Now, shall we continue?
As the years passed, Ka'Narlist's eyes began to linger upon the stormy bay. He spent long hours pondering what might lie beneath the vast waters, both in the bay he saw and in the trackless seas beyond. Though scholar he was, he did not wish merely to know: he intended to possess.
Such ambitions were not unusual among his people. The Ilythiiri, the dark elves of the south, were fierce, warlike people who plundered and conquered and enslaved a thousand tribes. Not even their fair-skinned elven kindred were safe from their raids! Ka'Narlist had earned his wealth in such raids, and he'd also brought back as spoils of war slaves from many lands to labor in his keep, and to feed his pride. One of these captives was Mbugua, a shaman of the wemic. Of him we will speak again.
Despite all their power, the Ilythiiri were seldom content. Ka'Narlist possessed enormous wealth, magical spells beyond the comprehension of your mightiest mages, and the fearful respect of his tribe. Even so, as he gazed out over the watery realm that no dark elf could truly claim to rule, he came to think of his honors as insufficient: mighty stones, yes, but stones that would be worn down into sand by the pounding sea that is time. He came to envy the timeless powers of the gods. He aspired to claim such powers as his own.
Since Ka'Narlist was a scholar, he knew the legends that spoke of entire races brought into being to serve the purposes of their makers. If Gruumsh One-Eye had his ores and the Earth Mother her leviathan, Ka'Narlist reasoned, why could not a wizard of his stature fashion a race of his own? Creatures of his own making that would sing praises to him, that would enhance his power and increase his dominion?
There was no question in the wizard's mind as to what that dominion should be: Ka'Narlist wanted control of the sea depths. After much thought, he decided to create a seagoing people, a fierce race driven to brutally conquer their watery domain-in Ka'Narlist's name, of course. So that his "children" could never rise against him, he decided not to gift them with magical powers. Speed, stealth, voracious hunger, and treacherous cunning would be their weapons.
It was a simple matter to decide what must be done; the doing was far more difficult. But not, on the whole, unpleasant. At least, not unpleasant to one such as Ka'Narlist…
"Hand me the hooked knife," Ka'Narlist murmured absently. His attention was utterly fixed upon tormenting the unfortunate kodingobold strapped onto his study table; he did not bother to raise his crimson eyes to the wemic who stood attentively at his elbow.
Mbugua had the tool ready before the words were spoken-he had aided his master too many times not to understand what was needed-and he slapped the smooth handle onto the wizard's outstretched palm.
The wemic would have preferred to turn the blade, to drive it deep between two fragile elven ribs, or to slice off a couple of black fingers. Long and painful experience had shown him the folly of such action. Whenever Mbugua had attacked the Ilythiirian wizard, the intended wound had appeared not on the elf, but upon the wemic's own person.
Many times had proud Mbugua sought his freedom; many times had he woken on his pallet with a pounding head-and dim memories of the horrible rituals that had restored his maimed body. Once, only once, had he managed to deal a mortal blow, and thus had escaped Ka'Narlist into death. But the wizard's dreadful god, Ghaunadaur, had wrested the wemic from his afterlife and brought him back to this wretched captivity. Even after many years, memories of this horrific experience tore Mbugua screaming from his sleep. The evil that was Ghaunadaur, the power that was Ka'Narlist-the two had become one in Mbugua's mind.
Since the day of his too-brief death, Mbugua had to all appearances served his master without question or complaint. He did all things well, even attending Ka'Narlist on tasks such as this-tasks that could turn the stomach of a hunter, and that made the noble wemic's every instinct shout that it would be a holy act to run a spear through a being who could calmly, systematically inflict such pain on a living creature.
Not that Mbugua had any use for kodingobolds. They were nasty, odorous, rat-tailed creatures-ugly things with four-footed, doglike bodies that were topped with scrawny humanoid torsos and sly, bug-eyed faces. Gray of skin and of soul, they seemed to possess neither conscience nor ambition. Kodingobolds lived solely on whatever they could steal. They were cowards who fought only if they greatly outmassed and outnumbered their prey. And they had a particularly fondness for the flesh of young wemics. In years past, many an adventurous and wandering wemic cub had fallen prey to the disorderly packs of kodingobolds that had ranged the savannah. Mbugua's own tribe had nearly exterminated the murderous, thieving little creatures, and the wemic shaman did not mourn their loss. Even so, the look he cast at the shrieking, writhing kodingobold bordered on sympathy.
He himself had suffered similar experimentation, albeit with considerably more fortitude. Mbugua had been one of the first to pay the price for Ka'Narlist's latest ambition. The wemic's body had been probed and sliced and sampled until at long last the wizard was satisfied he had his sought-for answer. It was the blood, Ka'Narlist claimed-the secrets of life were in the blood.
Mbugua was a shaman, and his people and his magic said otherwise, but what words could argue against the wizard's terrible success? Ka'Narlist had used his wemic slave's blood as an ingredient in some dark magic; the eventual result was the birth of two new creatures-a tawny beast who boasted Mbugua's proud black mane and powerful four-footed body, and a humanlike infant with a wemic's dusky golden skin and catlike eyes.
Ka'Narlist's joy had matched Mbugua's horror. To the wizard, this represented the successful "separation" of the wemic into his apparently component parts: man and lion. To the wemic, this was an atrocity beyond comprehension. The elated Ka'Narlist did not notice the outrage and the grim purpose on his slave's leonine face. If he had, he could not have failed to realize that Mbugua had sworn a blood oath against him.
And yet, such knowledge would have mattered not at all. Ka'Narlist was secure in his pride and his power. The dire pledges of a wemic slave meant nothing to him. His own godlike work and the creatures it would eventually spawn: this, and only this, was important to Ka'Narlist.
And so through the years, while the lion-things begotten from Mbugua's stolen blood increased into a pride, and the near-human lad became but one of many such servants laboring in the wizard's household, Ka'Narlist captured or purchased rare creatures to study. The dark wizard searched for the blood secrets that made each race unique-indeed, the secrets of life itself. Though the castle's halls and stables and dungeons were full of strange beings born of his magical experiments, the wizard was not yet content.
"You have made many other kobolds, and you have released enough dingo-creatures into the hills to endanger your tribe's flocks and herds," Mbugua pointed out, lifting his voice to be heard above the kodingobold's agonized shrieking. "What more can you gain from this pathetic creature?"
For a moment, the wizard's knife ceased its grim work. "Not every experiment went as planned," Ka'Narlist murmured in an abstracted tone. "I must have reasonable assurance of success before I begin the final stage."
The final stage.
To the wemic, these words represented the ultimate obscenity. Among his people, children were treasured by the entire tribe, and the arrival of each healthy cub was an occasion for feasting and merriment. What Ka'Narlist proposed to do was unthinkable: the dark elf intended to create horrific children from his own blood, children that would be slaves at best, at worse coldly discarded if they did not fulfill the promise offered by Ka'Narlist's "reasonable assurances of success."
A sudden molten shriek ripped through Mbugua's grim reverie. The kodingobold's struggles, which had increased steadily as Ka'Narlist's ministrations systematically spread white-hot pain into every bone and sinew, abruptly ceased. The little creature went rigid, its body arched back, as taut as a hunting bow. Mbugua saw that the end was near, and reached for the next-needed tool.
A low, eerie keening filled the room, a sound that would
ever remind Mbugua of a gathering storm. Oddly defiant and swiftly growing in power, it was not a cry that one would expect to emerge from throat of a frail and cowardly kodingobold. But Mbugua the shaman heard this cry for what it was: even in the meanest of creatures, the force of life was strong. Every defense that nature had placed into the kodingobold's body was fighting the approach of death with a berserker's frenzy. Its life-force was as intense as midday sun focused into a single beam of light-powerful and primal as it made ready to spring free into the spirit world. In this final moment of mortal life, the kodingobold was more than a miserable outcast of the wild dog-folk: he embodied the very essence of his race.
Mbugua handed his master the bleeding bowl.
With a practiced hand, Ka'Narlist flicked a knife across the rigid, corded veins of the creature's throat, held the bowl and caught the pulsing blood without spilling so much as a drop. And all the while, he chanted words of dark power that he had learned (or so he claimed) at the feet of his dreadful god.
When at last the kodingobold lay silent and still, the wizard gave a single nod of satisfaction. "Dispose of the carcass, then attend me in my spell-chamber."
"As you command, Master."
Ka'Narlist heard the note of hesitation in his slave's voice. For a moment, he was puzzled: the once-rebellious Mbugua was now the most docile and reliable of all the wizard's servitors. Then the memories came, and with them, understanding. Ka'Narlist turned a supercilious smile upon the wemic.
"Ah. You wish to sing the creature's spirit away first, I take it?"
"If my master permits it," Mbugua said in a stiff voice. Among his people, a shaman owned the respect of his tribe. The Ilythiirian wizard's disdain for spirit-magic smote the wemic's pride-and kindled his wrath.
'Tell me," Ka'Narlist began, in the sort of voice one might use to tease information from a silly, sulky child, "what do you think might happen if you didn't indulge in these little games and rituals? Would we be tripping over vengeful spirits on every stairwell?"
Mbugua met the dark elf's mocking gaze. "Would you truly wish to find out?"
The wizard's smile flickered, then fled. He turned away, flicking the fingers of one hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Do what you will with the carrion. It matters not."
When Ka'Narlist's faint footsteps had faded into silence, Mbugua unstrapped the dead kodingobold from the table and slung the body over shoulders broader than those of any man. With catlike grace, the wemic made his way down the winding stairs that led from the wizard's spell tower to the great hall below.
A mind-staggering variety of creatures thronged the vast room, going about their appointed tasks with an alacrity born of fear. A flock of winged elves, their fingertips sparkling with minor magics, fluttered high overhead as they labored on the multitude of long, narrow windows that ringed the hall-each one of which was a priceless work of art fashioned from multicolored gems. Several four-armed ogrish kitchen slaves bustled through on their way to the dungeons, carrying the evening meal to those unfortunate creatures who awaited Ka'Narlist's attentions. A score of miniature red dragons, each no bigger than a plump meerkat, darted about, lighting candles and oil lamps with small gouts of flame. A horde of goblin slaves busily scrubbed the intricate mosaic floor. This might have been a common enough sight, but for the rare streak of whimsy that prompted Ka'Narlist to breed goblins with gaily colored hides: sunny yellow, topaz blue, bright clear pink. To Mbugua's eye, the hall looked like a meadow filled with hideous, two-legged flowers.
As the wemic stalked through the great hall on silent, massive paws, all others fell back to make way. There was not a soul in the hall who lacked personal experience with the wizard's dark work, and they held Ka'Narlist's leonine assistant in almost as much dread as they did the wizard himself.
The massive front door was flanked by a pair of mino-taur guards, huge beasts armed with wicked scimitars and unnaturally long horns. Before Mbugua could growl a command, the bull-men leapt into action. They raised the portcullis and then threw their combined weight against the wooden bolt that barred the outer door. The bar gave way with a groan, and the doors swung outward.
Mbugua padded out into the courtyard, gratefully filling his lungs with the cool evening air. The wizard's lair was always filled with smoke from the braziers, fetid steam from a dozen vile magical concoctions, and the ever-present scent of death.
The wemic made his way down a steep path to the rock-strewn coast below. There was a small cove, ringed with high-standing stones. He could do what he willed here, for the cove could not be seen from the castle windows and courtyard. The wizard's servants feared Mbugua too much to follow him here; the wizard himself was too prideful to imagine that anything a mere slave might do could be of any harm or interest. Mbugua's captivity and loyalty were maintained by powerful magical bonds: Ka'Narlist trusted in his own magic.
It was that very trust, that pride, and that magic that Mbugua would turn against the dark elf. These were the only weapons he knew strong enough to defeat the wizard.
The wemic dropped the kodingobold's body onto the hard-packed soil. He stooped and picked up a small, perfectly round black object that was hidden-in plain sight-among the many stones. Then, closing his eyes, he reached his arms high and began the slow, rhythmic breathing that cleared his mind and prepared him to see and hear the things that only a shaman could know.
In moments, Mbugua sensed the kodingobold's spirit, an unseen presence that lingered near like a furtive shadow. The wemic began to dance, at first padding slowly around the slain kodingobold, then moving more quickly with darting turns and leaps like those of a lion cub at play. His manlike arms wove a mystic pattern in counterpoint to the rhythm of his paws, magically describing the path that the kodingobold's bewildered spirit must follow. He sang as well-a deep, surging chant that soared out over the twilit sea and melded with the magic of the dance. It was a ritual the wemic shaman had performed many times.
But this time, it was slightly, profoundly different.
At last, Mbugua stood silent, his tawny form glistening with sweat as he gazed with mingled triumph and horror at the black pearl that lay in his hand, vibrating with a silent song that only a shaman could hear. The gem was a magical weapon-a device created by Ka'Narlist that could swallow the magic of his enemies. Ka'Narlist kept a heaping basket of these hungry gems in his arsenal. The wemic had stolen two of them, and had adapted the fearful devices to his own, even more fearful purposes.
Within his hand, within the pearl, was the trapped spirit of the kodingobold.
"Forgive me," Mbugua murmured, his wemic's pride doing battle against the apology his honor demanded. Yet he did not regret what he had done. Ka'Narlist had his work, and Mbugua had his own.
The wemic reclaimed the other "hidden" pearl from the shore and began the ritual anew-but this time, his song was infinitely darker and more seductive. This time, Mbugua intended to cast magic that would lure the spirit of a living being into his snares.
Your kindred are avid listeners, elf. See how they lean in, attending to my tale! They seem troubled by the wemic's plot. I have heard that elves do not disturb the afterlives of even their enemies. This says much to commend you-if it is true. I have also heard that elves show honor to bards, yet none among you has offered water or wine to sooth my throat and to speed the tale.
Ah, for me? You are a most gracious host. Yes, thank you, I feel quite refreshed. Yes, I would be pleased to continue.
"You have not sought me out in many moons," Satarah observed. Her calm, musical voice gave no hint to the question in her words, and her golden face was calm as she handed her "father" a steaming mug of tea.
But Mbugua heard the question with ears made sharp by guilt. "The wizard grows ever more obsessed with his work. I have had little time to call my own."
"And now that you are here, it must be for some purpose," the girl stated plainly. "I do not see you otherwise."
The wemic sighed. "I have done what I could, Satara
h. I named you for my own mother. I tried to teach you the ways of the pride. But it is difficult. This… this is not the life I would have chosen for you."
"Nor this body," she commented, gesturing toward her lithe, humanlike form. This time, a hint of bitterness crept into her voice and her eyes.
The wemic could not dispute her words. Satarah was one of the "children" created from his blood, and as such he owed her the love that was any child's due. But it was difficult It was difficult even to look upon her.
Satarah was beautiful-not even the wemic could deny that-but she was not one of the lion-folk. She had two long legs rather than four, shapely human feet rather than paws, and a slender, curvy body that would be the envy of any human or elven woman who set eyes upon her. Even Satarah's face was more elfish than wemish, with delicate features and no hint of the blunt cat nose that so often appeared on the children begotten of Mbugua's stolen blood. The few lingering hints of her wemic heritage only served to make her appear more exotic: her silky black hair was as thick and abundant as Mbugua's mane, her skin had a golden, sun-dusted hue, and her large, almond-shaped eyes were a catlike shade of amber. Yes, she was very beautiful, and nearly ripe for mating. Neither fact would long escape her master's attention.
"Why have you come?" Satarah repeated softly.
The wemic met her eyes. "Has Ka'Narlist taken you to his bed yet?"
Satarah's gaze kindled. "Is the wizard still alive? Am 7 yet alive? Answer those questions, and you have answered your own!"
Her fierce tone and blazing eyes smote Mbugua's heart-and firmed his purpose. The bonds of blood were strong indeed: Satarah might not look like his child, but he saw something of himself in her indomitable pride. This one, regardless of the conditions of her life, would ever be free.
"You cannot strike the wizard without bringing harm to yourself," he advised her.
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