“Look, Talan. They are ecstatic to see you again! Rejoice, now that we are all together. I shall ask Sophia to pour you some wine. You shall eat and dance and we shall be happy, as in the old days, Talan. How will you decide which maiden to bed? They are all cold, except for one.” Dietrick flicked the sword, so skillfully Olivia didn’t even feel the injury. A trickle of blood dripped from the small wound. The dancers jostled and bounced, the smell of the living throwing them into a fanatical spin.
Wyldelock refused to look at the women. He knew what Dietrick was doing--dislodge concentration with images of past transgressions, burden him with guilt and shock. “I will not bow to your deceptions, demon,” Wyldelock stated, more to the evil that thrived within his old friend, rather than the shell that was all too familiar. “Turn, brother, and cast your vision to me.”
Dietrick did not concede. He did not turn to notice how his old companion was no longer beautiful. He did not gaze upon tattered clothes, shorn hair, and dull sword. Rather he fiddled with the braided amulet around his neck. “Sophia,” he cooed lovingly, while keeping a grin on Olivia. “Rise, sister, and dance with our guest. Be a good girl, though, and do not flirt with him. Another wishes to claim his heart so you mustn’t intervene. Nothing wrong with a short dance and more wine. Loosen his inhibitions. Soften his willpower.”
The solitary white figure stood at Dietrick’s demand.
“A short dance only, remember, for he belongs to me. But you already know this, for I have told you.” The rigid figure staggered to one side, blindly trying to avoid the edges on the table, without success. “Oh, clumsy girl,” Dietrick scoffed. “Such a clumsy girl, Talan. Do you agree?”
“Stop this game, Dietrick. Let the dead rest. You have no right to disturb their sleep.” Wyldelock warily stepped closer. Dietrick’s shoulders shivered with spastic breath. Through the strands of hair he caught a glimpse of Olivia, alive, frightened, vulnerable to the balanced blade at her throat. “You have done enough, brother. The time has come for you to rest as well.” Wyldelock kept a soothing tone, meditating fully on his enemy, disregarding the dead who continued to dance, disregarding Sophia, who was awkwardly pitching her way closer to him.
“Done enough?” Dietrick said. “I think not for I have only begun. What is the feast without choosing the fairest of all ladies to share our bed when jocularity ends? Old habits are difficult to break. I have made my choice.” Lecherous eyes widened on Olivia. “We shall bid you good night, Talan, and leave you to those you are already familiar with.”
Wyldelock lunged with his sword, contradicting the words that stated he would never attack from behind. But Dietrick’s form was nothing more than transparent light. No damage was caused. And he took Olivia with him; they vanished together. The chase continued.
Ice cold hands patted at Wyldelock’s cape. He turned, remembering the deathly images, those that Dietrick had called. They were joining together, swarming nearer to him. He could not afford precious moments to shield off their advances. Grabbing the wrist of the closest, Sophia, he wrenched backwards. The image stumbled in the hold and he was shocked to witness life-like tears on her ashen cheeks.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“I loved you.” The voice was garbled, vastly distorted because of the injury on her white throat. “You left me.”
Wyldelock shivered. There were many ways a man’s past could come back to haunt him. This was the cruelest of all. “I am sorry,” he pleaded. “I was a careless man. Know that I have suffered as well.”
The other images were upon him now. He was surrounded by all the weeping voices of those he had recklessly ravished and then abandoned. Lusts of the flesh, and their grisly dance, their agonizing cries, all meant to burn into his soul, torture him with regret.
He might have been consumed with their call for redemption if not for the Shadow that rose within his breast. It hardened his resolve when needed the most and despite his sympathies for their soulless plight, he cast the hollow figures away with a wave of a light. Each crumbled into a small mound of sand at his feet; the last to falter was the last he had touched in his old life.
“Talan,” she sighed, the unblinking eyes turning up to gaze one more time at him. “I forgive you.”
Warmth swelled his chest as he tugged the dissolving image close. The white hair flowed, one great lock having been torn from the scalp, reminding Wyldelock of Dietrick’s amulet--entwining hair--that from him, from her and Dagaz. Now she rested--her final gasp one of established serenity. And Dagaz, too, had been freed from his bonds. The amulet’s power was sorely weakened. It contained only his.
“Sophia,” he said, kneeling to scope the sand into his hand, allowing it to fall through his fingers. One tear dampened the ash. His deliverance was nearing completion. Her generosity had aided his battle.
Wyldelock rose and through growing savagery uttered a curse in the language of the Ancients. He closed his eyes, searching the haze for the place where Olivia had been stolen. Lifting his arm the cape swirled over his head, and he, too, dissolved, to tread carefully through the mire in pursuit of salvation. The Shadow strode with him, but together they had formed a perfect balance--hardened resolve when called upon and compassion when needed--the scales were finally balanced.
“Olivia,” he said. “Call the name of your lover. Help me to find your imprisonment.”
“William.”
She heard. And answered. Wyldelock swung in each direction, searching the fog. It cleared, revealing a long passageway, one dotted with hundreds of locked doors. Laughter echoed through the hall, taunting him to search the endlessness. The floor rippled, as a wave on the ocean’s surface. Standing firm he began to move, smashing each door with a fierce ball of light, opening empty rooms, continuing in a search that would be relentless in its quest. Faster and faster he glided over the rising boards, one door, and then the next. Laughter continued, yet it grew louder, leading him teasingly closer to its source. He would smash down every door, if needed, until he found the one that imprisoned Olivia.
Then all fell silent, the noise gone as darkness might fall if the last candle was quickly snuffed.
Dietrick cupped his hand over Olivia’s mouth. She struggled against him but the steely hold was too violent for her to escape. The heavy body folded over her spine, his breath in her ear. He pushed her against a wall, her cheek flattened to the stone. “You stink of him,” he snarled quietly. “And yet this pleases me.”
She concentrated on William, calling his name over and over in her mind. Dietrick might have her lips sealed but nothing could bar her from calling out in her mind. It had worked in the past when she needed his help and she was certain it would help now.
“Not so, sorceress,” Dietrick chuckled, reading her mind. “You forget the powers I hold. Think of him as much as you want, it will not secure your rescue.”
If true, she chose to ignore it. She continued in her bidding, visualizing all the precious moments they had shared, running through her memory the tenderness of his touch, the sweetness of his kiss, the eroticism of his body next to hers. Faith. She could hear the songbird in the darkest of nights, smell the rose in the coldest of winters, taste his lips on hers even when he was absent.
“What lovely strands of music wash through your mind,” Dietrick taunted. “Lovely, but impotent.” He pawed at her hip. “I wonder if you shall have such divine memories of our union.” He chortled with wicked lust. “Somehow I doubt it.”
“You will never possess me, Dietrick,” she answered.
“I don’t intend to possess you,” he said in return, a tone unsettlingly light and cheery. “I intend to molest you only, leave you in ruin, both body and mind. When he finally discovers what is left he will cast you off as he has done the others. Then we shall return to the feast where you can take your place at my prepared table.”
“The table is empty,” she said, not knowing how she knew, just that she did. “The others are free, just as Dagaz is free. Your domi
nion is shattering. You are failing--except you don’t have the sense to recognize it.”
“I have you.” He leered. “Nothing means more to him than that.”
“And I am not as they were. They were weak and vulnerable. I am not.”
“Such vacant confidence in one who remains a captive.” The hand slipped over her stomach, hoisting her dress. He wrenched against her back, hardened thighs pressing to her, and she stiffened, fearing perhaps he was right. “I may be convinced to feel some pity if you do not fight my intent. Otherwise, poor Olivia, I shall tear you in two with my desires.”
“You know my name then,” she said, cringing to the flutter of foul kisses over her neck. “You know I am of your descent, that I bear Dagaz’s mark. Remember, Dietrick, remember the curse he put on your name before his death? You thought you succeeded but he was a greater sorcerer than you believed. The mark meant to call Talan De Croft from the pit you chased him to. And all you could do was wait for the same day because you had no power to lift him yourself. You had to wait for me. Now I hold more influence that you wish to consider, don’t I, Von Der Weilde?”
She felt him quiver with a surge of anger. It was true, after all, and even though he didn’t utter agreement, she knew that he understood her words were valid.
“I shall tear you apart limb by limb,” he seethed. “I shall reach into your breast and rip out your heart with my bare hand. And as it beats in my palm I shall cut out the infant in your womb. This will be your fading vision, sister! Do you hear me?” He clutched one breast and squeezed, the pinch so hard she reeled in slashing pain.
“Which of your children were the first, Dietrick Von Der Weilde? Was it a daughter that was your firstborn? Did she bear the sorcerer’s mark?”
He let go of her breast to scream disapproval, needing full energy to focus on the anger that rose from the evil within.
“It was!” Olivia said firmly. “Your firstborn, a girl, and you knew if she lived to the age of consent that your enemy would return. But it was too soon, wasn’t it, Dietrick? There were no centuries to hide behind, there hadn’t been enough time for you to claim the demonic power needed to fight and win. You murdered the baby, as you murdered your sister and as you murdered your nephew. Your own baby! Have you no soul left in that mass of putrid flesh you call a chest?” She turned, quickly, pressing her shoulders against the wall.
Dietrick was shaking with rage, his fists curled, his eyes flashing sparks. “He took my sister,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I would not allow him to take my daughter.”
“What am I, Dietrick? A daughter within a daughter within another and another. Not only has he taken me, but together we conceived a child. Your blood courses through my veins. And soon your blood will mix with his, together in a child. Except that this child will bear no mark. Once you are dead the curse will be broken. I will make certain that the sorcerer’s mark shall be no more.”
“No,” he screamed, his lip jerking with tensed nerves, distorted muscle. “I will be the one to find victory. Once your head adorns the end of my sword I shall seek out your mother. Once she has breathed the last there will be none other to carry on. I will be the last survivor. Me! The first to bear Von Der Weilde greatness and then the last. My throne awaits! Only I am worthy to sit upon its glory!”
Olivia had nowhere to run, no place to hide. He wrapped a clump of her hair around his trembling fingers, his razor sharp nails scraping her scalp. Jerking her chin high he lifted his sword, preparing to pierce the vein that carried his bloodline, preparing to spill what was left of his family.
He hesitated, luxuriating in the fear that ruptured from her gasps. His tongue, swollen and forked, flickered from his parched lips, slapping a quick lap on her chin. And he smiled, so certain was he that victory was mere seconds away.
“Dietrick.”
His eyes darted to the source, a gentle voice, one without consternation, threat or impatience. Olivia dared not move for fear the blade would find its destination without intent. Instead she watched Dietrick’s contorted expression, one of fearsome loathing, then slight surprise and finally confusion. Only when he lowered the blade did she dare to seek out what had caused the shocked transformation in one who was sorely intent on slaughter.
“Dietrick. We shall not allow you to hurt our granddaughter.”
A parade of people was shuffling from the edges of the gloom. Men and women, children carrying babies, all of them different sizes and shapes, hair loose, tied, long, short, brown, blond, black, all wearing clothes that denoted the passage of style through ... centuries. All grouped together with the one who led them closer, a small frail woman, whose face shone with immense glory and serenity. Olivia gaped in shocked wonderment. “Gran?”
“Yes, Olivia. I have gathered together a few people I felt you should meet. You and this man, who is unfortunately the reason these lives were lost when they were.”
She bent to lift a bundle, a tiny fist rising from the blanket. “This is Henry, my firstborn.” She peeled back the blanket to show the tiny mark on the infant’s shoulder. “And this, your great grandfather, Jonathan and his father, Horace.” Two men stepped to the front, and lowered shirts to denote similarity, the mark obvious on their shoulders. Gran scanned the growing crowd. “Anna, come forth.” Dressed as a lady of the upper class eighteenth century, the timid woman came nearer, displaying the mark as she had done so through the portrait on a night when William opened his home, coaxing Olivia to join his quest. “And behind Anna are those we never knew about, until now. Each has lived and died bearing the mark. They are those who carried the burden of Dietrick’s evil ways. And we thought that together we could be of assistance to bring this unfortunate episode to a close.”
Every eye turned to Dietrick in a unified glare of condemnation. He dropped the sword. It clanked to the floor as he stumbled backwards. His head turned from side to side, trying to comprehend what was happening, watching as each bared shoulder revealed the sorcerer’s mark, each one a reminder that Dagaz had initiated a powerful curse, one that haunted them but was finally seeing revenge. Their revenge. For with all his boasting Dietrick knew he had no prowess to fight this mob.
Only one figure parted the crowd, not hesitating as it approached Dietrick, who was paralyzed in a crippling shock. The woman held up a kicking newborn.
Gran smiled. “What’s wrong, Dietrick? Don’t you even want to hold your firstborn?”
This was too much for him. He swatted at the flaying infant, knocking it from the woman’s hands. The group stirred with the repulsion of another reprehensible act. Dietrick lifted a palm, signaling the rabble to hold their place, and he glowered with rehabilitated dominion. “None of you hold dominion over me. It was Dagaz De Croft that established this curse upon you, not I. So return to whatever foul crypt you slithered from and mutter consternation for him. And you, Old Mother, you have much to answer for, seeing it was your candle that brought me to renewal.”
“My candle, yes, Dietrick. And your ring, which has brought us all together.”
Dietrick reached inside his breast pocket, a need for authentication, pulling out the ruby ring. Once the band had shone gold, the stone a light crimson. Now it was tarnished and the stone a rotted black.
“I knew you planted it with us. We were meant to pass down the ring as well as the rumor of Wyldelock de Croft’s return to claim one of us with unnatural ferocity. That fear was a seed well sown, but in my garden the thorn pricked my suspicion. You cast your evil over the ring, your creation, not De Croft. Meant to protect Olivia, you used it to find her, capture her. This I knew would be your act. But know this Dietrick. We used it to our advantage as well. The stain of its tarnish, there in your pocket, has been as advantageous as any map. Without it, none of us would be here right now.”
He threw the small piece of jewelry, ruined and stinking, on the floor. “So be it,” he said, a slight crack in his otherwise self-assured tone. With a snap of his fingers the sword lifted to one
hand and Olivia was jolted back into his grip, her neck pinned between his forearm and shoulder. He waved his sword menacingly at the group. “You have your reunion to keep you busy,” he sneered. “There must be much you have in common. And please, be my guest in this estate. But we must bid you adieu and where we go none of you minions shall be able to follow.”
“He’s coming for you, Dietrick. He’s at the door. Listen, Dietrick. Wait for his announced arrival.”
“Death has done no favors for you, Old Mother. Enjoy your extended family. Enjoy them all, except for this, your granddaughter. It is I who will enjoy her most.”
“Too late, Dietrick. You lingered too long. Your boasting has become your ruin.”
The door imploded. Wyldelock, filling its frame, locked his icy stare on Dietrick alone. A ripple of awed whispering washed over the crowd but he did not turn to look at any of them; nothing diverted his attention from Dietrick and the woman in his clutches. “Let her go,” he demanded. “This final battle is ours alone.”
Dietrick shared the audience’s surprise, but his shock was in response for his old friend’s appearance. “Talan,” he muttered, holding Olivia as though she would be an appropriate shield. She felt his shiver of stunned confusion.
Olivia was not immune to the astonishment shared with all the others. His hair was clipped, matted with blood from the wound on his forehead, his fine clothes in tatters, the sword he yielded tarnished with decay. He looked a dismal and tired warrior, one who considered the final struggle to be that of imminent demise. Yet the fierce gleam in his eye was the only reminder that beneath the paltry appearance there was one who would never bow to defeat.
Dietrick cracked a nervous laugh. “This is how you present yourself to me? You choose to die a peasant?”
“I will die, it is true. Our immortality has grown thin, brother, now that we face each other in combat. Once our quest is completed we will both eventually fall into the arms of death, but I shall not perish a peasant. Nor will I suffer from regret. I will continue to grow into an old man, and then die in accordance to the laws of nature.”
The Sorcerers Mark Page 27