Tryst rose, ever smiling. The more Kara Nightshadow thought of it, the more she realized that the smile never truly left the slimmer ghoul's face save when its owner forcefully chose to make it go, as when the food had so disgusted him. What she had taken for humor looked, in part, to simply be what death had frozen on his countenance. Tryst would likely be smiling even when he ripped out the heart of his treacherous comrade, Norrec.
"And as we must… have your cooperation… my good friend's suggested a way… to make you even more… amenable… to the situation."
Both he and the Vizjerei approached her.
Kara leapt from the bed. "You have the dagger. You need no other hold over me."
"Fauztin believes… we do. I am so… sorry."
Despite the unlikely chance of anyone hearing her, she opened her mouth to shout.
The mage blinked for a fourth time-and no sound escaped the necromancer's lips. Her seeming helplessness both horrified and infuriated the pale woman. Kara knew that there were far more experienced practitioners of her arts that could have turned both undead into silent, obedient servants. A few more years and perhaps even she would have been able to do so. Instead, the ghouls had turned her into the puppet-and now they sought to further add to her invisible chains.
Tryst's macabre grin and cold, white eyes filled her view. The breath of decay drifted to her nostrils each time the rotting figure spoke. "Give me… your left hand… and it'll be… less painful."
With no choice left to her, Kara reluctantly obeyed. Sadun Tryst took the hand in his own moldering fingers, caressing it almost as if he and the young enchantress had become lovers. Kara felt a chill run up and down her spine at the thought. She had heard such tales before…
"I miss many things… about life… woman… many things…"
A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. Tryst nodded as best his crooked neck allowed, then backed away a step. His grip on her hand remained painfully tight, the ghoul now turning it so that the palm showed.
Fauztin plunged the gleaming dagger into it.
Kara gasped-then realized that while she felt discomfort, she did not feel actual pain. She stared in astonishment, noting and yet not quite believing the sight before her. More than two inches of the curved blade stuck out of the other side of her hand, yet nowhere did she see any trace of blood.
A brilliant yellow glow arose from the area where the dagger had penetrated, a glow that completely bathed her palm.
The Vizjerei at last tried to say something, but only athin gasp escaped. Even rewrapping his ruined throat did not work.
"Let me…" snarled Tryst. Eyeing the captive necromancer again, he intoned, "Our lives are… your life. Our deaths… are your death. Our fate is… your fate… bounded by this… dagger and your… soul…"
With that, Fauztin tugged the dagger free. The Vizjerei thrust the blade toward her face, showing Kara that no blood stained it. He then indicated her hand.
She studied her palm, could not even make out the slightest scar. The murdered mage had summoned powerful sorcery for his terrible spell.
Tryst pushed her toward the bed, indicating the young woman sit. "We are… one now. If we fail… you fail. If we should perish… or be betrayed… you… too… will suffer… remember that always…"
Kara could not help but shiver slightly. They had bound her to them in a manner far more absolute than that which their possession of the dagger had previously done. If anything at all happened to the pair before they could accomplish their dreadful task, Kara's soul would even be dragged back to the underworld with them, forever doomed to wander without rest.
"You did not have to do that!" She looked for some glimmer of sympathy, but found none. Nothing mattered more than avenging what had been done to them. "I would've helped you!"
"Now… we can be certain you will." Tryst and Fauztin retreated to the far corner again. The ritual dagger gleamed golden. "Now… there'll be… no fear… of tricks… when you meet with… the sorcerer."
Despite what they had just done to her, Kara stiffened at the last words. "Sorcerer? In Lut Gholein?"
Fauztin nodded. Sadun Tryst cocked his head more to the side-or perhaps the weight on what remained of his neck simply had proven too much for the moment.
"Yesss… a Vizjerei like… my friend here… an old man… with much knowledge… and known by… the name… Drognan."
"My name is Drognan," the cloaked mage remarked as he swept into the chamber. "Please be seated, Norrec Vizharan."
As he gazed around the Vizjerei's sanctum, the sense of unease that had crept over Norrec earlier returned a thousand times stronger. Not only had this elderly but certainly formidable figure drawn the veteran to him with ease, but Drognan understood well exactly what had happened to Norrec-including the quest by the cursed armor.
"I always knew that the curse of Bartuc could not be contained forever," he informed Norrec as the soldier seated himself in an old, weathered chair. "Always knew that."
They had come to this dim chamber after a short trek into even less savory areas of the otherwise rich, energetic kingdom. The doorway through which the pair had entered had seemed to have led into an abandoned, ratinfested building, but once through, the interior had shifted… transforming into an ancient but still stately edifice which Drognan informed him had once been rumored to be the home of Horazon, the bloody warlord's brother.
It had been abandoned at some point long after the disappearance of Bartuc's brother, but the spells protecting it from curious eyes had continued to serve their designated purpose-until Drognan had outwitted them while searching for the tomb of the very one who had cast them. Deciding that no one had a more appropriate right to lay claim to the magical abode than himself, the Vizjerei had moved in, then continued his research.
Through an empty hall whose floor had been coveredin a rich tapestry of mosaic patterns that included animals, warriors, and even legendary structures, they had finally reached this particular room, the one that the old mage most called his home. Shelf upon shelf bordered the walls and on each of those shelves had been arranged more books and scrolls than a simple soldier such as Norrec could have ever dreamed existed in all the world. He could read, but few of the titles had been written in the common tongue.
Other than the books, though, only a few other items decorated the shelves, among the most interesting being a single polished skull and a few jars of a dark colored liquid. As for the room itself, its decor consisted chiefly of a well-crafted wooden table and two old but stately chairs. It had all the look of a chamberlain's office such as might have been found in the sultan's palace. Hardly what Norrec would have expected from a Vizjerei or any other sorcerer for that matter. Like most common folk, he had expected to see all sorts of horrifying and grisly objects, the so-called tools of Drognan's trade.
"I am a… researcher," the wrinkled figure added suddenly, as if he needed to explain his surroundings.
A researcher who had been the reason why no guards had stopped Norrec on the dock. A researcher who, with but a simple use of his power, had seized the minds of a half dozen soldiers and directed them to bring the foreigner to him.
A researcher who dabbled in dark arts, knew of the deadly enchantments contained in Bartuc's armor-and who had apparently overcome most of them with ease.
And that, more than anything else, had been why Norrec had willingly followed him here. For the first time since the tomb, hope had arisen that someone could at last free him of the parasitic suit.
"It came to me in a vision little more than a week ortwo ago." The sorcerer ran wizened fingers along a row of books, obviously searching for one in particular. "The legacy of Bartuc rising anew! I could not believe it at first, naturally, but when it repeated itself, I knew the vision to be a true one."
Since then, Drognan continued, he had performed spell after spell to discover the meaning-and in the process had uncovered Norrec's secret and the journey the armor had forced upon him. Although he h
ad not been able to observe the veteran during the long trek from the tomb, the elderly mage had at least been able to keep track of where that trail seemed to lead. Soon it became apparent that both man and armor would soon be in the Vizjerei's very midst, a fortuitous event as far as Drognan had been concerned.
The sorcerer pulled free one vast tome from the shelf, then placed it gently on a table in the center of the chamber. He began thumbing through it, still talking. "It surprised me not at all, young man, to find out that the armor sought out Lut Gholein. If some lingering, spectral aspect of Bartuc hoped to fulfill his last wishes, then certainly traveling to this fair kingdom makes perfect sense, especially for two particular reasons."
Norrec cared little for what those reasons might be, more concerned with that which the Vizjerei had hinted might be possible to obtain-the fighter's freedom from the suit. "Is the spell in that book?"
The aged sorcerer looked up. "What spell?"
"The one to separate me from this, of course!" Norrec banged the breastplate with one hand. "This damned armor! You said you had some way you could peel it off of me!"
"I believe my earlier words to you were closer to ‘if you hope to live, you will do exactly as I desire.»
"But the armor! Damn you, wizard! That's all I care about! Cast a spell! Get it off of me while it's still subdued!"
Looking down on him as a father might a whining child, the silver-haired mage responded, "Of the armor, while I cannot as yet remove it, I assure you that you need not worry about its other enchantments while I have it under my power." Reaching into one of the deep pockets of his robe, Drognan removed what at first seemed a short stick but quickly revealed itself to be much, much, much longer. In truth, by the time the sorcerer had it freed from the pocket, the «stick» had swollen in size and length-the latter a good four feet and more-and revealed itself as a spell staff covered in elaborate and glittering runes. "Observe."
Drognan pointed the staff at his guest.
Norrec, who had traveled with Fauztin long enough to know what it meant to be on this end of the magical staff, leapt to his feet. "Wait—"
"Furiosic!" shouted the mage.
Flames shot toward the soldier, flames that spread as they moved. A blanket of fire sought to envelop Norrec.
Just a few scant inches from his nose, the fire abruptly died out.
At first Norrec believed that the suit had saved him again, but then he heard the wrinkled figure chuckle. "Not to worry, young man, not even a hair singed! You see now what I mean? My control over the armor is complete! Had I so desired, I could have left you a roasted skeleton and even the suit could not have saved you! Only my canceling of the spell protected you now! Now do sit back down…"
The searing heat still burning his nostrils, Norrec slumped back into the old chair. Drognan's unnerving display had proven two things. The first had been that what the elderly sorcerer had claimed had been true; with his magic, he had subdued the enchantments of the armor.
The second had been that Norrec had evidently placedhimself into the hands of a somewhat ruthless and likely half-mad wizard.
Yet… what else could he have done?
"There is a bottle of wine next to you. Pour yourself some. Calm your nerves."
The offer itself did little to calm Norrec down, for both the bottle mentioned and the table upon which it now sat had not been next to the veteran a second earlier. Still, he kept himself from showing any uncertainty as he first filled a goblet, then sipped some of the contents.
"That should be better." One hand spread over a page in the massive book, Drognan peered at his guest. The staff rested loosely in his other hand. "Do you know anything of the history of Lut Gholein?"
"Not much."
The wizard stepped away from the book. "One fact I will impart upon you immediately, a fact I think central to your situation. Before the rise of Lut Gholein, this region served briefly as a colony of the Empire of Kehjistan. There existed Vizjerei temples and a military presence. However, even by the time of the brothers Bartuc and Horazon, the empire had begun to pull back from this side of the sea. Vizjerei influence remained strong, but a physical presence proved too costly for the most part." An almost childlike smile spread across the dark, narrow features. "It is all quite fascinating, really!"
Norrec, who, under the circumstances cared little about history lessons, frowned.
Seeming not to notice, Drognan continued. "After the war, after Bartuc's defeat and death, the empire never regained its glory. Worse yet, its greatest sorcerer, its shining light, had suffered too much in body and, most pointedly, mind. I speak, of course, of Horazon."
"Who came to Lut Gholein," Norrec helpfully added, hoping by doing so that it would assist the ramblingelder to reach whatever point he sought to make. Then- perhaps then-Drognan would finally get around to helping the fighter.
"Yes, exactly, Lut Gholein. Not named that yet, of course. Yes, Horazon, who had suffered so terribly even in victory, came to this land, tried to settle into a life of studious pursuit-and then, as I informed you earlier, just disappeared."
The veteran soldier waited for his host to continue, but Drognan only stared back, as if what he had just said explained all.
"You do not understand, I see," the robed sorcerer finally commented.
"I understand that Horazon came to this land and now the cursed armor of his hated brother has come here, too! I also understand that I've had to watch men slaughtered, demons rise from the earth, and know that my life's no longer my own, but that of a dead demon lord!" Norrec rose again, having had enough. Drognan could have easily raised the staff and slain him on the spot, but his own patience had come to an end. "Either help me or slay me, Vizjerei! I've no time for history lessons! I want release from this hell!"
"Sit."
Norrec sat, but this time not of his own accord. Adarkness crossed Drognan's features, a darkness that reminded the hapless soldier that this man had readily taken control of not only half a dozen guards, but the damnable suit, too.
"I will save you despite yourself, Norrec Vizharan- although certainly no servant of the Vizjerei are you despite that ancient name! I will save you while at the same time you will lead me to that for which I have searched for more than half my life!"
Whatever spell Drognan used pressed the fighter so tight into the chair that Norrec could barely speak. "What… what do you mean? Lead you to what?"
Drognan gave him a nearly incredulous look. "Why, what must surely be buried somewhere under the city itself and what the armor must also be seeking-the tomb of Bartuc's brother, Horazon… the legendary Arcane Sanctuary!"
Twelve
As he did each night, General Augustus Malevolyn marched the perimeter of the encampment. Also as he did each night, he studiously observed each detail concerning his men's readiness. Ineptitude meant severe punishment no matter what the soldier's rank.
Yet, one thing the general did different this particular night, a single change that went little noticed by most of his weary men. This night, Malevolyn made his rounds still wearing the crimson helm of Bartuc.
That it did not quite match with the rest of his armor did not concern him in the least. In fact, more and more he considered the possibility of finding some manner by which to dye his present armor a color more akin to that of the helmet. Thus far, though, Malevolyn had come up with but one method by which to possibly match the unique color, a method that surely would have caused a full-scale insurrection.
His hand touched the helm almost lovingly as he adjusted its fit. Malevolyn had noticed some discomfort on Galeona's part when he had earlier refused to remove it, but had simply chalked it up to her fear of his growing might. In truth, when both the helmet and the suit became his, the general would no longer need the witch's magical skills-and while her more earthly talents were most expert, Malevolyn knew that he could always find a more willing, more submissive female to satisfy his other needs.
Of course, such matters of f
lesh could wait. Lut Gholein called to him. He would not be cheated out of it, as he had been cheated out of Viz-jun.
But are you worthy of it? Are you worthy of the glory, the legacy of Bartuc?
Malevolyn froze. The voice in his head, the one that asked on a previous eve the questions that he himself feared to ask out loud, that proclaimed what he dared not yet proclaim.
Are you worthy? Will you prove yourself? Will you seize your destiny?
A faint glint of light from beyond the encampment caught his attention. He opened his mouth to summon the sentries, then made out the murky figure of one of his own men, a dying torch in one hand, coming toward him from that direction. The dim light of the flames kept the soldier's visage almost a complete shadow even when the man came within a couple of yards of the commander.
"General Malevolyn," whispered the sentry, saluting. "You must come and see this."
"What is it? Have you found something?"
The sentry, though, had already turned back to the darkness. "Better come see, general…"
Frowning, Malevolyn followed behind the warrior, one hand gripped on the pommel of his sword. The guard no doubt understood that whatever he had to show his leader had better be of some import or there would be hell to pay. Malevolyn did not like his routine disturbed.
The two wended their way some distance through the uneven landscape. With the sentry in the lead, they crossed over a dune, cautiously making their way down to the other side. Ahead, the dark outline of a rocky ridge loomed over the otherwise sandy region. The general assumed that whatever the guard had noticed had to be out there. If not…
The sentry paused. Malevolyn did not even know why the man bothered to carry the torch any longer. The pale, sickly flame did nothing to illuminate the area and if some foe lay ahead, it would only alert them to the presence of the approaching pair. He cursed himself for not having ordered it doused before, but then assumed that, if the soldier had not thought to do so, whatever he had brought the general out to see could not be an enemy.
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