The Sorcerers Mark

by The Sorcerer's Mark (NCP) (lit)

  Yet, Olivia was not within the walls. This was a relief. He lowered his hand, to rest briefly, before preparing to conjure the next image, find her.

  Denunciation, however, was not finished with his vulnerability.

  “Talan, don’t go. I could be a good wife to you. Do I not warm you as you please? My dowry is sufficient, my name honorable. My brother adores you. Talan--why--it would make everyone so happy if you were to be part of this family.”

  “And what did you do? You ignored her, cast her away as a boot would thrust into an annoying dog. You did to her as you had always done. How many maidens had you seduced, how many children were left behind? Such disrespect. Cruelty. Despicable. Such a loathsome man. Had you no shame, no valor?”

  “I cannot be burdened with these accusations! I shall not permit them!”

  “Talan! You will return, won’t you? Have I displeased you? Is this why you leave my chamber in such haste? Talan? What if I am with child? Will you not then be my husband, if only on parchment?”

  “I cannot change what was. Be gone. Accurse me no longer.”

  A low droning of pleas, whispers, cries--all starting as a distant buzzing--intensifying into a thunder of women’s voices. “How many, Talan? Legions, perhaps? Listen as they cry--listen to the broken hearts you alone created with your casual philandering--listen to the weeping infants. Pitiful disgusting excuse of a man. How can you even lift your head? You are not worthy to be loved. You are certainly not capable to show love.”

  “Stop! Why am I persecuted like this? I regret my actions! This unholy judgment must stop!” His name was called, the thundering roar of voice after voice after voice. He pressed his palms over each ear but nothing could quell the eternal indictment. “I beg forgiveness. I beg of it. Please, the crying must cease or I shall find only madness.”

  The ceiling cracked. All other noise stopped with a peculiar abruptness. Lifting fatigued eyes, he saw the black cloak, the darkness that once ruled within him, the darkness that had swelled to such abandoned authority that the whispering lips of conscience were drowned. The cloak fell, void and motionless, to the floor. Olivia was absent.

  Fingers sprawled, a new image was called upon to be divulged. The Gates. Olivia had crawled under. The box was in her grip. She ran, steadily, toward the next post, where the Shadow was ordered to be stationed. This is where it had gone wrong. The cloak that waited was not his.

  “No!” He saw the devil beneath the hood. But she could not know of his warning. Her amulet was gone; she was unprotected. And he wore his amulet with arrogance.

  The image shivered, becoming blurred, flowing as water in a spring torrent. She fell to his power, limp in his steely pinch, and he turned his chin to where Wyldelock watched. “She will die, Talan,” he said, his yellow eyes flashing with success. He ran his tongue up her throat, breaking the skin with a mere scratch. “You choose whether it is quick and painless, or lengthy and in agony.” Bloodied lips curled to a wretched laugh, and he dissolved, taking Olivia with him.

  Wyldelock screamed, the frustration from the pit of his stomach rising as a monstrous wave during a fierce storm. Rage blurred his sight and flashed a curtain of bright red throughout his mind and when his screech left snarled lips it bounced from every wall, shaking the very foundation from which he stood.

  “Get up!” he shrieked to the cloak, still motionless on the floor where it had fallen in a useless heap. Wyldelock struck the toe of his boot into the cloth with such hostility it lifted him from the floor. He spun and floated down again, spitting sparks of fire into the stirring material. “Get up! Return to me. I need to feed on your black soul to find success!” He kicked the rising form, stretching muscle in a tantrum that was beginning to enjoy its own sense of release. Then he grabbed at the throat under the ties. “Fail her but not me, Shadow. Infest me with the rage I need to fight. I wish to feel no mercy, no conscience, and certainly no compassion.”

  The face beneath grinned. Wyldelock’s own--a mirrored image--dipping in approval at such a request.

  “Why hesitate?” Wyldelock demanded. “Do as I say.” He widened his arms, waiting for the familiar sensation of energy, one that would harden his muscle, give him immeasurable strength, and prepare him for battle. This was the inner self he relied on for the prowess to fight, to wield a sword with supernatural ability. It had never failed in the past, creating an unconquerable warrior.

  Inexplicably, the Shadow loitered, adding to Wyldelock’s mounting rage. Had he not conquered his dark side? Did it not learn to obey his will? So confident in the belief he had bragged of this accomplishment to Olivia. Had another promise dimmed? Had the centuries stolen potency after all?

  “Which of us is the Master?” it said.

  “There is no time for debate,” Wyldelock answered, unnerved by the sound of his own voice resonating back to him.

  “I shall not be treated recklessly. Acknowledge me. State that my existence flourishes within your soul.”

  “What game is this? You exist because I do. We have known of each other since time began. I need you as much as you need me.”

  The reflection smiled, tipping its head to one side. “If this is of truth, then you come to me.” The shadow opened wide arms and stood a firm stance, the cloak draped from each arm.

  The prospect was unsettling. Wyldelock was far from accustomed to consciously bowing to another’s demand. But he was looking at himself, listening to an order that came from within as well as outside. The Shadow was forcing him to concede to his own existence, meld together what was true and what was tainted. A common ground had to be found, and quickly. Olivia’s fate depended on it.

  “You carry several names,” it spoke. “I have but one. All I request is respect. Not dominion. I failed because I am too similar to the one you wish to conquer.” The face flickered to change. The eyes yellowed, the smile cracked. Dietrick’s dark soul blinked from within and then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

  “You are what made us similar,” Wyldelock admitted. “Our friendship was born because we each recognized the other’s dark soul.”

  “Yes,” the Shadow hissed. “But he gave of himself in totality. He is lost to the demon within for it grew greater than he.” The arms remained outstretched. “He has no hope. You do.”

  “What must I do?” Wyldelock trembled. “What option is it that you are presenting to me?”

  “Embrace me. Tell me I am your own. If you cannot accept yourself you can never accept another.”

  Uneasy, Wyldelock took a step toward the Shadow. The truth behind this philosophy was complex and he was far from certain he understood. What he did understand, however, was that he needed confidence, courage and capability. If the Shadow offered him this, if the visible voice was granting him enlightenment, he had to reach forth and accept. Wyldelock was on the precipice of self-awareness and it was truly dizzying.

  Another step. The distance was closing. He blinked in faintness, his body succumbing as his mind blurred. Another step. His feet felt like lead weights. The Shadow remained solid, waiting for the embrace.

  “You are my own,” Wyldelock whispered, a warm flow penetrating his chest. “Perfect union.” So near now their chins touched. A peculiar ecstasy began to flood Wyldelock’s being.

  The assimilation began slowly. Mouths melded in an eerie kiss. Arms outstretched, the palms united next. A breeze stirred their capes, ballooning out to the stir, stitched as one. His breast shook, quick spasms of the electricity that shivered through the air around them. Acceptance. Peace. No memory haunted him, no condemnation tortured his soul. Wyldelock had found perfect unity with what he was, what he had become. Power surged through his body as their torsos finally met, lunging together in a blinding white flash of self-recognition, self-love.

  Love.

  The path to fulfillment had begun, not through another but through his self.

  Alone, Wyldelock lifted his arms, fists curled, his chest vibrating with self-attainment. Long s
treams of light infiltrated his soul, the healing strength rejuvenating his power. Chin tipped up, he smiled at the warming sensation that rocketed around him, through him, blissful washing. Cleansed at last, the demons had no hold on his future.

  “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft,” he cried out, the final euphoria rendering him temporarily weakened.

  He slumped to the floor, his mind whirling to the depth of what marvel had just occurred. His face was damp from tears of exoneration, yet he had not found complete victory. He still had to face the darkness of Dietrick’s Shadow. Find it and expel it. Yet the enemy now had no secret. Dietrick’s Shadow was a common entity, and he knew it well.

  Tapping the cool surface of the floor beneath his knees, he created a knife. Dipping forward, he began to cut great locks of his hair as the Counselor had suggested he do. Soon the blackened mass covered the floor. With the knife still gripped in his hand he carved three deep wounds on his forehead, resembling the claw, the mark that been a source of inspiration for his awakening, for Dietrick’s revenge. Blood trickled over each brow, filling his vision with shimmering crimson. Then he tore at his clothes, making certain the fine white satin that had been his shirt was shredded and stained with both his blood and his sweat.

  Visibly humbled, abused, desecrated, but inside, where no eye could penetrate, he never felt so tenacious, so alive.

  One final moment of meditation, and Wyldelock rose, dropping the knife and creating the sword, the last weapon he would ever carry. Finally he was prepared for the ultimate battle.

  Victory was within his grasp.

  * * * *

  Dietrick lounged, sprawled over a throne, ankles crossed on the edge on a long table. Branching candelabras flickered at each end, illuminating a surface spread for a feast--roast pig, fowl, hare, loaves of bread, bowls of fruit, decanters of wine. And dotted around the table, sitting rigid and motionless in each high backed chair, were women. All eyes were closed, as in a prayer of thanks, except for his. He studied a goblet, encrusted with emeralds. Leaning to it he drank, wiping his mouth with a satiny sleeve.

  Olivia was bound, her ties invisible yet securing her wrists high above her head. The stone wall behind her was damp, and she focused on the sensation of it to help clear her mind. She would have preferred to return to unconsciousness rather than gaze upon this grisly scene. Muscles in her shoulders burned with the awkwardness of the position. She shifted slightly, trying to find some relief from the tension.

  “You will join our table soon, sister,” he said, still studying the contents of the goblet. “Look, I reserve the opposite chair for your honor.”

  A chair, more elaborate than the others, not as adorned as his, sat empty.

  The macabre dinner party sent a long chill down her spine. The guests had no distinguishable characteristics. Like stiff waxen dolls the women sat, long hair snowy white, pasty complexions muted as though partially melted, simple clothes hung on emaciated shoulders. And all shared exposed throats--each slashed open--old wounds congealed with dormant blood. The splash of red on each paled figure made Olivia wince with revulsion.

  “These are your predecessors,” he said with a wave of one hand. “Fair maidens who once shared one man’s ardor. None fairer than this,” he smiled, glancing to the figure who sat closest to him. “My sister in life, my closest companion in death, I keep her next to me for she holds the one place of prestige--her seduction was performed merely to taunt me. To say little of the fact her wretched child, the fruit of one unholy union, lived--for a time. I ended that misery as well, didn’t I, precious sibling?”

  Olivia’s stomach rose. She turned her face, trying desperately not to look at this abominable horror, but without control her chin snapped back. Dietrick was forcing her to gaze upon the scene he had prepared; he was enjoying her disgust.

  “Behold,” he demanded. “Soon you shall join all these lovely ladies. The table will be complete. Won’t that be magnificent, my dear?” The question was directed to the closest silent figure and he leaned to kiss her ashen cheek, as though she would return gratitude for his mocked affection. “No other chair will be required at this adorned table. When I finish with Talan he will be incapacitated, to say the least. He will neither be able to stroke bare flesh let alone create it anew.”

  The lids slowly opened, sightless eyes focusing straight ahead, a solitary tear gently gliding a trail down the deadened cheek where he touched.

  “You see?” he said. “Such joy cannot be contained. Poor darling girl. I think that she actually felt kindly to Talan, foolish in the belief she could conquer his tastes. She kept her pregnancy a secret from her older brother for a long time. But once I discovered the truth and the horrible mass of deformity was born, there was no other recourse--she had to perish. Fouled by his hand I could not let her carry on in disgrace. What decent man would care for her? No, better that she die as the others died. And who but me could make the act as tender as possible? The others lingered in agony but Sophia, I made certain the blade severed the bone as well as the vein.”

  “Sick twisted bastard,” Olivia spat. It was the worst insult she could think of, and it barely seemed lethal enough for what she had to listen to.

  He laughed, pouring more drink into the goblet. “Bastard? No, our parents were married, weren’t they, Sophia? The bastard was her child,” he added turning his malicious gaze to Olivia. “Same as the bastard you carry. Exception being, yours shall never see the light of a new day dawning.”

  He slammed the decanter down, rattling the dishes. Meant to draw her attention, she saw the box, taken from her as she had fled the Underworld. He watched her, his lips stretching to a full smirk. He rapped the lid, turning one ear to listen for some response. And then he laughed again, thoroughly enjoying his perverse performance.

  “Ah, typical of Talan to keep his affections closed under a thick covering.” A gloved forefinger tapped the top, issuing a hollow sound. “Who should be the one to open this lid? Which amongst us here should receive his lost passion? Not any of you creatures,” he growled to the living corpses surrounding the table, peering at them, each in turn. “And it would be preposterous to even consider Talan himself bear the contents. What would he know of love? Neither can he accept, illustrate, perceive or return such a fiercely delicious state of mind and body.”

  Olivia straightened, the muscles in her arms almost numb to the strain of being held constantly over her head. She stared back at Dietrick, amazed that, through the horror of the scene he was playing out for her benefit, he was truly handsome. Wide shoulders, a flexing floor to a flowing mass of brown hair; slim waist, bound tightly with a thick belt on which he wore his sword; and long legs, trousers which ballooned at the thighs, narrowed to receive leather boots. And his face, when not contorted to some miscreant thought of torture and abuse, was delicate--pointed chin, thin lips, small nose and sharp eyes. Yes, Olivia decided, he was very handsome despite the evil that resided within his breast. And she couldn’t help but tease her mind with a brief thought that together--he and William--they would make a dashing couple, awing all who saw them side by side, be it as warriors or as dalliers. They had recognized beauty, cruelty, and the lust for all things pleasurable through each other’s eyes. Insane, perhaps, but Olivia felt a sudden sense of sympathy for Dietrick. He lost the only person he truly cared about and the madness of separation, denial, and rejection had slowly created the creature before her now.

  “He did love once,” she said, a hushed lull. “He loved you, Dietrick. He loved you very much.”

  The malicious sneer dropped. Dietrick staggered, ever so slightly. The words she uttered had been unexpected, filling him with a rapture that had unbalanced his stance. He blinked with severity. His brow twisted to a distant pain, one buried so far inside it had no way of finding redemption on its own. A crack had appeared, however. Olivia felt the split as surely as she witnessed the stagger.

  Olivia’s words, Dietrick’s stumble, both angered those who reigned within h
is soul. He convulsed in a tremor that seized his chest, the sting of pain obvious from a gaping mouth, glazed eyes. Clutching the edge of the table for support he panted, the fury taking a prominent hold again. “He did not love me!” the rasping voice bellowed. “He feared me, chastised me, treated me as an inferior! I, who fought as skillfully as he. I, who was as adored as he. And he mocked me! Took my confession and threw it away as though I were not worthy. Not worthy!” The sword swished from the leather sheath. Dietrick lifted it above his head. “He mocked my affection by trying to pay me off, console me with three worthless gems.” The tip of the steel danced on Olivia’s throat. “He bleeds rubies from an opened heart. Then soon the jewels will rain down as drops of hail from the sky.”

  “Not so, brother.”

  Wyldelock had a vague impression that there were others in the vast room, that the long table held those who recognized him, but so severe was his focus on Dietrick that only peripheral vision picked up the scratching movement.

  Dietrick’s eyes flashed a thin yellow, his sword still denting Olivia’s skin. Her pupils reflected Wyldelock’s image, knees slightly bent, feet a step apart, the sword held with both hands. She gaped, more horror, as Dietrick’s fiendish tongue, forked and dry, slithered around his lips. All former opinions of handsomeness were quickly dispelled.

  “Turn, and face me,” Wyldelock ordered. “As much as I loathe your existence I refuse to stab any adversary in the back.”

  Cracked laughter erupted, not from his lips, but his eyes. Each gyration that shook the foul hand dented the flesh of her neck more. She held her breath, lifted her chin, trying to keep away from the blade, ending up encouraging it to settle in the soft place near her jugular. He snapped the fingers of his free hand in the direction of the banqueting table. Chairs tumbled over as the figures lurched up, joints inflexible, causing the jig they performed to look like a marionette show. If Olivia had space to scream she would have. She stared, transfixed at the ghastly dancers, all except Sophia, who kept her place, silently, snow white hands folded on the table’s surface.