The Sorcerers Mark

by The Sorcerer's Mark (NCP) (lit)

  “William, can you hear me? Try to swallow.” She braced his head and poured water into his mouth. Most trickled out but some remained within. The purple was fading, but not quickly enough. His breathing was erratic.

  He convulsed, unseeing eyes quivering side to side, as though trying to locate the source of radiance.

  More water gushed from the cup, broiling up, an endless stream.

  His throat bounced. He had swallowed. Brown fingers curled. He blinked. Then he sunk back again, she holding his head in her lap.

  “William? Listen to my voice. Wake up. Please.”

  She smoothed his hair, anxiously watching his face, hoping the blackened veins would lighten to the freshness of rejuvenation. His chest rose and fell to a thrashing heart, but this was having a reprehensible effect--the poison had quickened its pace. At least in the trance, a heartbeat slowed, the poison had barely progressed. Now it moved. She saw it in his throat, as it made its malignant journey toward his chest.

  Olivia flattened her hand into the artery, a gut reaction, insufficient. He wrenched, lifting his knees, jerking with a violent eruption of tremors. “No,” he wheezed. “Knife.” His fingers tapped staccato into the stone as he shook. She could barely hold his shaking head in her lap.

  “Knife?” She searched the outer edges of the darkness. “I don’t see a knife.”

  “Create.”

  “How? I don’t know how.”

  He twisted his neck, his pelvis vibrating to what was soon to be paralysis. The black inched its way farther down his neck, crawling through the vein without reserve. “Create,” he rasped.

  Olivia clutched his frantically tapping fingers. The handle of a carving knife began to materialize. He had started the formation, she finished, warming strength spreading through her limb, through their entwined fingers. The knife, in totality, firm and solid, was at her disposal.

  “Do it!”

  He lurched, a quick intake of air, lifting his chin to give her access to the deed that had to be accomplished. She slashed the blade, easy access through skin, just below the black head that pushed through the vein. It opened with ease and she reeled at the stench of the evil that squirmed out, a long thin coiling mass. It flopped out, knowing the stream of blood was no longer accessible and that it was doomed, not its host. The serpent hissed in fury, the forked tongue flickering. It writhed on the floor and Olivia pressed her hand against William’s open wound to make certain it couldn’t slither back from where it fell. She inched backwards, struggling to pull William with her. He kicked, confirming the need to get as far away from the living poison as possible. The wall impeded further escape, so she wrapped her arms around him, protecting as best she knew how.

  The serpent tossed its lithe body from side to side, the wretched dance taking it closer to her cup. The water stopped frothing, receding inside, and to her disgust the snake went with the flow, violating beauty with its existence.

  She couldn’t unlock her gaze from the cup, expecting the creature to rise up, threaten them again with a flickering forked tongue, perhaps even coil out, attack. The rim remained still; the cup continued to glow, their only source of light.

  “It lives.” William was watching as well.

  “We’ve got to get out of here, before it rises.”

  “Olivia,” he said. “This evil has a face. It must be decapitated.”

  The knife in her hand pulsated, preparing for the next altercation. As much as Olivia wanted to pull William to his feet and help him up the stairwell, she knew that her task was incomplete. Yet the instinct to flee danger was great, so great it dimmed her stamina. The longer she argued with herself the more difficult the task became. And to her horror, the cup’s glow lessened. If the light went out they would be left in total blackness, at the mercy of this serpent that could then attack with ease.

  Steadying her resolve she crept along the stone. “I’ll tip it over,” she muttered aloud. “When it falls out I shall be quick.” But once she was next to the cup she found that morbid curiosity had seized her thinking. She peered inside.

  Replenishing water, frothy and light, no longer pooled inside. The liquid was congealed, slow bubbles belched up stench, the same vile stench she had suffered when standing at the gates of the Underworld, the same ooze that had made the floor there sticky, the same substance which the poison had lived in and now sought rebirth. How dare it seek refuge where there was light and breath and love.

  The moment split, her hand prepared to tip the cup, then froze. Pictures were forming, distorted by the continual broil, but on she peered, watching without wanting to, yet compelled by an unseen force to witness its images. Like a silent movie, with no music, the first scene shimmered. A woman was crying as an infant was torn from her arms. No cry rose from the moving pictures. No sound was needed to feel the woman’s anguish. She had given birth and the wriggling newborn was being taken from her. She leaned to snatch the bundle back to her breast but her reward was more struggling. A man had cruelly jostled her from the bed. The gown she wore was bloodied; the birth had taken its toll. She fell limp within his mighty hold.

  Olivia gaped. It was Dietrick who assaulted her. The woman peered up, as though knowing Olivia watched the scene, and waited serenely for fate, waited because she no longer had strength to fight for either the child or herself. Dietrick took his blade, wrenched her chin to rise, and slashed her throat from ear to ear.

  Sophia. She had not committed suicide in a fit of madness. She had been murdered by the brother she had always adored.

  The liquid boiled. The scene changed. Dietrick was cloaked in rings of fire, malignant spirits squealing delight as they sought free entrance to his body. He inhaled their power through his flared nostrils, sucked them through pursed lips, jolted in perverse ecstasy as flames leapt over his groin. He had invited their evil to dwell inside warm flesh, legions of them taking control of his mind, his soul. His eyes flashed red as they consumed him and he smiled. Their power was his--he had obtained greatness--and his eyes danced to the power of revenge that was now at his disposal. The demons had possessed him and he had become a mighty black sorcerer at their beckoning.

  In triumph he lifted his sword, the three rubies on the hilt. With both hands he thrust it down into a mass of dirty cloth that huddled beneath his boot. A scream rocked the cup, shaking it so violently its base rattled on the stone floor. The body within the material convulsed to quickening throes of death. Sophia’s child had survived, until this night when Dietrick summoned the evil that aided in another murder--Dagaz.

  Dietrick stared up at Olivia from within the cup and slowly began another transformation--body slimming into that of the serpent but the face! It was Gran. Her smile kind, loving, and she whispered, beckoning for Olivia to lean closer to hear the faint utterances. Mortified, yet transfixed, Olivia drew closer to the moving lips. They parted and a forked tongue flickered out, rising from the wretched mass of illusion. It hungered with ravenous lust for destruction, and she was next.

  “SSS-urender!”

  “No!” she screamed, and knocked over the cup with a hard slap.

  The thick ooze spilled on the floor, the light from the cup dimming. She thrust the knife into it and the coiled poison flipped, nearing her wrist. She stabbed wildly at the mass, one blow striking its oily head. Black blood seeped from the fatal wound but she stabbed again and again until her arm could no longer find strength to hold the weapon.

  An arm circled her shivering waist. Olivia dropped the knife and lunged for the cup. Its light snapped out but she was moving, clasped tightly in William’s hold. They did not return to the spiral steps that led to the turret. Instead he made his way in the opposite direction. Opposites, her numbing mind cooed. Always opposites.

  The cold and the dark and the damp were replaced with warmth, sun, and fresh air. The corridor beneath the earth had led them to the Lighthouse. Here they would rest.

  And prepare to fight again.

  Chapter Eight

/>   Inner peace. Wyldelock sat cross-legged in the center of the floor. Pressing his palms together in front of his face, he took many deep breaths, relaxing muscle in his shoulders, neck and back. Fingertips touching, palms apart, emotional energy flowed between, a purple thin layer of light. The aura thickened and he inhaled part of it, the surge massaging his throat, taking away unnatural remnants of negativity. His mind cleared. His body restored. His eyes relaxed behind closed lips, Wyldelock focused on the thought form, the image of Olivia, for only she could bring upon him elation, only she could raise this energy. This sight brought inner peace. This took the memory of malignance away.

  Stretch. He moved his head, slowly, from side to side, a swinging motion, lulling. Extending each arm, he opened his eyes. She sat as he did, cross-legged, within the wide circle he had drawn on the wooden floor. She did not see his reaching hands; she meditated as he had asked her to do. These simple exercises were preparing them both--freeing them from the misery of the recent altercation, relaxation which kept the darkness from saturating their spirits--for regeneration had to be obtained before union. They had to rest as two individuals before joining as one, and it would take time to prepare. He stretched, the residual purple light clinging to his palms, and cupped her nose and mouth. She sighed within her trance, and the light found passage within her breath.

  It was no hardship to dwell, transfixed, on her loveliness. Auburn hair shadowed her features, her face no longer flawed with disquieting thoughts. He trailed his fingertip over her chin, down the curve of throat, around the string of beads that draped exposed cleavage. Her choice of clothing for their ritual was exquisite. White cotton on the camisole clung to her breasts, the faint outline of each nipple beneath, partially hidden by lace. Her skirt ballooned out over each leg, a torso enveloped by a soft cloud of material. Desire for her whelmed inside him and he closed his eyes again to draw upon the energy of arousal. They would become as one but first their beings had to rest. He needed her consoling essence as surely as she needed his.

  Wyldelock lifted his chin, loose hair feathering his spine. In the rafters above, their Guides watched with approval. The owl’s wide eyes peered from over a nest while the gull perched nearby, on an open ledge. He thanked them for wisdom with a short bow of respect and they in turn nodded to him.

  Other delicate spirits joined the air. Thin wisps of light danced in the steams of sunshine that broke through cracked boards of the desolate building. They danced for her--goodness, generosity, purity, honor and love. They awakened because Olivia called to them. She yearned for them to shower their attributes upon him, because she had seen what iniquity lived in the darkness, what frailty lived in him, and in her trance she called for their blessings. Her voice they clearly heard. Her magic was maturing.

  “Inner peace comes with our union,” he chanted. “Let it be so.”

  Serenity flowed through his chest, warming him into an elated sense of wonderment. Holding her waist he leaned and pressed his forehead against hers. As he inhaled she exhaled. He tasted the sweetness of love and remembered. Longing for more he enveloped her mouth with his lips and drew on her breath, begging its embodiment to fill his heart. But it could not find a home within him. His chest constricted in loss, serenity threatened escape.

  Sincerity he did harbor. Faithfulness was his crown. For her he would even renounce immortality for what was the future if she were not a part of it? Yes, if he could find the way he would abandon all his powers if only to feel love, receive love, give the gift of love. If he could find a way. If he could destroy all obstacles. If he could find the words to ask, he would let time take its natural course, grow old with her, die in her arms. If he had only her.

  And if she grew strong enough to do so, he would allow her to consume him, so severe was his need to taste love. His acts of passion were empty except for physicality. She had to understand how deeply he ached for more.

  “Olivia,” he called. “I must take of your body with only desire. One step will lead to another if you can accept me.” Only she could change this course.

  Slowly her lids opened. “Desire is the seed in which love will spring.”

  Such wisdom enthralled him. The immensity of her learning was a stimulant that helped his being flourish. “Open your all to me, Olivia. Summon this spirit you hold so that I might share in its splendor.”

  He expected immediacy. His breath had quickened to arousal, a flush of excitement stirring his groin. But even now he had underestimated the progress of her magic, the depth of her wisdom. She would answer his need, he read it in her smile, but ritual demanded attention. So he subdued desire until preparation was achieved. He would allow the sorceress to guide him.

  She looked away. At the same time he felt her explore his thought, tear asunder the wrapping that tightly covered his subconscious. He quickly attempted to bar the intrusion for some thoughts were better left concealed. But she had been swift. Too swift.

  “You feared no challenge of battle, no sword caused you to tremble, no nobleman intimidated your words and no spirit caused you to retreat. Yet, you feared love,” she said, not blinking. “A silent messenger, one that touched your heart, a gentle spirit yet you feared it as though it were a painful infliction that would leave you ruined and common. You feared love because you could neither see nor understand. You still fear love. You fled with haste so it could not follow.”

  Truth stung. He listened because she was uncovering what he had long buried. She was resurrecting what he had denied. He grew wary as to what was to fall from her lips next, but he listened because he knew her words were part of the healing and healing always involved pain.

  “Wyldelock Talan De Croft,” she said with authority that made him shiver. “An ancient name, not the first you claimed, nor the last, but a name which was held dear to one. He calls you Talan. You were his brother because you shared blood, flowing from cut palms, always to be brothers. It was a bond he could not forget. He loved you deeply, without malice. And you cast off his emotion before casting off your own. You feared his affection because you felt as he. You feared love then. You do so now.”

  “I could not accept what he wanted to give. My heart told me it was not ... proper.”

  “Love is always proper. It was the manifestation of passion he offered that you could not accept. But you confused his advance and his deep loyalty, wove each together so that it blurred your mind, and you rebuked him in totality. Love is more than the energy that passes between two when bodies unite. Sex alone is not love. If love is built upon a foundation of sand the house will crumble.”

  Wyldelock bowed, lowering his gaze in shame. “The house that harbored our kinship was built on stone. But it turned to sand by my misunderstanding. Fire rages within its walls.”

  “Yes,” she said, pleased he understood. “And that fire must be extinguished. To love me you must face his demons. They must be conquered. It is the only path you can take to find freedom.”

  “Then this I shall do, wise sorceress. I will fight the legion that waits. I will fight for freedom to love again.”

  “Brave warrior,” she sighed. “I will be always at your side.” At this she commanded wine to fill the gold cup. It passed between their lips. “A toast to our future. Now, let us dance.”

  “My attire is not appropriate for me to dance with a lady of stature,” Wyldelock stated, rising to his feet. His trousers were wrinkled, his shirt discarded because of the illness he had suffered, his feet bare. The infirmity had passed and with the renewed energy that flowed through his muscle he wished to reflect jubilation. With the wish came suitable apparel.

  Slippers of silk, stockings tight to his calves, elastic band of his trouser legs beneath each knee, the dark blue of such finery emphasized with red ribbon and embroidery. A splash of crimson at his neck rested on a great ruffle of lace, the buttons of a hip length waistcoat made of ivory. Frills hung from each wrist, an evening cape draped from one shoulder, hair bound loosely halfway down his bac
k, and he bowed deeply to her, his gaze locked to the floor. “I ask the honor of your company in a dance,” he said with genuine reverence.

  “I accept.”

  When he lifted his gaze again, the brilliance of her gown caused him to draw a sudden breath. “My lady,” he whispered, scarcely believing what was before him, what her magic had brought forth.

  The beaded gown shimmered as though of pure gold, long and full, pulled tightly to her waist. Sleeves hung as drapery, that of only a queen’s choosing, that of a coronation. The collar dipped, her breasts shadowing the valley between, a carpet of velvet flesh. Her slim neck was adorned with wide lace, and her hair was decorated with rose buds.

  “My lady,” he repeated, taking her gloved hand to his lips. “Such exquisiteness remains unprecedented upon centuries of nobility.”

  He kissed her hand and then saw the ring she wore over the fitted glove, recognizing the gem immediately. From the bow he lifted only his gaze to her. No words were needed. She not only accepted him for what he had been, what he was, and what awaited, but she wore the ring borne from his blood, commitment to always be his. His chest widened with pride. He kissed the ruby, blinking away tears of thankfulness.

  “My most valiant words of worship could never begin to reflect the honor you deserve.” He knelt, clasping her hips in an embrace, pressing his dampened cheek into the folds of her dress, just beneath the small buckle on her stomach.

  “Then don’t search for words. Search instead what I can and will freely give.”

  He strummed the delicate flounce at the back of her dress, teasing himself with the sensation of her curves. Yet, her sultry invitation teased him more, peaking his interest in exploring her from this most intimate of stances. He dipped his nose into the fabric, and breathed of her, allowing the scent to drench his mind to sensuality. This was the precious perfume that woke him from the dark crypt, and now he held her, knelt before her, an unworthy servant, but prepared to give pleasure in whatever manner she invited.