The Tower of Sorcery f-1

by James Galloway

  "What's there?"

  "The Citadel of the Hill," he said cryptically.

  "So?"

  "So, the Citadel has a complement of Sorcerers there," he said. "It's part of the treaty the katzh-dashi have with the Crown that ten Sorcerers be present at the four Citadels that defend Sulasia's borders. The Citadal of the Hill is the closest one, so we need to ride up there and have a talk with the katzh-dashi pulling a yearly rotation. I think they'll be more trustworthy than the ones at the Tower, and we may need their help. I'll have Koran Dar write a letter ordering them to return, and that will give us ten more trustworthy people to help us in the Tower."

  "That is a good idea," Darvon said. "Ulger, you and Kelliver better get some warm clothes. It's going to be a frosty ride."

  "Why ride?" Tomas asked. "I'll have the Tenspan sail them up there. That should cut a ride off the trip."

  "But the ice-" Darvon began to object.

  "The Tenspan is a raker, Lord General," Tomas told him. "It will have no trouble getting up there."

  "I thank you, Tomas," Darvon said. "This is much more than we would have asked of anyone."

  "I may be a merchant, but I'm also a Sulasian, Lord General," Tomas said. "I think that Sulasia needs us right now."

  "Well said," Ulger agreed. "I'll go fetch Kelliver, Lord General. We need to start getting ready."

  "Good idea," he agreed, and the Knight stood, nodded to Tarrin, and then exited the study. "I think it's time for all of us to start getting ready," he announced. "You all have a trip to take, and Tomas, Sevren, and I have alot to do. Let's go start getting ready."

  Tarrin felt curiously alone after they broke up and began returning to their rooms, to pack away their belongings and prepare. But for what he felt, there was no one to confide in. Allia would justify his actions, and Keritanima wouldn't care either way. But they didn't have to live with the terrible truth. A truth that had only just begun to impact him.

  He had killed hundreds of people, with his bare paws. Without mercy. Some of them had been defenseless. He had turned into the monster he always feared he would become, and he knew that it could-no, it would-happen again. There was no way he could stop it, nothing he could do to prevent it. The next time he felt that threatened, he would snap, and the monster within would be unleashed. And now that he had agreed to this mad task for the Goddess, he knew he would be put in a position Goddess knew how many times where he would lose control. As the memories of his acts began to return, he began to fear himself more and more, fear what he was capable of doing. Once, he nearly killed his own mother. He feared for those around him, fearing that they too would find themselves at the points of his claws. That one thought was enough to send his mind whirling in dread, and he realized then that the tenuous balance he had found within himself had been destroyed. He was teetering on a razor's edge. Madness waited on one side, and turning into an emotionless monster waited on the other. He had thought that he had mastered that danger, had understood the Cat within him and found a harmony with it.

  He couldn't have been more wrong.

  Madness was a very real threat to him, as was turning vicious. He dimly knew that that had already begun. He was turning Feral, and though he didn't understand the full truth of that name, that condition, he knew it was starting to happen to him. It didn't seem much of a life. Live insane, or live in fear and anger of everyone around him, without love or trust of anyone or anything. That in itself would drive him mad.

  But he had a job to do. He promised the Goddess he would do it, and Were-cats didn't lie. He would try. He was a very unwilling participant in this game of hers, but there was too much at stake for him not to do anything. He had no idea what lay in store for him out there, in the large, dangerous world, but there was only one thing he cared about.

  The Firestaff.

  When he found it, he would destroy it, and then he could live in peace.

  Peace was all that mattered.

  He just hoped he would still be sane by the time he got there.

  Tarrin left the study, his mind full, his heart heavy, and his future uncertain. But there was only one certainty left within him, one guarantee laying clearly before his path.

  His fight for survival, for sanity, for his future, had only begun.

  The night was cold, and it was starting to lean towards morning.

  The Star of Jerod was an old ship, a galleon of Shacean build, patched and with pitted paint and an aged feel that hinted at how much activity the old girl had seen in her time. She was moored up to a stone quay near the end of the long line of piers, on a private quay owned by Tomas and his merchant company. The place was relatively isolated, and that allowed them to board the ship without much fear of interference, even though activity could be seen on other docks and quays not far away.

  Tarrin looked up at the old ship with a bit of uncertainty. He had never been on a ship larger than a riverboat before, and his old fear of how strangers would react to him had begun to gnaw at his mind. But it was Allia who showed the strongest reaction, staring at the ship in wide-eyed fear, and glancing at the cold water of the harbor like it was a live snake. Allia had a fear of water, a fear born of her desert-born background, and for her, it was a supreme act of will to put her foot on the gangplank.

  He looked back on the city. It was a city he really had never known. He had never really walked through it during the day, and every time he had ventured out, he had always been hiding, sneaking, or running. The Tower's seven towers rose up on their gentle hill near the center of the city, a stark reminder of what he was leaving, what had happened to him. It was his past, a past of pain and uncertainty, full of fear and foreboding. But there had been good times. There had been laughter and love, passion and terror, pain and joy. There had been tension, and there had been days spent in carefree companionship with his sisters. It had been good and bad, and though his mind wanted to dwell on the negatives, on how he felt at that moment, he couldn't look back at the Tower and say that every memory from it was a bad one. It was where he met Allia, where he met Keritanima, and where he had learned about the Goddess. It had dominated his life for the last few months, both as an object to attain, a place to live, and an institution to fear.

  It was the Tower of Sorcery, and it had become part of him. Both the good and the bad, to mirror the dichotimous aspects of his own existence.

  And now it was behind him. What had happened to him there had jaded him against the katzh-dashi…he would never trust them again. What had happened to him had changed him, in many ways, not all of them for the good. He could no longer look back on the Tower, look up to the Tower, take comfort in the Tower, or rage against the Tower. There was only him, his Goddess, his sisters, his friends, and the dangerous mission upon which they were about to embark.

  Whatever happened now, he was on his own.

  Tomas and Janine stood at the head of the gangplank. The others were already aboard, and Sevren had already returned to the Tower. The pair looked up at him with love in their eyes, and he couldn't look at them without both fear of himself and a profound respect for them. They had really been there for him, for his family, and he truly loved them like his own.

  "I'm sorry I've been such a pain, Tomas," he said contritely, scrubbing the back of his head with a paw.

  "Nonsense," he smiled. "Now get on the boat. The others are waiting for you."

  He gave Tomas a rough hug, then he took Janine in his arms and squeezed her gently. "I'll miss you. Take care of my little mother for me."

  "Always," she said, leaning up and kissing him on the cheek. "Now go on. Time is wasting."

  With a last look at them, he nodded, then walked up the gangplank. Time was indeed wasting.

  The battered old ship slipped its hawsers and drifted away from the dock with the receding tide, heading out towards the open sea. The crew quickly and efficiently raised the sails, and the grand old lady swooped into life, cutting the gently rolling waves as it ventured out into the world
beyond the safety of everything he had known.

  Tarrin stood at the bow, staring out over that vast expanse of water, with Allia under one arm and Keritanima on the other, as they simply enjoyed each other's company. It was a journey of unknowns, and a journey of danger. But before he could face what he had to do, he had to face what he had already done. That reckoning was coming. And soon. He wouldn't feel like he did forever. But with his sisters near him, he felt that he had a chance to come to terms with the horrible things he had done. Things still looked uncertain, even grim, but he couldn't allow his own uncertainty to drag him down.

  He had to be strong. The Goddess was depending on him.

  The sun peeked over the land behind, lighting the way for the tough old ship as she plied her way into the Sea of Storms, left Suld behind and embarked on another journey.

  For the old ship, every journey was an adventure. And this one would prove to be no different.

  To: Title EoF

  Epilogue

  The battlements of Castle Keening were mysteriously quiet, the ever-present wind that gave the high fortress its name in a rare respite. The cause of this calm was unnatural, and the night itself seemed to sense this. It was as if the night, and nature, had recoiled from the grim fortress, pulling away so as not to be corrupted by what was transpiring within.

  The symbol inlaid into the floor was decorated with mother-of-pearl and gold, and it represented the three mystical forms of protection for Wizardy. A pentragram rested within a concentric circle, which was itself contained inside a thaumaturgic triangle. The threefold defense was necessary for the conjuring of the most powerful forms of extra-dimensional entities, such as Demons, for the power of only one was pitifully inadequate to contain such mighty entities. Nine Wizards stood within the large chamber, illuminated by a trio of braziers at the points of the triangle, three to a side of the triangle and with hand upraised from their voluminous black robes. They chanted in a discordant, ugly language, but the harmony of their speaking gave the chant an eerie choral quality that reverberated from the walls. Kravon stood at the center of the side considered to be the strongest of the triangle, his arms down, though his voice was raised with the others in their chanting.

  Two burly, mailed guards dragged a third man into the chamber, a large, muscular man with dark hair and fair eyes. He has nude, and his body showed the marks of someone who was tortured into compliance. They had to carry the semi-conscious man to the edge of the triangle, where, at a nod from the this, cadaverous Wizard, he was cast into the triform symbol. The man lay there, groaning, though his groans were drowned out by the voices of the Wizards around him.

  And then they stopped. Kravon stood alone when the other eight stepped back, and his voice alone suddenly thundered through the chamber. Arcane words of power flowed from his lips smoothly, flawlessly, and the three fires within the braziers suddenly began to flare and wane in concordance with the power of his voice. He pointed at the man laying within the symbol and spoke a single word, and the braziers suddenly flared, sending flames high into the arched chamber, bringing the brilliance of the noontime sun into the dark gallery.

  The man on the floor screamed. He writhed, got to his knees, held his head between his hands, and screamed a scream that only the dying could emit. Kravon watched with stoic interest as the man's body began to shudder, and then it suddenly turned gray. The man's spirit was cast from its mortal shell, and the body quickly dessicated, shriveled, flesh putrifying and eyes melting away. The body stopped shuddering and stood, and an ornate, archaic suit of armor simply appeared around the body. Red light appeared within those empty eye sockets, and a shield appeared on the figure's left arm.

  "Why have ye summoned me?" Jegojah, Doomwalker, demanded in a dry voice, a voice from the grave. "Our bargain, it was fufilled, yes."

  "No," Kravon said calmly. "The Were-cat still lives. You have failed."

  "The Were-cat, he is a Weavespinner," the dead figure said in a hissing voice. "This you did not tell Jegojah. Had Jegojah known, A better battleground Jegojah would have chosen. Battling a Weavespinner that close to a Conduit, it is suicide, yes. No fault of Jegojah caused Jegojah to fail, yes. The bargain, it is fulfilled. Now release Jegojah to rest, as was promised!"

  "You failed me," Kravon said. "And you forget who holds your soul." The wizard held up a small diamond amulet, an amulet which throbbed with a soft light not unlike the rhythm of a man's beating heart. "You have little choice in the matter. Go out, and find the Were-cat Tarrin. Then kill him."

  "No," Jegojah hissed. "A bargain, we had struck one, yes. A bargain fulfilled! A ten year's rest you have promised Jegojah, and a ten year's rest Jegojah will have!"

  "That was then. This is now."

  The Doomwalker growled in rage, then rushed forward. But he rebounded off the mystical shield created by the symbols separating the Doomwalker from the Wizard.

  "I see you need persuasion," he said coldly, and pulled a small silver gong from his robe. He held up a small gold baton, then struck it. The gong gave out a discordant twang, and the very sound of it made Jegojah scream in agony and writhe on the floor. The gong had been made specifically to disrupt the natural harmony of the Doomwalker's captured spirit, and its sound made the throbbing pulses of the amulet's core to fluctuate and dim. The gong quieted back to silence, and the Doomwalker stopped spasming on the floor. It got up instantly and glared at the Wizard, its glowing red eyes promising tortures beyond human imagination should it find a way to breach the prison in which it was contained. "I could continue, and the gong will destroy your soul, Doomwalker," Kravon said in a cold, emotionless voice. "But you can serve me better this way. Find the Were-cat, Jegojah. Find him and destroy him. Bring me the Were-cat's head, and I will release your soul to eternal rest. Fail me, and you will suffer the gong for a thousand years."

  "Your word, what good is it to Jegojah?" the Doomwalker hissed. "Once already you have broken it. What trust does Jogojah show an oathbreaker now?"

  "You have no choice," Kravon said. "I own you, Doomwalker. Be glad that I am willing to give up your services after you succeed in your mission. If you refuse," he said in a trailing voice, holding up the gong.

  "Jegojah will do it," the Doomwalker said in a deadly voice. "But be warned. Should you betray Jegojah again, for you Jegojah will come next, yes. A promise, that is."

  "Save your threats. You have a mission to perform. Begone."

  And with a wave of his hand, the Doomwalker simply vanished from the triform symbol.

  "Is this entirely wise, my Lord?" one of the Wizards asked curiously. "I bow to your superior skill and intellect, but your logic escapes me. If you anger him enough, Jegojah will break free of our control."

  "It is simple, adept," he replied. "The Were-cat cannot be stable, not after the way he went insane in Suld. We will attack him, and attack him, and attack him. We will kill everyone close to him, and then we will keep coming after him until he goes mad. We will drive him mad, and when he is mad, he will no longer be a threat. I have already sent men to Dala Yar Arak, and more groups wait at every possible crossroads and port. We will make the Were-cat destroy himself. Jegojah will be a part of that."

  "But after what happened in Suld-" the Wizard said, cutting himself off. That had been a tremendous setback to them. All of their operations in Sulasia were now compromised, as were many in Tykarthia, Daltochan, and Shace. Three hundred years of careful planning and work had been destroyed, and they had lost a good many good people in the destruction of their complex. "Great Lord, the Were-cat is much too deadly for a man to easily kill."

  "They don't have to kill him, Marek," Kravon explained. "They just have to keep pushing him. They've been ordred to hire every thug and cutpurse they can find to go after the Were-cat, so sheer force of numbers will eventually overwhelm him."

  "But he'll kill them by the hundreds."

  "That's exactly what I want him to do," Kravon said in a hollow voice. "The Were-cat was once human, and
a young one at that. The reports I have on him don't make such activities good for his sanity. His mind can't rationalize such slaughter. Every man he kills will help us that much more. We'll throw men at him until he goes mad. No matter how many it takes."

  "It seems a very dangerous plan."

  "True, but sometimes dangerous plans are the best ones."

  Jervis was in a strange mood.

  He had never been boonswoggled before, and he wasn't quite sure how to take it.

  Keritanima. Just the name made him want to laugh. What a ride she had given him! Oh, she was a clever one, she was. Clever and good. Jervis had never considered her to be anything more than an empty-headed brat, and now he knew that it had all been an act. An act that had misdirected an entire kingdom.

  How had she done it? It would be impossible for her to keep something like that a secret! Certainly Miranda was in on it. If so, that explained a great deal of why Miranda was so enigmatically loyal to Keritanima. Binter and Sisska, Keritanima's bodyguards, also absolutely had to know. But they were Vendari. If she forced them to swear never to reveal her secret, they would take it with the to the grave. But outside of that small circle, who else had known the truth? If Keritanima did things right, not many. With Miranda to act as her front, to pretend to be the boss, she could easily and effectively run her operations from behind Miranda's skirts with absolutely nobody suspecting a thing.

  Miranda was good, but now it was apparent that Keritanima lay at the center of the web of intrigue that had always been credited to her serious, cute little maid. She had played them all like lutes, and after looking back through the torrid past within the Palace, everything began to fit into place more and more. Yes, Keritanima had indeed been at the heart of things. And she had managed to keep herself hidden, keep her secret safe, even while absolutely surrounded by hostile agents and enemy spies. That was truly remarkable.

  But why? That was the part that he couldn't quite figure out. Or at least he hadn't been able to before the letter arrived. She had no real reason to pretend to be an egocentric witch, yet she maintained the illusion of incompetence, even when it put her life at risk. But the letter explained everything. It made all of her activities come together into a grand plan with a single goal. And when he looked at that plan, at her actions, he was astounded. She had orchestrated a huge, massive, complex multi-layered plan to confuse her enemies, mislead them, eliminate those too dangerous, raise up incompetents that would help create an atmosphere of chaos, trick others into doing what she wanted them to do, and then separate herself from her father. And it was all done so she could run away, with an excellent chance of succeeding, and leaving nobody behind in Wikuna that would care. She had maneuvered the entire nobility of Wikuna just so she could turn and flee from her responsibilities.