Eventually, Tyrus grew weary of the lifeless form and blasted it into oblivion. He burned her remains with his magic and took possession of her skull. To her horror, he inscribed an ancient spell upon it to ensure her eternal damnation; a punishment for her rejection.
Allora would forever walk the Earth as an anguished spirit. She would be unable to return to either realm fully; her soul would be trapped in Limbo forever.
Thus, the banshee was born.
Now, Tyrus became obsessed with bringing this entity into his own world. He cared no longer for the life that lived upon it; only the promise of power and immortality remained. Tyrus would live forever, and he would rule the kingdoms of the Earth.
Or so he thought.
Through the centuries, as Tyrus drew Absu through the rift little by little, he became aware of the entity’s true motives. Tyrus would be little more than a pawn; albeit a powerful pawn. He would be the greatest sorcerer the world would ever see, but nothing more. Absu wanted the Earth for his own; to feed upon it and absorb all of its life and energy. It was a process the entity had performed countless times throughout the entire history of creation; all of it, it seemed, upon this very world.
Accepting his role, Tyrus concealed himself within his underground temple. He would act as Absu’s conduit; feeding the entity the Great Mother’s life force until such time as its power grew strong enough to cross over into this dimension. When that occurred, Tyrus would take his place as Absu’s faithful servant.
But, much to his anger, Tyrus would never be Absu’s prophet. The fact that he was not a modern human by birth would mean that he had no solid connection with the Firstborn, and would never be able to gain the trust of the human population.
To gain power, Absu would need sentient worshipers; and no sentient being would ever follow the example of a subhuman species.
Now Tyrus had entered his temple to lie in hibernation as Absu used his body as a vessel. Over the centuries, Tyrus’ body was changed; becoming more and more refined, more human like. But, for all his evolution, there still remained the genetic code of his primitive race, and the nature of his unknown father.
During these years, Absu actively sought his prophet. He projected his consciousness through Tyrus’ own, calling out to the dark, brutal barbarians that roamed the Earth.
He found what he looking for on the mainland; a mysterious woman who had been banished from the Kingdom of Eirenoch for the use of dark magic. She was old, Absu knew; much older than the King who had sent her away.
Absu commanded Tyrus to awaken and travel to the mainland to find her, and when he did, his jealousy and rage grew. Like Allora, the former queen, Igraina, was beautiful, mysterious, and unattainable to him. Only the promise of receiving the blessing of a great spirit would attract her attention, and that attention would soon be torn away from him.
Tyrus would revile her forever.
As he completed the portal to bring Absu completely through to this realm, Igraina gained the confidence of the people of Khem. The King conceded his throne to what he believed was Imbra, the Firstborn of the Desert Lands, and disappeared into the sands, never to return.
The Great Pyramid was constructed quickly under Tyrus’ direction. Absu, who called himself The Lifegiver, took residence within, and began his reign. Unknown to the rest of the world, he had enslaved the Firstborn, and sank his ethereal teeth into the Great Mother herself.
He would feed upon her energy until she was nothing more than a cold, dead rock floating in space; as he had done countless times before. In every universe The Lifegiver had crossed into, Gaia was always there to feed him. Her spirit was the most familiar to him, and by crossing through the realms within the same space, his activities would go unnoticed.
For the most part.
Chapter Thirteen
Adder and Jhayla scouted the area near the Ranger compound for signs of the Druids. Though no adult tracks were found, they were glad to see that the footprints of a small child were present; although the tracks of very large cat were disheartening. Adder studied them intently, not sure what they belonged to, but having confidence that whatever it was, it was not stalking the boy for any violent purposes.
“I am not positive,” Adder began. “But I believe these may be the tracks of a moorcat.”
Jhayla bent to study the paw prints, noting their size and their spacing. “Agreed.” she said. “They are too large to be anything else. They also appear to have been left while walking at a casual pace.”
Adder nodded, following the tracks to a clearing where the boy’s own footprints merged with the cat’s and then seemed to disappear.
“There is a pause here,” Adder said. “As if the two met up. Then, Jodocus’ tracks disappear.”
“He got on the cat’s back, I suppose.”
Adder grinned. “Definitely a moorcat,” he said. “If it sensed Jodocus’ nature, and his trouble, it would have offered its protection.”
“He is safe, then,” Jhayla surmised. “Should we follow them, or find the Druids?”
Adder stood, staring of into the direction of the moorcat’s tracks. “I don’t know.” he said. “On the one hand, he is safe. On the other… I am interested in where, exactly, he is going.”
“The moorcat would take him wherever he wanted to go. The question is where does Jodocus want to go?”
Adder thought for a moment. “He obviously didn’t feel the need to go home. But where else would he go?”
“Traegus?” Jhayla offered. “Perhaps he went to find Traegus at Southwatch.”
Adder nodded. “That means that Aeli may be in danger. I don’t believe he would have parted from her otherwise.”
“Right. We need to find her.”
The two bounded off to the north, in the direction of Aeli’s cottage. Farouk would be that way, too, had he returned from his travels. Perhaps they were together, the two thought, or perhaps Farouk had never returned and Aeli was in dire need of help.
Either way, the two quickened their pace, realizing that strange things were afoot.
Jodocus bounced joyfully atop the moorcat’s back, pleased at the intentionally jostling ride. The moorcat was happy, having enjoyed the young boy’s company for several leagues now. The two spoke often, with the moorcat listening intently to the boy’s description of the banshee.
The cat had seen the banshee on several occasions and, although not fearful of it, tended to stay away. The fact that the boy had destroyed it was impressive, and gave the cat the impression that this boy was much more important than he initially thought.
It was almost as if the old Jodocus had returned; his power increased a thousand fold.
He wondered why the boy wanted to get to Southwatch so badly. As far as the moorcat knew, the tower had been abandoned since King Magnus’ time, and was mostly in ruin. However, the boy insisted on going, and he would oblige.
When the tower came into view in the distance, the moorcat was astonished. Southwatch seemed to have been rebuilt, and its once ruined spires had been restored to their previous glory. The moorcat stopped, cocking his head.
“The tower!” he exclaimed. “It’s beautiful! Who did this?”
“Traegus,” Jodocus replied. “The stinky wizard. He and his little people.”
“Ah! The Druaga. I am glad to hear they are still among us. It’s been ages since I beheld one of them.”
“Beheld,” Jodocus repeated, questioningly.
“Beheld. Saw.”
Jodocus giggled. “Beheld a Druaga. Little people with big eyes.”
The moorcat chuckled loudly. “Yes, they do have big eyes, don’t they? Curious little fellows.”
The moorcat began toward the tower again, seeming pleased at the prospect of seeing his old friend, the Lich, again.
“I have known Traegus for thousands of years,” he stated. “The last I saw of him, he was not in the greatest of shape. And, yes, my little friend, stinky. Very stinky indeed.”
Jodocus g
iggled. “Stinky.” he said.
The moorcat burst into laughter again, giving Jodocus a brush with his tail. He continued onward, traversing the rocky hills that lay between them and the ancient tower. It would be a chore navigating the woodlands after that before reaching the tower grounds, but the moorcat knew that the Rangers would be around, should their help be needed. There was another day of travel ahead of them, and they would need all of the help they could get.
Faeraon stared out of the shattered glass of his palace at the wasteland beyond. The wind had picked up somewhat, and vast clouds of dust rolled across the withered plains, emptying their contents into the endless abyss of the empty sea.
Farouk had been gone for a day now, and the Alvar king was concerned whether or not the Druid would return. He had promised, however, and Faeraon felt that Farouk was a man of his word. Nevertheless, Faeraon felt that something was not right; something was seeking him, and he wished his friend was here.
He turned as the feeling began to grow stronger. Though he glanced around his throne room and up into its vaulted ceiling, he saw nothing but the crumbling stone, and the twisted husks of what were once the beautiful flora that decorated the Alvar city in its days of glory.
Faeraon returned to his throne, resigned to sitting there until his friend returned. He lounged lazily, his heart and mind numb with the solitude he had lived for thousands of years. Nothing would ever be the same, he felt; his world was lost, and soon he would be lost, too.
He sighed, the choking feeling of sorrow rising in his throat.
Suddenly, the feeling of danger seemed to greaten. He sat forward in his throne, cocking his head to get a better sense of awareness. He heard nothing, saw nothing; only the deafening silence of the palace and the faint sound of the distant winds.
Determined to find the source of this new despair, he rose and stepped off of the dais. The floor of his court was littered with stone and broken tile as usual, but something seemed different. It was as if something had passed nearby and caused an almost imperceptible disturbance in the air.
Something alive, but not of this world. Farouk?
“My friend?” Faeraon called out. “Is that you?”
There was no answer; only the same silence.
“Farouk?” he called again. Nothing.
Apprehensive, the king drew his sword, standing defiantly of whatever would come out of the shadows. He had the odd feeling that he was imagining everything. Was he losing his mind? It was possible, he thought. After all, he had spent thousands of years alone on a dead world; his only contact with anyone being the many frightening encounters with his own daughter’s specter.
“Allora…” he whispered. “Have you returned to me?”
Glancing around one more time, he began to sheath his sword, but something caught his eye outside in the distance. He moved toward the opposite wall of his throne room, toward the eastern plateau.
Standing among the skeletal trees, at the edge of the cliff, was a single dark figure, cloaked in a cloud of blowing dust and as still as a statue. Faeraon crept closer to the windows, glaring fearfully at the strange man… or whatever it was. It stood unmoving; unwavering in its stance. The only movement Faeraon saw was the light billowing of the layers of its dark cloak.
“What are you?” Faeraon whispered.
As he neared the hollowed window sill, his apprehension grew. He could see the man’s ghastly face underneath his cowl. Only the bottom half was visible; his eyes being obscured in shadow. Faeraon furrowed his brow, anger building within him as he felt the familiar darkness that was once present on his world.
He saw the man grin. It was a rotting grin that sent shivers up the king’s spine. He held his sword out before him, displaying it to the dark man that glared down upon him with contempt.
“Come for me, then!” Faeraon shouted. “Be done with it!”
As soon as Faeraon finished his challenge, the man seemed to shift forward, coming through the window in a blur. Faeraon jumped out of the way, his sword waving behind him to guard his escape. He turned, poised for another attack, his face grim, and filled with hatred.
“Vile creature,” he hissed. “Begone with you!”
The man stalked forward, chuckling as he raised his clawed hands to point his twisted fingers out. Lightning arced from them, crackling toward Faeraon in quick flashes. The king stepped back, wincing as the lightning crackled and arced through the air.
Then, the fireball was released.
Faeraon leaped to the side, parrying the blinding ball of fire that erupted from the man’s outstretched hands. It bounced harmlessly from Faeraon’s blade, crashing into the nearby wall and bursting with a scorching blast.
“It is useless to resist,” the man said in a raspy tone. “The Lifegiver has already destroyed your world. I have come to finish his work.”
“Who are you?” Faeraon demanded.
The man chuckled again, flinging tendrils of glowing, liquid energy at the king.
“I am your doom,” the man said. “The Corruptor of Flesh, and the Hand of Absu himself.”
The man growled as he rushed Faeraon again, this time summoning blades in each hand that cut through the air with a sharp swoosh. Faeraon dodged, striking back with his own blade to throw the Corruptor off balance.
“This is my realm,” Faeraon warned. “You are not welcome here.”
The Corruptor raised his hands in the air, shouting an unintelligible spell that unleashed a bolt of crackling fire toward the Alvar king. Faeraon rolled forward out of the way, striking backhanded as he passed near his attacker. His blade caught the Corruptor on the thigh and Faeraon spun immediately to strike again.
The second blow sliced into the Corruptor’s abdomen, sending him staggering back, clutching his wound. He immediately held out his other hand, palm up and curled into a vicious claw, and began chanting. The floor began to shake, and pieces of stonework fell from the ceiling. Faeraon dodged them as they crashed to the floor.
The Corruptor waved his hand, magically sweeping shattered stones into a pile that swirled and threw off dust and sharp bits of rock. Other piles began to form, and Faeraon backed away, unsure of what was happening. Then, as the Corruptor broke into another fit of maniacal laughter, the piles began to rise.
“What devilry?” Faeraon whispered, watching as the swirling stone took human shape.
“I did not come alone,” the Corruptor laughed. “My victims are always with me.”
Six man-shaped forms of stone attacked, hurling themselves at Faeraon with furious, flailing attacks. Faeraon dodged and spun, striking out with his sword as each creature passed him. The Corruptor continued to laugh, sending bolts of energy at the king as his minions converged on him.
Faeraon felt the life energy of the creatures surrounding them. He had not felt such the presence of life in thousands of years, and the feeling was exhilarating. He renewed his defense, fully charged with the power that he had been missing for so long.
He attacked, driving the rock creatures back with every strike. Then, he forcefully waved his fist in a backhanded gesture, releasing a wave of invisible force that arced outward and knocked his attackers away.
The Corruptor growled with frustration, raising his hands to summon another spell. Faeraon gathered strength into his fist again, rushing through the space between two stone creatures to thrust his fist at the Corruptor’s body.
The wave knocked him back, sending him sliding across the floor with a screech. Faeraon spun back to the battle, attacking in a continuous dance of lightning fast strikes. One by one, he shattered the stone creatures, sending them crumbling to the floor.
As the last of them was destroyed, he turned to face the Corruptor once again. Faeraon’s dark gaze unsettled him. He felt the power of the king permeate him as he attempted to stand.
“Your presence has restored some of my magic,” Faeraon said. “Your plan to destroy me has only made me stronger.”
“Faeraon,” the Cor
ruptor whispered. “Lord of Oblivion.”
As the Corruptor collapsed to his knees, he unleashed another spell that sent a ball of fire into Faeraon’s chest.
Faeraon was knocked to the ground, stunned and defenseless. As he rolled to his side to recover his sword, he glanced at the Corruptor, who slowly rose to his feet with a cackling snarl.
Suddenly, a blast of green fire struck the Corruptor’s back and sent him forward with a startled howl. The fire surrounded him, swirling around him like shimmering worms, and lifted him into the air. Faeraon looked past him to the source of fire, seeing Farouk guiding the spell with his staff, and summoning another blast with his right hand.
The Corruptor struggled to break free, squirming in the divine fire. Farouk fired again, opening a swirling portal that instantly engulfed the Corruptor in its void.
“No!” the Corruptor protested.
Faeraon stood, grasping his sword before him and stepping forward to strike.
“You cannot kill him,” Farouk said. “He is already dead.”
Faeraon stopped, staring at Farouk in question.
The tendrils of green fire slowed, allowing the portal to absorb the Corruptor. Its own energy wrapped around him, seeming to disintegrate his body and pull it into its depths. Within seconds, the Corruptor was gone.
The Druid relaxed, going to Faeraon as the spell dissolved.
“Are you alright, my friend?” he asked.
“Yes. A bit shaken, but I will recover.”
“I am sorry I was gone so long,” Farouk said. “I had to commune with my friends to solve this puzzle. I believe I have gained the needed wisdom. You must return to my world with me.”
Faeraon nodded sadly, hanging his head.
“If I must,” he replied. “There is nothing left for me here.”
Farouk placed his hand on Faeraon’s shoulder to comfort him.
“I may have the answers we seek,” he said. “I have learned about your daughter and how she was transformed into the banshee. I believe we can save her.”
Into Oblivion (Book 4) Page 14