Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  “Can you not feel it?” he asked as he turned, a wild look upon his face. “Can you not see through the illusion yet? I admit,” he said looking down into the hole once again, “I did not entirely believe it would hold this long myself.” Looking back to Intellos, he continued, “But your kind is weak minded with only a fleeting understanding and our power is growing. But even now, it is nothing compared to what it will become. Baguul is only the first step, the first general.”

  “What do you mean ‘first step’?” asked Intellos.

  “Here, perhaps this will help,” said Lord Artus as he waved his hand in the air and spoke a series of unidentifiable words.

  When the last one faded into the substance of memory, the veil fell thudding into the realization that the world he knew inside the Osin Thion was nothing more than an illusion. It began with the fading of the marvelously decorated Sanctum as its floors were no longer covered by the intricately marbled tiles but were revealed to be nothing more than half rotten wood planks loosely held together by rusted nails and, in some cases, fraying twine. The walls no longer shimmered with the specs of starlight, instead, they were uncolored and unkept, covered by either rot or black mold. Everywhere he looked, Intellos saw what he believed to be the Osin Thion change before his eyes into the broken remnants of a forgotten and neglected castle.

  However, as stark and complete as the change had been to the structure of the Osin Thion, it was nothing in comparison to the changes he saw in its people, and the changes he felt within himself. When he turned his attention from the walls, floors, and great candelabras that completely dissolved away, to the audience, he saw the same fate consume them. There were some people who were not dissolved into oblivion; however, their change was even worse. So pleasant had they been while he was taken by the illusion that he almost felt like he was home, but so different had they become when he saw them at their truth, that he was beginning to feel fear.

  Those that remained were grossly deformed, each with their own representations of horror as different as the light was from the dark. Some had no faces, others had two faces, but lacking any similarity, and still others had no definable head upon which a face could sit. Legs and arms became undistinguishable on some of them. Eyes, teeth, ears, hair all expressed themselves randomly and without pattern from body to body. But as dissimilar as each individual had become, they held one solid commonality linking each of them together more firmly than the strongest of family bonds – they were all unmistakably evil. Except for he and the thirteen other participants, each of the people were revealed as part of the illusion.

  He looked inward, toward his talent, to grasp onto some form of solidity within the quickly eroding illusion; but when he was unable to engage it, his memory came rushing back and crashed into him with the force of a tidal wave that completely consumed a small, coastal city leaving nothing in its wake except destruction and desolation. He staggered in the wake of his revelation. He staggered, and Lord Artus saw.

  “We are powerful,” said Lord Artus, drawing his attention. When Intellos looked at him, still expecting to see the Lord of The Osin Thion as he first appeared to them a short while ago, he was further stunned to see not a man, but a deformed entity of evil. He wore no clothes and had no visible features resembling humanity except a loosely defined human shape comprised of four thin limbs, a grossly thin body and an elongated head. Intellos could see no eyes upon its face, nor could he see a nose, but he did see a mouth set with a gruesome row of teeth too large to be hidden behind the cracked and blood lined, thin lips. Its skin, emaciated and pale, barely hiding a wisp like musculature, looked as though it could tear with the slightest of pressure.

  “We are many,” it said as it floated inches off the ground. “What can you do to stand against us?”

  Nothing, thought Intellos. He could do nothing against this evil, this power. When he was consumed within the illusion, something he now understood as a machination of this evil being, he was The Grand Wizard again. He had the full complement of confidence in his powers as if they had never been torn from him so much so that the concept of fear never crossed his thoughts. After all, there were not many things that could elicit fear from the greatest wizard of the realm. But now, once the veil trapping his mind had been lifted, and he was able to see and know again without the influence of the illusion, he solidly understood the merits of his potential to stand against this supernatural power. He understood it, and found it lacking. His eyes glanced to where he had seen the little girl hoping she was not part of the illusion. Indeed, she was not, but his heart further sank when he saw her being held by what he assumed to be the man he had seen with her. However, it was not a man at all, but a creature possessing a grotesque resemblance to Lord Artus’s true form.

  Recognition. He looked down to the paper in his hand and then back to the little girl. He knew her. As it was, his familiarity with her inside the illusion was not part of the illusion itself. Indeed, he knew this little girl. From the first moment she walked into his classroom, a moment that seemed longer ago than all the lifetimes he had lived within The University, spilling her ink all over the floor as she stumbled, he knew her. He looked down to the paper once again, this time unfolding it. When it opened, he saw the familiar script-like drawing she called her scribbles. He looked more closely this time, more closely than he had looked at anything before in his life, and saw it shared many of the same characteristics as the writing he saw in the cavern of The Dragon King, Lacorion.

  “What can you do to stand against us, wizard?” asked the deformed Lord Artus, spitting the last word as if he had called upon the greatest insult he could offer his most hated foe. But Intellos did not hear him. Too engrossed had he become in the faint glow of the scribbles on the paper, Anaria’s scribbles. Slowly and smoothly, the scribbles lifted from the paper, shimmering with the same golden iridescence as the words in the cavern. “No,” said Lord Artus.

  As the words lifted higher in the air, their glow and size increased.

  “No,” said Lord Artus again, this time showing the first sign of possible doubt.

  When they hung nearly ten feet above where Intellos was standing and had grown to a size even greater than the candelabras, they began to shimmer and vibrate, almost begging for their purpose to be completed. Intellos looked to Anaria, but she had been thrown to the floor by the being who was now powerfully striding toward him.

  “No!” shouted Lord Artus as he floated in the air attempting to strike at the words. But when his attempts were unsuccessful, he shouted again, “Stop him!”

  When Intellos looked back to the words, he noticed he could read them.

  “And His gifts are many, some to be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers”

  Inside The Sanctum, a battle was raging, though there were no swords drawn, nor magic used, nor attacks of any kind. You see, the battle was over identity, and its field was Intellos’s intent. What would he believe? Would he see everything his knowledge was telling him? That he was nothing and could do nothing because he no longer possessed the power defining the full scope of his ability? Or would he see with a sight more deeply real than whatever the eyes could show? Could he see beyond the illusion of knowledge and into the realm of faith, the very same realm Lacorion had bid him to see? The answer to all of these questions would not be found in any of the countless books he had read over the years, nor would it be found in any of the research he had conducted, as it had nothing to do with knowledge and everything to do with living and breathing belief. As he stared at the words, now beginning to dissolve away, as Lord Artus continued shouting commands to his demonic followers, as the pulsating power from within the hole continued to grow in rapidity and strength, one single consideration dominated all of him: Who was he?

  Though everything was raging around him, he was suspended within the boundaries of his own mind wrestling to make a decision that would allow him to reengage with mortality and act. Out of habit, he ins
tinctively reached inside his robe pocket. Inside, he found another piece of paper, the very first of Anaria’s scribbles. In a daze, he pulled it out and unfolded it. To his surprise, he could now read the letters as clearly as he read those that hung in the air. There were two small words, but they were the most important words he had ever read and would ever read again for they answered his question and told him who he was.

  The Mage

  Choice. That was the answer. Nothing more than a decision separated him from his full potential. It is true that he was no longer a wizard, nor would potentially ever be again having had its defining characteristic ripped away. His knowledge, experience, and understanding of the world and how it worked told him that. But here was something altogether separate from those telling him something different. As he read the words again, he felt them sink into the very fabric of what he was, or could become. His heart quickened, his breathing stopped, and his mind became more quiet than the totality of nothingness. Inside this space, inside this moment of peaceful reckoning, he was free to exist as he had been intended to exist. So, he chose and he became.

  With his eyes closed, he saw everything, which is to say he saw the totality of The Great Dragon King, Lacorion, as everything. Flooding his consciousness was the image of His magnificent body, unimaginable voice, and all-encompassing Will. From that image of utter completeness, Intellos heard what could only be God’s own voice say one phrase. However, it was not a statement that required any of his own acknowledgement to cement its validity. Rather, it was a statement that, once made, bent all other finite comprehensions into alignment with its unyielding and unavoidable truth. With a voice that would have rattled the very fabric of creation if it willed it, the image of Lacorion spoke. It spoke, and Intellos believed.

  You are The Mage.

  During his youth, Intellos often compared the surge of power when uniting his knowledge with his talent as balancing a complex mathematical equation thereby proving one side was equal to the other. And only when the proof was completed could the equation become manifested to spells that could affect the world. But when the powers of faith and belief struck his conscious intent and aligned with the Will of God as spoken by the Great Gold Dragon, there was no equation to be balanced because there was only one side, His. In this belief, born from the will to choose rather than the senses to see, Intellos asserted his will as an act of obedience to His Will and spoke a single word, “Dra’glorca.”

  The very instant his word was completed, an eruption of utter purity exploded around him knocking back the surging impurities of Lord Artus and his minions. Opening his eyes revealed two golden orbs shining brilliantly where his mortal eyes had previously been. The hole responded by surging forth its own chaotic blast aimed directly at Intellos. A violet stream of dark power assaulted him, but he stood fast. “Dra’ceptin,” he said extending his hand toward the violet energy. It swirled around him momentarily, but then gathered and was absorbed by his outstretched palm.

  Having recovered from being stunned, Lord Artus gathered himself, made a quick motion with his hands, and watched as a black ball of charged hate formed in front of him. With a quick and subtle motion, he sent it streaming toward Intellos. It impacted him square in the chest and knocked him back several feet where he landed against one of the padded pews. Lord Artus laughed with a slow and insidiously dark amusement. “Stay down and I will make your death quick and painless,” said Lord Artus as he floated just above the ground.

  “Yes, well, I have never been very good at conceding victory,” said Intellos as he gained one of his knees.

  “Then I hope you are better at dying,” said Lord Artus as he snickered.

  “I have never been good at that either,” said Intellos as he stood up and inhaled.

  Lord Artus, or whatever it was, did not wait for Intellos to collect himself and decided to test Intellos’s defiance without pause. He made more slight movements with his hands and summoned another black ball of evil energy. It streaked toward Intellos with malicious intent. Being the Grand Wizard had placed him in many situations where reaction needed to be directed without thought, for even the fraction of a second it took to think of a response was too long. All wizards knew and understood this, and the greatest of them perfected it by preparing several spells in advance so when called upon, there was no delay between thought and action. And while, under normal circumstances with the full repertoire of his vast magical knowledge, this would have posed no problem for Intellos, it did now. Instinct took over and he reached for his talent causing the black ball of energy to slam into his chest sending him reeling again.

  Lord Artus bellowed a loud and boisterous laughter. He was joined by his minions who formed a circle around Intellos as he lay trying to find the strength to stand. He rolled onto his back and turned his head toward the hole. He saw the thirteen other participants held fast by some of Lord Artus’s minions. However, without the illusion’s effect, he knew them, all of them. He knew Borinth, Dianali, Uuntule, Aglascio, and he knew Lupara. Seeing her in the strong grip of a horrid creature birthed a determination seeded deep within him. He heard her cry, but not with his ears. Each tear that streaked down her face landed not on the ground beneath her, but upon his steadfast belief that he was enough because he had to be enough. As he breathed deeply, he saw Borinth strike out at the being holding him with a fist he managed to wrestle free. As he did, Dianali also managed to wriggle an arm free striking her capture as well. However, in the blink of an eye, they were subdued by four more minions that threw them to the ground, quickly binding their arms.

  “You see now? Do you understand that you cannot possibly stand against us?” said Lord Artus as he floated to where Intellos still lay. “It is time,” he said and motioned to the minions holding the captives. Lord Artus waved his hands in the air again. Intellos was lifted from the ground and held suspended by some unseen power. “I will make you watch,” said Lord Artus.

  Intellos laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” asked Lord Artus.

  “Because I believe something you do not,” he answered.

  “What could you possibly believe that I do not already know?” asked Lord Artus through a sneer.

  “I am enough,” he said.

  Lord Artus’s sneer deepened into a growl as he waved his hands again. This time, however, before he could complete his spell, Intellos uttered another word, “Dra’balosh.” In an instant, the power holding Intellos was severed and he was free to move. Another word flowed from his will to his lips breaking upon the silent motion of Lord Artus’s hands like the first anvil strike of a blacksmith’s heavy hammer as it shatters the peacefulness of a quiet beginning. “Dra’cris.” From his outstretched palm streaked a golden beam of holy energy. Before Lord Artus could react, and it would not have mattered if he did, it struck him squarely in his chest, burning him on impact. Lord Artus shrieked in agony. His minion horde wailed in response, and the hole growled with anger. Evil was not finished, but neither was Intellos.

  As the minion horde, all but those holding the other thirteen captives, rushed toward him, Intellos spoke another word and fluidly levitated into the air out of their claw’s reach. He glanced toward his companions and saw they were being forcefully pushed closer to the hole. Lord Artus stood again and motioned his hands toward the ceiling. A low rumble, a few loud cracks, and the roof began to collapse above the floating Mage.

  “Dra’tsukin!” shouted Intellos. A shimmering golden shield appeared above him, preventing the debris’ crushing impact. Again, and again, Lord Artus motioned with his hands and again and again bolts of black liquid hate screamed toward Intellos only to be dissipate against his shield. The minions crawled up the walls and were now leaping toward the floating Mage. He was able to avoid the first three, but between Lord Artus’s hate filled energy bolts, the constant assault from the hole as it poured forth more negative energy, and the leaping minions, he was beginning to lose whatever advantage he had gained. He barely and e
nough time to chance a glance toward his companions between attacks. He saw Uuntule as he was thrown into the hole and felt it surge with a joyous rapture. He saw Aglascio almost crumble to the ground, screaming and yelling as tears streamed down his face. He saw Borinth and Dianali cursing and struggling against the minions holding them, and he saw Lupara as she was pushed toward the hole by two minions holding her by her harms. As a result of his divided attention, he did not notice that his shield had been worn away leaving him vulnerable. Lord Artus motioned his hands one final time creating a steady stream of dark energy. As it struck Intellos, and his mind went numb, he saw the glistening tears in Lupara’s eyes as she was pushed to the threshold of the hole. And then, silence.

  “Why do you struggle, my son?” asked a voice.

  “I cannot win,” he answered.

  “No, you cannot,” responded the voice.

  “Why?” asked Intellos. “Then why try?”

  “Because trying is an act of faith. One cannot possess it and not act,” answered the voice.

  “It is not enough,” said Intellos. “I am not enough.”

  “No, you are not,” agreed the voice, compassion and empathy lacing its response. “But I am.”

  “I am not you,” said Intellos.

  “No, you are not,” agreed the voice once again.

  “The how can I win?” he asked.

  “Because I am with you,” it said.

  In the realm of understanding, conceptualization and comprehension flows from a distinctly selfish perspective insomuch as it is filtered through a perception centered around the self. Therefore, all points of realization are limited by one’s own understanding. The more finite one is, the more finite that understanding. So, to truly understand the limitless potential of belief is impossible even if one engages everything to that end because, even in the vast resources of his lifetimes of existence, Intellos’s definition of enough went only so far as his own mortal limitations, regardless of the potential of his newly found power. Therefore, to catalyze that stagnant potential into an unbound, dynamic manifestation, he had to let go of himself and put to rest his own efforts thereby allowing the power flowing within him to guide him and, for lack of a better term, control him without his own finite insurgence. That is what the voice was telling him, and that is what he understood. So, at the turning point of this battle, when everything about him and in him told him to fight more, try more and resist more, he stopped all effort and simply believed. He uttered no more words, made no more motions, and employed no more of his attempts, but that is not to say he was done. He had but one thing left to do, one thing left he could do. He resigned.