The Bearer of Secrets (Dark Legacy)

by Kyle Belote

  “Well,” Judas said, disregarding the lack of respect Sedrus showed him, “Soma and I will be talking to the sheol, unless, of course, you want to trade, Sedrus?” A shudder swept through the camp, the fiends of death slipping their minds. Those creatures were a thought best left unformed. “Well?” Judas prompted.

  “I think you know what would be best, Master Wizard.”

  Judas nodded, twiddling his goatee with this thumb and forefinger. “We’ll meet again, and soon. I will contact you when we can meet again.”

  “There is something else,” Sedrus interjected. Everyone stopped, eying the centaur. “Daylynn gave her report to the Council. The Consul moved for a motion to hunt you down and kill you. We blocked the motion. You’ll be surprised, but Daylynn sided with Lagelm, Kellis, and I. She said you saved her life.”

  “I did,” Judas confirmed. “Twice.”

  “I believe it is because of your actions, she voted against hunting you down. The Consul is livid and still wants to extradite the Wcic. For the moment, you are not officially hunted, at least by Ralloc.”

  “Good. Now I need to figure out who is hunting me.”

  Sedrus turned to leave when Staell called out through his mental projection. I have something to add. My people tasked me to deliver a warning to the Council. Since a member is present, I shall do it now. The sheol now congregate and are poised to strike anyone! Who they decide to strike is uncertain, but the threat is real. They stirred in the shadows of their ruins and attempted to kill Warlock Lakayre and your council member on the Other Side. The lower castes of vampires stir in Shadow City. The portents are real if one choose to pay attention. Something sinister stirs beyond sight. War is coming.

  The centaur swallowed hard, knowing what a message from the unicorns would imply and the weight of their words. “I’ll deliver the message,” Sedrus grunted.

  Also, if war does come, our allegiance lies with Warlock Lakayre.

  Sedrus nodded and moved off, and others followed him. Judas saw the foreboding on the centaur’s face. He did not relish the thought of delivering the message in its entirety.

  Staell moved closer to the warlock. I wish to bestow a gift to the Wcic.

  Judas’ eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue. Instead, he spoke, “I can arrange a short visit around dawn. I did not plan to return to my manor because the council would look for me there first; and being hunted by an unknown factor, though undoubtedly a minion of Xilor, only further solidified my not returning. But I left something very valuable and must fetch it. I shall bring her around dawn.”

  Where will you go afterward?

  “Eventually to Wizard’s Pass. I have an old acquaintance there. Few are familiar with him, and we should be relatively safe there as it is out of the way and out of sight.”

  A sound plan. I will await you at your manor at dawn.

  Staell retreated, leaving Judas with Meristal, Atz, and Lurx. He motioned to the dwaven. “You may leave. Thank you for your service.”

  The two dwaven bowed and faded, to carry out the task Judas gave them.

  Judas withdrew his wand from the folds of his inner robe and pointed at the flickering fire the dwaven built. The earth churned, dousing the fire with sand, giving the appearance as if no one ever came.

  Meristal gazed at Judas and raised an eyebrow.

  “There is someone among us who is feeding information to the enemy,” he confirmed. “I haven’t been able to discover who yet, even after all these years, so I must take precautionary actions. Spells can only be so good if someone is trying to listen in. If someone can track down our location, I wouldn’t want to give anything away.”

  “Any ideas of who?”

  “Well, I can rule you out, now,” he mused with a bittersweet smile and mocking tone.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “During the time of your absence to Mecas River City,” Judas explained, “things happened only people in the Kothlere Council would be aware of and couldn’t have been you.”

  “So, the search narrowed down to the Council?” Meristal asked, treading with caution on the sensitive subject.

  “Yes, and no,” came his bland answer.

  “Anything to do with this group?” she inquired, terrified the answer might be yes.

  “No, I don’t believe so. I cast a powerful charm that will notify us of treacherous thoughts in our midst. If someone cannot be trusted, we would know.”

  “And there is no way to trick you?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Anything is possible, unlikely, but I am not infallible. They would either be powerful, intelligent, or privy to some form of ancient wizardry I am not.”

  “So other than suspicions, you can’t narrow down the exact perpetrator?”

  “No,” Judas said, decisive. “Too many people are coming and going in the castle for absolutes, but I am getting closer. I just need more time. Why are you so interested all of a sudden?”

  “Well, if the Dark Lord is coming back–or is back–then time is something we may not have,” Meristal reminded.

  “Too true.”

  “Where are you going? After your manor, I mean?” she inquired.

  “Dlad City, I should think. It will give me time to get to prepare the girl for her journey.”

  “Can I see you before you leave? I just got here.”

  He smiled. “I know. We don’t have the best timing, do we?” He hugged her again. “Let me know when you are coming. Okay?”

  She pulled away, nodded, and teleported away, leaving Judas alone. He still had his task to complete.

  Gathering his power, he too vanished.

  His wink carried him to the opening of the Corridor of Cruelty, once a monumental feat to all who crossed its’ cursed threshold, now a lingering moment of discomfort for the warlock. Long ago, Judas entered the Corridor and for three months he suffered all the cruelties it offered, months that seemed like years. But he mastered the Corridor and now he only experienced the briefest moments of suffering as he walked through on foot. All who came passed by foot or horseback. No one, nothing, could teleport through, an anomaly unto itself. Once across the five-mile gap, he teleported again to his destination.

  On the other side of the teleport, death and decay greeted him. The grass crumbled to ash beneath his feet. Even in the dark, Judas knew the dirt went from a rich brown to black as charcoal, black as death. Stone monoliths littered the way in front of him, each an epitaph of an identified member of some long forgotten royal family. This place where the sheol stayed–The Ruins of Sheol–was the final resting place of countless millions, both from the Wizard’s War and another war from long ago, forgotten by society, a rarity in educated circles of historians. Ignorance of the place, though common, was due to the meticulous erasure from most texts circulating in the general populace. The Ruins were hard to track down, but slivers of history from the once epic war could be traced back, almost to the beginning of magic; if historians searched hard enough.

  Judas withdrew his wand from his robes, and a light appeared at the tip, casting long shadows on the raised tombstones in front of him. The sheol, like moths, attracted to luminance in small amounts, but too much and they would die. Judas peered into the darkness before him, his eyes searching for any signs of movement.

  They are here, they are always here, he reminded himself.

  In answer to his thoughts, a skittering noise, like fingernails scrapped over a chalkboard, manifested in front of him. The faint sound of wind sucking in followed. The breath of a sheol, an echoing effect, impossible to determine which was the first and which was an echo through the continuous sound.

  “What comes?” a deep, rattling called.

  “Your Head of Creatures,” Judas responded, mustering a tone of command he didn’t feel. The sheol, like the City of Despair, compelled a strange effect on the living. The City of Despair, once great with splendor, rivaled Ralloc and the Golden City. Towers and buildings made of crystal and marble, lush g
reen gardens and clear waters, but now, a dead spot on the face of the Ermaeyth. Anyone who entered unprepared never came out again.

  “We have no Head of Creatures. We have no want,” the sheol responded.

  “I am, and I do.” Judas stopped walking forward, waiting for the sheol to come out in the open. Slowly, the decaying wraith slithered forward like a serpent floating in the air. Left and right, it inched forward, floating like a wisp of smoke, coiling and recoiling. The wraith stopped meters short of Judas and hovered like a black cloud of toxic gas.

  “What is it?” the sheol hissed.

  “Let us begin by talking about your master…”

  ***

  Chapter 6 : Gryzlaud Palace

  Across the sea of rolling plains, wastelands, rivers, and forests, past the Abyss, in an undiscovered castle called Gryzlaud, the true books lay, the ones Judas desperately sought. The Kothlus Trilogy. Many hunted Gryzlaud, including the warlock himself, but no one stepped foot inside who did not owe allegiance to the Dark Lord. For over three Legends it remained hidden, a refuge. Xilor trained from the inception of his tutelage, many years into his life, chosen by the previous Dark Lord–Hadius Lacove–to succeed him. The castle now fell under his rule.

  Xilor drew into himself, centering his essence. Derms, his goblin-slave, muttered to himself as he polished a silver bowl used for alchemy. Xilor felt something coming. He sensed his apprentice approaching, but that didn’t bother him. An aspect beyond his apprentice, far off, a new element had arrived and upset the balance. He noticed the ripple effect even from here. All his time trapped in the mirror taught him to be mindful of his sorcery and he became hyper-sensitive. In a way, Judas helped him as Hagen helped all beings.

  Hagen, the Father of Magic, was rumored to have built Gryzlaud Ages upon Ages ago. The same tale spoke of his introducing magic to all living things, including the elyves, unicorns, dwaven, vampires and the like. The fable of Hagen ended with him going mad as he discovered new uses for his power until he became the first Dark Lord.

  The irony of the legend: vampires did not exist until many Ages after Hagen’s death. Xilor, like others before him, knew the truth. The second Dark Lord created the vampires and, in turn, became the first vampire, Vlad Vikal. The mountains far to the north, which Ralloc nestled against, were named after his family: the Vikal Mountains. The Krey and the elyves resided there now. Vikal, however, was not the name most associated with him. He was more commonly known as Vlad the Insane, Vlad the Horrible, and Vlad the Impaler.

  Because of this truth, Xilor excused the failed prodigies of one of the greatest Dark Lords. He tolerated the vampires’ flounderings as a sign of respect to their origins. Though he failed, in the end, Vlad’s tinkering with alchemy and enchantments lead Xilor down a similar path with his creation of the Xcix. But for all his greatest achievements, Vlad, unlike Xilor, couldn’t cheat death. Even though Xilor still lived, he hid, vulnerable in his current state.

  Gryzlaud, a monument to the past masters who resided here, now a mausoleum filled with artifacts, trinkets, amulets, rings and the like. An expansive throne room the envy of any ruler; the towers and walls rivaled Ralloc, defenses bolstered by eons of channeled dark energy. The castle, though a fortress, was only as safe as the strength of the residing Dark Lord. In his current state, even Xilor needed his refuge, utilizing all his acquired secrets, hiding in the labyrinth of his home, the unseen underbelly.

  A soft creak of the door, a hushed stirring of air, and the near-silent footfalls drew Xilor away from his musings. Though alive, he did not command his body, when he did, he planned to exact revenge and return to the war.

  The footsteps grew louder; Xilor opened his eyes. His servant, one of his apprentices, strolled confidently forward, carrying three giant leather-bound volumes, ravaged by time. He set the tomes on a long table filled with scales, herbs, brewing cauldrons and other concoctions. Xilor couldn’t use alchemy himself—his soul imprisoned in the mirror—but he could instruct his servant. The apprentice smiled, triumphant, his face tilting up the giant mirror.

  “Is it time?” Xilor’s voice rattled from the mirror. The voice rasped, like glass shards grinding together.

  “It is, my master.”

  Xilor regarded his beaming apprentice, smug in his success, overconfident with pride. Sidjuous needed to be reminded of his place and the price of arrogance.

  Sidjuous was one of many of the Dark Lord’s apprentices, a student of his arts. The highest levels of forbidden ways eluded him, but he was powerful enough to snuff out the lives of a few who meddled and came too close to discovering Xilor and his location. He was, in all aspects, the most trusted apprentice, but his extreme jealousy of the other apprentices distracted him. Thoughts of betraying his master never entered his mind. This, in Xilor’s opinion, made him the weakest.

  His tall physique was framed with long, flowing blonde hair. Broad chin and delicate, haughty features giving him the visage of imagined noble pedigree, an amusement of Xilor’s, knowing his apprentice thought of himself from a royal bloodline.

  He understands so little of royalty.

  “The books?” the mirror asked, soft and hesitant.

  “Here, my lord.” Sidjuous laid a longing hand upon the ripped bindings his finger tracing the frayed spine. Xilor breathed a proverbial sigh of relief. He couldn’t breathe, not in the mirror. The Dark Lord let the warm glow swell within, basking in the moment. A victory. A huge step to returning to his body, but small to the grand conclusion. Xilor beheld his arrogant apprentice who paused, looking at the texts, before turning his attention to the bent and twisted goblin. Sidjuous walked away from the table, towards the mirror.

  “Bring the Kothlus Trilogy, slave,” Sidjuous commanded. A malicious sneer crossed his face as he waited for the goblin-slave, Derms, to obey.

  Whenever Sidjuous got the chance, he gave simple, mundane commands to the goblin, never missing an opportunity to flaunt his higher status. It would be quicker and easier for Sidjuous, but not his way.

  Vanity is unbecoming, Xilor noted.

  His apprentices, like his corrective measures, were diverse, some needed overt control, others subtle nudges. With his Betrayer, he took a ruthless approach, coercing his continued service. He couldn’t with Sidjuous, at least, not now.

  There were times when he needed to remind his apprentice of his place, but he wasn’t overly harsh. He feared Sidjuous would break and leave him stranded. He needed Sidjuous, but the apprentice lost his fear of his master. He needed to find it again. When Xilor returned to his body, Sidjuous would be rewarded with a stay of execution. Loyal-to-a-fault made him unworthy, but unwavering loyalty did have its uses.

  “I will bring them if my master commands. I do not take orders from his sycophants,” the old goblin croaked. Xilor broke his spirit, but Derms never gave in to his apprentices. Xilor admired spirit.

  Sidjuous pulled his wand and barked a curse, throwing the dwarfed goblin against the wall.

  Derms slumped and held himself, rocking back and forth. He muttered aloud, “How can I complete master’s command when I am not able to walk?”

  “Quit your whining, get up, and get the books!” Sidjuous ordered again, this time taking a few more, deliberate steps away from the table.

  Derms, reaching his feet, grabbed the leather-bound tomes with reluctance. Sid glanced back at the blink-less gaze staring out from the mirror, ignoring the little goblin. A shadow of anxiety clouded Sidjuous’ eyes, an unspoken question if he went too far.

  Xilor ignored the look. “Whose blood will we mix with mine? It must be suitable.” Xilor kept his counsel, but more often than not, more voices gave rise to better reasoning. He posed questions to judge his apprentices.

  “We will use the blood of the enemy’s nieces, both of them.”

  “I don’t trust Miza. Olga could be a powerful wizard; but her sister Miza … she warrants scrutiny,” the mirror said.

  “What makes you say that, my lord?”

/>   “Miza has yet to give in to the teachings I supplied; however, Olga will be an asset for us to obtain.”

  “Yes, she will, and she is a beautiful young woman, too.”

  “As beautiful as she is deadly,” Xilor replied. He turned his gaze upon the goblin slave. “Come, my faithful servant.” Derms obliged with alacrity, moving towards the books.

  “Master, your servant has done what you have asked. Might I retire this evening?” Derms inquired, fearful. He approached the mirror with reverence, laying the texts on the floor; his eyes turned downward, submissive.

  “Be gone,” Xilor granted. Derms swept from the room as quick as he dared. The eyes in the mirror shifted to the apprentice that remained, then to the books.

  I’ve waited so long and the moment is here at last. So much time wasted.

  The books bore his scrutiny. The thought of being whole once more so tantalizingly close. The wretched Judas Lakayre put him here, turned on him, destroyed him. Xilor did much for him in a previous life. His hatred for Judas ran deep as did his respect. He never liked or trusted him to begin with, but he did grant respect, even if he was a misguided fool.

  Xilor couldn’t blame Judas for rising against him; the warlock didn’t know who he was beneath the cowl. But, Judas did know him, though unaware of the connection. He often wondered whether things would have been different if Judas grasped the truth from the start. Would he have joined him in his quest?

  Xilor mentally shook his head. Probably not; Judas couldn’t cast aside his well-known morals and rigid beliefs.

  But there was the slight chance he would have. If he did, could he be trusted? Would Judas take his place at Xilor’s side, or would he try to be greater than the Dark Lord himself? Who knew? There was yet a way to change the past, at least as far as Xilor knew. An unchangeable constant, something always beyond his reach, like invisibility and bringing the dead back to life. Their souls, no matter how powerful the wielder, would never be whole like before. Only one controlled that power.