by Kyle Belote
She stopped a few yards shy of the fire. Turning about, she focused her mind on the subtleties of the saricrocian’s mind, melding her thoughts with its alien cerebral.
Leave, leave me in peace and I will not harm you anymore, she urged.
She felt the resistance waver, uncertain. She pressed harder, sinking her mental claws into it, commanding recognition, compliance.
Its pace faltered, the foul water splashing in its slowed pace. A flame flickered inside its mouth.
Leave or I will destroy you!
The saricrocian shuddered, a hiss escaped its mouth before it turned and fled into the murky waters, plunging deep into the night.
“Come,” the book called to her.
When she could no longer sense the saricrocian, she walked back to camp. The firelight gave off a soft glow. Judas still slumbered without stirring. The book explained, answering her unspoken query, “I placed him under a sleeping spell, much like he did you upon your arrived. Nothing short of my destruction would rouse him. Gather your things; it is time to go. Your new life is starting, and it shall begin with your journey there.”
“You could have helped me.”
“A foreseen victory,” came its simple response.
She cast a glance at the sleeping warlock. “What of Judas? I can’t just leave him.”
“Can’t you? What has he done for you? Other than bring you pain and misery. Haven’t you suffered enough? I have watched you since you were first brought into this world, so long ago.”
“Long ago? I just got here–”
“Gather your things with all due haste. We must be out of the swamp before sunrise.”
“Will he be okay?”
“He will not die this day,” the book offered. Julie took a moment to mull over the choice before her. She could continue with Judas to Wizard’s Pass and carry on under his tutelage. Perhaps reconcile the anguish and lack of trust between them. She might, in time, learn to forgive him and let go of her … hate.
Once she acknowledged what she felt, it was evident. She hated Judas because he allowed those terrible things to happen to her. She didn’t loathe him with utter disgust, but she held enough resentment that she could follow him no longer. Perhaps with time, she could return to him and begin to rebuild their relationship that he destroyed.
“Okay,” she breathed, a slight mist in her eyes. In haste, she gathered her things. Having collected her pack, the two books, and her meager possessions, she battled with her morals for a few heartbeats. She vaguely realized where she was going, how far it was, and she didn’t have any money.
Kneeling down next to Judas and reached for his coin purse and removed it from his belt. Bits of copper, chips of silver, and gold bright eyes emptied on the ground. A few small gold bars she recognized as ingots, peppered the coins. She quickly surmised that Judas carried more on his persons than most made in a year. Taking ten chips of silver, less than a third of his total, she tucked them away. The rest of his money, she gathered, and placed it back in the coin purse and returned it to his belt.
“You should take more, much more,” the book chided her.
“Stealing from him is not what I wanted to do, but I need money. Even though I am thieving from him, I am not without conscience. I will only take what I need to survive.”
The book fell silent as she started out, away from the camp. She didn’t look back until she had taken a hundred steps, counting each one, weighed down by a chance at freedom and guilt equally. A small lump formed in her throat.
Can I leave him?
Yes, the voice in her head replied. Mr. Pleasure flashed through her mind, hardening her resolve.
I will never be that vulnerable again. I will never be helpless, she vowed to herself.
She turned her back on that chapter in her life, plunging deeper into the unknown, heading for her new life and whatever adventures awaited.
***
Chapter 40 : Xilor's Return
The Betrayer eased into the room, shutting the large, oak door silently behind him. His mouth fell open as he surveiled the dark, spinning cloud.
Shades, he’s done it.
The thought of being far away while Xilor returned to his full might was a compelling one. He could run but the chances of being found were high. If the Betrayer wasn’t present when Xilor returned, there would be no escaping his wrath. The Dark Lord would hunt him down without remorse before turning his attention to his envisioned war. For him, the war never ended, just halted. He would resume, and Ralloc would reel in the sudden onslaught.
The Betrayer’s eyes flickered, wavering from the dark band of smoke and the mirror. He offered up a silent prayer.
Whatever gods or god may be up there, please let him fail, and I swear, I’ll make things right.
“Bring forth my soul, Vlukus, and let us be done with it.” Xilor commanded.
Breath came in rapid pants, throat constricting. Please let him fail, please let him fail, please let him fail, the Betrayer chanted to himself.
The dense fog rolled across the foyer, surrounding the ornate mirror, expanding, consuming nearly all the light in the vast hall. A cold, impenetrable darkness spread.
The mirror, Xilor’s prison for many years, was tall and broad. The frame was made of white-rose, a tree only found deep in elyfian territory near the Virgin Lands. The wood’s name came from the color and texture of the wood; the exterior stark white like bone while the interior shifted in color from pale pink to vivid red to a deep reddish brown core. Elaborate carvings of gods and animals beautified the frame, each figurine a medley of colors, giving the ornaments a life of blood and snow.
While white-rose graced the most visible aspect of the mirror, the sides were crafted from shadow wood, found in the forest of the Trees of Life and Shadow. Blacker than coal, from bark to core, served as side paneling with etched magical runes and inlaid with gold. Four legs sporting four curved feet made of platinum served as the base of the mirror. A guide rail supported the mirror on the floor so it could not be toppled easily.
“Yes!” Xilor’s voice screeched from within the gloom. The fog spun around the mirror, building speed.
“Release me!” a dark, gruff voice filled the chambers. The Betrayer shuddered as if from cold. The malevolence infiltrated the air, clinging to every surface, festering in his lungs. Evil of the purest form.
A sudden urge to gag stole over him. He felt sick. Why couldn’t anyone else feel it? The fog turned into an obsidian sphere, the surface glossy, inky. All sense of movement ceased but the Betrayer knew better. The chamber to shook. A gush of wind ripped through, the wall beside the Betrayer groaned from the stress, trembling from the strain.
“Release me!” the demonic voice screamed again.
A cold sweat broke over the Betrayer’s body. He shivered. Ice poured down his spine, clinching his innards. The voice still boomed, resonating in the chamber, building to a crescendo. A hum pierced the room, a vibration, an irritant in his teeth. The floor fractured at his side, cracking, a spiderweb of dust and fragments.
What little light managed to survive the onslaught folded in the expanding blackness. The Betrayer scrutinized Sidjuous as he fell to the floor in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, burying his face in black cloth in his hands. A scream echoed out, not from Sidjuous–a scream not of a man, but omnipresent.
A burst of bright amethyst fire broke through the obsidian sphere, the silver looking-glass blowing out. In a rush, the darkness retreated to the furthest corner of the room. Shards of silver spewed forth. The silhouette of a man, a ghost or apparition floated forward, too small to be Xilor. The ghostly figure shook violently before submerging into the vessel, Xilor’s form-fitted coffin. Smoke billowed from the casket like rising steam.
A hand breached through, clamping down on the railing, pulling the body out of the sarcophagus. The Betrayer gazed in horror as the pale, pink flesh turned ashen gray, riddled with blue veins tunneling the length of his body. Xilor’
s face remained unformed, his eye sockets a deepening gray, and turning black. The flesh around his lips grew taut, peeling back over his teeth in a vicious sneer.
The Betrayer was so engrossed by what he was witnessing that the sudden flurry of black cloth snapped him out of his revery. Sidjuous moved to robe Xilor, throwing the hood over his still forming face. The Betrayer exhaled, the horror easing out of him now that he couldn’t distinguish Xilor’s face. A sick fascination ran through him, wondering what he would look like when the transformation came to full fruition.
The fiend stood to full height.
A cold panic flooded the Betrayer. It had been many years since he had seen Xilor in the flesh but there was no mistaking him. He towered above Sidjuous. The deep shadows of his hood turned towards the Betrayer and he froze, hoping to go unnoticed. There was a perceptible dip of the cowl.
Was that recognition or just my imagination?
“I told you, Sidjuous,” Xilor sneered. “I told you I would return, even though you doubted me.” Smoke from the sarcophagus swirled around him, ruffling his black robes.
“My lord.” The Betrayer watched Sidjuous cower at his master’s feet. There was no mistaking the terror in his voice. Sidjuous had always doubted. The Betrayer hadn’t. He always knew one day, somehow, Xilor would manage it. He was grateful that it was now rather than later, a hope manifesting in Judas Lakayre still being alive. The warlock stopped him once, he can do so again, but could he stop the Dark Lord permanently?
“All is forgiven but never forgotten, Sidjuous.”
“Master,” Sidjuous trembled.
Xilor stepped over the broken shards, his long robes trailing across the glass, a slight tinkling sound rustled in his wake. “Cleverly crafted deceit is lost on you, that is why you remain. You still have uses for me.” The looming shadow walked away from his cowering servant and stepped in front of the Betrayer. A quiver of trepidation ran through him.
“Surprised, Turncoat?” Xilor inquired. The Betrayer imagined a sneer curling across is unformed lips.
“Should I be?” Oh gods, what the fuck did I just say?
“As always, you are never unnerved. I expected as much, unless you count the first time we met.”
“I hide my emotions well, my lord,” Betrayer said cautiously.
Shades of the Underworld don’t kill me, not yet! We’re fucked, we are all so fucked!
“Really? Funny, isn’t it? I only detect a trace of anxiety from you, but my apprentice…”–he motioned to Sidjuous who was still trembling with fear–“is still affected by me and you are not? Why?”
Thinking fast, he blurted. “The duties I perform in your name have dulled that edge.”
“Really? Accustomed are we? Or does your concern lay elsewhere?”
“A man who lives in fear doesn’t live at all.”
Xilor’s head cocked to the side. “You do not fear me, but another, one you perceive more powerful than me. Would it be Judas Lakayre?”
“No, my lord!”
“We shall see, Turncoat. And if you don’t dread me, you will learn to again.”
Xilor turned his attention away, scanning the room. “Ah, Derms. My faithful goblin servant.” The Dark Lord glided in his direction. “I shall reward you, my pet.”
Derms bowed low and spoke reverently. “An honor it is to serve you, master.”
Xilor turned to the next person in line. “Clan King Niam, did you enjoy the dark moments ago? Deeper than any you have ever encountered.”
“Yes, rich with coldness; it rejuvenated me,” Niam said. Niam was the king of the vampires, it was by his order, a direct edict from Xilor, that the vampires attacked Dlad City.
“You did well on your raid. Make sure your service never falters. I will hold your attack as a line by which to measure your future assignments.”
He turned away from Niam, scanning the room. A hiss of disgust escaped the gloom beneath his hood. “The Witchen beast-riders of the Grymulohr phyles failed to answer my summons. I will not forgive them this transgression. They will get what is coming to them.” Circling where he stood, he called out, “Where are my Xicx?”
“Most try not to disturb the Kothlere Order. They are afraid if they are caught–” Sidjuous explained, rising to his feet.
“They have something new to fear!” Xilor screamed. “Never mind, I cannot stand to listen to you talk,” Xilor said with contempt. He shushed him, this eliciting a giggle from Olga.
“High One,” Vlukus spoke up from the fog in the corner.
“I shall fulfill my promise this night,” Xilor promised.
“Why not now, Powerful One?” Vlukus countered.
Silence ensued, a brittle sliver. No one stirred.
Xilor broke the tense, growing atmosphere. “I shall walk my halls first.”
Perplexity rippled through the room. The Betrayer scrutinized the Dark Lord as he left the chambers, hushed misgivings furled.
“Find the Xicx and bring them to me!” he ordered.
A shudder ran down his spine when the Dark Lord looked his way before exiting. If anything, Xilor was not nostalgic. He probably wanted to gloat, a meaningless gesture to his underlings. No, Xilor yearned to boast to someone who he held in regard, someone like his old master, Hadius Lacove. Again, the Betrayer shuddered, knowing what cruel fate the tyrant visited upon his elder. To the world, and the rest in Gryzlaud Palace, Hadius was dead.
Secrets bear a cost and the tariff for initiation was high, in this case, his life. But Xilor had been gone a long time, and secrets have a way of circumventing their trammels. If the Dark Lord realized that the Betrayer knew Hadius still lived, a swift and terrible retribution overshadowed his near future.
Letting out a breath of relief, the Betrayer sagged against the wall and waited for the coming storm.
***
Chapter 41 : Behold, I Am Death
The towering despot scanned the distant horizons, searching for a familiar presence. Xilor stood alone on his terrace, facing west. The breeze clutched at his robes, the frail gust running invisible fingers through the cloth. Above, the stars twinkled, their delicate light unappreciated, cruelly spurned.
Minor trickles called out to him, faint traces of auras. He could feel them, could they sense him? The subtlest aura echoed from the north, in the distant capital, wan but obvious Judas had been there. His exploration guided him away from Ralloc to the southwest, towards his manor. There, strong tendrils hooked him, drawing him in, attempting to siphon him. He smirked. Undoubtedly, the wards he placed at his residence. Yet, Xilor only sensed an echo of his presence.
His gaze shifted, following the sporadic, faded trail from Dlad City to Cape Gythmel and finally to the Corridor. The trail he followed was like a trail of light in his mind’s eye, the longer Judas remained at a location, the brighter the light became. A quick layover only peppered his vision in muted light. It wasn’t until he traced him to the Corridor that he felt another presence.
A protege? Xilor speculated.
With keen interest, he followed them to the Swamp of Sorrows where they toiled until the other presence shown like a beacon in the night. Xilor mentally reached out to caress the essence. Upon first caress, a violent recoil shot through him, jerking away. The essence arched out, a bolt searing him. He reached out again, a delicate probe, compensating for the impending surge. A glimmer of smugness overcame him. The aura was nothing like he’d ever experienced before, unbridled, untamed, prominent. Once properly trained, the marvel would be a force to reckon with.
Not a protege, Xilor amended to himself. A prodigy.
Xilor followed the new essence as long as he could, leaving the swamp, before becoming obscured from his sight. He searched in vain. Disgruntled, his regard shifted to Judas. His own essence flickered and vanished, moving to the east and came to stop at Wizard’s Pass. A smile spread across his face.
You have come so close, You will not slip my fingers. Xilor bent his magic to his will and teleported to his
throne room.
“Vlukus,” the sorcerer called. “I shall fulfill my promise to you!”
“You bring greatness to your name.”
“My name is already great,” Xilor corrected, a note of disgust entering his voice. “And when I am done transforming this world, everyone will know it.” His anger shimmered beneath his composure, savoring it, building it, but he would not release it, not yet. He would let it fester, feeding it, preparing for its release. “Failure has its consequences, Vlukus.”
Xilor turned his gaze to the Xicx who heeded his edict and returned to his palace. Though their faces were covered with the skulls of dead animals, they animated, displaying the emotions beneath. Terror gripped them now, an initiative for unquestionable obedience.
Xilor lowered himself on his throne, his back rigid and straight. His hands rested daintily on the arms. “Where were you in my most desperate hour?”
“Master, we–”
“Silence! You incompetent fool. Did I tell you to speak?” Xilor’s scrutiny pierced the trembling Xicx before him.
“No, Master, no! Forgiveness, I beg!” The Xicx flung toward the hem of Xilor’s robes. Before he could reach him, Xilor moved his feet beyond reach.
“You dare to touch me?” Xilor scoffed. He rose, a slow and smooth movement. “You failed me with incompetence and you arrogantly flaunted my summons.” He held out his skeleton, ash colored hand, fingers poised to cut deep into the Xcix’s flesh like daggers. They hovered, waiting.
He slowly spread his fingers apart, the Xicx morphed, stretching. Sickening pops pierced the munificent hush. The dark fog slowed, becoming still as it watched. Screams bellowed from the victim, mangled flesh tore, the wet noises drowned out by wails of anguish. Bones ground together, snapping, puncturing skin and clothing.
“This is the price of failure, Vlukus,” Xilor informed. His right hand reached through the chest of his victim, pulling out the spine and skull. The body fell limply to the floor. Clawed hands squeezed the skull, shattering the blood covered ivory. Brain matter slithered out between the cracks, clinging to his fingers.
