Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1)

by Roberto Vecchi

  Little one with so many questions, now is not the time for them. They will be answered. Have no fear, little one. Now is the time for you to head north and find what you seek.

  "Why are you telling me this? Will you not be with me?"

  You are very perceptive little one. Yes, I will not be with you, but that does not mean you will be alone. I have given you all the power you will need to find what you seek. Draw upon it when you are in need. It will be there while I am gone.

  "When will you be coming back? Will you be coming back?"

  Have I not said I will not forsake you? Have I not said I will be there to see you become so much more until you are everything I need you to be?

  "Yes, you have said that," he answered sheepishly in response to this tender rebuke and reminder.

  Then you have no need to question it little one. Of course I will be back for you. But now, I must go. Head north, and do not stop until you find what you seek. Head north. Go now.

  And then, the voice was gone. Though it was silent, he was still able to feel its presence, though none of its lingering calmness remained. The voice was truly gone, for the moment. There was nothing left for him to do but to head north into the forest. At first, the steps came slow and thick, as if he had errantly wandered into a pit of mud following a storm, but as the lanterns of his first home faded into the horizon, his steps gained a purpose and intent, along with the necessary strength to increase his gait, now void of weakness.

  The first day of his obedient journey was lacking any and all expected difficulty for a sickly young boy who, when pressed by the games of children, found it difficult to match their pace for an extended period of time however short it may be. But today, and no doubt influenced by the dark power he was led to find, for the first time in his short life, he felt strong. Extending beyond the basic physicality of muscular power, he felt strong of will and strong of mind. Given instruction and a purposeful direction, his growing devotion to the voice, his friend, had become his focus resulting in a lifted spirit and lighthearted gait. No longer did he worry about having nothing, about being nothing. No longer did the ridicule and misery of his past life hold a determining factor of his endeavors. No. He was not nothing. He was something indeed.

  What was that noise? He turned to look behind, but saw nothing. Yet the thunderous echo of something approaching at great speed from behind him could not be denied. Hide. In this early morning, with the rising sun on his right, he sprinted off the path he was on and hid just on the other side of a small rolling hill. He peaked over the hilltop bringing the path into view, yet he still could see nothing. But the noise told him something was coming. Fast and sure the noise grew within his ears until off in the distance and direction of his former home, he saw a faint and small cloud of dust. No, not his home. In fact, it had never been his home. A home was defined by belonging, a sense of purposeful existence, a sense of community with a shared affection. And he had none of that. At least he never used to. But when speaking with his friend, he felt all of those things. No, the orphanage provided no home, only an example of what was not and could never be a home.

  A few moments passed and he was beginning to see with clarity exactly what was pursuing him. What began as a thundering noise, then developing into a cloud of dust, had evolved into the presence of many armed guards on horseback endeavoring, with vicious intent, to run down whoever or whatever caused the massacre of last night. Where was his friend now? He began to feel fear again and revert his thinking back to that of the small, sickly boy he was but days ago.

  No! He was not that boy any longer. He had been formed and fashioned into something beyond his understanding. In place of his fear grew anger. Beginning as a small spark and growing exponentially with the advancing hooves, he let it build and build and build until it threatened to consume him. His mind burned white hot and just before he exploded, he released his rage. Instantly he connected to the dark fountain again, but without the gradual progression of his first two attempts. A sheer torrent of invisible power, evil in its intent and terrible in its effect, raced toward the unsuspecting riders once discharged from its genesis within him. Still unaware of the end effect because he was operating by what he felt and not what he knew, he was disappointed when he saw the release of power fall harmlessly upon the road several hundred yards in front of the quickly approaching riders.

  Had he missed? Had he failed? Had the power failed him? Was his success when facing Rento and Captain Vulin's guards solely the work of his friend and nothing of his own influence or manipulation? Panic and fear again began to set in. Like all the times in his life, when he was alone in himself, when there was no other influence besides what he offered within his solitude, he proved to be inadequate again. The riders continued their pursuit and would eventually find him. When they did, they would most certainly kill him without the presence of his friend. As the last rider began to traverse where his ejected power fell to rest yielding no assistance to his current situation, he felt and heard a resonating blast. Erupting from the very ground was an explosion large enough to encompass the whole volume of his pursuers. Each unsuspecting rider was blasted over twenty feet into the air. Horse and man alike came crashing down to thud and bounce in disfigured shapes clearly composed of broken bones and torn muscles.

  In this moment of equally cascading visual, emotional, mental, and spiritual input, all colliding upon him in unison, he felt a depth of accomplishment related to completing a task on his own that he had never felt before. For so long, all endeavors with him as the singular proponent had ended in a swirling pool of ineffectiveness. He was never successful at anything. Yet today, for the first time, never mind the horror of his resulting success, he had accomplished exactly what he had intended to do, and with no reverberating ill effect landing upon himself. He lingered on the hilltop for a few moments, observing the completeness of his actions and let build a small grin upon his normally woeful stoic face.

  There it was. A hint of joy; but not the joy a true hope offered. Rather the joy he felt was built upon the temporary filling of the endless void previously sucking his soul away. He was beginning to understand the exact purpose for the hate he felt. Alone, it could offer no consolation, but when combined with the power contained within the dark fountain his friend has so thankfully showed him, it held the impossible effect of filling the void. Even temporarily this was a welcomed reprieve. Without the fear of being seen, he stood up, offered a silent "Thank you" to his friend, took one last satisfying look toward the horrible scene, and turned to continue his journey north.

  Ah, Vismorda; his dark vision of intentional combative perfection. Battling her on this transitional day from preparation to release was truly an arousing experience. While Mordin had continued to send mental spikes directed at influencing Jesolin's abilities by either creating or removing various mental and emotional processes inherent in armed combat, Jesolin knew he was holding back with much of his power. Clearly, Mordin and Vismorda had spoken before the training had begun. And clearly this was Vismorda's opportunity to test herself.

  Her rhythmic dance was hypnotic and her use of the shadow cloak was damning to those unfortunate enough to face her in armed combat. Steadily matching her attacks step for evil step and deflecting her twin blades with equaled precision, he was able to sense something else preparing within her fountain. She maintained the shadow cloak, yet was reinforcing it and changing it. Only seconds before, her attacks were separate from it just as the sword is separate from the shield, though both are wielded by the same warrior. But now, the cloak was being extended into the blades. No, not into them, around them. He unraveled the mystery of what she was doing in just enough time to react saving himself from a wickedly disguised backhanded spinning slash. She paused as her blade met his inches from his neck. She smiled her beautifully dark smile displaying her luscious red lips and brilliant white teeth. She had developed so much in the years he had known her. In the midst of their battle, lock
ed eye to eye with blades between, he reached up and grabbed her by the back of her neck and kissed her feverishly. She let her desire to be felt by him consume her for a few moments as she tasted his tongue. Then, with a swiftness he did not know she possessed, she planted her boot into his stomach and spun away. How far she had come indeed. He still remembered how taken he was by her at his very first sight of her years ago when he was almost dead following the direction of his Master.

  Days after exploding the ground from underneath the pursuing guards, and days after walking north with no end to what he was supposed to find in sight, his weakened state, driven by a lack of food and water, was causing him to stumble over the ground. He could feel his mind becoming thick, as if the flowing liquid from the fountain was turning into a more viscous, less reactive state. His senses, previously enhanced, were beginning to become dull at the edges. He had wandered, at the behest of his friend, without regard to how long he would have to wander. He never considered provisioning himself for any length of journey. But then again, he had never been on any journey to know what to provision for.

  He stopped and looked around, trying to gain the proper bearings to continue in the correct direction. He was still in the forest for what he thought was his fourth day, but because of the lack of food, water, and sleep, his judgment regarding the passage of time, indeed with all functions of his memory, was shaky at best. Had he been here before? The trees ahead of him all looked familiar as did the path he was attempting to follow. In truth, he was not sure anymore where he had been or where he was going. All that consumed him currently was ending this journey. His body had become weary and his mind slowed. He had a thick taste of metal in his mouth. His legs were endlessly weak as was his intent to continue. He could tell he was growing delirious because set against the rising sunlight shining through the trees was a silhouette of a woman. At first, she was walking across his field of vision. Then she appeared to stop, look at him and become startled with his presence. He could distinguish no detailed features because she was still between he and the morning's rays.

  Weakness set into the marrow of his bones making him feet weary and faint. He had walked for so long without the sustenance needed to continue. Still gazing at the apparition’s black silhouette taunting his consciousness, he tried to wet the edges of his dry and cracked lips with his tongue, but in that moment, even that effort was more than he could adequately gather. His head itched. Why had the illusion of the woman not faded from his view? His neck was sore. He reached his hand to rub it and in doing so, tilted his head forward slightly to rub the back of his neck more easily. His vision became blurry and he felt himself stumble forward and land on his right knee. Dizzy. The ground began to spin and his stomach began to turn. He caught a slight glimpse of the still present silhouette. It appeared it was walking toward him. Struggling to clear his head, he attempted to rise from his single knee stance, but fell forward onto his face, catching the edge of his head upon a rock. Just before giving in to the fatigue and now pounding within his head and drifting off into the growing blackness, he saw the silhouette kneel down beside him and extend her hand.

  His awareness returned several moments before he was able to open his eyes, but wherever he was, he felt warmth and softness in equal dispositions upon his skin. He felt a pressure, light and caring, land upon his forehead the way a feather would softly land upon the ground having been shed by a flying bird. Gently and slowly it comforted him bringing his mind back to the presence of the moment. Slowly he opened his eyes which were sore from the daylight now invading them. At first, he did not see her. He saw the bright red of a tent ceiling instead. It was not until she spoke that he was aware anyone else was with him, "There you are. I am glad you made it through. How do you feel?"

  Her voice was soft and felt good upon his weariness. He was lying down, but not on the ground. He was clearly on a bed of some sort. But how did he get here? The last thing he remembered was being very tired and very hungry. He had a faint sense that he had dreamt, and in that dream was a woman wearing all black. "How are you feeling now that you are awake?"

  The woman's voice reminded him of her presence. Just before turning his head to focus on her, he began to verbalize his response, "I feel," and then was instantly brought to silence by the beauty set upon his eyes. His jaw remained open in mid-formulation of his answer, and his consciousness blotted out all other visual stimuli seeking to steal his attention away from this beautifully perfect sight. Growing up in the orphanage had allowed him to see many women, both young and old, yet none of them had drawn his attention beyond a fleeting glance. But this woman before him captured it, and held it fast.

  "Yes," she giggled, "I know you 'feel', but I was hoping you would tell me how you feel," she said with a light-hearted tone apparently not aware of his current enthrallment.

  He remained motionless and silent for a moment more until her words were able bypass his visual attention. "Oh, um," he stammered, "I am feeling much better."

  "That is good. When I found you, you were almost dead. But you feel better now!" she said as she kept her hand upon his forehead. "You do not feel hot anymore, which is also good."

  Very aware of her hand upon him, he tried to gain some semblance of himself before he had been captured by her sight, "Where am I?"

  "You are in my tent," she said as she smiled playfully, "But you are with the Gypsy tribe known as The Wanderers," she finished with a sense of pride. "How did you get so far away from any city?"

  The city. The guards. The journey. The Voice. It all came back to him. He knew he should not tell her the whole story. In fact, he probably should not tell her any of the story. If they found out what he had done, and what he was capable of doing, they would surely turn him over to whatever authorities exist in a tribe of gypsies. He knew he had to lie, but none that was worthy to be believed as the truth presented itself. So he stalled, "Can I have some water? My mouth and throat are very dry."

  "Yes you can. I will bring you some water and food if you like?" she said as she slowly stood up.

  Just as she was turning to exit his tent and fetch some water, a strong, handsome man walked into the tent, "Vismorda, how is your new friend doing? Do you think he will be able to travel soon? We really must be on our way." He was wearing loose fitting brown pants with a loose fitting white tunic. Tied around his waist was a thick band of black fabric. His shoulders were broad and his presence portrayed a commanding stature. His strong face was outlined by a moderately thick black beard. He wore his hair short and cropped close on the sides.

  "I am sure he will be, Oolos. He just needs to eat something. He was about to tell me how he came to be so far from the city before you interrupted," again she said with a hint of playfulness behind her words.

  "That is good to hear," turning his attention to Jesolin he said, "It is quite fortunate for you that we decided to take advantage of the nice weather and make camp a day beyond where we normally would have. Vismorda was on her daily journey to fetch water when she saw you collapse. Had it not been for her, you would have died in a couple hours. After you have eaten, and provided you have regained some strength, I would like to talk to you." Addressing Vismorda again, "Make sure he visits me before we leave. I would like to find out more about the newest member of our tribe."

  "As you wish, Oolos." After the broad shouldered man turned and left, dismissing himself with a broad smile, Vismorda said to Jesolin, "Do not worry about him. He is a good and fair leader and likes to know everyone we meet in our travels. I will return shortly with some food and water. Rest now. We have a long journey ahead of us."

  Using her new found mastery of the shadow cloak, she pressed her attack. Dark tendrils would lash out from different parts of her body timed to break the rhythm of the melee. The tendrils combined with her lightning quick blades forced Jesolin to assume the shadow cloak as well. Having seen the development of a new offensive technique, and while continuing to defend against her onslaught,
he was now intentionally waiting for his opportunity to test her defensive abilities. As all good instructors, he was well aware of just how hard he could press her before her defenses would break, both mentally and physically. Yet most often times, on both the largest and smallest of scales, battles were won and lost during the transition periods between offensive and defensive positions. So he waited, patiently until the perfect opportunity presented itself for him to transition.

  And there it was. Reacting with the force of thunder itself, Jesolin gathered the dark liquid of his shadow cloak and projected it directly at Vismorda. Not as prepared for the transition as he was, Vismorda was thrown off rhythm by this unexpected tactic. She was forced to sidestep and spin away from the projected cloak giving Jesolin the opportunity he desired. Almost before she could react, he was upon her, engaging her to a terrible effect. Twice he could have concluded the battle with strikes from his brilliantly blackened sword, yet twice he let the melee continue. This was training, and as such, needed to be prolonged.

  Though his physical offense was devoted to pressing Vismorda, he was well aware of the presence of Mordin, who had increased his efforts to plague Jesolin and turn the tide in their favor again. As difficult as his female opponent was blade against blade, Mordin was equally so when pitted mind against mind. One could not press against him with frontally aimed mental attacks. He was slippery, illusive, and almost Jesolin’s equal with deception. Having been a master at the game of Krinock Gool, he was a natural strategist possessing all the qualities one would expect. Patience, deception, ruthlessness, and calmly calculating were all traits Mordin used when employing the dark abilities granted him with his submission to the darkness.

  Jesolin, needing now to formally address Mordin resulting from his increased participation as an active combatant, drew from the depths of his dark reservoir and stepped into the Death Trance. Whereas the shadow cloak allowed its wielder to focus efforts in melee combat by diffusing mental attacks along the length of the cloak, the Death Trance allowed its wielder to focus completely upon the mental attacks. It was a technique he had not shown either of his closest disciples because it required devoted components of both physical and mental mastery of the dark expression. And he was the only one who possessed the skill required in both to sufficiently catalyze its activation.