Regret's Shadow (Sins of Earth Trilogy)

by Jefferson Cram

  Unlike living mages, lyches used the energy of living souls to power their magic; their access to the Arcane having been cut off at the moment of death. They were constantly in search of souls to power their sorcery, and it had been the disappearance of so many “apprentices” that clued the lord mages into Leodyne’s activities. Undead mages were a threat that needed to be dealt with quickly and discreetly.

  Reynolt braced himself as the thing that led him reached a landing next to an ornate door. Without preamble the creature opened it, and motioned with a now-desiccated hand for him to enter. Casting a final glance at the thrall, the young wizard stepped into Leodyne Falkshire’s laboratory.

  It was impossible for Reynolt to take in all of the calliope of madness that assaulted his senses upon entry to the lyche’s sanctum. The standard trappings of a powerful mage adorned the large, circular room, but all was tinged with corruption.

  Bookshelves crammed with moldy tomes and cobwebs sat at angles which strained the eye. Candelabras of ornate and mostly profane design were spaced about the room, the pallid light cast by their greenish stalks did little to disperse the pervasive shadows.

  Obscure corners seemed to give refuge to a blackness from beyond, rather than a mere absence of light. The noise coming from the elaborate machine that dominated the center of the room, the ARC engine, set the young wizard’s teeth on edge. The odor of rot, incense and metals permeated the air.

  Standing next to the large contraption was the the old mage himself, Leodyne. From behind, he seemed almost normal. His red robes were frayed a little, but not woefully so. His stringy hair fell about sloped shoulders, but there was no indication that this was anyone but an extremely wizened old man. That was, until the lych turned.

  It was the eyes that cut straight to the fear that lay dormant in Reynolt’s heart; the fear of madness, of never-ending torment. Black pits which contained the faintest speck of light, as if each hollow was actually a window into the fathomless depths of space.

  The fact that the face was desiccated and savaged by rot was inconsequential next to the horror of those eyes. Reynolt was in danger of losing control of his faculties, mental and physical and nearly went over the brink. Just then, the lych spoke.

  At last. The final fly comes to the spider’s feast.

  The voice, if it was actually a voice and not something that Reynolt only experienced in his head, was enough to wrest his attention from his horror. It bore a passing resemblance to what would probably have been the old man’s natural timbre, but was infused with some resonance that caused the hairs on the young man’s neck to stir.

  The undead thing motioned to its minions, and cold hands with grips of iron clasped Reynolt’s biceps and began to usher him toward the contraption. The young mage’s heart was fluttering in his chest.

  Everything the lord mages suspected about Falkshire had been true. He was using the ARC engine from a scuttled seafaring vessel to channel the life-force from his “apprentices” into him, hoping to enhance his twisted immortality.

  Of course, this also meant that Reynolt could play a pivotal role in the lyche’s downfall, and so he steadied himself for action. As the zombies were strapping him down to the humming machine, he engaged their master.

  “You are in violation of the edicts of the lord mages, Master Falkshire,” he almost injected some authority into his shaking voice.

  Almost.

  There came a sensation similar to the sound of someone chuckling, before he “heard” the thing chide him. Oh, I am aware. I would assume that, at this point, it would also be irrelevant to your situation, would it not?

  Reynolt had to quietly agree as the lyche’s henchmen tightened the restraints and then moved to flanking positions, utterly devoid of emotion. The moment he had been prepped for was fast approaching, but he had to keep the fiend talking, to decrease the chance that it would somehow notice what Reynolt was doing, and try to thwart him. Timing was everything.

  “Good point,” he admitted.

  The fools in Freehold finally sent me the morsel I’d been hoping for, Falkshire intoned.

  These apprentices, it gestured to the thralls, were sufficient to further my experiments, but I needed a full-fledged mage to complete my ascension.

  The lych leaned close to leer at Reynolt, forcing the young wizard to look away, I’ll have to thank them when I storm their keep.

  “Don’t you mean, when we storm their keep, Falkshire?”

  Both lych and living wizard whipped their heads to find the source of the unexpected voice.

  One of the thralls, previously resembling a shambling corpse, began to take on the appearance of a man in his mid-thirties, with black hair, depthless eyes, and a goatee. The ratty robes shimmered and became resplendent. The slouching posture straitened.

  Leodyne immediately went to its bony knees.

  My lord Drejth, it pleaded, I meant no disrespect.

  Reynolt’s eyes bulged as the shade of Malavarious grinned. Drejth, returned? Even as he stared in disbelief, Reynolt sought to use the distraction to begin enacting his plan. The lord mages would need to hear of this. Survival was the only option.

  “Of course not,” Drejth mused. “I see you’re ready to complete your transformation.”

  With that, Drejth moved to stand beside the trapped Reynolt. The young man met his gaze for a scant second, before turning away with a shudder. Grinning to himself, Drejth whirled to face the lych.

  “Hurry up,” he spat. “Events are proceeding as I’ve planned. Soon the book-worshiping dolts at the Temple of the Sacred Scroll will deliver the…artifact to Galloway.”

  Even as he struggled to pay attention to the monologue, Reynolt searched within himself for the unique power he’d discovered as a teen. Feeling-out the energy of the ARC engine, he began to bring his gift in line with its resonance.

  And the monk, Leodyne said, he’ll be delivered as well?

  Drejth waved his hand, “Of course. It would be impossible for a wench like Emberlock to activate the device.

  “The boy has been given the tools to do so, although I’m sure he’s unaware of it. His gift allows him to understand any text, language, or symbol…it’s quite amazing.”

  Malavarius assumed a pensive expression, “The fools at the temple have no idea what they have in him…”

  He snapped out of his thoughts and pointed at the lych.

  “Finish the ritual. Before the moon turns my forces will be in Galloway. I want you at full power when the Breaching begins.”

  With that, the shade walked its vessel back to a waiting position near the door. As the image of Drejth faded, his voice could be heard echoing above the hum of the engine.

  “The time of my return is nigh. Do not fail me.”

  As the thrall resumed its dull form and posture, Leodyne bowed its rotten head. After a moment, it rose, and turned to Reynolt.

  I hope you are aware of the importance of this moment, whelp.

  Reynolt turned his face to the lych, but his eyes were unfocused. Falkshire didn’t notice. Deep inside, Dramus began to manipulate the ARC engine’s power signature. He tuned out all but the most basic of sensory data.

  History will mark this day as the beginning of the end for the Van Uther line. The Realm of Men will kneel before its new master!

  The lych punctuated this statement by placing its cadaverous hands upon Reynolt’s chest.

  Immediately Reynolt was assaulted by a blaze of freezing pain. He nearly lost his connection to the ARC engine as the agony ripped into him. The icy touch of the lych spread through his chest, deepening into his very being as the thing fed upon his life-force.

  Tendrils of power swelled from the engine to fill the void of negative energy created by the lych. As it began to pass through him, Reynolt used his gift to transform its positive energy into hungry negative energy – even as it threatened to consume him.

  Leodyne lurched at the first eddies of negative energy rippled into his hands. It had been
high on power; the taste of this young wizard’s life-force was intoxicating. Combined with the magical essence coursing from the ARC engine, the sensation had been overwhelming.

  Now, its skull jerked down to look into the blazing red eyes of the man it had underestimated. Reynolt allowed a grim smile to form on his lips, before using the Arcane to lend unnatural strength to his limbs.

  As Falkshire realized what was happening, it tried to withdraw. Steely hands broke from their shackles and gripped its forearms. The dry bones cracked and shattered, but still it could not pull away. Reynolt leaned forward, continuing to use his power to unleash a brutal assault on the lcyh.

  NOOOOOOOO, was all Leodyne could moan, as the negative energy that granted it immortality began to erode its existence. The lyche’s only hope was to outlast the young wizard.

  The exchange was taking its toll on Reynolt. While he used his gift - which allowed him to manipulate forms of energy - to deplete the lych, its effects were draining him badly.

  His jet hair began to thin and tendrils of white shot through it. The skin around his eyes and mouth wrinkled, his cheeks became sallow. If he held on much longer, the energy would continue to prematurely age him, eventually killing him.

  After what seemed an eternity, the lych succumbed. Its skeletal body withered and cracked to dust, while swirling motes of blackness erupted from its skull. A keening howl escaped from the shattered cage of its torso, nearly eclipsed by the whining of the ARC engine.

  Spots formed in Reynolt’s vision as he held on, waiting for the final traces of the undead wizard to be obliterated. He slumped to the floor and nearly lost consciousness.

  As his vision returned, he let the last bits of dust from Leodyne’s bones slip through his fingers. He lifted his head, an effort that raised protests in his enfeebled muscles.

  All around him the laboratory was in chaos. Vibrations from the still-pulsing engine were rippling through the room. Books, vials, and other arcane paraphernalia were toppling to the floor.

  Windows were cracking as the magic Leodyne had used to strengthen them fled. Reynolt knew that the tower would not withstand much more of the ARC engine’s power.

  As he stood, he noticed the crumpled forms of the lyche’s thralls. It was then that he felt the energy of the ARC engine growing out of control.

  Despite the danger, he took a chance and reached out to draw some of its energy to him. He used his gift to manipulate the magical emanations, bending them, twisting them again into positive energy.

  He straitened sharply as the power flowed into him. Aches and pains caused by the premature aging process began to fade. Some semblance of youth began to return to his ravaged features.

  Before he could fully restore himself, however, the stones below the engine buckled, and he realized he had no more time.

  Lamenting the artifacts and knowledge that he would have to leave behind in the tower, he broke for the door.

  The flight down the decrepit staircase was a blur. As he burst through the exit, Reynolt wondered how he’d been able to keep his feet all the way down the steps. He took no time to ponder it, however, and continued to run down the rocky path toward town, as the tower cracked and crumbled.

  He stopped several hundred yards down the slope, puffing in the salty air. He turned and watched as the tower folded in on itself, blazing light flowing from the cracks in the stone.

  The ARC engine’s whine reached a crescendo, and the rubble erupted in a brilliant flash. Reynolt raised an arm to cover his eyes.

  As silence descended, he chanced a look. Through the clouds of dust and drifting debris that were caught on the sea breeze, he saw only a smoking crater where the tower had been. He stood a moment, gathering his breath and his thoughts.

  Letting out a resigned sigh, he turned and resumed his descent into Mord’s Casting. It wasn’t until he began to see the stricken faces of the villagers that he began to wonder how he’d explain everything.

  Chapter 8

  Moonlight streamed through the window of his small bedchamber, but Erick wasn’t awake to appreciate it. He tossed fitfully in his bed, sweat beading on his brow even with the cool, early spring temperature. The young acolyte in the Temple of the Sacred Scroll was tightly held in the grip of a nightmare.

  Erick stood upon the granite steps that led up to the massive double doors which lead into the temple. The sky was the color of rust, with bruise-colored clouds racing across it. His shadow was unnaturally long as it climbed the steps, even though he couldn’t find the sun.

  One of the double doors was hanging oddly from a hinge, and a small crimson splash adorned the lower left hand corner. The granite of the steps had taken on a dull, almost coal hue. The entire scene gave the young acolyte a horrible feeling of dread. Despite this, he felt drawn toward the yawning darkness beyond the doors.

  He thought he heard a voice, dry as burning leaves, calling him from within. He wanted to turn away, to run from the blood, his shadow, from the entire surreal scene. Instead, he began to ascend the steps.

  As his sandal touched the stone of the step he heard a hoarse scream echo from nowhere and ice ran up his spine. Just the same, he continued. Weaker sounds of pain and suffering accompanied each step, and he began to weep, unable to turn away.

  A trembling hand reached out to push open the door which remained on both of its hinges, and nearly recoiled at the corpse-like flesh that hung from his arm. Still, he pushed on. The door screeched as if in pain, and Erick stood on the threshold. He gazed into the impenetrable darkness, and saw two eyes emerge.

  Like two white moons they blazed from the ink, with irises as deep and black as the space between the stars. Erick heard high-pitched wailing in his ears and as he began to feel a malevolence flow from the doorway he tried to back away.

  He tripped over his long robes and began to fall backward. His hands flew wide, attempting to grab at the doors to stop his descent.

  Cold fire blazed in his wrists and he gasped at the titanic grip pressing the bones in his forearm together.

  Snapping his eyes down to his wrists, he saw white hands holding him steady. Hands incredibly emaciated to the point that Erick would have thought they were skeletal if he hadn’t noticed the desiccated flesh cracked and stretched thin across the bones.

  He tried to recoil, revulsion roiling up in his gut, but the grip was too strong. His eyes flicked up to meet those of the darkness, and then those massive orbs blinked.

  “Errriiiiccckkkkk…”

  The fathomless depths contained in the voice sent his mind spinning and he woke up screaming.

  He sat up in bed and gulped down the cool air of his room. His eyes rolled wildly as he tried to bring his reason to bear on his surroundings. Finally, he began to realize where he was and that it had all been a dream.

  Still, he rubbed his wrists where the dream-hands had gripped them. He thought they still throbbed, but chalked it up to his imagination. The familiar details that he began to register in the moonlight brought him a little closer to calming down.

  Twisting, he reached out and found the ceramic mug he kept on his plain nightstand and brought it to his lips, drinking deep of the cool water. He let out a gasp as the last of it was drained, and set the cup down. He lay on his back, and stared at the ceiling.

  This was the second time he’d had the dream, and the horror was becoming more intense. He wasn’t sure what the dream meant, if anything, but he was afraid to shut his eyes, afraid he’d end up looking too deeply into those midnight orbs.

  Frustrated, he whipped the covers off and spun to put his feet on the floor. The stones were like ice and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. Still, it was strangely reassuring to him and he stood, rather than withdraw his soles.

  He moved across the small chamber to a desk beneath the window. He struck a long, slender match and lit several candles there. Cupping a hand around the tiny flame, he turned and moved to the modest hearth built into the corner of the outside wall.

>   After sever points of light bloomed on the kindling, he dropped the matchstick in the flames and turned to the small woodbin that he kept stocked daily. In moments a cheery fire was rippling in the hearth, and he warmed his hands over it. He could feel the heat creeping through his robes and along the floor to his toes.

  He allowed himself several minutes of gazing into the flames, hoping to erase the last vestiges of the dream. Finally, feeling more like himself, he moved to slip on his sandals and take his seat at the desk.

  He’d lain awake after the last time he’d had this dream and waited for dawn. This time he wouldn’t waste the hours that he knew he wouldn’t use for sleeping.

  Erick was an assistant to the headmaster, and not a terribly proficient one at that. His writing was often sloppy and took him too much time, but he was dogged in his work ethic and unquestioning of the headmaster’s authority. Thus, he was a valued member of Colius’s retinue.

  Unfortunately for Erick, it meant he was also always behind in his work. He supposed in a small way he could be thankful for the nightmare, in that when it was done he had some time to get caught up.

  He went to work on copying a letter that Colius wanted sent to several destinations. The work, while taxing, helped the young man forget the dream and relax a bit. Time slipped away in which the only sounds that could be heard were the merry crackling of the fire and the soft scratching of the quill on parchment.

  Erick woke with his head on the desk and immediately sat up. He hadn’t been aware he’d fallen asleep. The letter he’d been working on was stuck to his face with the drool that had leaked from his open mouth. He peeled it away and as he moved to set it down on the desk he groaned in dismay.

  His inkpot had been spilled across the pile of blank pages and ink had dripped into his lap. He stood, placing the letter off to the side of the desk and moved to his small wardrobe.

  He donned fresh attire and set the soiled robes next to the door. He supposed he was lucky the robes were black. Perhaps in their infinite wisdom, the founders of the temple had planned that.