“Yes, William. I can.”
“What of my touch? Can you feel that I am inside you?”
“I feel your heart beat with mine.”
“Open your eyes, Olivia. See what the craftsman has made for you.”
He held a necklace, the white gold entwined through his fingers. Crimson gems, arranged as a waterfall, sparkled, catching the light, exuding beams that danced in every direction. Four across the top were joined by three smaller ones beneath and then, the two smallest dripped down, swinging as precious pendulums. Nine priceless rubies.
Olivia gasped in awe. Then she laughed and cried both so severe her appreciation. “William,” she choked through a gush of emotion. She couldn’t find words to commend the beauty of the piece, nor could she control outbursts that caused her to tremble.
“The amulet is yours. In your possession it has significance. To me, it is a reminder of my foolishness, my vulnerability to mistake. But you, Olivia, you have reached into the crevices of my being, saved me, not once but twice. The gems, in turn, will protect you. This promise I can make with confidence. Wear my gift, as you wear the ring. Honor me with acceptance still.”
She lifted tear-filled eyes to William’s face, his expression eerily stoic. Then she dropped her gaze to the ring.
“His blood is the key. This one will slow your enemy, but the others will help destroy him.”
“Gran,” Olivia muttered. “She knew these relics existed. She told me.”
“Yes,” William said. His voice was low but forceful, and he took hold of her hand, a gesture tinged with sadness. “It was her parting gift to you. The Old Mother was wise.”
Olivia puffed a nervous laugh. “Was? What do you mean, ‘was’?” As the words tipped out, elation gave way to dread.
“Her role in your destiny has been consummated. Find comfort in this.”
“Why? What are you saying?” Panic gripped Olivia’s chest.
“Faith, Olivia. Cling solidly to your faith.”
The moment dangled. She searched his soulful eyes, all knowing; they spoke clearly. Gran had died.
“Oh, no,” she cried. “No, it can’t be true! I won’t let this be true!”
Wyldelock felt deeply the sting of her sorrow. He ordered the necklace to clasp around her shivering throat. Then he held her, breathing deeply her perfume, inhaling the aura that had turned from bright to dim. “You must go to your mother now. She will fall on your strength. Know that I will be with you, even though we part.”
Wracked by a flood of emotion, Olivia fluttered her fingers over the rubies that hung now against her throat. “I’ve got to go,” she whispered, not able to concentrate on any one thought, instead being bombarded by many, none making sense as they bumped the other in confusion. “I must be with Mother.”
“I understand,” he said, a sympathetic tone of condolence.
Olivia dashed toward the lighthouse door and whirled round before pushing it open. “William,” she said, a last moment of calm before the storm. “William, I’m torn. I don’t want to leave you. What if--?” She scanned the boundary of the room, searching for what wasn’t there. “What if--?”
“Sorceress--faith. Touch faith. I will be but a whisper away if you need me.”
“Yes, William. I feel your heart beat as mine.”
And then she was gone.
She left him, as he knew she had to do. He sat, alone, waiting for the sun to slowly dip into the ocean beyond the lighthouse, beyond the sea, to shine for the cities beneath. And as dusk settled through the building, he breathed deeply the scent of roses, listened to the songbird’s lonely tune, and tasted her kiss upon his lips.
* * * *
“Now, Keeper, you will answer to me for your actions against us.”
Wyldelock had prepared. He would enter the dominion of the spirit world again, pass through it in order to reach the Gates, and find answers. Recharged, invigorated, mentally and physically, no obstacle would prevent him from seeking out this cruel transmitter of venom. Its plot had come near to destroying him and such transgressions were not to go unpunished. Wyldelock was ready to hear for himself what motive this imp employed.
Thanks to Olivia, he had come face to face with his own dark side, the inner self he had buried, the man who had retreated in fear of love’s manifestations. He called upon that man, identical to him in appearance, transparent, without substance, yet he would lead the way through the gloomy haze of transition, past the groping souls that would reach forth from the fog, past the voices that would call out to be recognized. Wyldelock would follow the shadow, directing attention to the cape that would flow to a knowing stride. His dark side would escort him through the commotion of confusion for the spirits would jostle to gain his attention and he could not allow their intervention.
He fitted the breastplate. He sheathed his sword. He fastened the crown to his hair. Finally, he folded his cloak over his shoulders. Grasping the staff in his right hand, he lifted it to the moonless sky. “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft.” The announcement shattered the earth beneath his feet. A funnel of wind tightened around him, the ocean receded in one long surge, joining into the rush of noise that pierced his ears. “Let us begin!”
The shadow nodded, lifted its robe to shield the face that was Wyldelock’s, and stepped from the cliff into the realm of the nonbeing.
A buzz of disquiet murmuring erupted. “Who are these travelers? What do they want of us? Why do they proceed so quickly?”
Wyldelock followed the hooded shadow, treading with care in the footsteps left for him. He looked neither left nor right, offering no encouragement to the inquiring spirits that dwelled on his existence here.
“Wait. Speak to us. Show your face.”
A few dared to reach out. Wyldelock felt timid tugs at his cloak, urging interest. He fixated steely determination to the shadow’s heels, flipping the edge of its robe as it led him forward.
“They go to the Gates!”
A collective shriek dulled as every voice ebbed away. None would follow to this degraded place. Onward he strode, following the robe that swirled before him.
Then, the shadow, too, halted. Wyldelock understood. They were near enough he could finish alone. But it would wait for his return, to guide him back again. One’s darker self never resided far regardless the circumstances, honorable or not.
As Wyldelock proceeded, the stones beneath his feet moved, the thick liquid oozing. The stench was familiar. Centuries ago it had filled his nostrils with disgust. It did so now. This journey was made with similar determination, even though his motive was very different. Then he had wished to seek passage through the Gates, find the One who could secure his quest for immortality. Now he had no wish to enter. He was to find this so-called Keeper, query and then punish. He clutched his staff with fortitude and called out. “Rise from the mire that is your life blood, Keeper. Rise and answer for your iniquitous deed.”
Hundreds of winking eyes appeared over the walls that loomed up from parting gray fog. Eternal torches spluttered flames, illuminating the tarnished gargoyles that decorated the Gates. Their eyes shifted too, peering to the voice that dared make such forceful commands. Twisted laughter fell from their stone lips. Undaunted, Wyldelock searched the pools of bubbling sludge.
“You are correct to hide from me, but prolonged absence will merely extend my fury. Awake! Rise from this filthy bed. Answer my call.”
One puddle bulged, blowing droplets of congealed blood into Wyldelock’s face. The audience behind the thick walls shrieked laughter, clicking tongues uttering appreciation for the performance. The lights from the mass of watching eyes glowed red through the clouds of steam that infiltrated the saturated air.
Wyldelock kicked the guilty puddle but it was vacant. “Play games with me, you shall pay the price,” he scowled, his ire taking hold of his actions. He kicked each bubble that threatened to broil up. “Concealing your ugliness is futile! Rise, I demand it!”
“Leave. Do not pursue me. Save your
self.”
Wyldelock darted quick glances, trying to find the place where the cry had erupted. He could not. Unsheathing his sword he waved it over each churning puddle. The contents imploded as the blade hovered. “I will not leave. I demand satisfaction, minion. Rise.”
From the smallest pool a hump appeared. The leather flesh was peppered with open boils, worms writhing to the never-ending source of rot. The creature crawled from its pit and huddled on the liquid floor, shielding its face with stick arms wrapped in soiled cloth. Thin wisps of gray hair protruded from the few remaining sections of skin on an exposed skull. It held up deformed fingers, three on each hand, begging for mercy. And it squeaked with each tremor that violently shook what was left of its dilapidated body.
“You touched her,” Wyldelock spit through clenched teeth, for his disgust had grown. To merely gaze upon this wretched being was horrible--to be approached by it was nauseating. “To touch the living deserves punishment and I am here to see that the judgment is duly inflicted.”
“Your punishment can never compare to the madness I already suffer, master.”
“Do not count on such refuge.” Wyldelock tapped the tip of the sword into one boil, bolting into it a singeing flash. The creature screamed and shuffled backwards. “You have met none other here that can exert more torment on you than I.”
“Mercy! Mercy! I beg you, master. One as powerful to come here on personal accord can surely bestow mercy!”
“What reason might I grant mercy? You bargained for the life within her womb, and when denied you left her stained with your vile disease. Such disgrace is unpardonable.”
Through webbed fingers the creature peeked up, its eyes unlike the deformation which consumed the tortured body. As Wyldelock caught a quick glimpse of each shining orb, he was astonished that behind the brown pupils was a reflection of empathy--a human attribute--not that of a demon. Then it lowered its forehead again, preventing any further examinations.
Wyldelock was left with the faint impression those eyes were familiar. He shook the silent whisper away, refusing to believe, denying its fervent call. Regardless, he was disturbed. “You were not born in this place,” Wyldelock mused, curious to gaze upon the eyes again, seek anew the recognition of them. “Does your memory serve you still?”
The begging hands shivered. A confirmation was muffled through the stained clothing.
“Let me see your face.”
“I cannot. I cannot. He will not allow it. He will crush me further. I cannot.”
“Name your authority.”
“I cannot.”
This told Wyldelock that the creature suffered slavery. And slaves could be freed if proper keys were obtained to turn locks. Freed slaves had voices to accuse persecutors. Rather than tap the sword on the fouled shoulder, Wyldelock stabbed words rather than the blade. “This judge conquered you in life, did he not?”
A sorrowful whimper rose from the disheveled mass.
“What atrocity had you performed to anger him so?”
A liquid eye peered up. So penetrating was it that Wyldelock shivered. A thought had been issued but collapsed before finding completion. Wyldelock knelt, drawing close to the pathetic being, hoping another thought might gain easier access if the proximity between them lessened. Truth was pending, a long yearn for sanctuary.
“What had you done? Speak now. I am listening.”
The eye blinked. A tear sparkled there, like a diamond, a thing of beauty from a soul lost to torment. The sight touched Wyldelock deeply, even though he did not understand why. He leaned closer.
“Name your crime. Then name your master.”
“My crime--I was born. I lived. I am forbidden to utter the name of damnation. Names are an illicit pleasure here. You know this to be true. You know. You know.”
“You demanded to hear a name. You wished for the woman to give it to you.” Anger rose again in Wyldelock’s tone; he tired of this game. Why couldn’t this creature give just one direct answer? Was it denied every truth but through riddles?
“Forgive. Forgive. I meant no harm. Forgive.”
Wyldelock scoffed. “If not to harm her then what?”
“Salvation. Forgiveness. Love. All this is warm and safe within her womb. Mother. Mother. Forgive.”
It blinked. The tear dropped, one solid mass, plopping into the puddle with a thud, vanishing beneath the murky squalor.
Compulsion told Wyldelock to touch the fetid cheek. He lowered the sword as the one huge eye continued to stare, expectancy the only craving. Slowly, he reached out his hand. “Do you know who I am?” Wyldelock asked, for it was impossible to discriminate in this place of lies exactly what was going through the mind within the distorted skull.
“Yes. I know you. I know you.”
“You knew me in life?” Wyldelock’s tone had softened. He felt close to understanding the mystery shrouding this cringing creature. The answer was as close as his hand to the blackened cheek.
“I knew of you. I worshipped you. I died because of you.”
Wyldelock spread his fingers, small bolts of light from each one warming the blackened cheek. The exposed eye glistened again and clouded as though relishing a great ecstasy. Speaking, the voice was stalwart and steady.
“I loved you as I loved her. All was stolen. All is found. Salvation. I beg forgiveness, Father.”
Names might have been a forbidden pleasure, but Wyldelock, stunned at the sudden revelation, uttered truth, barely vocal so severe his shock. “Dagaz.” What he had suspected but dared not to even consider had come to fruition. The creature was not the guardian of demons--the lost soul that cowered in fear was indeed his only son. Dietrick had spoken truth. “Dagaz!”
A resounding shriek of disapproval rumbled through the walls, rippling the foundation where he knelt. Neither the shrieks nor the quake could distract Wyldelock, his emotion too great. This was his child and he was filled with both horror and delight, horror at the chains of misery and delight for the voice that echoed life.
Not only did he touch the foul cheek, Wyldelock pulled the startled frame into his chest, tightening an embrace around the shivering shoulders. “Dagaz,” he whispered in compassion, for compassion was all he could offer.
The thin body within Wyldelock’s grasp stiffened. It was preparing to escape, but Wyldelock held firm. Evil had been cast on Dagaz, it was not asked for nor favored. Affection was the only cure for the disease that coursed through every open sore. Wyldelock hugged the quaking body close to him, ignored the swarms of parasites that caused the skin to move slowly from side to side, and muttered an ancient appeal of hope restored.
Tenderness, an anomaly in this dreaded world, evoked a miracle. As Wyldelock held the condemned in his arms, a transformation began. The body grew strong, flesh appeared without distortion, and the face cleared. The rot that had fed worms for eons dissolved. A full head of hair fluttered against Wyldelock and the eyes, bright and lucid, danced in rejuvenation. “Father.” The resounding voice was devoid of fear, confident and comprehensible. The embrace returned--the two knelt together--weeping without regret. “My Father. I thank you for redemption.”
The curse was broken. Dagaz had been freed and Wyldelock held his son with deep conviction.
Finally he drew back to gaze fully on the son he had never known, pleased that this course had brought them together, despite the horror involved, despite what they had both been forced to endure. Looking at Dagaz, Wyldelock saw himself, the features only a son could bear. And behind the eyes that peered back with adoration Wyldelock saw a great man, a sorcerer who had flourished. “Son,” he murmured with unfathomable respect. “Leave this wicked place with me now that you are liberated. Join the sorceress and I in the final combat for liberation. You are truly worthy of comradeship.”
“My heart desires such a union but my fate will not allow such a journey, Father. I will serve you and the sorceress better by staying. We fight a mutual enemy. My part in your struggle is yet to be fulfille
d.”
“I want you to follow me, leave this place.”
Dagaz smiled. “My spirit is freed, Father. Once my duty is satisfied I will find incarnation. Please understand. I can assist you most by staying. Leave me your sword and rest easy knowing our plight has lessened. I shall wait here, without apprehension, for a call to serve.”
Wyldelock’s chest constricted in grief. “I do not wish to lose you.”
“You will not lose me. I will find rebirth, close to your heart. But we must win our battle first. My aid will be paramount if you have faith in my character.”
Wyldelock dug his fingers into the heavy embroidered shoulders of Dagaz’s fine clothing. “Dietrick did this to you.”
“Yes, Father. He called upon the darkness to infest his soul. I could not fight such evil. I knew that you were stronger than I. The woman’s mark woke you from sleep. You rose to power as I have. We have both been given this second chance. We must succeed. My part is here. Yours is to hasten the struggle.”
“Olivia. She bears your mark.” Wyldelock took hold of Dagaz’s hands, each deformed, a thumb, forefinger and one other--a talon--a deformity that had haunted him in life, condemning him to be scorned by superstitious minds. Yet he used the deformity as a signature, one which had roused Wyldelock from sleep, for Olivia bore the mark--the sorcerer’s mark. Dagaz had given him Olivia. “Dagaz. You are a trustworthy ally, a dutiful son and a mighty warrior.”
“I accept your compliment with pride, Father. But you must go now. Our enemy, too, is a mighty warrior and he grows impatient for battle. Remember my pledge of service.” He reached to be granted the sword. “Give of me this weapon and I shall use it to protect the sorceress, not harm her, when she returns. No longer does the serpent flow through my veins; no poison can threaten any of us henceforth. Von Der Weilde dominion has sorely weakened.”
“Weakened,” Wyldelock said, “but still strong.”
Dagaz nodded. “Yes. Your blood adorns his sword. Three rubies are embedded in its hilt--your parting gift to him--one he has abused within the will to find revenge.”
The Sorcerers Mark Page 20
