Magician's Heir

by D Bruce Cotton

  Night had fallen by the time they passed through the far side of the canyon. On the other side, Mount Dismay dominated the skyline. Clouds of thick black smoke rose, outlined against the yellow glow of molten rock from the peak’s summit. The prisoners received no rest. Each time one fell, the sharp crack of a leather strap sounded until they climbed back to their feet again. Henslow had felt the lash’s sting several times already. His back and shoulders burned, sticky with crusted blood.

  Ahead, at the base of the mountain, a wide cave yawned. Stalactites lined the top of the cave’s opening. It looked to Henslow like a fang-encrusted mouth ready to swallow them whole. They had no chance of escape, no hope of redemption, once past the entrance. Body and soul, they would belong to the Dark Mage.

  Henslow strained against his bonds, his wrists already slick with blood from previous attempts. The intense pain kept him focused. He refused to concede without a fight. As they drew closer, he struggled harder. Fear and adrenalin sent strength surging through his tired body. With a snap, the bindings parted, freeing both hands. He reached for the coil around his neck, pulling with desperation against its choking grasp.

  “Captain! Look out!” Rosner warned with a shout.

  Something hard collided with the base of his skull and Henslow collapsed to the ground on his side, a marionette with its strings cut. His eyes fluttered a moment as he fought to remain conscious. A massive, clawed foot hit the ground by his face, raising a choking cloud of dust. He needed to cough, but could not draw breath. Dots of light danced across his vision. Far away he heard voices calling his name. Then black night reached out and pulled him into swirling darkness.

  HENSLOW AWOKE TO PITCH black. Head throbbing, he feared for a moment the blow had struck him blind. But when he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, sparks of light jumped behind both eyelids.

  “Hello?” he croaked. Dry dust coated his throat. “Is anyone there?”

  A hand reached out and gripped his forearm. Startled, Henslow recoiled, his back coming up against a hard stone wall. “Who is there?” he hissed.

  “Captain? It is me, Rosner,” came the reply. “Are you well? I feared the Dread’s blow had crushed your skull.”

  Henslow placed his hand against the back of his throbbing head. The hair felt tacky and matted with drying blood, but it seemed he’d live—at least for now. “A close thing, but I am well. Where are we? And where are my men?”

  Rosner’s disembodied voice echoed out of the darkness. “Gone. Two Dread came an hour back. They fought, but...

  A shriek of heart-wrenching agony cut Rosner off. Both men recoiled, horrified into stunned silence. The scream rose in pitch, higher, until it felt like white-hot spikes driven into their heads. Henslow pressed both hands over his ears, but could not block out the sound of agonizing pain. Not until the scream cut off did Henslow hear himself pleading, “No, Stevin... no!”

  “By the Power!” gasped Rosner. “That was Stevin?”

  A second shriek of anguish rose then, winding upward until both men felt driven to the edge of madness. Henslow pounded clenched fists into the unyielding rock floor, heedless of the damage he did to himself. “Bastard!” he screamed in fury.

  The second scream, too, cut off, leaving nothing but echoes fading away to total silence.

  Henslow pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped them in a tight embrace. He rocked himself back and forth, moaning. That, he told himself, is what Jaspher endured; the unimaginable torment of having your soul ripped from your body. His anger, his thirst for revenge, all came to nothing now. Failure upon failure weighed upon his shoulders. Loss had become an anchor pulling him down into anguish. His wife and unborn daughter, dead. Jaspher forever lost. And now, he’d failed the men and women under his command, too. A wave of despair washed over him. At that moment, he felt ready to die.

  Some time passed before he realized Rosner shook him, calling out his name. “Captain Henslow? Captain, what do we do? We must... there must be a way out. It cannot end like this!”

  But Henslow had nothing more to give; his despair complete. At last, Rosner gave up and dragged himself to a corner where he, too, curled up to wait for the inevitable.

  HOURS LATER, BOTH MEN woke to the creak and groan of metal. Pale light flickered through a barred window in the cell’s rusty iron door. Though faint, the light seemed blinding to Henslow and Rosner, and it grew brighter as the pad of footsteps echoed down the passage outside the prison cell.

  “It is them!” whimpered Rosner. “They come for us!”

  Sleep had enabled Henslow to recover somewhat. Though he held no hope for himself or Rosner, his determination to fight, despite the inevitable outcome, had returned. He owed his soldiers and Jaspher that if nothing else. As the light grew, he glanced over at the mage. Stained and filthy, Rosner’s robe bore little resemblance to the dignified attire he once wore. Face pale and filled with terror, he scrubbed with shaking hands at the streaks of dirt and fear-induced sweat. Henslow doubted he looked much better.

  The Captain hurried to the door and flattened himself against the wall beside it. He motioned for Rosner to stand as far away as possible to act as a distraction when the door opened. As he waited, he heard the fumble of keys outside, followed by the rusty grind of the protesting lock.

  The door opened and a massive black Dread ducked under the lintel, squeezing its bulk through the doorway. Henslow waited until the beast took one step toward Rosner. Then he launched himself at its back. It felt like trying to tackle a boulder, but Henslow clung to the creature’s back, an arm wrapped around the thing’s neck as he tried to choke it.

  As though a mere annoyance, the Dread reached back and cuffed Henslow, knocking him to the ground. He felt the sting where razor-sharp claws sliced through his cheek. Hot blood ran down into his beard. He gathered himself, prepared to attack once again, but pulled up short when he saw the thing’s shoulders shaking. It... it laughed at him!

  With a scream of rage, Henslow charged. But the Dread scooped him up, pinning him against its side with one massive arm. The musky scent of the thing’s hide nauseated him. With Henslow held immobile, the beast gathered Rosner with its other arm and ducked back through the doorway. A second Dread stood outside, a smoking torch held in one clawed fist. Henslow slumped in the thing’s grasp as he realized the futility of his attempted escape.

  Naked stone marked the exterior passage; carved through the heart of the mountain. Sharp protrusions and cracked knobs of dark rock marked the walls and ceiling. Only the floor stayed even, worn smooth by thousands of footsteps over the centuries. Though wide enough for the Dread to walk with both prisoners held at its side, the cave forced the beast to duck several times to avoid bashing its head against a projecting slab.

  The passage emptied into a wide, round opening. Stalactites had dripped down to merge with stalagmites, forming stone columns throughout the chamber. Henslow craned his neck to peer ahead. In the torch’s flickering light, he saw five openings in the far wall. The second Dread took the lead, striding straight to the center opening. Narrower than the previous passage, it made Henslow cringe each time his head, back or legs scraped against a stony projection. The passage split and then split again before dead-ending against a blank stone wall. Waves of heat radiated from the wall’s surface.

  The Dread wedged the torch into a notch in the wall and reached out, placing its splayed claws against the hot stone. Black power emanated from its touch, a spider web of energy which spread until it covered the entire wall. With a low rumble, the wall shook, receding a few feet before rolling out of the way to reveal a wide opening.

  Reddish-yellow light and waves of heat poured from the chamber. The Dread entered, followed by the second beast holding its two captives. Neither creature seemed affected by the torrid heat, but Henslow’s lungs felt seared with each breath. The Dread placed its prisoners on the ground, but held their necks in a tight grip to prevent any attempt at escape.

  Henslow stood
ankle deep in hot, black ash leading down to a lake of molten lava. Globules of boiling rock rose to the surface and burst with a torturous pop, splattering droplets of magma and releasing clouds of stinking sulfur. The scorching heat made Henslow’s eyes water. He scrubbed at them with the palms of his hands, trying to clear his vision.

  In the center of the molten lake, a flattened column of stone thrust up from the lava. Blinking hard, Henslow thought he saw several small figures atop the platform before the Dread shoved him and Rosner forward. Henslow kept his feet, but the mage stumbled and fell to both knees. Rosner gasped in pain then grabbed Henslow’s arm to pull himself back up. The front of his robe showed scorch marks where it touched the ash. Henslow already felt the temperature mounting in his feet and thanked the stars for his heavy boots.

  Another shove moved them closer to the fiery lake. Now Henslow saw a narrow finger of stone rising from the shoreline to form a bridge. He looked over at Rosner with a grimace and made his way toward the stone bridge. By the time he stepped from the ash to the walkway, Henslow had to breathe through clenched teeth. His long beard felt crisped by the heat and his clothing smoldered.

  The bridge sloped upward as he and the mage moved closer to the stone island. Though the heat remained suffocating, it grew bearable as they climbed higher. At last, they reached the end of the narrow bridge and stepped onto the stone island.

  Sides ragged and uneven, the floor at the top of the stone column looked like glass, unnatural in its smoothness. The platform measured only about fifty paces across. At its center, a small pool of bubbling lava shed reddish-yellow light. The figures Henslow saw earlier gathered at the far end of the platform. All three remained deep in the shadows—two standing and the third slumped to the floor between them. A fourth figure stepped around the center of the platform, emerging into the yellow light. A heavy black robe covered him; his face hidden in the shadows cast by its hood. Thick folds of cloth covered both feet and his left hand. Only the right hand remained visible. Long, cracked nails tipped yellowed fingers on the wrinkled and liver-spotted hand. They curled around the haft of a tall metal staff, darkened and pitted with corrosion. A black ring, its twisted metal shaped in the form of a screaming face, adorned his middle finger.

  “Power preserve us,” gasped Rosner, his voice a trembling whisper. “It is him! The Dark Mage!”

  After a short bow of acknowledgement, the figure pulled back his hood, revealing an ancient face marked by deep lines and wrinkles. A large aquiline nose protruded beneath deep-set eyes glowing like burning rubies. Pallid skin hung from his chin in a wattle quivering with every movement. Hairless except for a few stray wisps, thin blue veins marked his age-mottled head.

  “Welcome, gentlemen.” The low-pitched voice rattled in his chest, menace dripping like venom with every word. “I trust you found your quarters comfortable?” His thin lips curled back in a smile, revealing blackened teeth.

  “I must apologize to have kept you waiting,” he rasped, “but it has been quite a busy day. You are not my only visitors, you see.” The Dark Mage looked back at the shadowy figures and beckoned with one finger.

  The two standing figures reached down and seized the third. With great effort, they dragged him across the stone platform and into the light. At an unspoken order from the Dark Mage, they let their heavy burden slump to the floor before moving to stand at either side of their master.

  The two figures had the drawn, white faces and blank eyes of the Unsouled. But Henslow recognized them. Stevin and Danyll.

  “Bastard!” he screamed. Henslow leaped for the Dark Mage’s throat but a clawed fist closed around his neck from behind. He tore at the Dread’s cruel grasp, but succeeded only in cutting his hands on the creature’s sharp talons.

  “Ah,” smiled the Dark Mage. “Friends of yours, I assume?” He licked his lips with a pallid tongue like a diseased worm. “They were such tasty morsels, too.”

  Enraged, Henslow struggled harder. But the Dread continued to squeeze. Black spots danced before his eyes and he slumped in the Dread’s grasp.

  “Enough,” snapped the Dark Mage. “I desire for him to see this.”

  The Dread released its grip and Henslow collapsed to the floor. Several gasping breaths cleared his vision, but his throat ached as though crushed. Still, he glared up at the evil mage, his teeth bared.

  But the Dark Mage dismissed him. His attention focused now on the slumped captive stirring at his feet. Henslow blinked hard in the low light, noticing the man for the first time. Easily the largest man he’d ever seen, the prisoner’s skin... it looked gray in the muted red light.

  Rosner gasped. “By the Power! A giant?”

  Dressed in a dirty leather jerkin and leggings, the hairless giant had deep-set eyes burning with ill-contained fury over a broad, flat nose. A rumbling snarl came from deep within his chest past thin lips drawn back from square, white teeth. The giant had a thick, heavy jaw and ears so small as to be almost nonexistent. The heavy shackles encasing his wrists clinked as he moved to a sitting position. Thick, oaken muscles flexed as he strained against the bonds.

  “Ah, good. Craigen awakens at last, I see,” said the Dark Mage. “We can begin.”

  The Dread standing behind Rosner clamped each of the mage’s arms in its huge claws.

  “No!” shouted Rosner. “N-no, please!”

  The Dread forced him forward until he stood but two feet from the Dark Mage. Sweat poured from the terrified Rosner as those burning red eyes bored into his.

  The Dark Mage cackled, relishing every moment of the mage’s terror. “You fear joining your comrades?” he asked, nodding at the motionless Stevin and Danyll. “Oh my friend, I have so much more planned for you. Joining the Unsouled would take your powers, leaving you as another mere soldier in my armies. Mages are far more useful—and obedient—when I give back something in exchange for their souls. Not much, mind you; just the tiniest fragment of my own essence.”

  The Dark Mage moved closer, bringing his face to within inches of Rosner’s. “You remember Meloch, do you not? He, too, feared my small gift. But once bestowed, he proved more than anxious to serve. In fact, he delivered the town of Lakeshore to me as a token of his gratitude.

  “Now, please forgive me. I fear this may hurt just a tiny bit.”

  The Dark Mage stepped back and slammed the heel of his staff against the floor. Both the staff and his entire body burst into black flame. But the fire emitted no heat, shed no light. Instead, the blaze radiated a terrible cold. Harsher than the bitterest winter, this cold might well rival the icy void of space. Higher the flames rose, drinking in the heat and light of the molten lake. Henslow shivered as his sweat-soaked clothing froze to his skin.

  And Rosner screamed.

  The screams were of such horrifying agony it seemed impossible they could come from a human throat. The mage slumped in the Dread’s grasp, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Every tendon of his neck stood out in relief. His mouth stretched wide, wider, until it seemed his jaw must break from the stress. The screams wound higher, then higher still.

  “Stop! I cannot stand it! Please!” Henslow begged with his head wrapped in both arms. Blood flowed where he chewed his lip; the pain his last anchor on sanity.

  Rosner’s screams cut off in mid-shriek. Henslow looked up through tear-filled eyes. The mage hung unmoving in the Dread’s grasp, mouth open in a frozen rictus. No sound remained but the clink and snap of chains as the giant struggled to break free.

  Then Rosner gave a final, terrible groan. From deep inside, there came a sound like cloth tearing and a soft white mist flowed from Rosner’s mouth. The delicate mist gathered, billowing in the air.

  The Dark Mage’s eyes glittered with a ravenous hunger. Inhaling, he drew the white mist in through his mouth, feeding on Rosner’s soul. The slavering sounds and moans of delight from the Dark Mage’s feast seemed somehow worse than Rosner’s screams. Henslow felt his mind slip, tilting toward madness. It came almost as a
relief. Any escape from this endless nightmare would be welcome.

  But the Dark Mage hadn’t finished yet. Jaws stretching wide, a tiny puff of black mist emerged from his mouth. Unlike the captive mage’s pale, ephemeral vapor, this black cloud appeared dense, almost solid. It stretched, snake-like, before Rosner’s unseeing face. Then it wriggled down the mage’s throat.

  Though it seemed impossible, Rosner’s eyes stretched even wider. Released from the Dread’s hold, the mage stumbled, falling to both knees. He knelt there for a moment, coughing and retching. Then his eyes rose to meet the Dark Mage and his lips curled in a maniacal grin. “Master,” he whispered, a tinge of ecstasy in his voice. “Command me.”

  Nodding in approval, the Dark Mage motioned Rosner to his feet. “You are mine, mage. But there is one more requirement before I send you into the world, to sow discontent and confusion among my enemies.” Kneeling by the small pool of lava, he wrapped a heavy cloth around the end of an iron rod jutting from the molten rock. Grasping it tight in one hand, he lifted it. Thick droplets of lava hung from the end, only to drip and splatter with a hiss to the floor. Turning, he held the brand high. Bent and twisted, the white hot iron formed a pair of feral eyes, the pupils ragged slits glowing white with heat. “To serve me, you must bear my mark.”

  “Gladly, my master!” Rosner ripped open his robe, bearing himself.

  The Dark Mage pressed the brand to Rosner’s thin, hairless chest. Henslow looked away in revulsion. But he could not block out the searing crackle or the horrific stench of burning flesh filling the air.

  Though it seemed endless, the branding lasted mere seconds. Rosner didn’t cry out. The mage seemed not to feel the iron’s fiery touch at all. When it ended, he turned to Henslow, his face twisted in exaltation. He thrust out his chest, proud of the horrible mark he now bore.

  The Dark Mage returned the brand to the pool of lava and motioned the two Unsouled to stand at Rosner’s side. “Go, my servants. You have much to accomplish when you arrive in Seir.”