“During heavy fighting a small band of paladins mounted on their glorious pegasus’ crashed through Ling’s prodigious aerial defence – roc, griffins, rastamals, sorcerers and Baal priests mounted upon their Black Damonën. As they approached the towering ridges at the foothills of the Great Griffon Mountains, highest of which was Mount Ra, a Black Dragon caught them unawares, slaying a paladin and his Pegasus in mid-air with its gaseous breath weapon and mutilating another with snapping jaws. Fortunately the paladin’s magical shield protected his life but his Pegasus had no choice but to fly him to safety. Other paladins combined their forces to combat the dreaded Black Dragon. Showing heroic courage, Samson-Ramon advanced, using his supremely potent Sword of Extinction, or Log-Kyrios, and dealt a fatal blow to the hideous monster.
“After defeating the Black Dragon, these noble paladins mounted on their Pegasus charged through traps and monsters. They tracked Liching Ling’s Black Damonën to Baal’s mother temple. Baal’s High Priest and clerics fought using Dark Arts spells, but the mighty Amulet of Power rendered them useless. When Samson-Ramon’s sword, Log-Kyrios, pierced the High Priest’s heart, a tremendous thundering shook the sky. Baal Temple split open as an earthquake ravaged its imposing Central Tower, killing most priests and their unfortunate victims. Foundations shattered, walls caved in, stones crumbled, dust rose up everywhere like the blast from a volcano and covered everything. Pegasus reared up, flying in desperation, dodging tumbling structures and weaving in and out of dust, dirt and smoke. Soon afterwards, a scream from the Elemental Plane of Fire passed through the Chamber of Sacrifice and rent the sky north to south. It was heard on the battlefield of Hittishk in the Central Kingdoms and as far south as Raysal-El-Hin.
“Samson-Ramon chased a desperate Liching Ling deep into the Great Griffon Mountains. Sadly he never returned. His body was never recovered, nor that of his Pegasus, nor his mighty sword, Log-Kyrios, that precious gift of Rohalgamoth to help keep the Age of Demons at bay. Liching Ling’s body, however, lay sprawled across a mountain peak, propped against a boulder upon which his Black Damonën’s hideous body lay in a crumpled heap, pierced through with a mortal blow from Log-Kyrios. Liching Ling’s scrawny, translucent corpse bore a single swordstrike to his chest, not sufficient to kill a normal human being. Yet Spirit-Slayer had fulfilled its vocation, proving Liching Ling was no mere mortal but a half-human spirit being, animated by powers of Darkness and possibly, some surmised, by the continual human sacrifices of Baal priests. When victorious warriors ripped off his facemask, a skeletal countenance bore the very marks of hell itself, its black pupils dilating as though still alive, a slow hiss issuing from skull-like nostrils till eventually its grotesque body darkened, then blackened beyond any colour on earth, then shrivelled where it lay, hissing a silent scream of eternal death.
“The Guardians of Rohalgamoth, their priests and wizards along with paladins, kings, warriors and heroes continued on to defeat the armies of the Steppe, confiscating weapons and freeing slaves. They hunted Baal priests in every city, town and castle, executing every last one. They destroyed every known Baal temple, leaving no stone left upon another.
“Orcs pillaged as only orcs could then slunk back into the Eastern Wilderness to cause more trouble to human civilisations two generations later. This history is chronicled in other tomes.
“When paladins returned north after Liching Ling’s demise, they took the Amulet of Power imparted to them by Archdruid Avon Mistletoe. The Archdruid, for reasons none can understand, remained at the ruined site, succumbing to his curiosity. He picked his way through temple ruins and bodies lying crushed under fallen rubble. Finding his way down mangled stairs to an underground sepulchre, what remained of a Room of Sacrifice could barely be distinguished. Smoke curled upwards from a large circular pit surrounded by what used to be an ornate marble wall. The smoke was unlike anything the Archdruid had smelt before. Somehow he knew that from this very pit that terrible scream had originated. Elaborate cosmic designs expertly embedded into the floor showed no sign of their former integrity, bashed and scratched beyond recognition by tiles, bricks, stones and debris. Beside a crushed human corpse, bound with rope for the altar of sacrifice, a mysterious tome lay sprawled open, its pages crumpled but intact. From a wall above the mysterious tome a secret chamber had regurgitated its unholy contents, thrust open by the earthquake. As Archdruid Avon Mistletoe approached, his heart pounded inside his chest. Ancient runes were inscribed across the tome’s silver cover. His first inclination was to cast a Dispel Evil! spell. However, a power drew him closer, forbidding him to do anything but read. Instinctively, he resisted. Unprotected by the Amulet of Power he felt totally naked, suspended between paradise and hades with nothing but his will saving him from oblivion. Total vulnerability. He gripped his staff tighter. The tome beckoned. Smoke eked out the blackened pit. It curled into his nostrils, his eyes, his ears, somehow inviting him to open the tome and read.
“Everything in him sensed danger. He resisted the brain-fogging smoke beckoning him to read. With every passing moment he felt his resistance fading. Alone, in this unholy place, without Amulet or the protection of paladins, something frightening beyond imagination gripped his soul. It was a moment frozen in time. To turn and flee as all his instincts demanded. To save himself from whatever horrors this hauntingly strange smoke had in store for him. Or to read. To investigate. To abandon himself to forbidden power that could be his if he but read the tome.
“He fell to his knees, shaking. Sweat streaked his robes. With a bang, his staff, his last means of protection, his last line of spiritual defence, echoed in the Chamber of Sacrifice as it struck the floor. With trembling hands, his throat and mouth dry as a barren desert, he began to read. Hour followed hour. Without moving from his spot, Archdruid Avon Mistletoe read from the tome, a book of ineffable darkness. Within its pages, as he read the forbidden runes of this secret handbook of Dark Arts, he came to understand its pages not simply as a tome, but the pre-eminent artefact of a demon-efreet, an elemental spirit of evil whose burning ambition was world domination. By reading its pages, he, an Archdruid, felt sucked into its power as though substituting his very identity with another, sinister force. It filled his mind with heady intoxication, it drew him into the spiritual darkness of its master; it possessed him. He gripped his staff. Standing, he made an incantation. Suddenly his staff screamed like a banshee, it twisted and gnarled itself into an ancient unyielding artefact. A shot of power coursed through it like a bolt of fierce lighting. He fell back onto his knees; a final warning against reading any further. He gripped the tome again and continued to read all night and into early morning, his staff producing light to see by.
“After three uninterrupted days of reading, having completed the last of its cursed runes, a new master of Dark Arts enrolled in the demon-efreet’s service, to continue where the priests of Baal had failed, along with that miserable half-entity Liching Ling, who assuredly deserved his fate.
“When Archdruid Avon Mistletoe returned to Reswald a hero, his countrymen were unaware of his diabolic transformation. He reclaimed his Amulet so that none may use it against him. He kept it deep underneath his castle in a sealed vault. He enlisted goblins to secretly construct an underground altar to practice his new rites of child sacrifice. He seduced many druids of his Grove into accepting Dark Arts, bestowing on them much more power than ordinary magic. Those who refused were secretly sacrificed on his altar.
“Reswald continued to prosper under Archdruid Avon Mistletoe’s leadership. Imperceptibly, strange winds began to blow. Bit by bit fear crept into cities, towns, villages and hamlets across Reswald and its surrounding protectorates. Opponents of new laws suddenly fell silent or disappeared. The Grove of Purple Ivy, once a force for good but now a wolf in sheep’s clothing, hiding behind its historic good name, amassed wealth upon wealth, creating dubious alliances with creatures and races not known for their good will. In a mock gesture of humility, and to deflect growing suspicions of his
vaulting ambition, Archdruid Avon Mistletoe abrogated his role of Chief Magistrate of the Realm to become Chief Advisor to King Dagan II. His treacherous hands slowly manipulated the king into a puppet.
“As time passed, the Grove of Purple Ivy spread its dominance everywhere throughout Reswald. Secretly, they performed their rites of human sacrifice. Their coffers grew, betrayed by massive mansions and castles, fingers crammed with rings and the best food and wine on offer. As their treasure hoard grew and fear spread, so did resentment among the common folk. Eventually the House of Harrad denounced Archdruid Mistletoe as a Dark Arts practitioner. Harrad gathered an army to march against Grove palaces, castles and mansions across Reswald. King Dagan supported Avon Mistletoe and his Grove; much blood spilled across Reswald’s fields and streets. Sadly, the Grove and its Dark Arts successfully withstood Harrad’s onslaught.
“Then, perceiving the threat, the Guardians of Rohalgamoth intervened. First Wizard and his wizards of the Alpha Circle joined forces with the High Priest of Ehud and his valiant fighter-clerics. They routed Dagan’s armies and destroyed Grove strongholds. They executed Avon Mistletoe, killing most of his evil minions and capturing others, hurling them into dungeons, although some druids escaped. From turrets and squares across Reswald, criers declared the Gove of Purple Ivy outlawed under pain of capital punishment. Loud cheers erupted everywhere. Unfortunately, the Grove’s treasures were never recovered.
“To joyous cries of a numberless throng, both Guardians of Rohalgamoth officiated at a grand ceremony of coronation. King Harrad knelt to receive a newly-fashioned Sceptre of Reswald from the hand of the High Priest of Ehud, bowing humbly as the royal crown was placed upon his head. After extensive searching the Amulet of Power was recovered from Avon Mistletoe’s sealed vault. With much reverence and ceremony, First Wizard placed the Amulet of Power around King Harrad’s neck. It lay proudly across his chest as he declared his lifelong allegiance to the Pact of Rohalgamoth in these words:
And I, King Harrad by graces of Rohalgamoth’s Guardians, unworthily receive this crown. With it I pledge to rule with justice, without favour to rich over poor, without consideration to economic interests of powerful elites over the common good of our realm.
I shall work to establish a prosperous, just society; to strive to eliminate evil in our land and to promote good. I thank thee, worthy citizens of Reswald; I thank thee, great powers of Rohalgamoth. With this Amulet I declare my undying allegiance to all that is holy and good. May the Age of Demons be ever kept at bay, and may powers of Light ever rule over principalities of darkness.
“With these words successive kings of Harrad remained true to their oath, each generation succeeded by another. They snuffed out any hint of Dark Arts throughout their realm. They carried their vigilance even into Reswald’s neighbouring protectorates who willingly subjected themselves to Reswald’s protection in return for fair taxation. Throughout the Second Age Reswald’s kings ruled, and into the Third Age before the Norse Devastation wrested their hold on power. Into this vacuum stepped shrewd Lord Dagan to claim a vacant throne and declare himself King of Reswald.
“Had the passage of time worn away the Amulet’s power to protect its wearer from harm? Was King Harrad wearing it in that terrible time when Norsemen descended from their homelands to pillage and plunder Scandorlands, the Highlands, Reswald and its neighbouring principalities, fiefdoms and territories? Only Rin, ruled by the Warrior Queen Zenobia, withstood their onslaught. Even the Guardians of Rohalgamoth were caught off guard. By the time they rallied forces from Lafarrhine, Norse invaders had taken in too vast a territory to defend except in isolated locations. Aelred, but a youth, fought nobly alongside the Guardians, however they could not stem the tide, especially with numerous yeti fighting alongside their masters during that bleak, snow-filled winter.”
Talarren placed his heavy tome on a table nearby. He quaffed an entire goblet of water, refilled it from a pewter and drank more. Everyone waited to hear how this long tale concerned them. Perry and Kron had become bored a long time ago.
“Your contract concerns the Highland pirates,” Talarren continued, “not entering Harrad Castle. Therefore no-one is under any obligation to participate. However, given we pass directly through Reswald, I am requesting, on Alex’s behalf, your assistance. I have given an undertaking to do my best to recover the Title Deeds if they are still there.”
“What payment can Alex offer?” Perry asked, echoing Kron’s thoughts.
“Once I am king, you will see how generous a Harrad royal is to his benefactors.”
Kron grunted. Perry breathed in, not unaware of Reswald’s current situation, with King Dagan sitting on his throne and in no mood to abdicate. His eyes met Talarren’s. “Don’t try to woo us with appeals to our higher nature, Talarren. You’re just like my brother Aelred.”
Talarren smiled. “Gold and adventure are not your or Elfindi’s sole motivations, I’ll be bound. There is a sense of justice underneath your bravado.”
“Emotional blackmail,” Perry remarked.
“Buttering us up to spread us on your toast,” Elfindi added.
“What does that even mean?” Razel asked, happy to gain any experience she could and therefore agreed to come.
“It means, Razel,” Perry explained, “Talarren is trying to manipulate us for his own purposes.”
“What do I stand to gain from this affair?” Talarren asked good-naturedly.
“That worrisome sense of satisfaction from doing a good turn to a complete stranger,” Perry replied. “You can’t help yourself. As I said, you’re just like my brother.”
After some discussion Alex was surprised to learn that everybody, including Perry and Kron, agreed to help. Razel had no doubt it was Talarren’s charisma that won them over. Without further ado, Talarren led them under cover of night to Caspar’s temple where his clerics put on a magnificent feast and allowed them to stay overnight as temple guests. Their horses and equipment had already been prepared that evening.
Before dawn they woke, ate a hearty breakfast and saddled their horses. His druid friend brought Hunter and Esmay to Talarren. Hunter licked Talarren with such enthusiasm Razel initially thought she was attacking him.
Chapter Eleven
An Old Man
THE DUNGEON LAY DEEP, deep underground. No light reached that far down. Dampness and cold sucked the marrow from his bones. Water dripped from somewhere. Frost bit hard, icy and merciless.
Tread of heavy boots echoed from the stairwell. The chink of many chains and multiple flickers of torchlight told him his jailor was bringing visitors.
The old man shivered. Iron manacles around his chaffed and bloodied wrists bit as harshly as the searing cold. His tattered silk shirt, weaved from Alonçane cloth and embroidered with the emblem of his ancestors, once brought praise at parties among social elites. No more. Today he was a criminal, a vile, despicable, reviled old man, fit for an unceremonious, unmarked grave. But he held a secret. He would never tell, not for anything, no matter what they did. And they did a lot. Not even her druids or spellcasters could extract that information. He would die first. That was a given.
Her tortures were coming close, though. Could he hold out? He wasn’t sure. Caralusta was her name. She was abominable. How could someone so beautiful, so beguiling hold such evil in her heart, such power in her spells? She sailed in dark skies on her Black Dämonen, wreaking havoc and disaster, creating confusion and discord. He could not resist her for long, he knew that.
At first she played the honey pot role seducing him with her beauty and charms. She insisted her jailor take them to a lavishly decorated room, heated by two wonderful fires and lit with bright lanterns. He was given books to read and fresh bread, wine and ale and succulent meats. She pretended she also was a prisoner allowed special privileges. She revealed more and more about her tragic past, opening her vulnerable heart to him, inviting him in turn to reveal his past, his thoughts - his secret. She tried everything, testing his o
uter limits of resistance.
But he held fast. For a year, a patient, long-suffering Caralusta doted on him, stroking his weary head, washing his bruises and giving him the type of clothes he was accustomed to wearing in Alonçane’s halls of nobility when he wasn’t working with his acolytes in his workshop. Despite Caralusta’s cries, his jailer would push her away. He’d rip off the old man’s clothes. He’d clap in him irons. Two brutes, bereft of human warmth, snatched him away and hurled him down into his far-flung subterranean cell, bleakest in a bitter, confined dungeon.
Weeks later the cycle would begin again. He would enjoy Caralusta’s charms and care and the pleasure of her company, beseeching, beguiling, tempting him to reveal his secrets.
All along, this wily, venerable savant knew her strategy. She nearly ensnared him a dozen, maybe two dozen times. But his resolve held fast at those critical moments. He called upon ancient wisdom and Rohalgamoth. His own power, buried in the core of his bones, in the depths of his heart, in the essence of his magical spirit, supplied him with power to resist, as only great mortals could, and only because of his unsurpassed magical abilities. No human could have resisted unless he be a wizard, priest or hero of unsurpassed calibre. Though curses of sinister druids continually weakened his spirit, and powers of this mysterious Sorceress nullified his magic, they could never completely eradicate it from his being.
The fateful day arrived. He knew it was coming sooner or later. Caralusta appeared with the jailor and two equally horrific henchmen. Lantern-light cast her exquisite silhouette before his blinking eyes. This time it was different. No compassion held him in those cold eyes. No softness touched her voice. No warmth of concern enhanced her beauty. Her charms had failed. She knew it. She was humiliated. Now he would know her wrath. He would pay dearly.
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