Just as Melizar had dispatched the Ogre shaman, Captain Donovan reached the Ogre sub-commander—the last Ogre leader left alive. The fury and rage with which the berserker commander laid into the last goblinoid commander combined with the panic in the Ogre’s heart at having seen his commander and their powerful shaman drop before him, was enough to give the Durgak captain easy work in dropping the last of the enemy leaders.
As the few remaining goblinoids saw their last leader fall, their spirit broke, and the Orcs turned and bolted back toward the raised trail above the southern ramp. The only thing that outpaced the fleeing Orcs was the speed of their cowardly Hobgoblin sergeants who even more eagerly fled from the rout of their carefully planned ambush. Their minds were doubtlessly spinning with the question of how a simple ambush, one which they had executed dozens of times before, could have gone so horribly wrong.
As the remaining Durgak berserkers and Adami troopers pursued and hacked down the fleeing goblinoids, Melizar closed in on the fallen body of the Cyrian knight. Goldain had just wrenched his sword from the chest of the Cyrian when Melizar ripped the gloves off his hands, revealing his bluish-black skin beneath and dove upon the fallen form of Garan.
Melizar mumbled and chanted a kashaph spell as he straddled the chest of the fallen Cyrian while spreading his hands wide and plunging his dark fingers and thumbs into the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth of the dead Xyer Garan.
Gideon awoke not far from the site of Goldain’s victory, and he, the northerner, and the young rogue, Thatcher, looked on in perplexed amazement as their mage companion swayed in a some kind of trance as he sat upon the fallen form of Xyer Garan. Still somewhat delirious from his wounds, he thought this was the strangest dream he had ever had.
Aftermath
Winding down these darkened stairs always reminds me of my uncle’s wine cellar. Those were great times growing up his estate. It has been a long time since I really felt like I belonged somewhere. There won’t be any sweet, buxom servant girls waiting at the bottom of these stairs though, just a fat, balding jailor and hopefully two prison rats that might be of some use to me.
“Hey, Marut, get your fat, lazy carcass out here now.”
Scrambling in his usual disheveled and overly-nervous manner, that useless swine tumbles out of his room, smoothing his filthy garments as though that somehow makes him more presentable.
“L...l...Lord Garan, h...h...how may I help you.”
That pig always stutters like that. I wonder if he really has a speech impediment or if he just trips over his tongue in fright whenever I am around. I kind of hope it is the latter. That thought appeals to me.
“I hear you have a couple of prisoners that might be of some use to me. Story is that you’ve got a deadbeat spellsinger down here rotting away and nobody else cares enough about him to pay his debts on his behalf. Also, you’ve got a tavern owner awaiting execution for poisoning some gangsters that were trying to extort him for protection money. Is that right?”
I wish he would stop sweating and twitching like that when I am trying to talk to him. It makes me want to smack him senseless. But then I would never get what I came for and be able to get out of this stinking rat hole.
“Uh, y...y...yes, Lord Garan, th...th...that is correct. The b...b...bard is in the second cell on the left, b...b...but the murderer is in the h...h...hole.”
“Well, you have two minutes to get them both here in front of me. I want to talk to them. If I like what they have to say, then you will release them to my custody, and you will be relieved of any responsibility for them by my authority. If not, then you will have a bit of a mess to clean up after I leave.”
I guess I will sit in the guardroom and wait. Guards won’t be back from dinner for an hour or so. By that time, I plan to be long gone.
Ah, that little porklet moves faster than I had thought. Unholy blazes, I hope that skinny one is the poisoner, because if not, then that is the ugliest singer I have ever seen. I would pay him to put a hood on if I saw him singing in the street.
“This is the bard, Rarib.”
Oh well, he’s got to sing better than he looks.
“And this disgusting-looking fellow is the taverneer, Podam.”
Wow, these two look pathetic. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“So, murderer, I hear you have an affinity for special ingredients, which your patrons find less than palatable.”
Hmm, that half-smirk tells me this guy isn’t at all sorry about what he has done. Maybe he at least might be of some use.
“I have a proposition for you, fatso. You come with me on a mission and do everything I tell you, which may include a repeat performance of what landed you here in the first place. You do that, and at the end of our little adventure together, I will personally ensure a pardon from Princess Tarynna herself, as this mission is of utmost importance to Cyria. Of course if you think this may be too dangerous or unsavory a business for you, I can have Marut return you to your cell, and in three days you can keep your appointment with the hangman.”
“Well,” says the pudgy innkeeper with a conniving smile, “as much fun as your second option sounds, I am afraid the hangman will have to find another date. I am happy to be of service to my country.”
“Yeah, I figured you for the patriotic sort. Well, now, how about you, bag-o-bones? You know you are the ugliest bard I have ever seen.”
“Is my state not sorry enough?” squeaks the homely spellsinger. “Must you add unkind words to my burdens, my lord?”
“It’s no wonder you can’t make a dime. It must be hard for folks to sympathize with you if you keep scaring their children with that face of yours.”
Oh, and now with the sad, hurt look. This guy gets any more pathetic, I am going to vomit. Well at least, I will be one for two on this trip.
“Listen, let’s do a little audition, spellsinger. Show me a voice half as ugly as your mug, and I will spare you a slow death by ending you right here. Let me hear a song with some power worthy of saving, and I will make you the same offer as our patriotic friend here.”
This bard is absolutely a paradox. How can something so ugly make a sound so beautiful? I can feel my heart pounding with the power of his song. Whatever he looks like, this singer has some serious koach in that scrawny body.
“Enough, enough. It is fortunate that your song and your face don’t match. So what will it be, songbird? You feeling patriotic all of a sudden too?”
“I don’t know what you want from me, or how someone like me could assist a great lord like yourself, but if given a chance to sing for my freedom, I would gladly do so.”
“Fear not, scarecrow, your debts will be cleared from the estate of Xyer Garan, Lord of Westfield Manor. I will promise you one thing, however, if you fail in what is asked of you, or if you do not live up to what is expected, you will never see Cyria again. Your life has been granted you at my word, but it can easily be taken from you by my sword.
“Fine, Marut, I will take these two prisoners off your hands. If anyone gives you any guff about them going missing, just say Xyer Garan took them for target practice.”
A gray, shadowy blur surrounds the edges of vision. The scene before Melizar’s eyes fades to black. Such is the way of the soul-see spell, but this time it seems different.
Usually, concentrating on the question in your mind while bonding with the recently departed would render visions of a series of memories related to the question at hand. Every time before, when he had done this with Adami slaves, there had been pleasant, glowing transitions between memories up until the shining Meorah, or luminary spirits, would come and whisk the memories beyond the reach of the bond.
This time, though, the transition was not pleasant. A feeling of paranoia and anxiety filled Melizar as this first memory faded from view. He could also almost hear guttural growls and terrible shrieks in the distance. He was still wondering why this time was so different as the second memory faded into focus.
Well, armor off
and sword aside for this evening, I guess the time has come to contact that manipulative mage. Of course the mystic is going to need to know what happened at the meeting and about the Parynlander, Gideon, and his band of fools. They are likely going to be trouble.
This silver-ringed glass disc was given to me as a tool for communication, but it almost feels like a leash.
“Kalama orpus, rengo marimos.”
I have no idea what those words mean, but they are what connects this disc to the mystic’s disc. The glass is shimmering in its usual blue glow. I guess it still works. Doutbless I am going to get some guff about being out of contact for so long, but so be it. There in front of me in the glass is the image of a figure cloaked in blue with glowing azure eyes shining from the shadow-filled cowl, which hide completely the face of the mage.
“What have you to report?”
As rude and direct as ever I see.
“All is going according to your plan. The shields you had planted with the raiders pointed to Parynland just as you said they would. I told the council I found similar shields. I slaughtered the patrol I was leading with the help of some of the goblinoids you have aligned with, but they didn’t seem to realize I was on their side, so I killed them too.”
“You idiot! Thossse are our pawnsss in thisss game, and every one you kill weakensss our forcccesss in the coming conflict. Ussse your head for sssomething besssidesss a helmet ssstand and don’t let me hear of you ssslaughtering any more alliesss.”
I hate that stupid hissing accent. Sounds like some kind of reptiloid freak.
“Look, they were ugly, and I wasn’t in the mood for ugly. You want to keep your wretched beastlings alive, then keep them away from me, that’s all I got to say. I’ll kill who I need to kill, but once that’s done, I will get rid of anything too ugly to live.”
“Your impertinenccce is an exxxcccentricccity I grow weary of tolerating.”
“Yeah, well it ain’t changing anytime soon, so get used to it. Anyway, you wanted me to raise suspicion of Parynland’s involvement, and this idiot pig of a mayor most assuredly suspects someone in Parynland is involved. I did my job. The council reconvenes tomorrow and will likely send some armed force to intercept the ambushers.”
“Whatever it takesss, you mussst be a part of that forccce if you cannot disssuade them from sssending one. Delay the action whatever way you can, but ssshould it proccceed, you mussst make sssure you are a part of the sssent forcccesss.”
“How exactly do you expect me to do that?”
“Do whatever you can to sssabotage the action along the way, but be careful not to get caught. Ssshould it come to an armed conflict, ussse sssurprissse to take out the ssstrongest warrior and then make yourssself ussseful in whatever other way posssible. I will make sssure we have ample troopsss at our disssposal to ensssure a victory.”
“I know my job, Mystic, you just do yours. There is one more thing you need to know.”
“Which isss?”
“There is a Parynlander who looks like he will be part of whatever force goes west. A paladin captain who led one fo the patrols, he will be no small amount of trouble. They seem like a capable bunch. Of course, I still have my two little surprises as well. I will make sure I am in charge of the food and entertainment on whatever assembly that simpleton mayor puts together.”
“Very well. I leave thisss in your capable handsss.”
Deeper shadows shred the vision before Melizar’s eyes. The screams and growls are much closer now. There is no glowing light, no feeling of peaceful drifting. The spirits coming for the Cyrian swirl into vision now. They are not the peaceful Meorah coming to separate Garan’s consciousness from his body. They are something else.
Melizar had heard of these things. These are the Tsalmareth, the death shadows. Tales told of these fearsome servants of the Ayabim, but Melizar had never encountered them before. He knew he needed to break the spell at once or risk being torn from the world of the living himself when these hellish spirits whisked away whatever remained of Xyer Garan from this world.
The shadowy spirits were all around Garan’s consciousness now. They shredded it to pieces as they ripped it from Melizar’s grasp. He felt them to claw, clutch, and rend his own mind, seeking to slay him where he sat, or possibly, to carry his mind off to wherever they took Garan. The D’zarik chats-enash exerted every ounce of will he could summon, and with a shriek, he broke his mind free from the soul-see spell.
Gideon, Thatcher, and Goldain all stared in amazement as their mage companion, who had been sitting on Garan’s chest with his bluish-black fingers invading every one of Garan’s cranial orifices, swayed and chanted some form of kashaph, which they had not seen before. They watched as, without warning, a terrifying scream erupted from Melizar. The mage pulled his hands away from Garan’s head as though he had grabbed a burning furnace. Melizar ripped himself away from the dead Cyrian and fell prone, lying on his back on the ground and moaning as though he had eaten another few bowls of Cookie’s deer soup.
Gideon shook his head and pinched his own cheeks in an attempt to verify that he was truly awake and not just dreaming in a wounded stupor. Goldain spoke to the young rogue.
“Hey, kid, there is not a lot I can do for the mage, but the troops running down the straggling gobblers could use my help.”
Without another word, the northerner took off in the direction of the southern ramp at a dead run with a gleeful look of eagerness for more battle shining in his eyes.
“Captain,” Thatcher said. “Will you be all right if I go check on Melizar?”
“Yes,” Gideon answered weakly. “The ambush is broken and the enemy in flight. See to our mage.”
Thatcher ran to where Melizar lay groaning. He couldn’t see Melizar’s eyes beneath his hood, but the way he twitched and pulled away at Thatcher’s touch, the rogue could tell that his friend was terrified. Thatcher grasped the strangely dark colored hands of the mage and whispered comfort to him.
“Mel, it is okay. You are safe now. What in the world was that spell, and what are you so afraid of?”
Melizar clambered back from the edge of terror into fullness of reality. In truth, he had no idea why he was so afraid. He had used the soul-see spell at least half a dozen times before. It had never been like that. What was different?
The soul-see spell only worked on human races or chats-enash. During his time in school, he had used it on four Adami slaves and one Mitsar his mage master killed and provided to the kashaph students to give them practice using the spell.
The one other time was on a V’rassi chats-enash who had gotten a little too curious about Melizar’s identity in the dark streets of Aton-Ri. He had used the spell to find out how much the half-blood knew about him and why he was followed. Never before had the spell gone anything like this.
Suddenly, a realization dawned on Melizar as to what might be the difference. Each of the lab rats had been followers of the One Lord and had prayed to Him before they were killed. The V’rassi were servants of the Malakim, so likely the chats-enash he had killed was also. Based on Garan’s actions and betrayal, however, he was not of the same personality and caliber of Duncan and Gideon.
Was Garan a servant of the Ayabim? Quite likely.
So perhaps the dark spirits that served them, the Tsalmaveth, were truly what Melizar had encountered during the bond? That suddenly seemed an intriguing but very reasonable explanation.
If that were the case, however, then Melizar’s skepticism about some form of eternal existence might very well be in error. He had once before tried the soul-see spell on a full D’zarik, despite his mentor assuring him it only worked on humans and half-bloods. When his uncle had died, Melizar eagerly experimented with the spell but was unable to form any bond. Back then this was only the second time he had attempted the spell, so he assumed he had done something wrong in the casting, thus preventing the link from forming. Now he was not so sure.
What if the ancient writings were true? What
if the stories of the great battle were not just the stuff of myths and legends?
He knew Lord Yolodyr believed, but Melizar was convinced of their city leader’s insanity long ago. Gideon certainly seemed to believe it. Melizar’s new companion and captain seemed neither insane nor stupid. Anyway, sitting here and speculating wasn’t going to yield any answers. He would definitely need to investigate further and find his answers, but in the meantime, he had some information needed by his companions—information that there were three traitors, not just two.
Oh, what pain I will inflict when I get my hands on that bard. My hands!
The warmth of Thatcher’s hand upon his brought his exposure to sudden reality. He had to take off his gloves to form the bond with the Cyrian, but now at least the young thief whose crossbow had saved his life but a short time ago had seen his skin.
How many others had seen? Could he contain the information with the young thief? Melizar wasted no time. As casually as he could, he located his gloves and quickly slipped them on his hands.
“Thank you, Thatcher. I also thank you for saving my life earlier.”
He looked at the young thief, who didn’t appear overly concerned as his skin tone. Just to be safe, perhaps an appeal to the youngster’s interests might help build some loyalty Melizar could capitalize on later.
“So, young Thatcher, please allow me to repay you for the kindness you have done me this day. You mentioned to me once that you liked magical toys. Well, I have one that has been in our family for generations. I have no need for it, but someone in your, uh, profession might find it very useful.”
With that, Melizar pulled a tiny patch of black leather, with a loop of leather string connected to two sides, out of a small coin purse on his belt. He handed this to Thatcher.
Thatcher stared at the small black leather eye patch that Melizar had just handed to him, clearly not understanding the significance or value of the gift
“Uh, thanks. It’s just what I always needed: an eye patch.”
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