“What was this strange presence?” Eamon asked.
“Unknown,” Maedoc replied. “But I believe it may be connected with the banshee somehow. It’s the only explanation I can think of, as I feel nothing but a minor disturbance. The Druids are more attuned to this sort of thing. I am merely a diviner and seer.”
“Could Traegus find out more?” Eamon asked.
“Possibly, but as I said, he is busy with other things.”
“What sort of things?” Wrothgaar asked.
Maedoc grunted. “Strange things…”
“Pull!” Traegus shouted to the Druaga engineers. “You’re almost there.”
The tiny servants pulled on the ropes that suspended a large, flat, iron cage in a vat of glowing, pink water. As they pulled, the cage rose out and the Lich’s excitement grew. When the cage had cleared the top of the vat, Traegus pulled a lever that controlled the arm that suspended the rope. The arm swung away from the vat, taking the cage with it.
Within the cage was a young man’s body, naked and dripping. Traegus rushed over to it, examining the skin, the head, and the torso.
“All repaired and perfect,” he remarked, directing the cage over to a large wooden table.
“Lower it down, lads,” Traegus said, carefully guiding the cage to rest squarely in the center. “That’s it. Perfect.”
Traegus unfastened the latches on the sides of the cage. Then, he motioned for the Druaga to raise it. As they pulled, the cage rose and separated, leaving only the body on the table.
“Well done, friends,” he said. “Put the cage back and ready the static coils.”
The Druaga took care of the cage as Traegus inspected the body further. There were no signs of the injuries that had been there previously. Over the last year in the amniotic fluid, the corpse had healed and been restored to its youthful, vigorous state. There was no gash in the face, no nasty wound in the ribcage, and no sign that the body had been beheaded.
Eamon’s handiwork had been erased.
“Eogan,” Traegus spoke. “Your body will be my new vessel. With your youth, and my power, we will become the greatest wizard to ever walk the Earth.”
Traegus stood back, watching as the Druaga servants rolled the table underneath an elaborate contraption. It was an odd thing, composed of iron frames that held a heavy iron hoop that was placed above Eogan’s head. The hoop held twelve dagger-like crystals around its edge; the points of each facing a common center that was focused upon the young man’s forehead. Above the hoop, mirrors were placed in various places to catch radiation from an object that would be placed at the very peak of the strange contraption.
Traegus approached the machine, pulling from his robe a heart-sized red crystal encased in a beautiful hourglass frame; it was the phylactery that held his very soul.
“I thank you, my friends,” he said to the Druaga. “I thank you for building this machine. You have followed my instructions well.”
We thank you, Traegus, the Druaga scientist reiterated. Without your wisdom, these contraptions would not have been possible.
Traegus laughed at the irony. Without the Druaga, he could never have seen his inventions come to life. He owed them everything, yet they were thankful for his ideas.
“Long have I been hidden in the depths of my tower, afraid to show myself for fear of hatred and prejudice. But now, with the help of this miracle of engineering, I can finally break free of this rotting body and live once again. I can be the wizard I once was thousands of years ago.”
And quite an excellent specimen you have selected.
“Yes, indeed,” Traegus replied. “I only hope that it will not be offensive to those who know who Eogan was.”
I am sure King Eamon will understand that it is you and not Eogan who inhabits this body. It is only a vessel, after all.
“Ah, yes. Such wisdom you speak. An empty shell it is.”
The Lich handed his phylactery to the Druaga, who passed it along to his peers. The last one to receive it climbed the short ladder to the top of the contraption and placed the crystal in its cradle.
“I only wish Jodocus were here to see this,” Traegus said sadly. “I would like to look upon him with my own eyes once again.”
Jodocus is all around us, master. He is always here. He will always be here.
“I believe that,” Traegus replied. “I truly do. But nevertheless, I am ready.”
Traegus handed his staff to the Druaga, who took it humbly. The Lich lowered his hood, unbuckling the bronze mask that he had worn for centuries. The Druaga looked on, unflinching, as Traegus’ face was revealed.
What was once the noble countenance of a native of Eirenoch was now a shriveled, featureless husk of mummified skin and crumbling bone. Traegus’ eye sockets were empty; his eyeballs having rotted away centuries before. What was left of his hair was a wispy sprinkling of cobweb strands, blowing softly in the gently moving air of his tower.
The Druaga bowed in respect, keeping their eyes to the floor as their master disrobed.
“Soon,” he said. “Soon these bones will be laid to rest, and I will be reborn. With my new strength, I will be a better weapon against the darkness.”
Traegus robes fell to the floor along with his mask and hood. The Druaga gathered them up, folding them neatly and placing them on the table next to Eogan’s body.
“Look upon me,” Traegus commanded. “See me for the last time.”
The Druaga reluctantly looked up, seeing the Lich in his full, true form. Like the undead of legend he was; mummified and disintegrating with time.
Your bones will be honored, master.
“I am ready,” Traegus replied.
With the pull of a switch, the contraption came to life. Traegus’ phylactery blazed into light; its blinding rays filling the chamber with the shine of a thousand red suns. The mirrors caught much of the energy, reflecting it into the crystals that pointed toward Eogan’s head.
Slowly, the crystals charged with Traegus’ energy, coming to life and growing brighter until they became blinding. Traegus clapped his bony hands, prompting the Druaga servant to pull another switch.
With a loud bang, the crystals released their charge into Eogan’s body. The young man’s flesh trembled with the surge of power, and his limbs began to twitch. With his magical sight, Traegus saw the Druaga back away in awe.
Then, blackness.
Traegus’ body crumbled to the ground, the bones shattering and splintering into a pile of shards. The Druaga looked on in horror, fearing that the experiment had failed. Eogan’s body continued to convulse, thrashing about and shifting to the edge of the table. The Druaga gathered around it, shielding their eyes while preventing the body from falling to the floor.
Then, the light went out and the chamber was dim again; bathed in a warm, red glow and still as death. The Druaga stepped back, each looking to the other in wonder. There was nothing but silence; only the stillness of anticipation.
“Mmmph,” the body moaned.
The Druaga slowly approached the table, unsure as to whether they had actually heard the body speak. Then, it lurched; convulsing once more as it struggled to gulp in the dusty air.
The Druaga, stunned but ready, rushed to the body. They held it down gently but firmly, being sure to restrain it without harm. The young man’s eyes fluttered open as he gasped for breath, slowly getting used to the feel of air going into his lungs. A single hand came up to shield his eyes, and his breathing slowed and became steady.
Master? The Druaga spoke.
“Traegus,” the body said. “Traegus is my name.”
Yes, the Druaga assured him, stepping back and motioning for his companions to do so as well.
Traegus laid still for a moment, his breathing shallow, and his voice a harsh whisper.
“Did it work?” he asked.
It worked. You are whole again.
Traegus began to chuckle, his laughter growing into an almost maniacal cackle. He sat up, still naked
and covered in soot and electrical residue. The Druaga stood silent, watching his every move to ensure that the transfer had taken full effect.
How do you feel, master?
Traegus plopped onto the floor with both feet, wiggling his toes and clenching his fists.
“I feel wonderful,” he said, gleefully. “I feel… alive.”
Traegus tested his knees, stood on his toes, and bent over to stretch his calves. The feeling was incredible. Having been trapped in an unfeeling, rotting body for centuries… millennia, in fact, the sensations he was experiencing now were new and exciting. Even his heartbeat, which was slow, steady, and powerful, brought a smile to his face.
“I can feel my heart,” he said.
Shall I help you with your robes?
Traegus, still smiling gazed at the ornate blue robes he had worn since time immemorial, scoffing at their appearance.
“No,” he said. “I think I’ll dress more appropriately. I am a young man again, thanks to Eogan. I should find some new clothes. Something more conducive to my new quest. Something… white. Yes. I shall be known as Traegus the White, Archmage of Eirenoch. And, for the time being, I think I will remain unclad. It feels… nice.”
Very befitting, master.
Traegus smiled, breathing in the air and looking upon his possessions with new eyes. He then scowled, his face becoming a mask of disgust.
“What on Earth is that smell?”
Chapter Nine
Raja Mayarvan, the puppet, watched his court fool frolic before him. He sat motionless, his expression one of boredom. Though his eyes never left the ridiculously-clad, annoying man that danced about like… a fool, his mind remained focused on the harem of young virgins that awaited him in his chambers.
Beside him, leaning against the Raja’s throne, was Mayarvan’s bodyguard, a young warrior by the name of Sithara. He was more amused than his master, displaying a wide smile of perfect white teeth. His smile, however, was not due to the entertainment value of the jester, but the thought of torturing the idiot with red hot daggers.
The Raja leaned back, glaring unamused at his bodyguard, whose eyes never left the jester. Mayarvan rolled his eyes, knowing full well what was going on in the warrior’s head. Always the sadist, that one.
“He’s not worth the energy, Sithara,” the Raja groaned. “He would only die before anything interesting happened.”
The fool, caught up in his work, was unaware of the Raja’s words, and continued his act. He pulled various silk scarves from his tunic, tucking them back into other places, and pulling them out again. Very simple, very unamusing.
Sithara’s eyes showed an inner pleading that made the Raja smile. Mayarvan looked at the jester again, oblivious as to why anyone would get into his line of work.
“Alright, kill him.”
Sithara smiled wide, drawing his dagger and descending the dais to the throne room floor. The jester stopped, his eyebrows raised in question.
“You do not amuse me,” Mayarvan said.
The jester dropped his scarves, backing away as Sithara approached him.
“But…” he pleaded. “The Prophet herself sent me.”
Mayarvan chuckled. “I would have her killed if I could get away with it.”
Sithara grabbed the man by the tunic, pulling him close and holding a dagger to his throat. The jester clamped his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, tears streaming down his cheeks. Sithara scowled, turning back to his Raja in question.
“You’re right,” he said, laughing. “He won’t even scream.”
“Let him go,” Mayarvan said, flatly. “We’ll find something else to amuse us.”
Sithara turned back to the jester, smiling wide. “It’s your lucky day, Mindra,” he said. “Sleep well tonight, and give thanks to your Raja.”
With that, he threw the man back, delighting as the jester bounced off the floor and scrambled off.
The two men burst into laughter.
“Now, that was amusing,” Mayarvan said. “He soiled himself, I know it.”
“You should have let me kill him,” Sithara said. “I need to wet my dagger in something.”
“Is that innuendo, Sithara?” the Raja asked, jokingly.
Sithara smiled, turning back to the door. He froze.
In the doorway, a cloaked figure stood. He was dressed in black hunting clothes, a dark grey cloak with a wide rim, and bore a long, jeweled saber. With his free hand, he reached up, pulling his hood back to reveal his grim face. His hair was blonde, long, and tied back. His cold blue eyes seemed to shine as he eyed the two men.
“Who are you?” Sithara asked, drawing his scimitar and moving to the side—not in front—of his lord.
“Never mind who I am,” the stranger said. “The question is what am I doing here?”
Mayarvan shuffled to his feet in an attempt to escape. The assassin casually drew a long stiletto and lobbed it end over end through the air into the Raja’s chest. Sithara watched in horror as his master’s eyes widened and crossed, and he crumbled to the ground.
He turned back to the stranger, his eyes betraying his terror. The assassin smiled, calmly lowering his saber.
“I have no quarrel with you,” he said. “Mayarvan was my target. My name is Garret, and it was my task to eliminate your Raja.”
“Why?” Sithara sulked, backing away.
“I don’t know the reasons why,” Garret replied. “But I say again, I have no quarrel with you. If you walk away, I will too. You will never see me again. Fight me, and you will die.”
Somehow, Sithara did not doubt that. Nevertheless, he shouted, “Guards!”
Garret raised his saber again, charging Sithara like a flash of deadly lightning. His saber crossed several times before the bodyguard could react. Sithara felt the sting of the assassin’s blade slice through his skin, and clutched his wounds in horror.
“I would have let you live,” Garret reminded him, charging again with a cross attack.
This time, Sithara parried both strikes, backing away and countering with a thrust. Garret jumped aside, knocking the scimitar away.
“Never thrust with a scimitar,” Garret said. “It’s not made for that style of attack.”
“Quiet and fight me!” Sithara growled.
Garret lunged again, attacking with a thrust that mocked Sithara’s previous attack. The bodyguard knocked the saber away at the last second, narrowly escaping the quick strike.
“That’s how you do it,” Garret said, grinning as the breathless warrior recovered.
The sound of heavy footfalls was heard outside the doorway. Garret looked up to see a host of half a dozen guards crowding into the room. They were Jindala guards, dressed in the signature red tunics and steel plate armor of their station. Garret grinned, taking one last look at Sithara.
“Too bad,” he said, backing away. “You are a worthy opponent.”
He then turned and fled down the hallway through which the jester had fled before. Sithara gave chase, beckoning the guards to follow. Garret slipped in and out of the archways, leading his pursuers toward the balcony he knew was nearby. Deciding to throw them off, he ducked into an open door.
He backed into the room, keeping watch on the door until he saw the guards run by unaware. He laughed, turning to face the center of the room.
In the sunken living area, there was a veritable sea of half-naked women, shocked and somewhat dismayed at his presence.
Garret grinned again, drawing quiet laughs from the women, who then began to stare longingly at the handsome, dashing assassin.
“Hello, ladies,” he said, descending into the harem and tiptoeing among them.
He held a finger to his lips to keep them silent. None of them made a sound as he crept across the room. A few of them reached out to touch his leather leggings, giggling softly as he winked at them nervously.
When he reached the other said, he turned and bowed politely. “Good evening to you all,” he said, and disappeared out the opposi
te door.
Taking the detour down a parallel hallway, he continued his dash to the balcony. He could already smell the fresh desert air outside and see the moonlight pouring through the open doors.
With one last look to ensure his clear escape, he stepped out into the night air, moving to the railing to glance down. He saw the familiar point of light that signaled the opening of his escape portal, and turned to take another look at the palace.
Sithara, alone, stepped out to join him. His scimitar was held out, and his face bore the wide smile of a hunter who had caught his prey.
“You have nowhere to go, assassin,” he gloated. “I have you. Surrender and I will ensure your quick execution.”
Garret laughed into the night sky, casually lifting himself up to sit on the railing. “If only we could continue our battle,” he said, shaking his head.
“Then let us be done with it,” Sithara said.
Garret glanced back and down, seeing the portal fully open. He turned back to Sithara, shrugged, and propelled himself backward over the ledge.
Sithara ran to the railing, expecting to see the assassin falling to his death.
Nothing.
“What in the name of Imbra?” he exclaimed.
The assassin had disappeared without a trace, and he stood alone at the railing, clutching the shallow cuts on his chest. The man could have easily killed him, he knew, but he had only scratched the skin. He had said that Mayarvan was his target, but why? Why target the Raja? Why leave him alive?
Shaking his head, the bodyguard returned to the palace, unsure of what would happen next. He knew that without the Lifegiver’s puppet, the people of Pashir would never obey the Jindala. His place among them was gone.
As the Jindala guards rushed toward him, he thought briefly of what the assassin had said. Perhaps Sithara was allied with the wrong people. He was a man of Pashir, after all, and the Jindala offered no purpose other than enslavement.
Suddenly desperate to regain his honor as a man of Pashir, Sithara drew his scimitar and glared at the Jindala as they stopped before him. They looked at him curiously, not understanding his motives. With a final cry to Imbra, Sithara charged the surprised guards.
Into Oblivion (Book 4) Page 9