by Ed Masessa
They all looked to Molly, who nodded for them to follow. The breeze shifted several times but could not fool Bryndis. She had too much experience with tracking. A lone cloud passed in front of the sun as the breeze stopped. The scent of death drew closer with each step until it overpowered everything else. Bryndis stopped and pointed toward a large red mound a short distance away.
“Wait here,” said Molly. She crept uncertainly toward the mound, dread in every footstep. She held her arm across her face, the sleeve of her shirt providing a filter that was mostly useless against the stench.
The mangled carcass was that of a bear—and not just any bear. A brown bear with an unusual patch of white fur between the ears. A bear that was often seen raiding Gretchen’s garden—Sophia.
“Is that a bear?” Luis asked, then gagged. The others surrounded him with equally mortified faces.
Molly nodded solemnly. “A friend of the family, so to speak. A gentle old bear with an insatiable appetite for Gretchen’s crops.”
“Not Sophia!” Serena cried.
Then something caught Molly’s eye and she gasped aloud. The others followed her line of sight.
“Is that a Strix?” asked Henry.
“Or what’s left of one,” Luis said, clamping his nose shut.
Henry’s curiosity got the best of him. He cautiously sidestepped the bear to examine the Strix. Large claws had ripped open the underside of the bird, revealing something other than blood and guts. He poked at several good-sized stones—black with a sheen like wet tar—with the toe of his shoe. He looked closer and reached for one.
“No!” Molly hissed. “Don’t touch them. We’ll need to get Coralis to properly dispose of them.”
“It’s not coal or obsidian,” Henry remarked. “It’s almost like … oh!” Suddenly he recalled a passage from his earliest translations of the books from his attic. “Phenakite crystals, completely drained of their life-force.”
“Yes, and deadly to the touch. Did you see the scorch marks on Sophia’s claw? The poor beast was probably winning the battle when she unknowingly ripped the Strix open. She probably died on contact,” Molly explained before bowing her head.
“I don’t understand,” said Katelyn. “If the bear and Strix died at the same time, what did the rest of this? They look … mangled.”
“True,” Bryndis grunted. “This is not the work of simple scavengers. This killing has another purpose.”
“A warning.” Molly squinted as her eyes settled on a single black feather. She quickly withdrew a sharp switchblade from her pocket and sliced it in half. The two halves flopped and squealed like a mouse with its tail caught in a trap. “Valraven!” Panicked, she scanned the skies. “Quickly, back to the castle.”
No one needed a second warning as they ran from the field.
“The time has come.” Coralis had gathered them in the Cryptoporticus. Hours had passed since the apprentices had arrived back at the castle, out of breath and visibly shaken. They had never seen Coralis move so fast once Molly briefed him. When he finally returned to the castle, he appeared distraught, and in his eyes was a look of fierce determination. “Molly is correct. Malachai has unleashed another horror. Bryndis, you are probably the only one with knowledge of this bird.”
“Nay,” said Katelyn. “I’ve heard the legend as well.”
Bryndis was not about to lose the spotlight. “The Valraven is a myth. Or at least it was. It is a raven with supernatural power that eats the dead on a battlefield. It consumes the power and knowledge of those it has eaten and can change its shape, though if I’m not mistaken, not completely. According to the legend, it’s usually seen as half wolf, half raven.” She frowned. “Does this mean there’s a half bear roaming the woods?”
Brianna had been trying her best to keep herself in check. In her time at the castle, she had grown fond of the bear. The vision of that playful creature now turned into some kind of monster was too much. She covered her mouth with her hands and could no longer prevent the tears from coming. Henry wrapped an arm around his sister. She turned into his shoulder and wept openly, as much for Gretchen as for the bear.
Coralis was visibly uncomfortable with Brianna’s reaction. He did not elaborate on what he had to do to destroy the Valraven beast the bear had become. A most unpleasant task.
“As apprentices, your duty to protect the Earth is as strong as mine. However … ” He nodded gravely. “You are young and inexperienced. What we must do is extremely dangerous, and I am not certain you are up to the task.” Henry started to object, but Coralis stopped him. “I believe Malachai is testing your mettle. He is trying to frighten you—and in doing so, to weaken me. To be honest, I am not certain I would win a head-to-head battle with him. As much as I need you, I cannot force you to risk your lives.”
“Sir,” Serena interrupted, “with all due respect—”
Coralis raised a hand. “You cannot speak for the group,” he said sternly. “And I cannot protect all of you in the heat of battle. There is no pleasant way to put this—if you join me, I cannot guarantee your safe return.” Frustration etched his features. He had seen this scenario unfold in the past. It never ended happily ever after.
Bryndis stepped forward, looking as forceful as she had on the day of her arrival. “Count me in.” Then she smiled wryly. “I am scared, but excited. And I am honored to serve the Guild.”
“Aye,” said Katelyn. “Count me in as well.”
One by one they voiced their consent, locking their hands in unity. Coralis stared into the eyes of each of them, searching for a thread of doubt, but seeing nothing except unwavering commitment.
“Very well,” he said solemnly. “May the spirits of the High Council be with us.”
“A gathering of Wandbearers who have a specific mission is called a conclave.” Coralis opened a cabinet drawer next to the wall. “Please, each of you take one of these wands.”
Serena was closest. “Does it matter which one?” At first glance they seemed identical, but upon closer inspection she noticed slight differences in the details. Each wand had the grain of wood, yet the consistency of stone. The pattern in the grain varied, as did the pattern of colors, but they were all the orange-red sandstone color she was familiar with from her home valley. “This is petrified wood.” She lifted one, feeling the weight in her palm.
“Correct,” said Coralis. “Taken from your homeland in a place called the Petrified Forest.”
“But that’s illegal.” Serena’s tone scolded the Wand Master. “And there is a curse on those who take it.”
“It’s illegal now, but not when these were taken,” Coralis countered. “Once the forest was discovered by tourists, the site was pilfered by those with no more respect than tomb robbers. But long ago, your ancestors took only what was needed. These fine specimens were selected for their value as Argus Wands. In Greek mythology, Argus was a giant with a hundred eyes. The Argus Wand has a specific purpose—to search for something. But its power is not to be taken lightly.” He smiled. “As for the curse, there is no such thing. But superstition is more effective than fines to keep poachers at bay.”
Each apprentice selected a piece of the prized wood. “It is wood, but not wood.” Bryndis examined hers closely. “Interesting.”
“And powerful,” Coralis reminded her. “Its power to search can corrupt the user if he or she chooses to go after personal gain.”
“Like buried treasure?” Luis asked. “Perhaps some gems to offer a loved one?” He smirked in Henry’s direction.
“That is one example,” Coralis agreed. “On the surface, a harmless pursuit. Yet one that can easily lead to an uncontrollable addiction to greed and power.”
He directed them to equidistant points around the Sugi. “You are not fully trained. Therefore I am breaking the rules.” With a twinkle in his eye, he added, “But since I made the rules, I am granting myself an exception. Place your wand on the slab like this.” He placed his own wand with the tapered end pointing to
ward the center of the Sugi.
Coralis spoke to them as a hypnotist would—focusing their concentration, regulating their breathing, and slowing their heart rates until they beat in sync, as one. “Now press down on the end closest to you using your thumb and forefinger and concentrate on this.” An image of the elder Henry Leach appeared above the table.
“Oh!” The sight of her father startled Brianna into releasing her wand, and the image abruptly disappeared.
“What happened?” Luis asked.
“That was our father,” Henry said crossly.
“My fault,” Coralis apologized. “I should have warned you. Let’s try again, shall we? Concentrate and focus.” When they were back in perfect synchronization, he gave one additional instruction. “Focus on this single word in your mind and transfer that thought into your wand … WHERE.”
Henry stared into the eyes of his father. The image was of him as a younger man, not of the man he’d last seen over a year ago. It immediately raised so many questions. At the forefront: How did he ever get mixed up with the likes of Malachai?
“Focus, Henry.” Coralis spoke to his mind. “WHERE.”
Henry quickly pushed all other thoughts aside. More than anything, he wanted to find him. Questions needed to be answered. He bore the word forcefully into the wand. A spark of light jumped from its tip and raced to the center of the table, where it joined sparks from the others.
Gradually, the image of his father faded, replaced by that of a man painting a wall. He used short brushstrokes with his left hand, rendering his subject’s beard in incredible detail. The painting took up an entire wall, almost twice as long as it was high. It was not finished, but Henry still recognized it. He had seen it numerous times in churches and knew what it was without hesitation. “The Last Supper,” he whispered.
In a wispy puff of smoke, the scene vanished. “No!” Brianna yelled. “Where is he? Who was that guy?” She wheeled angrily on Coralis. “How does that tell us anything? WHERE’S DAD?” The last words came out with a powerful burst of Voice that sent them all reeling from the table.
Coralis composed himself, adjusting his shirt and overcoat as he advanced on Brianna, who stood her ground defiantly. His furrowed brow relaxed. He began to chuckle, then laugh.
“It’s not funny,” Brianna said through clenched teeth.
“No, it’s not,” he said merrily. “It’s perfect! You might be novices, but you are stellar novices. We not only know where … we know when!”
Markhor rolled over on the damp earthen floor of his cage. A large sewer rat nibbled on his bootlace, yet he made no effort to stop it. Despair born of hopelessness had seeped so deep into his bones that his marrow began to fester with rot. He opened his eyes, staring into the darkness, wondering for the thousandth time how he could have let it happen. How he could have been so wrong. How he did not see the signs or detect the evil beneath the facade of the man he now knew was Malachai.
But he did know.
Yet he ignored it in his insatiable quest for power and knowledge. The double-edged sword of villainy.
Markhor. His name—no longer Henry Leach the Seventh. He detested it but was stuck with it, for once a Wand Master chose a name it was bound to the person like an eighth layer of skin. The fact that he did not choose the name was immaterial. It was chosen for him while Malachai was bound to him through his aura, and that was enough.
Markhor—named after a goat that was known as a snake killer. It was Malachai’s idea of a joke. His son was Dai She, the “evil snake.” Markhor, the snake killer. Malachai, vile and ruthless enough to cause his own son’s destruction.
Markhor groaned as an image of his own son, Henry, flashed in his mind. He angrily kicked at the rat, which sailed across the room and hit the ragged stone wall with a sickening crunch. It twitched two, three times before succumbing to the throes of death, joining the pile of others that had met a similar fate. At least you are out of your misery, he thought.
He rolled again, trying to find a semi-comfortable position before giving up. He pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned against the wall. Just this simple exertion left him winded. He attempted to take a deep breath. Too much at once. The cough could not be suppressed as it bubbled to the surface. A hacking, wet cough—a sign of something seriously wrong in his lungs—that he was powerless to do anything about.
Gradually he managed to calm his breathing. Dirt-encrusted nails that were chipped and broken raked through the dull red hair that had grown like a wild shrub and covered his face. He removed his cracked glasses and pressed his eyes closed. The image of himself as a gaunt old man bound with manacles to a dungeon wall appeared on the inside of his eyelids.
He nearly laughed, catching himself before another coughing fit could take his breath away once more. He was wasting away and he knew it. He also knew he could never die—another unfortunate side effect of the binding. As long as Malachai lived, Markhor would live.
But it didn’t mean he would live in peace or comfort. Malachai would let him decay into nothing but a breathing husk of skin and bones—something he found out from the prisoners in his neighboring cells.
In the pitch blackness, he had heard the faint, rasping breaths of cellmates who could not answer his call, unable to move from the floor. Eventually, the one in the cell closest to his own had gathered enough strength to tell his own story. How Malachai had used him the way he had used Markhor. It was a story Markhor knew all too well. The man in the cell, Paulo, also heard a similar tale from the cell next to him, who heard it from the cell next to him, and so on down the line of endless cells. Each cell held one prisoner. Each prisoner wasting away.
With the last of his strength, Paulo revealed what Markhor already suspected. They had been there many, many years. “How long?” he asked.
Paulo wheezed, hoarse and dry, which could have been an attempt at laughter. “Time is irrelevant here. But the Wand Master revels in our misery. He sends us cake on the anniversary of our jailing—every hundred years.”
That marked the beginning of Markhor’s despair. He could never escape, and even if he did, he was certain he could never find freedom—would never get his life back. His shoulders slumped, head knocking hard against the wall behind him.
Keys rattled in the distance. It was the old woman delivering their daily portion of water and gruel. For some reason he decided to try to get her to talk. He had given up months ago, as she appeared to be deaf and mute—something Malachai probably found amusing. But there was something different this day.
He sensed a surge of power as she made her way down the row and knew instinctively this was not the same servant. Markhor grasped the bars of his cell as the shadow approached in the dark.
“Move.” A woman’s voice, not too old.
He took a step back, waiting as she slid the water bucket through an opening near the floor. A metal ladle clanged as she scooped the slop he was supposed to eat onto a filthy plate. He fidgeted with anxious anticipation.
“He is an animal,” she sighed as she lit a lamp. The wick was so low there was barely enough light to see, yet it provided welcome warmth in the darkness.
“Who are you?” His voice cracked from not speaking for weeks.
“Wrong question,” she responded, and he could tell it was taking every ounce of effort to do so.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
Energy born of hope coursed through his veins. “Is there a way out of here?”
“Yes.” He waited for more, but it became clear that her ability to answer was extremely limited. Malachai had probably cast a spell of silence over the dungeon. Markhor leaned forward to see into the shadows of her hooded cloak. Her face glistened with sweat, straining against the spell.
“Hurry,” she whispered.
Markhor thought quickly. “Is there a way out for me?”
“No.”
He cursed softly. “Did someone send you?”
“Yes
.”
He racked his brain. Who would know he was here? He had seen someone through his merge with Malachai. An old man with a powerful aura in a desert. He surged forward, gripping the bars. “Was it Coralis?”
“No.”
No? Who else could possibly know? Suddenly the woman jerked her head up, meeting his eyes with hers. She reached for his hand, grasping it tightly with intense urgency. Markhor nearly stumbled as images rushed from her mind to his. A sprawling city with streets paved with stone; horse-drawn chariots; Roman-era soldiers; a large fort; an impressive cathedral; a canal filled with ships laden with supplies.
He knew this city. He had been there once to meet Malachai. But the image was an ancient version of the one he knew.
Milan. Italy.
The woman groaned as sweat streamed down her face. She looked as if she was about to faint as she pushed one more image—that of a man. Painter, inventor, genius. Markhor gasped in recognition as she quickly released her hold on him. She leaned against the bars, breathing heavily. He could only imagine the strength it had to take to do what she had done. He reached toward her and lightly touched her face. “Thank you.”
Without a word or another glance, she doused the lamp, gathered her pails, and left. Markhor stared at her retreating figure, remaining there long after she had gone. He now knew where he was being held and who had sent the message, though he could hardly believe either one. “Thank you,” he said once more to the darkness.
Midway across his cell he jolted to a sudden stop. His back arched as pain erupted in his head and a brief but powerful vision filled his sight. He gasped …
“Henry!”
“Ahhh!” Henry doubled over, squeezing his head between his hands to stop the pain.
Coralis rushed to his side. “What is it? What happened?”
“I don’t know.” He continued to massage his temples. The blast of pain lasted only a second, but took much longer to subside and even longer to decipher. It wasn’t merely a headache. The blast was accompanied by a vision—grainy, blurry, and dark. A face smeared with dirt and grime, and overgrown with hair. Beyond that, he couldn’t discern any further details. The vision faded along with the pain until it was gone, leaving Henry to wonder whether he had imagined it. “I’m okay now.”