The imperial runes were only fifty yards from Renevos’s shield when Otticus burst into the rebel position. He beheaded two wizards before they knew what had hit them, and soon was engaged with another battle wizard.
The Imperial runes faltered then faded away. Merit saw Jalis run behind the other rebels in the face of Otticus’ enraged charge. The volleys of rebel magic stopped, and all attacks from Gwineval’s position also halted.
Merit turned and saw Gwineval step forward near the edge of his shield. He looked like he was weaving something into the ground around him then he stretched his arms aloft. Merit was transfixed as Gwineval’s scaly arms began to quiver, and it seemed like he was having some sort of fit. A great rumbling was the first sign that something unusual was happening. A sudden darkness was the next. Merit could scarcely believe his eyes as he looked skyward and saw an onslaught of dark storm clouds rushing toward their position at an impossible speed.
Merit gasped.
Is it possible? Is Gwineval attempting the Defiler’s Wrath spell? But that’s an Imperial spell!
It was a legendary battle magic spell that had only been cast by the greatest wizards of the past—all descended from the Imperator’s line. According to the books Merit read, Julius had cast it once as had the Imperator himself.
The great magic came on too quickly for any additional consideration. The dark clouds that now completely obscured the sun belched out a roiling bolt of white-hot energy at the rebel shield with a ferocity and scale that defied description. The blast tore Merit from his feet and sent him tumbling. Nearby tents flew aloft in the wind, and the great iron cauldron rolled at least twenty feet.
After a few moments of disorientation, Merit scampered to his feet. The sun was pushing through dispersing darkness above, while below, in the valley, the smooth stone of the obelisk stood unprotected. The rebel wizards around it attempted to gather into some semblance of a formation. Otticus was among them, immediately fighting for his life as he ran in avoidance of rebel battle magic. He disappeared in a blink only to reappear close to Renevos’ shield.
“Gwineval!” came a cry from Merit’s left. Gwineval was face down on the ground with Caetor attending to him.
Merit’s concern for Gwineval was mixed with a sudden sense of urgency. “The obelisk!” he cried, but his weakened voice didn’t carry.
All he could do was watch and hope Renevos understood the dynamics of the situation. In the next moment, it became clear he did.
Renevos unleashed a bolt of lightning directed at the tip of the obelisk, followed by another, then another. His companions joined him in a ferocious bombardment of the apex of the runic slab. Merit knew the damage they were meting out was prolific, but the obelisk still stood. Worse yet, Jalis was reforming the rebels.
Just as Merit’s hope gave way to despair, there was a flash. An odd, shrill whine came from the obelisk followed by a shower of sparks. Several rebels were burned by the sparks, and they lost their footing again as the stone slab cracked in two with the force of an earthquake then melted into nothingness in the next instant.
“NO!” cried the unmistakably piercing voice of Jalis.
It didn’t take long for Renevos to direct fire and lightning at the prone rebels, but amazingly, they managed to get a shield up in time to protect themselves. Brannor ran toward the retreating rebels, who now numbered only six.
But Merit noticed something was wrong. The great golem, which had stood motionless during the entire battle, was now moving. It bore dozens of marks from deflected fire and lightning, but seemed no worse for the wear. And it was moving toward the group struggling to care for Gwineval.
Merit’s boilers were still empty so he could do little more than wave his stubby arms and hope to get someone’s attention. But the next moment, he heard a footfall behind him, and something shoved him to the ground, violently. He managed to roll onto his back, and got a good look at the person who had kicked him down. The man was portly, of medium height, and he wore the same garish waistcoat as the rest of the rebel wizards. His beady eyes, black rimmed glasses and greasy, food-flecked mustache were all too familiar to Merit.
“Grubbins! Are you mad? You’ll be killed if they find you here!” Merit managed, noticing footprints leading from the great cauldron to where Grubbins now stood.
“So, the little machine thinks it feels compassion? I’m going to end this charade here and now!” snarled Grubbins, raising a rolling pin over his head. The vengeful wizard smashed Merit over and over again. Although Merit didn’t exactly feel pain, he was conscious of the potentially fragile tether to existence that his body represented. Luckily, his body didn’t seem much affected after several blows.
“You’re tougher than I thought! I’ll grant you that. But we’ll see how you fare against this knife!”
Grubbins dropped his rolling pin and pulled a long, thin cooking knife out of his waistcoat. He knelt on Merit’s chest and began piercing his body. Merit instantly knew this damage was more serious. He felt the sensation of steam lines getting cut, and one of his boilers was pierced. Suddenly, Merit’s sight went dark as he heard a momentary buzzing sound all around him.
He saw—or rather felt—strange movement in the ensuing moments of darkness. First he became aware of a great power surrounding everything, and then three other powers that rested in juxtaposition to it. He realized in an instant that these were the forces of elemental magic—the Maker’s Fire and the earth, air and water that offset it. Above these forces were the chromatic dimensions of light, and the essential forces of life and death. Intermingled with and bordering these were the conceptual entities of speech, numbers and language. His centuries of service in the Wizard Tower gave him a unique perspective on his newfound sensibilities, and left him completely certain of their meaning.
I’m a wizard!
Merit’s vision returned in a slow dissolve. He saw Grubbins rising and immediately noticed that his waistcoat was smoldering.
What happened?
He had a clue in the next moment when he tried to get up. His body didn’t respond with much more than a few fitful twitches. He knew he was seriously hurt.
“So, guess I hit something important, there! What’s wrong? Are you paralyzed? Alright, then. Let’s finish it!” said Grubbins, retrieving his knife as he rose.
Merit’s wonder at realizing he was a wizard, but also paralyzed, instantly gave way to a palpable fear that the next strike from Grubbins might actually kill him. The many years he’d spent with the wizards flashed before him in his mind’s eye. Did he remember any spells?
All I need is one spell. And it has to have a somatic casting because I can’t speak!
It came to him as Grubbins straddled his prone body. The rune of repulsion could be traced in the air to achieve a small burst of negative force. And he remembered the movement from one of Gwineval’s recent classes. But would his body respond?
As Grubbins drew back, Merit managed to gain control of his arm. It moved somewhat erratically, but Merit traced out the rune with his arm as he focused his mind in the elemental realm of air and on the color red.
Grubbins shrieked as he was thrown twenty feet into the air and flew back, out of Merit’s field of view. Moments later, Merit heard Grubbins land on the ground with a hard thump, and he thought he heard the snap of a bone. Grubbins howled.
“Impossible! You can’t use magic! You’re just… just… It can’t be!”
Then Merit heard retreating footsteps breaking into a run. He’d managed to scare Grubbins off.
Merit lay for several more minutes. He heard some sporadic battle magic in the distance, and many shouts that sounded like they came from where Gwineval had fallen.
Merit tried to rise again several times, unsuccessfully. Though he regained a modest level of control over his body, he still lacked the strength to fully rise. And, every so often, his vision would fade to black again, only to return gradually a few moments later.
He heard someone approach
ing.
“Merit!” cried Otticus, leaning over him. “Are you okay?”
“Hurt,” Merit managed.
Otticus looked around and got an angry look on his face. “I see a rebel wizard making for the tree line. Did he do this to you?”
“Let him go,” Merit wheezed.
Otticus looked crestfallen. “Why? He nearly killed you by the look of it. I’ll make him pay!”
“No!” Merit said more forcefully.
Otticus seemed momentarily subdued by the remark.
“Gwineval?” Merit asked.
“He’s hurt really bad. Did you see that spell he cast? What was that? I’ve never seen anything like it! But he hurt himself doing it.”
“The golem?”
“We destroyed it—just in time.”
“Jalis?”
“Escaped! Renevos pulled us back to deal with the golem.”
Merit reclined on the ground, content in the knowledge that their mission had been a success. Jalis was still alive—but so was Gwineval.
They’ll be able to heal him. They always do.
Then he remembered what he had read about the Defiler’s Wrath spell, and the effect it had on Julius after he cast it for the first time. It had started his descent toward the dark path his father, the Imperator, had walked. Merit tried to assure himself that Gwineval would resist whatever the long term effects of the spell would be, but a shadow of doubt lingered despite his best efforts to ignore it.
Chapter Eight
Hemlock’s first instinct was to hug Falignus, but the thought simultaneously excited and repulsed her. The painful sensations of his recent embrace were still fresh in her mind.
Falignus looked down and seemed to comprehend that he was kneeling over a corpse. His strained smile faded as he looked at the faces of the people around him. He struggled to stand as Hemlock looked on and felt unsure how to react.
He lost his footing and stumbled forward then fell to the ground again. Hemlock rushed to his side as screams of alarm came from the courtyard.
“The Shadow Man!” cried Tiffan, turning to flee.
Next, a chorus of voices shouted, “Run! The Shadow Man is back!”
Hemlock yelled to the townspeople to wait, but they didn’t listen. Soon, they had all fled. Fortunately, they had finished recovering the fallen wyverns prior to the calls of alarm.
Hemlock helped Falignus to his feet. She saw Tored looking on with an air of disapproval about him that seemed to permeate his stoic exterior.
Falignus’ flesh felt cool to the touch as Hemlock put an arm around him. She steadied him by holding his upper arm with her other hand. She then maneuvered him to a cluster of ruined stone blocks with a fragment large and flat enough for him to sit on.
“It’s an amazing feeling to dwell among the living, again,” he said in a low voice. Then, looking at Hemlock, he continued, “What led you back to me?”
“It’s complicated,” said Hemlock.
Falignus nodded as Hemlock noticed Tored in her peripheral vision and remembered that the two had never met.
“Falignus, this is Tored from Tanna Varra.”
Falignus sat up erect and faced Tored. “So,” he began, “I meet the great tactician at last! The man who defeated my wizards in the recent campaign.”
Tored didn’t respond.
“You are a man of few words, it would seem,” added Falignus.
“Hemlock feels you are necessary. So, in that regard, I am pleased you have been found,” said Tored.
“I’ve heard a found tool regarded more warmly than that, but I won’t hold it against you. I’m sure I would feel the same if our roles were reversed.”
Falignus turned back to Hemlock, cringing as if the movement caused him pain. “So, tell the tale that led you here.”
“First, I want to hear about how the Sorceress enslaved you like that. That’s how it was, right?”
Falignus sounded slightly bored as he spoke. “Of course. Fine. After you left me, I trekked across the desert hoping to die. I suppose I did die, but it didn’t turn out as I’d hoped it would. I was expecting some tunnel of light followed by an unburdening of all my worldly concerns and the like. Instead, I descended into a kind of near death state, but I couldn’t die. So, I kept walking and feeling worse and worse.
“Eventually, I came upon a caravan. When they made camp for the evening, I descended on one of their scouts, and before I knew what was happening, I’d fed on him. It restored me, but that was little comfort. The anguish of un-death was replaced by the suffering of a wounded body with little protection from the elements. I feared to enter the camp after what I’d done to their comrade, so I buried his body, and retreated to a small dell I located near the camp.
“I tried to follow them when they left the next morning, but the sun was too painful. I waited until night then followed their path. I never caught up to them, but I came to a small oasis with a deep well. There was another caravan camped there, and I was able to steal some provisions from them, and hide in a small ruin at the outskirts of the trees.
“I stayed in this place for many weeks, stealing food from caravans where I could. After a while, I started to fade away again, so I fed on another poor soul. I was sighted a few times and forced to flee into the desert. I was killed again, but this just returned me to the un-death. After feeding the next night, my body was restored—though the remnant of the new wounds made me suffer greatly for several days until they faded.
“Soon, the caravans became less frequent, and the fearful looks of those who did stop showed that word of my exploits was beginning to spread. I considered trying to move, but I feared being trapped in the desert and forced to endure the terrible pain of the un-dead existence for a long while.
“Over the ensuing months, there were always enough travelers to satisfy my unique needs. So I existed in a state of mild discomfort like that, trying to plan what my next move would be. I realized that my magic only worked when I had recently fed and was well rested. As I got stronger, I managed to cast some illusions to give me better places to hide and make it easier to hunt and steal. I even managed to steal some Oberon and created a garden that was shielded by illusion so I could grow my own food. But, I found that nothing I planted would grow.
“It was around this time that the Sorceress attacked me. She dispelled my illusions, and I was unable to hide from her as she circled on her bat in the air above me. I was still too weak to match her spells with my own. She set me on fire until I faded into un-death. Then her bat dropped that enchanted box you see over yonder, and she was able to command me to enter it by using her magic.
“It didn’t take long for her to figure out how to exploit my feedings for her own benefit. She had a magical power source that I never figured out—though I judge from the condition of the stronghold that you destroyed it—whatever it was.”
“So, what you did to the Sorceress was one of your feedings?” said Tored.
“Yes,” said Falignus.
“And you will continue to have to feed periodically?” said Tored.
“Yes.”
“Hemlock, how do you propose we satisfy his need? We’d have to execute someone or allow him to kill.”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to figure something out. There are plenty of rogue wizards to slay. And what about the Seekers?” said Hemlock.
“The Seekers?” said Falignus. “I’ve told my story, now you tell me yours.”
Hemlock exchanged a wary look with Tored before recounting events since she left Falignus in the desert. Falignus remained silent throughout her tale, though his eyes widened when she got to the part about Amarank, the earth spirit.
“So Amarank still lived after all of these years? And she was guarding a Wand that was keeping her strange offspring alive?” said Falignus.
“Yes. And it was her child that inspired me to find you.”
“What could that child have to do with me?”
“It was the child of Amar
ank, who was made by my father, the Red Mage, and Julius—a union of the two bloodlines. But it was crippled and never grew beyond an infant. Still, it had powers from both of our lines. It had the prescience of your line along with the perception of mine. It was aware of what was happening and what could happen. And, it said that I will need both bloodlines to defeat DuLoc.”
“Interesting. So, you assumed that if you found me, I’d help you against this DuLoc?”
“Yes. Will you?”
Falignus hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve only been human for less than an hour and here you are regaling me with tales and quests. I’m still re-learning how to breathe.”
“Don’t assume you will continue to draw breath if you don’t make the right choice,” said Tored.
“Tored, wait,” said Hemlock.
“Ah, now I understand. Either I agree to help or you abandon me again?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Hemlock.
Falignus stood unsteadily but waved off aid from Hemlock. “In that case, I agree to help.”
“That’s not exactly convincing,” said Tored.
“I will confront your enemies with magic and steel!” said Falignus sarcastically, deciding to sit again.
“Look, I know you care about the City. DuLoc will destroy the City, remake it in his own image with him as supreme ruler, and his laws will reign over everything.”
Falignus considered this then replied, “And what makes his vision worse than either of ours? He’s just another person seeking control.”
“He doesn’t want people to have choices. He wants laws for everything. You wanted power—but you wanted it to help people. Even though I don’t agree with your methods, at least your motives are the same as mine. DuLoc is different.”
“Don’t you think he believes he’ll be helping people?”
“If he does, he’s wrong.”
“And what happens when we defeat DuLoc? Won’t that leave you and me in the same place we were before he came? How will we resolve our differences?”
Hemlock And The Dread Sorceress (Book 3) Page 16
