In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1)
Page 56
The door swung outward with a tug on the ring, opening up a large, well lit room. On the far end of the room were two individuals, both wearing rags, bound at the wrists and the ankles against a post. Their heads were slumped forward, but they moved when the door opened.
“Ah, so good of you to join us, young Tarsh. Come in, come in! Please, join in the festivities,” said a voice from a wight on his right. The wight had a glow about it, with several human features distorted. Its arms were too long and dragged on the ground, and its chin was too long. It was thin, with black eyes, and smelled…preserved. Tarsh wrinkled his nose at the strange creature.
“Who are you? What are you? What is this place?” Tarsh asked. He heard a slight moan coming from one of the individuals tied up at the far end of the room.
“Why, this is your Climb, Tarsh! As for who I am, that is not important. A humble servant of Fate, you might say. But come—let us talk of what is important. You must make a choice, Tarsh. Behind me are two…friends of yours. Each of them leads to a door. The door is only opened based on the amount of pain they are in. You must be the instrument of their pain, and choose wisely. Not all doors on the Staircase lead to nice places.” The wight grinned wickedly.
“Why don’t I just kill you and rescue them, or would that be off script, you foul creature!” Tarsh looked at the wight menacingly, but did not advance.
“Oh, that would be delightful! Do try. Please, I beg you.” The wight spread its arms wide, inviting an attack, eyes closed and face—chin and all—uplifted.
Tarsh paused. Very well, let him taste my missiles. He fired a magic missile directly at the wight. It passed through it, striking a wall behind it.
“My turn, young Tarsh.” The wight leapt forward and grabbed Tarsh by the wrists with its long, wiry arms.
The pain was unbearable. Tarsh saw himself burning, saw his flesh beginning to blacken and char. He screamed and tried to jerk away, but was held fast. His skin soon peeled away, revealing his bloody body in the raw.
And then it stopped. The wight grinned wickedly, having released its grip on him. Tarsh’s body was unharmed, but he heard the two people continue to moan at the far end of the room.
“What did you do?” he asked, still gasping for breath and trying to calm his heartbeat. “Who are you?”
The wight stood a few feet away, still glowing, and was licking its fingers like it had just finished a delicacy. It did not answer immediately, but finally opened its coal-black eyes to focus on Tarsh.
“Oh, that was exquisite. Would you like to attack me again? Just a small one, perhaps?” The wight was pressing its long fingers against each other in a hopeful, almost desperate look.
Tarsh took a step back. What is this thing? “No. But I want to know more about who you are and what you would have me do to complete this task.”
Clearly disappointed, the wight slumped a little bit before straightening up. “Well, young Tarsh, I have already told you your task. And I have already told you who I am. If you must know more, my name is Morsus, and I am Fate’s Minister of Pain. I sell pain, deliver pain, and…oversee pain. It is the only joy of my existence.” It looked longingly again at Tarsh before walking slowly toward the captives. “And now the time has come for you to choose. The door behind each will only be opened in direct proportion to their pain. Of course, there is a third option…”
“And what is that?” asked Tarsh, slowly approaching the two captives shackled to the poles.
Morsus stopped. “You may head back down, of course. Few can leave the Staircase as unscathed as you. There is no need for you to continue, if you do not wish to do so.” The wight once again grinned through its pointed chin.
“I am not turning back. Show me these prisoners.” Tarsh did not even hesitate.
Shackled to the left was Magi Blacksmooth. To the right, was Kari Quinlan. Both were bleeding, dressed in rags that barely covered them. Two stone doors stood shut behind them, one behind each pole. Kari looked up and cried out.
“Kari!” Tarsh yelled, beating her to it. “What have they done to you? How did you get here?”
“Please no, Tarsh. Please. Don’t do it. Don’t hurt me! Please no. I can’t take any more!”
“Shhh…I’ll get you out of here!” He turned to the wight. Morsus, however, was standing right behind him, arms outstretched, eyes closed, face uplifted, and waiting. And smiling. “What have you done, demon!”
Morsus said nothing, but took a step closer, again stretching his arms even wider.
This must be an illusion. Surely Kari isn’t here right now! “What trickery is this, Morsus? I know this is an illusion.”
Morsus opened his eyes and looked at Tarsh. “Oh really? Ask them whatever you wish, and then judge for yourself.”
Tarsh curled his lip and turned back around toward Kari, his eyes narrowed. “Forgive me Kari, but I must know. What was the last thing you said to me before you left with Phillip and Rebecca?”
Kari raised her head, a haunted look in her eyes. “I…I said I’m sure we’ll see each other again, but that this is goodbye for now, Tarsh. I told you that I had to leave…I said I must do this…that I needed and wanted to go. I never expected this to be our next meeting. Please Tarsh. Don’t listen to him. Set me free and together we can beat him. I know how to break free of this trap. Just don’t torture me, Tarsh. I can’t take any more. I just can’t. Especially, not from you…” Her head fell forward and she started to weep.
“She is lying, Tarsh. Do not be deceived.” It was the voice of Magi, hoarse and in obvious pain. “Remember you are on the Staircase. Trust one who has already Climbed, Tarsh. They mean you to pick me. It is a trap. Use your head. The way forward is through the door behind Kari.”
“You! I know what you’ve done. You killed Kyle! You tried to kill Kari! Marik told me everything. If someone is to be tortured as a means of my advance, I assure you it would be my pleasure for that person to be you!” Tarsh walked over to where Magi was shackled and stood inches from his face, staring into his white eyes for the first time.
“So you have made your pick? Excellent. Surely you can figure out a means of inflicting pain on another of your race? I’m told your Shocking Hands is most effective at doling out an exquisite amount of agony. I would so love to see that spell, young Tarsh.”
“Yes—torture him, Tarsh!” Kari shouted from her pole.
Something in the back of his mind was telling him to take his time, to think this through. But Morsus and Kari kept egging him on. Magi just looked at his former roommate dejectedly, resigned to the fact of what was coming. After a final sneer, Tarsh cast his spell and felt the electricity building in his fingers. He reached out and put his hands on Magi’s face.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Magi screamed as the shock flowed through him. Tarsh saw scorch marks develop on his wrists from the iron shackles that grounded him to the pole. He held the spell for a minute before releasing his grip.
The door behind Magi stood just ajar—open, but not wide enough for him to pass through.
Morsus just smiled. “More pain is needed.”
Scowling, Tarsh threw himself at Magi with the same spell, pouring the very depth of his energy into it. The scream reverberated throughout the cavernous room. It was a terrible shriek. Surely it was more than any man could take; he had passed out in the Tournament from a lighter shock, yet he was shaking uncontrollably now.
Another minute passed before he released his grip. The door now stood open. “Ah, thank you, young Tarsh, thank you. Such pleasure I’ve not had in a loooong time.” Morsus was hugging itself with those extraordinarily long arms, easily wrapping its thin body up. It nodded toward the opening. “Your destiny awaits.”
Herodius
The Sea of Hate was aptly named. Many ships foundered between the Western lands and the Eastern ones. The fact that Herodius (or “Admiral,” as his fellow runaway slaves had begun to call him) found remarkably favorable winds was not the most miraculous thing they
had seen.
Nor was the seemingly endless supply of fish. Every day they let down their nets; every day they brought in enough fish for a feast. None grew fat, of course, but hunger was no longer a driving concern.
A gentle rain seemed to fall every other night. The slaves had set up barrels to hold the freshwater, creating an ample supply to both drink and clean their food. But that wasn’t the most miraculous thing they encountered either.
“Admiral—look!” one of his crew members shouted. “I don’t believe it! The Great Whirlpool of Emotion!”
Herodius grabbed a looking glass and put it to his eye. As a boy, he’d heard tales of a great Whirlpool somewhere between the Sea of Love and the Sea of Hate. Nobody on the Isles could ever imagine what an actual Whirlpool looked like. There were over a hundred boats in the Admiral’s makeshift “fleet,” and if you packed them close together, the Whirlpool was large enough to surround all of them. It looked like a small island, churning in the water.
Except it wasn’t churning. You could see the outline of the swirls, but the water appeared calm, almost flat. Herodius was no sailor, but he knew it didn’t look natural. Especially in winter, and he felt the chill in the air.
“Ahead, and around the peninsula. Through the Strait of Holstine, and we shall pray for more favorable wind!” The Admiral gave the commands, and men relayed it from boat to boat with shouts and the crude signals they had developed for communication.
And so the slaves sailed around the northwestern peninsula of Oraz, waving to the mountainous folk of the city Raag-Kaan high atop the cliffs. The string of ships stretched for miles in the shadow of the treacherous cliff faces, slowly making their way through the Strait, skirting the edge of the unusually calm Great Whirlpool. Herodius rubbed his hands through his beard. He would have been lucky if five of his ships avoided calamity in that Whirlpool…it was simply that massive. It was then that he started thinking in terms of miracles, for this was beyond mere luck.
“We should have been fish food and driftwood long ago,” he muttered with a nervous chuckle as they sailed onward.
Tarsh
Tarsh stepped behind the twitching form of Magi, still shackled to his torture pole, and walked through the stone door that had slid open. As he walked through, the door shut behind him with a suddenness that caused him to jerk his head around. He couldn’t see a thing—the room was pitch black. He immediately cast a glow ball and threw it forward to light up the room.
He was standing on hard packed dirt and loose sand, in a circular stone arena. There were no doors; he felt like he was standing in the bottom of a turret in a large castle. The stone cylinder in which he stood rose for twenty or thirty feet in the air. His inspection was interrupted; Tarsh was not alone.
Standing in front of him was a scorpion-like creature, with more of a lizard-like head. The beast was more than half as tall as the room, and when it uncurled its hooked tail, it rubbed against the top of the cavern. It had six legs, each like a pin that stabbed the hard ground when it walked.
Most terrifying was the head. With a shriek, the lizard opened its mouth and blew a fireball straight at Tarsh. A quick shield deflected some of the heat, but he lost his balance from the blast. The creature pounced.
Tarsh put as much energy as he could into his shield, but the creature eventually broke his strength with more fire. As his shield began to wane, he felt the heat coming closer and closer, recalling the image from Morsus. His clothing and hair caught fire, and began searing his flesh. He screamed and tried to roll away, but was pinned by two of the creature’s legs. The face of the creature was a foot from his own, and he could smell the stench of its breath and the smoke curling from its nostrils. One fireball would end it.
But the flames did not come. Instead he saw the tail arching over its head, the sharp tip glistening. The creature raked his face with his tail, marking a sharp, jagged cut from his right eye down to his neck.
The pain was excruciating, and his eye was sticky. Other legs—the ones that weren’t pinning his shoulders to the ground—began slicing his chest and belly, leaving a crisscross of stripes.
If I’m to die, I shall cast one last spell. He summoned as much strength as he could muster to the first spell that came to mind—his Shocking Hands. He reached up and grabbed the two legs pinning him down.
The creature bucked forward, rearing on its two back legs, and at its full height struck its head on the ceiling. Still Tarsh held on and forced more energy through his hands than he had ever done in his life—more energy than he thought he had. He held onto those legs with an iron grasp while the creature convulsed, spewing flames all around, but none striking Tarsh.
With a final shriek the animal pitched forward, and Tarsh rolled to one side before it landed on him. He lay there for a minute before managing to rise to his hands and knees.
Tarsh did not have a mirror, but he knew he was in bad shape. The wound down his face was throbbing from whatever poison had been in the creature’s tail, and bits of burned clothing were now serving as skin in several places. Two puncture wounds, one in each shoulder, prohibited him from lifting his arms above his head once the adrenaline wore off, and his torso was stitched in thin, red stripes. He recalled a simple healing spell and used it where he could, but the wound on his face, in particular, would not stop bleeding. And Tarsh was slowly running out of energy—he was exhausted.
Mercifully, a door appeared in what looked like the other side of the arena. Struggling to regain his feet, he slowly limped forward and through the only door in the room—the way out.
“Ah, you’re back. Did you enjoy my friend Nepalacerta?” Morsus asked, grinning wickedly. “Your other friend is still here.”
Tarsh was crestfallen. He was too tired to even acknowledge that he was back in the same room. He looked at around. There were two doors left: One behind Kari, and one behind Morsus. One leads forward, the other back down.
He looked up and saw Kari, who was disheveled and as pitiful looking as ever. She looked up. “Oh Tarsh. Leave this place. Save yourself. Just go.”
“She has a point, young Tarsh. The way back down is right here.” He extended his long arm and the stone door leading back down swung open. “It can’t be worth it.” Morsus tried to appear sympathetic, but couldn’t shake the look of elation at the sight of Tarsh’s wounds.
I will not quit. I will never quit.
Slowly, Tarsh stumbled forward, away from the door leading down and toward Kari. He reached her and looked into her beautiful, bright green eyes. “I must know, Kari. Are you real? Is this real?”
She looked at Tarsh and smiled, crying gently. “Of course it is, Tarsh. I was whisked away just for this. Please, don’t hurt me. We can be together Tarsh, I promise!” She rattled her chains, trying to put arms around him.
Tarsh’s head was throbbing, and blood still flowed from the angry gash on his face. He put his head down and slowly shook it before he looked up at Kari. “I’m so sorry. I hope you understand. I’m sure we’ll see each other again, but this is goodbye for now, Kari. I must do this, I need to do this. And if I am honest, there is nothing I want more than this…I will be a True Mage!”
Summoning the last bit of energy he had, he recalled the same spell he had relied upon to get to this point, and placed his electrified hands on either cheek, waiting for her screams.
He thought he heard Morsus yelling “Yes, Yes!” behind him, but he was too weak to concentrate on anything but the spell. He emptied himself into the electricity, not caring when he saw Kari’s hair start to fall out from the shock. Soon she was as bald as Tarsh, her black scalp slumped over, teetering on a weak neck. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes bloodshot.
Tarsh let go and collapsed. He raised his own tired head and looked up. The door behind her was open.
Crawling around the pole on all fours, he put one hand through and felt the surface on the other side. It felt smooth. He pulled himself up on the stone doorframe and entered the room.
Tarsh looked up at the man seated on a rather ornate throne across the room. He was in a bright green tunic, and seemed to be wearing loose-fitting trousers. On his head was a multi-colored, silly-looking hat. Glow balls were along the wall hovering on silver plates. “Who are you?” he asked.
The young man hopped down from the throne and stood in front of Tarsh. “I am Fate, and you have made it to the top of the Staircase. Refresh yourself.”
Tarsh tried to walk over to one of the chairs in the room in front of the throne, but he stumbled. Fate grabbed his arm and led him to one of the chairs. He said a word and put his hand on Tarsh’s head as he sat down.
The burns all over his body began to heal, as did his shoulders. The wounds on his chest began to fade into light scars, but the jagged wound from his right eye and down his face to his neck turned into an ugly, raised scar. Tarsh reached up to feel it. He still had no hair on his head either.
“If you have the power to heal, can you not return me to the way I was?” asked Tarsh.
“You mean filled with hatred toward your friend? You are already there,” said Fate, smiling at Tarsh pleasantly.
“You know what I mean. My face. My appearance.” Tarsh narrowed his eyes at the foolish-looking man.
“You knew your appearance would be forever changed when you decided to climb. This is how you will look. For now.”
“What do you mean, ‘for now’” asked Tarsh.
“I mean that we all change our appearance. But yours is what it is. Such is your price for the power you now wield.” Fate returned to his throne, located upon a dais facing the chair upon which Tarsh was seated.
“Who are you to decide that my price should be higher than another man’s? You don’t control my destiny; I don’t care what your name is. If you can heal me fully, then do so!” Tarsh stood up, his strength renewed.