Lusam: The Dragon Mage Wars Book Three

by Dean Cadman

  “Okay, let’s go,” Lusam said, taking Neala’s hand and heading towards the stairs that led to the ground floor above. Lusam created a force-field around himself and Neala, but it felt different compared to any he had ever created before. He could feel how much more powerful it was now, and he knew that if he wanted to, he could project his force-field much further than he could ever have thought possible before. Suddenly, the few remaining Empire agents outside seemed far less of a threat to him. ‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ he thought, grinning to himself.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tristan watched with revulsion as Lord Zelroth ordered his Darkseed Elite to torture the poor man for over two hours before he finally fell into unconsciousness. Tristan couldn’t understand why the man hadn’t just told Lord Zelroth what he wanted to know, instead of enduring such incredible pain. When, eventually, Tristan and the man had been thrown into a cell together, Tristan had tried to care for his wounds as best he could. He had no bandages or medicine or even clean water to tend his wounds, but he did what he could with the little he had.

  Twenty minutes later he heard the door to their cell unlock from the outside, and in walked one of the Darkseed Elite. It was impossible to tell if it was one of the ten that had attended Lord Zelroth earlier, but Tristan suspected it was by his actions. With outstretched hands, he began speaking the strange words again. Then a moment later the same light Tristan had seen in the large chamber started to emanate from his hands and entered the body of the unconscious man by his side. Tristan watched in astonishment as one after another of the man’s injuries healed themselves right before his eyes. ‘All of this, just so he can be tortured again,’ Tristan thought, as he watched through eyes filled with sheer hatred towards his captors.

  “Why doesn’t he just kill us and have done with it?” Tristan spat at the Darkseed Elite as he began to leave the room. His question was answered only with manic laughter as the door to their cell was slammed shut and relocked once more.

  “Because you want him to,” came a gravelly voice from a neighbouring cell. “He knows what you want, and he’ll do the exact opposite, just for entertainment. Then, when he gets bored of you, he’ll either kill you or leave you down here to rot, like me, depending on which he thinks will cause you the most misery.”

  “But why? Why would anyone do that?” Tristan asked, desperately not wanting to believe the stranger’s words but knowing deep down that he spoke the truth. A long period of silence stretched out, and Tristan resigned himself to the probability that the man had said all he was going to say.

  Then, with no further prompting, he broke the silence and said, “I asked myself that same question when I first arrived here. And I’ve heard the same question asked hundreds of times since, from hundreds of different men and women during my time here. I still don’t have an answer—other than it’s because he can.”

  “How long have you been here?” Tristan asked, dreading the answer. The man laughed loudly, but ended up in the midst of an uncontrollable coughing bout. It was several minutes before he managed to speak again.

  “All of my life. Or at least it seems that way now. I was a young man when I first came here.” He began coughing again, but this time he managed to control it easier. Catching his breath once more, he continued, “The Empire had killed my parents, and all I wanted was revenge. It didn’t matter who it was, as long as they died, and the more, the better. I managed to poison six wells before they caught me. I brought death and fear to the Empire, and it felt good. I was ready to die after my success, but Lord Zelroth had other plans for me.

  “Many times he tortured me until I was nearly dead—once for each of the lives I’d taken. Then he allowed the families of my victims to inflict their revenge on me. He knew the very first time I came face to face with him that all I wanted was to die. But he made sure that never happened. Each time I thought I would finally die and find peace, that monster who was just in here came and healed my wounds, and shortly afterwards, a fresh wave of torture began once more.

  “To answer your original question—I don’t know how long I’ve been here, I have no way to record the passage of time. I can tell you this: the year I arrived was the year of High Priest Joshua’s coronation. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in years—apart from the silent one in the end cell—most arrive here like your friend, and as soon as they wake up, they’re off again for their next round of torture. Eventually, Lord Zelroth tires of them and kills them,” the man said between interspersed coughs. Tristan knew that the current High Priest wasn’t called Joshua, but he also knew that he had heard the name before. He thought back to his childhood and remembered the name from that period, but it was the funeral of High Priest Joshua he remembered, not his coronation. That was almost thirty years ago, but he had no idea how old the High Priest had been at his coronation, let alone when he died. One thing, however, was certain, the man in the next cell had been there a very long time indeed. Tristan couldn’t see any reason to enlighten the man as to the full extent of his years held there. It could do nothing to help him but would likely make him feel much worse, so Tristan decided to keep the information to himself.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about the High Priests. I come from a small fishing village in the south—if it doesn’t float or swim, it doesn’t interest me much, I’m afraid,” Tristan replied, trying to avoid answering the man directly. The man tried to laugh again but once more ended up coughing instead. He seemed to understand Tristan’s reluctance to answer.

  “I understand, son, don’t worry. It’d be little comfort knowing the actual number of years I’ve spent rotting here anyhow. Probably best not to know… eh?”

  Tristan tried to steer the conversation away from the current subject. “What did you mean earlier by ‘the silent one’?”

  “Ah, there’s a woman in the end cell—a pretty one, at that—but she never speaks. Now and then they send an Inquisitor to question her but she never tells them anything, willingly or otherwise. The few times I’ve seen her, she looks like she’s in a trance of some kind. Even Lord Zelroth himself can’t get anything out of her, but he seems unwilling to harm her for some reason,” the man said. “By the way, my name’s Cedrik.”

  “Tristan—and I’m sorry, I don’t know the name of my cellmate yet.”

  “Probably best not to ask. I stopped introducing myself to the others here a long time ago. Like your cellmate there, they spend most of their time unconscious, then one day they simply don’t return. No point spending time getting to know someone when you know they won’t be around for long,” Cedrik said matter-of-factly. Tristan glanced down at the man and was relieved to see that he was still unconscious and had not been aware of their conversation.

  “I’m curious, what makes me any different from all the others, why bother introducing yourself to me?” Tristan asked, heart sinking, as he felt sure he knew the answer even before Cedrik replied. There was a long pause before Cedrik spoke, almost as if he were trying hard to choose his words.

  “Because you’re the first I’ve ever seen here like me. Everyone else has always been like your cellmate—defiant and uncooperative. Lord Zelroth revels in their defiance. To him, it’s just a game. He could simply read their minds, or kill them and reanimate them. Either way, he would gain whatever knowledge he desired from them. But you… you offer him no challenge… as did I. For now, I expect he’ll simply make you watch as he breaks your cellmate’s spirit and then eventually kills him in front of you. But, if I were you, son, I’d pray that more spies are discovered before he tires of your cellmate. If they’re not, his attention will likely turn towards you for his twisted entertainment.

  “Besides, I thought it would be impolite not to introduce myself to my own replacement,” he said laughing between coughs. “My body is getting old and tired, and no matter how good that monster is at healing, I know even he can’t keep me alive much longer. So, son, as you can see, it appears that you’ve become my unw
itting successor. I know it must be difficult hearing the small amount of joy in my voice—and I am sorry for that—but at some point, in the far distant future, when you’ve spent untold years here as I have, and someone arrives to take your place, then you’ll understand, son.”

  As each hour passed, Tristan’s utter despair seemed only to be amplified by the deathly silence of his cell. Neither he nor Cedrik had spoken again, and the unconscious man had not yet shown any signs of waking. Tristan was lost so deep in his depressive thoughts that he barely noticed the four Darkseed Elite entering his cell. He only partially noticed the movement in his cell—that was until half a bucket of freezing cold water hit him in the face. The water had been mostly intended for the unconscious man, so now he sat bolt upright, disorientated, gasping for breath, and dripping from head to toe. He didn’t get the chance to fully recover before he was unceremoniously dragged out of the cell, closely followed by Tristan—two Darkseed Elite guards to each man. The man started to kick violently at the Darkseed Elite guards, but not for long. One of the Darkseed Elite spoke a single word, and both the man’s legs shattered. He screamed in agony, but the Darkseed Elite simply ignored him, dragging him along the floor, and up the stairs towards the main chamber.

  Tristan and the man soon found themselves once again chained to the floor in the main throne room. They were alone, apart from two men who stood to the sides of the massive chamber. Tristan guessed they must be servants of some kind, but paid them little attention. The man had stopped whimpering a few minutes earlier, when his injuries had been healed once more by the Darkseed Elite healer.

  Tristan watched impassively as the two huge doors on the east wall slowly opened. Moments later Lord Zelroth emerged through the open doors into the giant chamber, escorted by ten Darkseed Elite guards. He walked slowly towards the centre of the room, seemingly studying Tristan and the man all the way to his throne platform. He turned and slowly began to climb the three golden stairs to his throne, but stopped suddenly on the second step. His gaze seemed to be fixed on a glowing object that sat on a table at the back of the room. He quickly spun around and addressed one of the two men standing to either side of Tristan.

  “Why was I not informed immediately when the Deceiver God’s stronghold was entered?” Lord Zelroth hissed in a malevolent voice. Tristan had no idea what Lord Zelroth was talking about but when he glanced towards the man he had just addressed, it was obvious that he did. His face had turned white with fear, and he trembled visibly under the gaze of his master. When Tristan turned his eyes to look at the other of the two servants, he too showed similar signs of fear. Neither man replied to Lord Zelroth’s question.

  Lord Zelroth thrust out his arms towards each of his servants, and a blinding crimson light shot forth from his outstretched hands. The intense crimson light struck them squarely in the chest, burning straight through them and leaving a gaping hole the size of a large watermelon in its wake. Neither man made a sound, except for the soggy thud when they hit the ground.

  Lord Zelroth rushed from the giant chamber, all ten of his Darkseed Elite hurrying to keep up.

  ‘Whatever it is, it has him rattled,’ Tristan thought to himself.

  ***

  A few minutes later Tristan was returned to his cell, alone. The other man remained chained to the floor in the throne room, where several more Empire agents resumed his torture once more. When Tristan reached the bottom of the stairs that led to his cell, he saw the cell next to his was open and an old man was being carried out by one of the guards. It was obvious that Cedrik was dead—and not by natural causes—but he still wore a smile on his face: he had finally won his battle against Lord Zelroth.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lusam and Neala reached the top of the stairs and entered the main chamber of Coldmont. Relief flooded through Lusam once he saw Renn and Alexia still alive near the entrance.

  “Oh, thank the Gods!” Neala said, equally relieved at seeing them both unharmed. “But now what are we to do? We’re trapped in here.”

  Lusam laughed, and gave her hand a little squeeze. “I don’t think we need to worry about those Empire agents any more,” he said grinning at her. “Just stay behind the walls when I go outside, I won’t be long.”

  “You’re going outside alone?” Neala asked in a shrill voice, fearful for his safety.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I learnt some interesting things from that second Guardian book,” Lusam replied winking at her. Neala look at him sceptically, but held her tongue.

  “About time! We’ve been worried about you both. Where’ve you been, lad?” Renn said, still trying to see the agents outside Coldmont through the reflection in his shield.

  “It’s a long story, but first let me deal with these Empire agents,” Lusam replied, as four magical-missiles struck his shield, barely registering in his mind. “Everyone stay inside, please. I won’t be long.”

  As Lusam walked towards the giant crack in the front wall, he noticed for the first time the strong magic that ran through its construction. It seemed to share the same type of magical protection as the walls in the basement, and now he could clearly see the pulses of energy flowing throughout it. His attention drifted to the dead Empire agent on the ground—directly in front of the opening. Something about the dead Empire agent being inside Coldmont bothered Lusam deeply. It was almost as if his presence somehow sullied the sanctity of Coldmont. He noticed the Necromatic ring on the dead agent’s finger, and remembered what Renn had told him earlier about the rings: nobody in Afaraon really knew how they worked, and most of their spies were caught and killed, all because they wore easily recognisable fake rings. With the knowledge he’d just gained from the second Guardian book, Lusam thought he had a good idea how the rings worked. He felt confident that if he had time to study the enchantments on one of the rings, he could work out how they had been created. He decided to remove the ring from the dead agent’s finger and keep it for later, when he had more time to study its enchantments. He ignored the increased number of missiles striking his shield as he removed the ring in full view of the agents outside Coldmont. Once he had the ring safely in his pocket, he levitated the dead Empire agent off the floor and walked through the giant crack with the corpse in tow. The missiles that now struck his force-field felt like nothing more than pin-pricks in comparison to the hammer blows that he’d felt before reading the second Guardian book.

  Lusam walked casually to the top of the giant stone staircase and looked down to the agents below. He could see four living and four undead agents. The undead agents began moving towards him as one, but he simply encased them all in a single force-field, then levitated them into the air. He added the dead Empire agent from inside Coldmont to the others within the force-field, then contemplated what to do with them all. He remembered Renn’s earlier words: ‘Necromancy is a vile and dark magic—an affront to Aysha and all that she represents.’ Having seen it for himself, he tended to agree wholeheartedly. Without a second thought, he rapidly increased the temperature within the force-field holding the five undead agents, incinerating them instantly. A few seconds later when he released his force-field, only ash remained, and being so high up in the mountains, the strong winds had no trouble at all carrying it away.

  Two of the Empire agents stopped attacking and retreated behind one of the huge stone dragons, but the other two continued to move towards Lusam, firing at him with everything they had. Lusam knew that they no longer posed a threat to him, but they did do something that had always annoyed him greatly—they cast the silence spell on him. ‘It’s the first time any of them have bothered doing that for a long time,’ he thought to himself. He knew that killing the Empire agents would free him of their spell, but he suddenly realised he didn’t need to do that. He now knew exactly how to counteract the spell—the book in Coldmont had given him the knowledge to break their spell.

  Lusam smiled at the two agents approaching him, making them pause mid-stride. “I’m afraid that pa
rticular spell no longer works,” he said, enclosing them both within another forcefield. “I hope you both know how to fly,” Lusam said, tilting his head to the side and smiling openly at the look of sheer terror on their faces. Lusam used a simple push spell on the force-field holding the agents, but instead of pushing gently, he put a huge amount of force behind his push. The force-field containing the two Empire agents shot away from Coldmont like an arrow, and once it was beyond the courtyard, he released his force-field, allowing them to fall to the valley floor below. He knew they were dead the instant his force-field moved—he didn’t think anyone could survive the sudden increase in speed—the twin death-pulses he felt confirmed it.

  Lusam glanced towards the two remaining agents, still cowering behind the large dragon statue. For a moment he considered killing them both, but decided against it—they had chosen to stop attacking him—he could think of no good reason to kill them other than revenge, and that, somehow, felt wrong to Lusam.

  “It’s over—I suggest you go home,” Lusam said, loud enough for the remaining two agents to hear him, but he heard no reply. Lusam turned around, and headed back inside Coldmont. He was met by three astonished faces as he walked through the giant crack in the wall.

  “What?” Lusam asked innocently.

  “Are you kidding me! That was incredible!” Neala said, throwing her arms around him and giving him a big hug.

  “Yeah, none too shabby, lover-boy,” Alexia said grinning.