added, “My scent is in your womb. The Goddess will know we have only recently united. She will grow angry for she cannot conceive. She will regret not taking me to her bed, believing the child you carry should be hers, even though she is barren. Tell her of the mistake, mock her with the foolhardiness of her choice, and exploit your lover’s attributes. Once she is blinded with rage search for the box; it will be near her. Take it and run. Run to where Dagaz waits and then run to where the Shadow waits. He will bring you to me. Together we will open the box. Then we will unite again. Love will fulfill my passion. Then I will be as strong as you.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“Cast off emotion. Rely on faith. It shall be your light.” He cupped her face with warm palms. His eyes sparkled with pride as he peered at her. She smiled in return. “Let it be so,” he whispered and kissed her, a soft feathery kiss that loitered on her lips even after he pulled away.
“Let it be so,” she repeated.
The Shadow neared. Identical to William it was impossible to differentiate between them. His dark side. One without conscience, one who felt no fear and little compassion, an appropriately daunting escort for the journey through a place where treacherous spirits lived.
Olivia acknowledged him with nothing more than a quick glance. “I am ready,” she said.
The Shadow lifted its hood and started off through the mist.
* * * *
“He returns. Look
! He takes another.”
“A woman follows at his heels.”
“Hide. Hide. They must both be mad.”
Scampering echoed along each side of the path they followed. Olivia was sorely tempted to find the source of such alarmed voices but instinct warned her to keep her gaze lowered, to fixate on only the steady pace of the boots she followed. The edges of the cape flipped to the methodical pace. She hurried to keep up. As wary as the voices were she felt that if not escorted the curious beings would be over her.
The road they took was not unlike any other road--flat stones, eroded with greenery--that grew to a sunless light. Although the path was solid the boundary dipped sharply into a black abyss. There was no wind, only the sound of those who failed to understand why two travelers persisted in their course.
Peculiar as the formless voices were it was even more so that she faithfully trusted William’s Shadow. He was the side of William’s personality she had distrusted, questioned, shied away from. He was the one who had convinced William to become heartless in the first place. And now he was aiding her to regain that heart? The irony made her uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than the irregular world they passed through. William had confidence that the authority of his own living darkness would be a suitable ally. Conscious of its weaknesses as well as its competence, who was she to question further? This was the sturdy warrior within him. Without the fierce warrior there could be no tender lover. Without experiencing the depth of darkness there could be no joy in the light. Experience was relative--opposites--one could expose, and heighten, the other. Love and hate; sadness and joy; fear and safety; panic and tranquility. Seemed she had run the whole gauntlet of each. Seemed her world was as mystifying as this one. Yet, in reflection, she knew of no human being who didn’t struggle to gain the chance to enjoy simple pleasures.
The cape stopped moving. So sudden was its standstill she nearly bumped into the long folds. Her escort moved to one side, hood draped over the features beneath. One arm extended, a finger pointed to where she must proceed, alone. She peered down the path, seeing nothing. “Why can’t you take me farther?” she asked.
The Sorcerers Mark Page 24