Reapers of Souls and Magic: A Rohrland Saga (The Rohrlands Saga Book 1)

by R. E. Fisher

  Unsure of what to say to such a foreign concept, Tetra said, “Let’s land away from them; I don’t think I wish for you to frighten or anger them.”

  Telerex turned away from the compound and looked for a secluded place to come to rest, not wishing to gain the attention of the mages. He knew that would be dangerous for both. Upon landing on the outskirts of the island in a small clearing, Tetra threw her leg up over the dragon’s neck and slid down, not waiting for his customary courtesy of dropping a shoulder for her climb down. She landed gracefully on her feet and turned to Telerex.

  “Rest, my friend! You did wonderful! I’ll come back when I’m done,” Tetra stated.

  “Be careful, my lady; mages are a suspicious lot and can be dangerous,” Telerex offered.

  Tetra winked at him and turned toward the direction she had last seen the mages’ keep. She spied the tall spires with their lit windows climbing high into the night sky and began her trek toward them. As she walked, she examined the plants by the moonlight and saw that they were somehow different from those around her isolated village. These plants didn’t move to make way for her as they did at home, which was a little disconcerting to her. On numerous occasions, she had to force her way through them as if they were trying to block her way forward. She placed her hand on her sword and began pulling it from the scabbard to cut away the brush, wondering why they were behaving like that. Using the black blade that had been the weapon for her attempted murder, she hacked her way through the thick brush that was impeding her. It sliced through the massive underbrush with great ease. She managed to keep the view of the towers in front of her as she worked, until she made her way into a clearing on the edge of the small village that lay outside the towers.

  After a brief rest, she passed through the village and started to enter the Circle of Towers when she was met by a young elf dressed in a brown robe and carrying a simple staff. He looked up at her as she towered above him.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am; what business do you have here?”

  “I would speak with your Master of Towers,” she replied, also in the common tongue. She looked past him, sensing something amiss.

  “I gather that your need is important for you to have journeyed here, but none may enter who isn’t of the orders. If you wish to leave a correspondence for his eminence, I will be happy to pass it on to him, my lady,” the acolyte informed her.

  She studied the acolyte—as well as several spots behind him—for a moment before uttering something in her native language and then saying in common, “Enough of this charade!” She waved her hand as if brushing away an annoying insect.

  The vision of the acolyte was replaced by a regal wood elf that was dressed in ornate robes of royal blue trimmed in gold. Several human and elvish mages dressed in various colors and whose robes were less regal also appeared behind him. She saw one who wore robes trimmed in black with the sigil of the Blackwing on the cuff of his robe, while another mage wore red with what looked to be a stick figure stretched over a rack on his cuff. Others wore robes of grey, green, and indigo, but she was unable to see their sigils.

  With looks of shock and anger, they began to raise their staffs as Tetra spoke again. “I mean you no harm,” she said.

  The wood elf raised his hand; the mages paused but held their staffs ready for action should the need arise. The ornately dressed mage rested the butt of his staff on the ground. Leaning forward, he asked, “How did you do that?”

  “As I said, sir, I mean you no harm.”

  “T’isn’t every day a myth flies into our little realm while sitting atop a legendary beast. You will forgive us for being cautious. Again, what is it you seek? We shall not ask again, madam,” he threatened.

  “There is little need for threats. I have come among you to learn of the young races.”

  “Who are you?” the mage asked.

  “I’m Tetra, sir,” she answered. “I need information. There is much about your realm I don’t know and have need to learn.”

  “You are one of the ancients? An Elfaheen?”

  “I am. Will you help?”

  Sensing her sincerity and knowing it was an unprecedented learning opportunity for those earliest beings of magic, the mage answered, “We would know more before we can agree to anything. I am Lleward Coreon, master of this school. Please, come with me.”

  Lleward led her between the outer buildings and through a small gate, then into a courtyard where the towers sat. The other mages followed at a respectful distance in case their master needed them. Tetra looked upward at the spires, in awe of their height. The buildings themselves held no magic, but the contents within held all the power she had sensed. It was amazing to her that a structure could be built to such a height and could stay standing without the use of magic. In that moment, she realized how little she knew of these beings that she and her sisters had long referred to as the “lesser races.” She was amazed at what they had accomplished in what seemed to her to be a short amount of time. They weren’t as ignorant or as incapable as she and her sisters had come to believe. They had grown, and were growing still.

  They entered the center tower, and she was escorted to an ornate room that was filled with thousands of books. Along each stone wall, she observed numerous burnished cabinets that housed all the books in an orderly and tidy manner. Throughout the room were also various chairs, tables, and couches. It was well lit by a large central fire pit and hundreds of candles and sconces. Lleward led them to a set of plush chairs, sitting next to the fire. He indicated for her to have a seat as he sat in the chair across from the one he had offered her. She took a seat, adjusting the malevolent sword on her hip as she did so.

  He leaned forward and stated, “There are so many questions I would ask.”

  “What would you know first?” Tetra offered.

  “Where have you been all these centuries?” he asked.

  Hindle Whitehair watched over the acolytes, who spent the next seventy hours providing food and drink to the Tower Master and his odd guest, unsure of who she was. His only knowledge was that she was important enough for him to wish to spend every waking moment discussing things that they had never heard of, had yet to learn about, or could possibly regret overhearing.

  Hindle also had the acolytes prepare her a student chamber in the village, finally dispatching them as they neared exhaustion.

  He had listened to the Tower Master and the Elfaheen as well from the shadows of the hall of the Tower Master. He was the Master of the Tower of Knowing. It was his job to know as much as possible about magic and those that could wield it, and here was one who had been blessed with it. Magic had been given to her directly from the gods.

  Yet he had an uneasy feeling of dread as he listened to the litany of histories she was sharing with Lleward and the variations of them that the mages had no knowledge of.

  Lavalor listened to her as well, his anger swelling with each syllable that left her foul lips. Does she not realize the value of ignorance in others? he thought angrily to himself. As she spoke, he began to subtly explore his ability to weave the ancient magic, attempting to bind himself to Tetra. He realized he would no longer belong to Quensi, but he knew Tetra would either return him to Quensi or attempt to destroy him. He hoped her will was as weak as that of his wife. He had patiently waited millennia for this opportunity. His desire to see the dark creations rule those of the light was the only goal he had ever wanted since they were born from the gods. His rage was the strongest amongst of all his brethren, and having such rage, he had fought against those who wanted these beings of love and light to rule this plane. He wouldn’t agree to it then, nor would he allow it now. He had foreseen the trickery the gods had prepared, and he had lifted his essence from the weak, frail body and placed it into this forged weapon that reflected his will and desires. He had come to resent the husk of decaying flesh and bone that he had experienced. It had caused him so much pain every day for centuries as he slowly “died.”

&
nbsp; He knew when he had planned this that no matter which form he took, it had to be one that would allow him to escape their notice—and it had worked perfectly. Those stupid women had placed his former body into a woven bag and carried him to the tombs, not realizing or even anticipating that with the help of Quensi, he had never even left their home. He and Quensi had waited and planned for this day. They would triumph, or they would bring Im’Shallene about. Though he had let the others manifest his dark creations deep in the bowels of Asmordia, he had withheld enough of his own magical energy to create one last thing. He also realized that there were others he had warned—those who still resided in Asmordia, some unable to cross back as he had. His new body, this body of the hardest metals along with the strongest of binding magic and forged in hell, would serve him well. It wouldn’t feel pain or wither away into dust as his old body had. Any who wielded him would fall under his control. He would overtake the psyche as well as the body, and whoever held him would become his to control as his influence grew. To him, this was a much better form of immortality, for he could be a different person whenever he chose. This bitch had no idea how well she would serve him.

  Telerex watched her as she returned to the clearing, where he had been waiting for her return. Her exhaustion was evident as she approached the fire he had made for her return. She collapsed as she neared him. Telerex caught her and lifted her in his arms. He carried her into the tent he had pitched, placing her atop her bedroll, and exited the tent, leaving her to rest. He stood guard over her for the rest of the day and throughout the next night, never moving a muscle, daring any to threaten her well-being. Little did he realize he had laid her to bed with the greatest threat to her lying beside her as she slept.

  Telerex never noticed the small charcoal-colored shoulder-drake, the size of a housecat, that had followed her to the camp—watching intently, hidden.

  Lavalor never slept. He didn’t require it. His current body never tired or succumbed to desire. After the dragon had left the tent, he began to work his magic on Tetra. Though she tossed and turned and suffered nightmares, her unconscious determination managed to fight back against his magic. Yet he felt confident in his attempt. As he wove his magic against her, he realized it would be much more difficult than it had been with Quensi. Where Quensi was weak, this woman wasn’t. This was a woman of strength and conviction, and she had capabilities even she was still unaware. He would have to learn more about those and guard against them. Her mind had raised walls of color and thought to thwart him, it had attempted to prevent his efforts from succeeding by using all kinds of mental blocks, and it had taken almost all his strength and will to combat her. How remarkable, he had thought; how formidable she would have been had she been awake and conscious of his attempts. Even her slight awareness of his efforts had forced him to walk unknown paths through her thoughts, as well as in her dreams and nightmares.

  He sought—and found—safe paths through those voices, which had haunted her for as long as she could remember. Upon his initial entry, they were scattered and shrill; yet the more he worked his magic, the more they began to speak in unison. They never spoke anything she could understand, but they had haunted her for centuries and had a much more ancient hold on her than he, so he knew he had to tread carefully through them. He had been forced on occasion to defend himself from them as well, and this confused him. He hadn’t experienced this with Quensi, so he hid himself from them as well as he could while completing his task. He sensed that he had to for some innate reason. His magic and knowledge guided him in this, so he followed his instincts and managed to pass through them without further drawing their attention. In response to those unknown voices, he had been forced to deviate his magic several times. His spell had been corrupted a tiny bit. Had he been one of the lesser races, his spell would have failed at this point; but he was ancient and powerful, and he still carried vestiges of magic the lesser races had yet to even discover. His force of will alone allowed him to continue weaving his magic on her. In her current weakened and exhausted state, his strength had won out.

  He believed he was now able to begin influencing her. He knew from the time he had spent walking around in her thoughts that she was considering dropping him into the ocean upon departure. To test his success, he “suggested” to her that his knowledge would benefit her, with no doubt in her mind that he was being truthful. Also, he suggested that she maintain the sword in her possession. Her reactions when she awoke would tell him if the binding had been successful. He knew that if it were, the binding would be secure—unless she could find and unravel the ties and knots he had used to secure his will to hers. Few understood their minds well enough to be able to do so, and though she was powerful, he didn’t think her capable of it. Quensi had kept him apprised of the events within the seclusion, and she had told him on several occasions that she was mad; but after walking within her mind, he dismissed her conclusion.

  He had hidden those knots well, deep within her psyche. He also realized that his form of magic was best suited to the weak of mind and will, and knew he would have to remember that for future use. This realization wouldn’t benefit him now, though, as Tetra was neither of those. Since this was the woman sent to prevent the apocalyptic prophecy, this was the person he was going to have to use—no matter the cost or effort—to attain his goal of bringing forth the realm of darkness. It was going to be a much tougher task than he had thought or planned for.

  Lleward sat watching the Tower Masters as they filtered into the room. It was not often that they each made time to meet like this, but the recent arrival of the Elfaheen had created questions that needed answering. He hadn’t initially joined the guild to be an administrator, but become one he had. It was frustrating.

  Dreams that he had had as a boy were nothing like the realities he experienced as a man. The idea of discussing the cost of components, fundraising, and all the boring details of being the Master of Towers had not occurred to him as he had pursued his magic. His early fascination of the magical arts was all about being able to conjure his familiar, or being able to travel thousands of miles in a mere instant; and best of all, it was about being able to defeat those who had bullied him because of his bookish tendencies. He had never dreamed that he would be overseeing the protection of the Rohrlands from those who failed to understand the repercussions of the misapplication of magic.

  The Towers consisted of eight Tower Masters, one for each of the known disciplines of magic. The uneducated always thought that there were more disciplines than there actually were, but only because they didn’t understand the nuances of how one discipline could impact another. Then there were those who believed themselves knowledgeable but lacked the discipline to do deep research. There was so much more necessary than hand gestures and components to cast the spells safely. Without proper precautions, there would be disasters.

  That threat is why the room had begun filling with people who would rather kill one another under normal circumstances, but instead had chosen to help control and guide the realm’s use of magic.

  Here he was, a simple woodland elf, watching over Shadow Elves, humans, other woodland elves, and whatever Pokmok Lighteyes was. He was either a spirit with an abundance of magic that was unheard of or a cursed mortal who was paying his penance for some miscasting. Pokmok didn’t even know and preferred not to find out. He was comfortable with being both alive and dead, with his feet planted within the prime plane of existence as well as the astral world.

  All the Tower Masters had filed in and taken their seats, each with their assigned scribe who would take copious notes during the meeting—as they usually did while they sat behind their mentors.

  He stood while pushing his chair back, and the screech of wood sliding on stone filled the room, silencing the quiet talk of the Tower Masters.

  “What have we found out so far about our visitor?” Lleward asked.

  “She’s no goddess, that’s for sure!” Tacel spat as his long, ashen-colored fingern
ails tapped the table. “Not at all like our histories have told us.”

  Lleward looked at the necromancer, his countenance and manner of dress showing him to be the angry Shadow Elf that he was. He had never hidden that side of himself, as Phistic did.

  “No; she is not, apparently. But how would we really know, if she so chose?”

  “She is Elfaheen. Her magic exudes from her. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. But I’d be cautious. She controls more magic than all of us combined. That makes her a threat,” Hindle offered. He pushed back the hood of his gray cloak, trying to avoid upsetting the small drake that rested upon his shoulder and ensuring that Lleward could see how serious he was. The mage was not called Whitehair because of the hair on his head; he was bald. It was because of his thick, white, bushy eyebrows and long white beard. His long, thick eyebrows arched high onto his forehead, creating a canopy of hair above each of his silvered eyes.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Hindle. We’ll not call someone an enemy until we know for sure.”

  Hindle leaned back into the plush chair, dismissing the Master of Towers and upsetting the drake. She showed her displeasure by flapping her wings, trying to maintain her balance.

  “She is untrained, else she would not have needed the dragon to bring her here,” Veluna Brightsun pointed out in her lyrical woodland voice that evoked peace in those who heard it. She was dressed in simple garb: a dress of green with long sleeves of white, and a shawl that draped her shoulders. She would never be perceived as a mage unless she chose to make herself known as one.

  “Perhaps it is a lack of knowledge? Should we offer to provide her an education? That is what she has asked for. She said as much upon her arrival,” Lleward pointed out. “Some of you were there.”

  “If that is what she seeks, why come to us?” Phistic asked.