The Sorcerers Mark

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

  “We have lived for this moment, Talan, I agree. Yet I am the one who will carry on. Death’s sting has no claim on me.”

  Wyldelock lifted his sword. “We shall see.”

  “Poor sweet Talan. So brave. So chivalrous.” Dietrick pushed Olivia to the floor and lifted his mighty sword to Wyldelock. “And so foolish.”

  She scrambled away from the circling feet as the steel clicked together in the onslaught of challenge. They moved like graceful dancers, bound together only by cold threatening stares and the edges of their weapons, glued one upon the other, high in the air between them. Dietrick sported a broad smirk, so confident was he in his ability to reign victorious. “Give in to me, brother,” he said through the twisted smile. “I have on my side the command of an entire army.” To prove the validity of his vindictive words the sword flashed with lightning speed.

  They were a blur as both dipped and swung, the weapons singing their excited cries of battle. Neither faltered; the blades again united as they paused.

  “This army you speak of is nothing more than one dark soul,” Wyldelock said, barely winded from the beginning throes of the combat. “I know him well, for he is the same who resided in me.”

  Dietrick’s brow rose in amusement. “Still resides, I think.”

  “Yes, still resides, but aids me in my pursuit. Unlike yours which lusts for slaughter. You murdered the innocent, Dietrick. It is a heavy burden to carry these acts within your soul. The burden weighs heavily in your arm. You are not as quick as you once were.”

  “Am I not?” he said, angered by the insult. “Then perhaps I shall call upon my friends and demonstrate how sluggish I have become.”

  Several tall dark figures emerged, fanning out in a semi-circle around Dietrick. Imposing as they were with their long robes touching the floor and their staffs held tightly in their leathery hands, Wyldelock seemed unconcerned. Not once had he removed his eyes from Dietrick, certain the ploy was meant merely to distract him. Even though they marched in place and chanted, voices joining as a low rumbling thunder, Wyldelock did nothing, except smile.

  “I admire this attempt to harass my resolve,” he said with cool poise. “But this army you call upon are shallow shells. Their deaths were not of my doing. I learned of their secrets when once a member of the Brotherhood. Those secrets were nothing more than tricks of light and the bending of perception. They know of this, as do I. Now, you know, Dietrick. Their presence here could not even intimidate the smallest child.” He jerked his chin, blowing a whisper, at which each figure dissolved.

  To add to Dietrick’s growing disgrace, the audience applauded and cheered. He had become unstable, shaking with anger and embarrassment, the sword he held had lowered slightly. And Wyldelock, seizing the moment, lunged forward ripping a straight deep cut across Dietrick’s shoulder.

  “You are alone, brother, and the darkness closes in quickly. Please, do not pursue this ordeal further. I want your death no more than you want mine.”

  Dietrick placed his palm on the wounded shoulder and withdrawing it, glanced in sheer horror at the stain of blood. His arm weakened, his army dissolved, the scent of defeat had filled his lungs. He reached for the amulet that had swung on his neck, but that, too, was quickly disintegrating. Rather than finding regeneration for his once famous competence he buckled to the hundreds of pounding claws--the demons within his breast were demanding freedom--and his eyes widened at the agony of tearing flesh.

  Wyldelock stepped back, finding no pleasure in seeing his old friend succumb to the thrashing evil. For the first time he blinked, an automatic reaction to a wince, one felt in commiseration.

  “Not yet,” Dietrick rasped, folding forward in pain. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a dulling expression of refusal to Wyldelock. “We are not ended yet.”

  And with that three rings of fire encased his head. The torturous entities within him screamed displeasure while Dietrick faded, leaving the sword behind.

  Olivia turned her gaze from the empty spot on the floor where Dietrick had disappeared to her William. Once their eyes met he moved to her, a long sweeping motion, and folded an embrace around her shoulders. “Did he hurt you, my jewel?”

  “No, I’m fine. What’s happened, William? Is it over?”

  “I think not. The box, Olivia. Where is the box?”

  The crowd, too, was gone. All except Gran, who came forward, the box held delicately in her hands. “Take it. Find happiness in this love that is for both of you.”

  William accepted it and bowed reverently to her. “My gratitude, Old Mother.”

  Gran shifted her adorning gaze to Olivia while stepping backwards to join the ancestors that were now at peace. “I love you, Gran,” Olivia whispered, tears whelming up from thanks and fatigue and the knowledge that this time her Gran was leaving for good.

  Alone, they crouched on the floor, the treasured box between them. This was the moment they had languished for, dreamed of with expectation, and now that it was upon them, they sat, lingering, as though fearful of the event. Butterflies spun an erratic dance in Olivia’s stomach; she could barely breathe. “What do we do now?” she asked softly, seeing that William was trembling.

  His thumb brushed her cheek, taking her tears away. “Now we do as your grandmother requested. We find happiness.”

  He then stroked the lid, finding the small catch at the front. “Oh, Olivia,” he whispered in lament. “Why do I tremble so? Am I truly worthy to open this casket?”

  Her courage had to be sufficient for them both. She placed her hand on his, a gesture drenched with consolation. “We will open it together.”

  The hook swung aside and they watched, as the lid gradually cracked open.

  Instantly William’s face was bathed in a glowing radiance. His eyes widened with the sharp intake of air as rapture flooded over his body. The light played with his shredded clothes, renewing every article to grandeur; it amassed over his forehead, healing the wound he had inflicted, kissing away all remnants of the battle’s signature, and as it flowed over his head like a vast encompassing halo, his hair thickened and fell again to its previous splendor. And then the caressing light streamed toward his nose and mouth, entering his body with effort, for it had been released, as was he. Love had returned to find its rightful place within his heart.

  The trance inflicted upon him was one of pure bliss. He trembled still, but at the magnificence of its radiant power. His eyes closed, his chest swelled, and he bowed forward, Olivia taking him fully into her arms.

  She rocked his limp form, keeping him warm with her hug, strumming his shoulders. He moaned softly with each exhaled breath, the shivering subsiding. And she felt the rejuvenation of strength move through his muscles. Finally he had enough resolution to sit up again.

  “William?” It was a ridiculous question, to suggest that the man before her was not William Talbot. In appearance he was indeed William Talbot, but the shine in his eyes, the glow in his cheeks, the sparkling softness of full lips, none of this had she seen before. “William,” she said again.

  He blinked several times, and stretched his fingers, raking them through his hair. Then he patted his chest as though expecting to find something different other than the clothes he wore. “Olivia,” he said, his mouth curling in a smile filled with pure delight. “Olivia. I am reborn.”

  “How do you feel?” she asked, delighted with his animation.

  “Feel? There is no force holding me. I feel almost faint with exhilaration. I feel ... free. Free, Olivia.” He took hold of her, scanning her every curve, her every reaction. “I feel that I am in the presence of the most beautiful woman creation has ever known.”

  “I’ll accept that.” She laughed. His illumination was contagious. She wanted to dance and sing and play, all at the same time.

  His smile began to lower; a veil of sensuality replaced its liveliness. “I feel that I want to make love to you.”

  “I’ll accept that as well,” she said, cupping his jaw in her
hand, sensing his warm skin, knowing that her William was fully capable of expressing the love he had always yearned to convey.

  He took hold of her wrist, turned his chin to press a kiss into the palm. “Oh,” he sighed. “You are exquisite. I had no way of knowing how much until now.”

  He explored her with his gaze, unfamiliar with who she was, luxuriating in the fluttering touch that ran down her neck, her cleavage. The pleasant meticulousness of his exploration was relaxed, skillful and drenched with desire. He leaned forward, dipping the great mane of black hair to one shoulder as his lips reached hers. Insecure as to how the sensation would find him, he held that one pose, lightly tasting. Finding the alteration within himself was acceptable, he flexed closer, the kiss deepening. Invigorated and saturated with the need for more, he clutched her hair, pulling her closer as he pushed a wanton tongue generously around her mouth. The kiss soon lost gentility; he ravished and awoke from his actions only when she playfully slapped at his arms.

  “William!” she scolded. “Is this how a gentleman acts?”

  The jest was beyond him, he was fully inebriated with visions of lovemaking. “The gentleman is lost to the fires of love that burn within his heart,” he whispered. “The poet cannot find words and the thief has been captured.” A half smile crossed his mouth. “But the lover has finally awoken. He has claimed his own.”

  Olivia felt as though her own heart would burst. The purity of the emotion that overwhelmed them was the final cloak, the strongest, the most magical, and they sat a few moments together beneath its warmth, basking in the serenity of triumph.

  His fingers found her hair, entwining the locks, while his thumb caressed her skin. “My jewel,” he said. “I love you now as I will love you forever.”

  They had finally released the miracle that had obstinately remained so out of reach. The relief was immeasurable. All that was left for them now was to consummate its splendor with body and soul and spirit. All that was old and frightening had passed away. They were no longer sorcerer and sorceress, warrior and soldier. Their battle had ceased. As they gazed into each other’s eyes they were merely lovers, and that was the greatest power of all.

  Olivia fell back with William, welcoming her one true love, the one meant for only her. She would return his professions of love, cuddle it, keep it safe, while knowing he would do the same for her. Mystic worlds in which they had traveled and all the creations within them had dissolved into obliqueness. Nothing could come between them--neither time nor space nor the elements of all things natural or supernatural. This world was theirs and they reigned freely, king and queen.

  He crushed upon her with a long voracious kiss drenched not only with searing desire but true affection. She tasted his love in the kiss, felt its sweet caress in his touch and she saw it in his sensuous eyes as he lifted one adoring gaze. Her heart sang, joining the chorus that erupted from his chest.

  Discarded robes had become the bedding on which they lay. Her pillow was his one hand that cupped her hair. And the body that swayed over hers was one invigorated by the fulfillment of every promise uttered. “I love you,” he said, their bodies melted together. “I love you so much.”

  Olivia opened her body to him just as she opened her heart to his emotion. Both gifts had melded together in response to physical union. He filled her with perfection, generously bestowing the pleasure of union while drenching her ear with the words of affection that poured from his breast. And this pleasure was far greater than any of the others they had shared. They both sensed its majesty, clinging tightly to the few moments where nothing existed except them.

  This magic was far superior than any either could imagine. Simple pleasure of lovemaking and yet so complicated, so intense, because their spirits danced freely. When Olivia closed her eyes she saw their spirits, miniature reflections, embracing within the clear waters of the cup she had once chosen. She had chosen love and was eternally grateful the choice had been the wisest.

  “Oh, my own,” he sighed heavily into her hair as his lithe body swayed into hers. She clutched his shoulders, so broad and strong, the embodiment of every wonderful dream.

  With his lovemaking he possessed her, the flow of muscular brawn scraping her flesh, the wash of blissful culmination within her womb. Her mind could create no word to describe the completion so she simply gave in to the tender ripple that encased her being with a soft sigh.

  And so they were.

  “Not yet. We are not ended yet.”

  Olivia sensed the cold earth beneath her before the scent of it wafted up. Night sounds, scampering tiny feet, the rustle of nocturnal creatures in the bush, and the moon, shining bright and clear in the night sky was surrounded by thousands of sparkling stars. The breeze was fresh, carrying the smell of fresh air, heightening the sounds of the reality in which they lay.

  William sensed it, too. He lifted his head from her shoulder, and she felt his arms tighten.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, her voice low and wracked with the concern that had suddenly gripped her insides. They had traveled through and walked within several worlds--where the natural flow of time meant little in its supernatural haze--but this was true. Reality had stolen their precious moments and premonition was growing more intense by every authentic second that ticked with each thump of her heart.

  “Olivia,” he said.

  He needed to say nothing else for she knew by the austerity of his tone that everything they held as precious was somehow scurrying away as quickly as the unseen feet in the brush. Panic was gripping an icy hold and she clung to William, not fully understanding what was happening, what might happen. “No,” she said. “I shall not let you go.”

  He leaned again into her hair, embracing her with his arms and his legs. She clung to his safety, despite the fear that continued to rise. “My love,” he said, his voice drenched with irrefutable sadness. “Do you have faith?”

  Was this another test, another lesson? Had they not reached the point beyond all this? Were they not free of the sticky web of confusion and doubt and darkness that had followed their steps for so long? “Yes,” she answered weakly, although the commitment to it was wavering.

  “Do you believe that a love as great as ours can never fall to the sword of time?”

  “Yes,” she said, clinging to him with renewed vigor.

  “Know that I truly have love for you and you alone?”

  “Don’t leave me,” she whimpered, betraying the knotted ball that had formed in her breast. “Please, don’t ever leave me.”

  “I never shall.” He moved, gently, to peer deeply, longingly into her face. “My jewel,” he began with a gentleness she had never heard him utter before. “We have been kissed by the sweet breath of salvation.”

  The revelation held no solace for her, so bottomless was her dread. “You said we would never part. You promised me that once this was over that we’d be together, forever. You promised, William.”

  “Yes,” he soothed. “A promise I made as no other earnest pledge, a promise I would never abandon. I have one final promise to keep, and you must release me to do so. One final path awaits my step, and I must travel its crooked path alone.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, trying to keep from crying. Her throat constricted, squeezing the tears from her lashes despite every attempt to keep them within.

  “Behold.”

  She twisted to follow William’s gaze. Through the tangled underbrush a small fire crackled. Two horses stood nearby, jangling their harnesses, waiting for their masters, who lounged together within the camp. A chill fluttered down her spine. One was Dietrick, young, fresh faced, relaxed with a pleasant demeanor and the other, the other was his long time companion, his friend and brother in arms, Wyldelock. Fate had returned them to the very time when their friendship was at its height.

  “But he is your dark side, William,” she protested. “You have conquered him. This should be done, finished and you should be with me now.”

&
nbsp; “I have conquered him, it is true,” William whispered. “But my brother is still an unwitting prey. My salvation has been secured and now it is up to me to release the enemy that is a mere seed within his soul.”

  “Surely that is his choice, William. Isn’t it best you leave well enough alone?”

  He shook his head, slowly, thoughtfully. “This was the one night in which he struggled to speak to me of the passions he bore. This was the night I dismissed those confessions and the birth of every thorny weed that choked what was good in him. I must go, and make certain that the weed does not take root.”

  Olivia sank in despair. One word, one look, one flick of the wrist, a whole different outcome possible--action and reaction--only one was allowed. Fate, she had believed, was always set in stone, that the past could not be altered. Yet, the magic they had found together had brought them back to the beginning of what was once a dark and treacherous path, a path stained with the blood of the innocents. Deep in her being she understood there was no other recourse for him. All that had been cursed and loathsome hung in the air. This was the crossroad, the final stage of what he had to accomplish. She had no other choice but to let him go and set right what once had been wrong. “Will you come back to me?”

  He lowered, kissing her with lips that spoke of no further commitment. Rather, he showed her that his heart was true. He loved deeply yet part of that love was, as it had always been, reserved for his friend.

  “I love you, Olivia. And your love will be the beacon in the darkness that will guide my return.”

  As the soundless thief she had considered him to be, he rose and drifted toward the two images, melting into the one who was Wyldelock Talan De Croft.

  Their voices were lost to her as she huddled against the chilled night air. But she saw their faces with clarity. Dietrick had flushed in stark confession and Wyldelock had reached over, taking his hand. His hair shook from side to side in refusal and Dietrick bowed in embarrassment. Still, Wyldelock clasped the hand, denoting that despite an inability to return similar passions, they could and would remain loyal to one another.