by Rex Hazelton
"Are you sure?" J'Aryl was worried that Bacchanor was hurt more than he let on.
"I'm sure." Bacchanor didn't take his eyes off his wife as he spoke. "Having Pearl on my back once more will give me the strength I need to carry her and Rybara home."
With that said Rybara climbed onto Bacchanor's back and took Mar’Gul's body from Ay'Roan's hands. But before they took to the air, Alynd stepped forward with one of Andara's tears laying in the palm of his hand. Breathing over the orb, he sent a cloud of magical, amber mist wafting over Bacchanor, Rybara, and Pearl. "For the journey," he said after dispensing Healing Magic on those who could still benefit from it.
"Wait," Jeaf interjected as he rose to his feet from the place where Alynd had been busy healing him with the same orb he used to help Bacchanor. "Vlad'War told me that you weren't the only shapeshifter here. He said this to me for a reason. Now I think it's time for me to see if this is true."
Reaching over and placing his hand on Bacchanor's broad forehead, Jeaf closed his eyes and filled his mind with pictures of griffin flying along Stomane's steep crystalline cliffs. He saw them diving into the briny, green sea in search of fish. He felt Grour Blood's muscles churning beneath him as the winged-lion carried him and Muriel on one of their many excursions to Shiprock Island in the days leading up to the Battle of Decision. He heard Grour Blood and Bacchanor roaring as they fought alongside the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer in the Battle of the Cave of Forgetfulness.
When Jeaf finally looked up, he saw that Bacchanor's eyes were not only filled with tears... they were filled with wonder, for Jeaf had transformed into a griffin just as he had seen his friend do so many times before. Instead of the hand he had placed on the Brown Wizard’s head, Jeaf saw a massive paw in its place. Since the Hammer of Power was still inside his body, Jeaf's fur was silvery gray in color; his claws looked like they were made of pure silver except for three of them on his right front paw that were red as rubies. Flexing his shoulders, he felt the broad expanse of his wings fill with air.
Standing on four powerful legs and four claw-laden paws, Jeaf lowered his huge head, whose mane was a dark shade of gray and whose eyes were the color of burnished bronze, to the Brown Wizard. "Bacchanor, I am at you and your wife's service. May I accompany you on your flight home?"
Unlike other shape-shifters, who emulate in detail a creature they have seen, Jeaf had been transformed into a griffin unlike any other that existed.
"It would be an honor," Bacchanor's voice broke again as he spoke. Then he added, "Your aunt would like that."
When Bacchanor finally flew out of Chylgroyd's Keep, through the opening that the fallen columns had created, a grffin, as big as Grour Blood, was in attendance, one whose wings were as silver as the claws he was armed with. Both Ay'Roan and J'Aryl rode on the magnificent creature's broad back. Alynd rode on Seym Blood as he continued to work on the winged-lion's wounds. Bala led the procession, weeping as she went.
Chapter 35: Darkness Ascending
How could this happen to me? Ab'Don felt true fear for the first since he didn't know when as his thoughts forced their way through the fog that the Hammer Bearer's blow had brought with it. How could I suffer defeat in my own house? I was supposed to live forever. Now I don't know if I'll see another day. What to do? I wish Isham were here. I need her counsel.
Spread out on one of the table tops that the prisoners were tortured on- adding his own wet, sticky discharge, oozing out of the deep gash in his head, to the dried blood stains that were already there- the Sorcerer was surrounded by wounded Hag that looked like sleeping dogs gathered around their master's bed. The dark wizards that could still stand were working to keep the fiery dome filled with magic that the intruders couldn't get past to renew the attack and to protect them from falling rocks.
In the Hag's thinking, the order of business was to escape the present threat, then retreat to the Hall of Voyd where their numbers were so great they could gather enough magic to defeat the Hammer Bearer when next he came calling. It was simple really. The Hall of Voyd possessed magic beyond anything that Chylgroyd's Keep had ever known. And when the Order of the Hag was assembled in mass, nothing could withstand their might.
Ab'Don's present condition made him doubt the Hag's assumption. His pride had been broken along with his head. Now he didn't know what to believe. He had thought that he was as indomitable as a force of nature. But the Hammer Bearer had dispelled this notion- twice now. His emotions had swung from the grandiose high that was his normal state of mind, to a morbid low. Nothing is as pathetic as one who is convinced they are better than everyone else falling into despair. Many of these end up taking their own lives. Why live if their nest is not perched on the highest peak? To them, anything less is utter failure.
Confused by all that had taken place, Ab'Don was not one who would harm himself, nor would he ever yield to anyone at any time. But he doubted he had enough power to defeat the fire-blasted Hammer Bearer, not with how he had seen the man use the Fane J'Shrym as he did.
Surprised by the melding that took place between Jeaf and the rabble that came to save him, the Sorcerer was worried about the Fane J'Shrym. They're all sorcerers, he complained as he decided the ill-reputed bloodline was a dark talisman the inimitable Hammer Bearer, with Vlad'War's Child in hand, had the necessary acumen to use. How could I have known? His thoughts were troubled by this possibility. Evil sorcerers and thieves all, they must be stopped before they destroy the Age of Parm Warl before I have a chance to bring it forth. Letting the Age of Star's Blood slip between their fingers, they have regained power just to make certain no one else succeeds where they failed. How did these criminals get this power? And what can be done to defeat them?
Then he reached down and touched the table top and a thought came to him as he felt the warm stone's surface beneath him.
"Help me up," he said to the nearest Hag. "And bring me one of the guards. Make certain he's not a Malamor."
"Master, only the wounded are here. The healthy have fled."
"Bring me one who is near death." This would create fewer ripples among the guards if news of his deed were to reach them.
In time, the requisite preparartions were completed to make a sacrifice to the Nameless Evil. With the unconscious guard laying before him, and the Hag helping him stay upright, the Sorcerer bent over the man with one hand placed firmly on the table top to keep his balance. The other hand held a razor-sharp knife that he used to slit the man's throat.
With blood welling up out of the gaping wound and onto the stone and Sorcerer alike, Ab'Don said, "Leave me."
A moment later, he called a mass of wraiths to himself and was lost from sight in a cloud of writhing movement, a cloud that Ab'Don darkened with a sprinkling of his waning magic. Satisfied he couldn't be seen, the weary Sorcerer used both hands to lean heavily on the stone table. As he did, a stream of blood fell from his head and onto the wet stone.
In the fog that shrouded his mind, Ab'Don thought he heard a voice. Lifting his head, he saw a figure standing in the shadow on the other side of the stone table. Its impressive height, for the silhouette was head and shoulders taller than a large man, let the Sorcerer know the Namelss Evil had arrived.
"What?" Ab'Don clumsily replied to the voice he thought he had heard but didn't understand.
"I said," the words sounded like they came from far away, "can I help you?"
Standing perfectly still, the Evil One tried to hide his excitement. The time the ancient entity had waited for, for so long had finally arrived: Ab'Don was gripped by the kind of desperation that made men do foolish things. From the very beginning, their relationship was one of convenience. Neither liked the other, and trust was never given without stipulations. Both of these things were common occurances between those driven by arrogant ambition. But each was pleased with the gifts the other had to offer since Ab'Don received power, while the Nameless Evil gained access to the Warl of the Living by being given limited admittance to the Sorcerer
's body.
Ab'Don was fully aware of the risk he was taking by doing business with the ancient entity. With an unquenchable thirst for power, he drank freely from the cup of magic the Nameless Evil offered him, giving little regard to the side affects that might come with ingesting the dark brew. While an addiction to the Evil One's impartation of power was setting in, Ab'Don told himself he could keep the Nameless Evil from possessing him entirely, since he knew that's what his business partner wanted to do. Sure he would let the Evil One enter his body for limited periods of time. This was a part of the deal they had struck. But that's as far as it would go. He’d never be foolish enough to allow the dark entity to stay in his body long enough to lay claim to it. The way the Warl's Magic worked, an evil spirit couldn't possess a body entirely without that person giving them permission.
More often than not, the transaction that was needed for total possession to happen followed a script similar to this: first, the evil spirit would find a person who was in the throes of pain caused by a perceived injustice done to them either by fate or by the hands of cruel men; second, the evil spirit deepened the pain by agreeing with the person's grievance and compelling them to perseverate on the wrong done to them; then pushing the person to the point where they said they'd do anything to get revenge, the evil spirit knocked on the door of opportunity that this presented and entered once the person resolved that their mind was made up on the matter.
A similar scenerio played itself out with those whose lust or greed let the evil spirit in. This was the paradigm Ab'Don fit into, except he wouldn't go as far as saying he was willing to do anything to gain the power he longed for. He would torture and kill others, even his supposed loved ones, but he wouldn't give a pound of his own flesh to acquire the magic he longed to master. Nor would he trade his life for a moment of brief glory, and everything short of never ending life was too brief for him.
But now things had changed. For the first time in his life Ab'Don was truly desperate.
Terrified he might be dying, feeling that there wasn’t enough time to do something about it, Ab'Don called on the only one he felt was strong enough to help him- the Nameless Evil who ruled over the darkness that enveloped half of the Warl of the Dead. If anyone could save him, the ancient entity could. So, he replied to the Evil One’s question by saying, "The fire-blasted Hammer Bearer has wounded me so badly that I fear I won't recover."
"You want me to heal you?"
"Can you?"
"Yes... but not in the way you expect." Though redolent with a feeling of intimacy, the dark entity's voice continued to sound as if it was coming from somewhere far off in one of Chylgroyd's Keep's stone corridors.
At that exact moment, the two fraethym, named Bolkar and Falkar, passed through the wraiths and joined the conversation. "Lord Ab'Don," Bolkar said with a false show of concern, "you look awful."
Then Falkar added, "You're dying. I can feel it. But that's not a bad thing. Soon you'll be with our master in the realm it rules over. There you'll be rewarded for all you’ve done."
The idea that he was destined to join the Nameless Evil in the Warl of the Dead had never entered Ab'Don's thinking; a horrible thought indeed, full of terrifying possibilites. If the Sorcerer had learned anything about the Evil One, he knew with all certainty that it cared little for others and would share its glory with no one. The notion that this dour entity would reward him with anything good was ludicrous. The only reason Ab'Don gained the gifts of magic he had, was because he had something to offer in return- his body. If he were to die, that would all change. So, he was determined to stay alive. In fact, he was willingly to do anything to see that this happened.
Since the fraethym were anointed with a spell called Power of Speech, their words were clothed with magic that overwhelmed there listener's mind, making the unreasonable appear to be reasonable. Conversely, things logical were made to look illogical. Problems were blown up into catastrophic proportions as mole hills became mountains. This is how this brand of evil spirit nudged their victims off the proverbial edge of the cliff. Preventing their prey from entertaining the thought that options to solving their problems existed, they were masters at inducing the disconsolate into making decisions they would forever regret. And right now they were doing their best to ripen Ab'Don for their master's picking.
Terrified of dying, taken off guard by the unexpected possibility that this was already happening, Ab'Don's question dripped with urgency, "How will you heal me?"
"From the inside." If the darkening cloud of wraiths hadn't cast a shadow over the Evil One, the Sorcerer would have seen the subtle smile appearing on the ancient enity's inhuman face.
"Explain?" Desperation had indeed made Ab'Don a fool.
"If you will let me," the Evil[EH12] One's ethereal voice cajoled, "I will enter your body just as I have before, but you will need to let me stay a little longer so I can use my power to heal you. And once your wound is mended... I promise to leave as I've always done."
"Yes, I too sense death is near," Bolkar said to Falkar.
"You'll leave once I'm healed?" Ab'Don asked as he struggled to shake off the fog that Jeaf's blow had cast over his powers of reasoning. "What if I need you to help me defeat the Hammer Bearer?"
"That's right," Falkar said. "The Hammer Bearer is the one who brought you to death's door. He must pay for this."
"I will stay longer if you need me to. Or I can return later when you call." The tone of the Evil One's distant-sounding voice was unemotional in the way those who had no stake in a matter spoke, the opposite of what the disembodied spirit actually felt.
When a wave of unconsciousness threatened to sweep over him, driven on by the wraith cloud's moaning presence that he was sure he would soon join if he didn't act quickly, Ab'Don gasped out, "PLEASE... HEAL ME!"
The Nameless Evil stood speechless as the moment it so longed for arrived.
After giving Ab'Don another moment to rescind his request, a moment that magical machinations required if an agreement was to be ratified, the Evil One said, "As you wish."
Then his form lost its definition and he joined the wraiths in their manic flight around Ab'Don. But where they moaned and complained, he chuckled, but he didn't laugh, unless he frighten the Sorcerer into ending the deal before it could be consumated. Then he swept out of the cloud, after he had taken time to bathe in the delightful pain the wraith's exuded, and stood behind the Sorcerer who had placed his hand on the side of his head in an attemtpt to fight off the darkness that threatened to engulf his troubled mind, unaware that a greater darkness than unconsciousness loomed over him.
Excited by what their master was about to do, the fraethym's dimly glowing flames flared up. No longer playing the part of the concerned friend, they became who they really were- predators of the highest order. As Bolkar and Falkar's flames grew in intensity, radiance as sharp as a freshly honed blade filled the space between Ab'Don and the swirling wraiths. Strangely enough, the Nameless Evil's form darkened in the increased illumination until it became perfectly black, and at the moment it reached perfection, the form lowered itself onto the Sorcerer's slumped body and disappeared into his flesh.
A moment later, Ab'Don lifted his head and spoke to the two fraethym. "Bring the Hag to me." All fear had gone. Boundless confidence had taken its place.
On cue, the wraiths, who had enveloped Ab'Don as he spoke to the Nameless Evil, returned to their places in the larger mass of tormented spirits, while the fraethym went to fetch the Hag. At the same time, the fiery dome broke up and followed the wraiths to a place just below the cavern's ceiling.
Sensing that its body needed sustenance so it could replenish the blood that continued to flow out of its head, the One Who Was Not Ab'Don ordered the Hag to bring it another guard after the ancient entity pushed the dead guard's corpse off the stone table.
Hearing the strange timber in the Sorcerer's voice, the Hag hurried along. Though Ab'Don never confirmed their suspicions, the dark wizards had
come to believe the Sorcerer, at times, allowed himself to be possessed by the Evil One who they had offered so many scarifices to. The thought of this happening filled them with dred, though they savored the magic their master gained from his dangerous relationship with the dark entity. But such dour feelings were not uncommon to those who practiced the dark arts, nor did it turn them from their loathsome pursuits, for power was never achieved without taking risks, and great power was gained by taking great risks.
Placing another unconscious guard on top of the stone table, the Hag stepped back certain that the man before them was not Ab'Don. The cadence of his speech was slower. So were his movements. But this was an illusion in the same way that a large sea going vessel looks slower than a smaller vessel until it overtakes the craft and passes it by. There were other things too. For example, Ab'Don's hands moved with a grace that was foreign to the Sorcerer.
Then, as if it wanted to remove all doubt, the One Who Was Not Ab'Don took the same knife that had slit the first guard's throat and used it to puncture an artery on the second guard's neck. After holding its thumb over the wound to make certain none of the blood was wasted, the Sorcerer casually laid the razor-sharp blade on top of the table before lowering its head and placing its mouth over the puncture.
The Hag looked on in morbid fascination as the Sorcerer's throat moved in a way that was reminiscent of a baby sucking milk from his mother's breast. But this was no infant: this was a parasite that was greedily sucking the life out of the hapless guard.
The Sorcerer's frenzied breathing was evocative of a hunchman chewing on a mouthfull of chata breans it had long been denied. Hands that looked like claws clamped on the guard's head and shoulder as the assault on his neck continued, flawlessly fit in with the idea of addiction. And the drug being consumed was more than the warm, red liquid that was eagerly syphoned out of the dying man's body, it was his essence too, those things that made his soul uniquely his. It was everything that made the guard the person he was: his sense of humor; the importance he put on being loyal to his friends; his love of things beautiful like a sunset, a well crafted sword, and the serving girl at the only tavern found in his home town.
