They called it Tir’Ross Moktor—the room of a thousand nightmares.
The legate pushed open the door and stepped out of the way so Valtor could pass. “Ah, home at last,” he said as he took it all in. “Did you miss me?” At the back of the room was a closed door. Behind it, he could hear the mixture of clanging metal, scraping wood, and feral noises all harmonizing like a pharyngeal choir. It was both disturbing and alluring all at the same time.
He hobbled over to the two, waist-high restraining tables that stood in the centermost part of the chamber. Propping his staff against one of the loosely slung leather straps, Valtor turned to the legate who stood waiting just outside the door.
“Fetch me one of the younger ones. They tend to be more resilient.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and send for Rowen. Tell him his training continues.”
“Right away, Your Eminence.” The black-robed legate turned and disappeared from view, leaving Valtor alone with his thoughts as he tried his best to drown out the incessant whining, begging, and fits of crying wafting from the nearby cells. Unable to do so, he finally decided to shut the iron door. The previously annoying sounds were now dimmed to that of a slight muffle.
“Much better,” he said with a smile as he turned back around to face Tir’Ross Moktor. “Time to get started.”
The light from the bracketed torches sent eerie shadows around the large stone room. The many desks, tables, and random cabinets placed intermittently about the chamber held an array of three, four, and five-stemmed candelabras. Their light shed luminance on whatever objects lay on top while at the same time adding to the room’s overall glow.
There were no tapestries, no murals, no paintings of any kind to add a dash of decorative color to the chamber’s visage. The only additional contrast supplementing the drab grays and browns of the stone and wood was that of the red decoupage that stained the floor around the two tables.
Winding his way through the rows of shelving, he reached the barred door on the far side of the room. Producing a large metallic key from an inner pocket, he slid the object into the door’s mechanism and turned. A loud snap could be heard as he spun back the latch and pushed open the door. Light spilled into the darkness beyond.
Stepping inside, the chancellor skewed his face and pinched his nose. He needed to remember to have Rowen muck this place out. What was the point in having a pupil if you couldn’t put him to good use? Valtor waved his hand through the air and the darkness dissipated as a couple of torches flared to life.
The storage room was lined with cages, pens, and crates of all sizes and shapes, each holding a unique specimen. With the onset of the light, the creatures grew restless, producing a wide cacophony of sounds.
It was a menagerie of rare collectibles.
Near the front were the more common everyday animals: dogs, cats, rodents of all kinds, birds, snakes, frogs, lizards and a slew of other smaller creatures only found in the wild, untamed areas of Aldor. Farther back, the cages grew in size as did the animals within.
At the far back, hidden within the shadows, were Valtor’s most prized collections. These were creatures unlike any seen by human eyes in over a thousand years. They were of his own design.
They were a twisted blend of many varieties, much like throwing random ingredients into a bowl and tossing the contents into a large oven hoping the outcome would be edible. Clearly, it rarely was. The corax had been one of his first, but clearly not his last, success.
Valtor closed the door and twisted back the key, listening for the clicking of the lock before removing it and placing it securely within the confines of his inner cloak. He patted the area with his hand—a natural reflex.
With a clear image of what he needed to do stuck in his mind, he strode across the room in the direction of the two ceremonial tables. He stopped at a winged podium at their head and opened a large leather-bound volume resting on top. Leaning over the lectern, he proceeded to shuffle through the pages. The tome was one of a set he had found, along with numerous other items of ancient magic.
The relics had been waiting patiently within the Chambers of Purging for someone to finally come along and unearth their hidden treasures. It had been his grandest achievement to date, having discovered them while excavating the hidden tunnels below the White Tower.
The ancient manuscripts were written in a very old dialect of Fae. It had taken him years to translate, and even then only a partial translation. The grimoire was penned as an instruction manual for the manipulation of magic in ways long since forgotten and outlawed. Its author, Aerodyne, had not only been one of the original founders of the Wizard Order but had been named First Wizard as well. He was a powerful sorcerer who was eventually banned from the Order after a few of his side projects had come to light.
Aerodyne, in turn, formed his own society. Their ranks grew from those wielders who didn’t want to be limited in their use of magic and felt that those who wanted to regulate its practice were no better than the ever growing Jun’ri Council.
Jun’ri, a term used for those natural-born humans who had not been twisted by the supposed evils of magic, basically meant, in its simplest form, pure ones. Although, as Valtor so often, and with great malice, liked to point out, “there was nothing pure about them.”
Hearing the sound of the metal door creaking on its rusted hinges, Valtor lifted his head. Walking through the entry was a skinny young man, barely twenty. His clean shaven face gave him the appearance of a mere youth if one could overlook the grotesque deformity on the left side. It was like a thick blister that had been left to continue growing, each year getting a little bigger. It was quite a work of art. It reminded Valtor of one of Raguel’s later paintings once he had taken to the bottle after the death of his wife. The man was a master with the brush. Even his morbid depictions of humanity showed an uncanny appreciation for accuracy.
“Ah, Rowen, do come in.” The chancellor waved his young acolyte over. “I have a list of items I need you to collect from the shelves while I prepare for our first subject.”
A broad smile rested on his protégé’s mouth as the boy rushed over to collect the slip of parchment and set about gathering the necessary items. Valtor was most pleased with himself for finding such an apprentice. The young man was astute, earnest, a quick-study, and above all else, completely loyal. Rowen would do anything for Valtor. It was amazing what a small amount of positive attention could do for someone who had never known it.
The left wall was lined with two rows of symmetrical shelving. Each in turn held a wide variety of strange and disturbing artifacts, books, relics, and potions necessary in the use of his dark craft. He watched a moment longer as Rowen set about his scavenging before turning his attention back to the monolithic book in front of him as he continued to sift through the pages, until finally coming to a stop on a string of rune markings representing the word Shak’tor.
“Ah, here we go.” His gaunt finger scanned the ancient text that skirted the edge of a horrific image which had been hand-drawn to illustrate the finished product. “Yes, this will do nicely.” The image was quite disgusting.
“What is it?” Rowen’s head peeked over the top of a four-layered shelf a few rows down. “What are we going to make this time, a six-legged lizard-goat, a winged constrictor? I know, what about a two-headed chirping donkey? That might be rather interesting, don’t you think?”
“Interesting, perhaps. Useful, no.” Valtor’s finger continued to work its way down the page. “We will be attempting something no one has accomplished in at least fifteen hundred years.” He paused for emphasis, glancing up from his place in the book. “We are going to create a Shak’tor.”
Rowen’s head peeked over another shelf on the right. “A what?”
“A Shak’tor.” Valtor sighed, realizing he was going to have to explain. “The Shak’tor were first created back during the Second Age, at the height of the Wizard Order. It was highly forbidden, though, as it involv
ed the blending and manipulation of not just animals, but humans.”
Rowen stepped out from behind the row, his attention obviously perked. “Is that even possible?”
“Yes. But it’s not without its risks. This is by far one of the most dangerous incantations developed.”
“Why’s it so dangerous?”
“Because we are dealing with a living human soul. Definitely not something to be taken lightly, but—”He glanced back down at the open page. “—with the right elements, the spell has proven extremely effective in the past.” Valtor continued to scan the document. “Hmm, this is alarming. It says here that during their earlier trials, the wizards found they were incapable of controlling them, and they were destroyed.”
“Who was destroyed? The wizards or the creatures?”
Valtor grimaced as he studied the text. “Doesn’t say.” He scanned further down before flipping the page. “Ah, hold on, here we go. Evidently, they determined that in order to control the beasts, they had to use their own blood in the mix.” His eyes continued to scan along with his finger. “Yes, they wrote that in doing so, whoever’s blood was used, that individual would be granted the ability to bend the Shak’tor’s will to their own.”
Valtor clicked his fingernails across the top edge of the podium. “Interesting.”
Rowen quickly shuffled his way over to where Valtor was reading. “What is it?”
“It says here the more willing the participant, the more successful the transformation.”
“Willing?” Rowen laughed. “And who in their right mind is going to willingly volunteer for something like this?”
“It’s all about the presentation, my young apprentice. You’ll be surprised what people are willing to do under the right circumstances.”
“So when do we start?” And just like that, a knock resounded from the other side of the metal door, sending its echoes vibrating across the bare walls around them.
Valtor lifted his head. “Come in.”
The door opened with a noticeable whine as the legate stepped inside with two white-clad members of the Black Watch following close on his heels. In between the guards stood a little boy, shivering from either cold or fright, or both.
“No, please, I don’t want to go in there!” the boy cried, trying to pull himself back, his bare feet scraping across the stone floor. He couldn’t have been much older than ten or eleven. His garb, what there was of it, was dirt-stained and worn, and his skin had discolored splotches from living on the streets. Valtor had a sudden flashback to a time in his own distant past, when he too had suffered the cruelty of being without a home.
He recognized the look on the boy’s face. It was the look of hopelessness.
He shook himself from the unpleasant memory and smiled. “Excellent choice, Legate.” He gestured toward the wooden table on his right. “Let’s get him situated, shall we?”
“No, please!” the boy cried. “Please, don’t hurt me! I promise never to steal from the bread-cart again!” Tears freely rolled down both dirty cheeks as his sobs became more energetic. “I don’t want to die!”
“There, there now.” Valtor said in a soothing voice as the guards were busy lifting the boy into place. “No need for those tears. I have no intention of killing you.” He laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder, who at the time was squirming on the edge of the table while thrashing his legs from the side. “I’m going to give you a gift.”
The boy’s head lifted. “Really?” He wiped a torn sleeve across his wet nose and sniffed. His red eyes looked up into Valtor’s. “What kind of gift?”
“The kind that won’t let anyone hurt you again.”
The child paused a moment to think, looking down at his bare feet as they swung back and forth over the table. Valtor could see the wheels in the child’s head turning. “You mean like Master Sil’foren?”
“Master Sil’foren? Does he hurt you?”
“Yes, he’s a very bad man. He hurts all the street kids. If he catches us, he makes us work in his mill. And he beats us if we don’t load the sacks fast enough.” The boy raised his shirt to show the ugly scars.
“That’s terrible,” Valtor sympathized. “He’s an evil man indeed to hurt little boys like you.”
The child sniffed another run of snot. “He is.”
“Well, where are my manners? My name is Valtor,” he said with a sweeping bow. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Rat.”
Valtor grimaced. “Rat? What a horrible name.”
“They call me that ‘cause I can squeeze into places most others can’t.”
“Well, I’m not calling you Rat. I hate rats. Don’t you have another name, like Narris, or Jin, or Dezryk?”
“My mother used to call me Tate.”
“Tate. Yes, now that’s a good solid name,” Valtor said, placing his gaunt hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I like you much better as a Tate.”
The boy smiled, but after looking at the men surrounding him, he quickly let it fade. “So . . . where’s my gift?”
“Ah, I have it right here,” Valtor said as he walked back to where the thick volume lay open. He raised it into the air for the boy to see.
“A book? How is a book going to keep Master Sil’foren from hurting me?”
“It’s not just any book.” He raised a finger. “It’s a book of magic.”
Tate’s eyes widened with excitement. “You can teach me to do magic?”
“Well, not quite. But I can use magic to make you big and strong so that Master Sil’foren won’t be able to hurt you. In fact, when I’m done, he will be afraid of you.”
“He will?” Tate obviously liked the sound of that, but Valtor could tell he was still reticent.
“Of course, if you are too afraid to help your friends, that’s understandable.” Valtor knew exactly how to lay on the guilt to guide an answer he desired.
“No. I want to help,” the boy said with a little more enthusiasm. “I want to be big and scary. Then I can protect the other kids.”
Valtor smiled. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Turning away from the boy, he caught his pupil’s eye and winked. “And that, my dear Rowen, is how it’s done.”
Chapter 22 | Valtor
ROWEN’S SMILE WAS CRUEL. It accentuated his misshapen features. “I bow to the master,” he said as he bent at the waist.
Valtor returned to his book. “Have the legate bring me one of the older ones.”
“As you wish.” Rowen left to have a word with the legate while the guards laid Tate in a supine position on the wooden table and fastened on the leather straps.
“Why are they tying me?”
“It’s only for your protection,” Valtor said from the podium. “We wouldn’t want you falling off and getting hurt, now would we?”
“I guess not.” Tate’s eyes still showed a modicum of fear.
“Nothing to be worried about, my boy. Pretty soon you’ll be big and strong, and then you can protect your friends.” Valtor’s words seemed to soften the boy’s nerves. Tate’s shoulders relaxed and his fingers, which had been scrunched into a ball, uncurled.
“Is it going to hurt?”
“Like my father always told me when I was about your age, ‘nothing great is ever accomplished without a little pain.’ And we are about to do something great. You’re not having second thoughts about wanting to protect your friends, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, good.” Valtor walked over and patted the top of the boy’s head, and then regretted his decision after seeing how dirty it was.
The hinges on the metal door squeaked and the black-robed legate, whose name Valtor still couldn’t remember, returned with an old man—a vagabond by all appearances, as so many of those they brought in were. The filthy vagrant half-limped, half-stumbled across the room as each of the guards held tight to an arm.
Valtor watched as his young apprentice quivered with excitement while snapping shut the final bra
celet on the old man’s legs, securing him firmly to the drainage table.
The drainage table was constructed of rough metal and molded into the shape of a man. Instead of straps, it held iron manacles for the fastening of the wrists and ankles. Down through the center of the table was a thin furrowed-out rut that stretched from head to toe. It stopped at a small funnel which had been bored through to the bottom side, with a collecting trough underneath.
Valtor walked over to get a look at their work. The elderly man proved to be quite a bit shorter than the mold, but since the construction of the anklets had been designed to be adjustable, it didn’t make much of a difference.
“Shall we begin?”
“Absolutely, Your Eminence,” Rowen said, bouncing from one foot to the other. His expression was more than eager.
Valtor took a moment to contemplate what they were attempting. He was about to shape a living body and soul to his own will. How those first wizards during the Second Age had ever come to understand such levels of magic was beyond him. He could only guess it had been revealed to them by the faerie creatures that had broken through the barrier, back before the Wizard Order had resealed the breech.
“. . . big and strong.” Tate’s voice brought Valtor out of his momentary observations. He realized the child was trying to explain to the old man what was happening. “That way I can protect my friends. Once he uses his magic on me to make me scary, I can stop Master Sil’foren from hurting the other street kids.”
“Son, nothin’ good comes of magic. And I’m tellin’ you. You can’t trust anything these people be sayin’.”
“No! You’re wrong!” Tate shot back. “He’s a nice man, a good man, and he wants to make me strong so I can help my friends!”
“No, boy, he doesn’t. I’m tellin’ you. He wants to experiment on you and turn you into somethin—”
“The boy has heard quite enough of your lies!” Valtor broke in, stopping the old vagabond from saying any more. “You’re just trying to keep our Master Tate here from doing what he knows is right.” He stepped around the podium and walked between the two tables. He leaned over the old man, careful to keep his back to the boy, and whispered. “If you say one more word to scare him, I’ll have my assistant there slit the boy’s throat and go get another. You understand?”
The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1) Page 18