by Sam Ferguson
Fortunately, Cyrus was far more powerful than the dreamwalker could ever have imagined. That was why Cyrus didn’t counter the spell that came racing toward him then. A blue tendril of light stretched out from Bothias’ hand and slapped Cyrus in the face, knocking him to the ground. A second later, it was coiling around him, squeezing and sizzling as wisps of smoke rose from Cyrus’ clothes.
“You’re losing your touch, Cyrus,” Bothias exclaimed triumphantly. The wizard rose from the desk and then resumed his search through the many shelves that lined the walls.
Cyrus watched, now suspended in the air as if the magical coil was a great fist clenched around him and holding him in place. He was waiting for the right moment to strike. Until then, he would let Bothias believe he had won. One quick counterattack, and it would be over without so much as causing Kyra to stir in her sleep.
Bothias tore books from shelves, wrenched open drawers on the desk, but he found nothing. Then, almost inexplicably he turned to one of the empty book cases and grabbed it, tipping it away from the wall. The dreamwalker laughed then and he waved his hand and muttered a spell that levitated the book case away without dropping it to crash on the floor.
There, nestled in a hole in the wall, was a brown box.
“Poor Cyrus, it seems you have failed, my friend.” Bothias took the box, opened it, and held the dagger up in his right hand. He examined it carefully, noting the details and studying each portion of the handle and blade. “This is it!” Bothias turned and opened a portal. “I think I will leave you in here,” Bothias told Cyrus. “Wouldn’t want you escaping before the others are ready for you.”
The magical bindings constricted tighter, holding Cyrus rigid.
Now was the time to strike.
Cyrus focused his power and a great wave of heat flowed out from him, dissolving the blue bands and spreading through the room faster than a flood of water. Bothias looked up with a confused look and opened his mouth, probably to counter the spell, but no words came out. He clutched at his throat with his left hand and then the sphere of heat engulfed him inside of it. Suddenly there was no sound at all except for Cyrus’ footsteps as he marched toward the bewildered dreamwalker.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Cyrus said. “I have tangled with demons. What made you think I couldn’t handle a dreamwalker?” Cyrus snapped his fingers and the dagger plunged into Bothias’ heart. The dagger wasn’t exactly real. It was a magical construct, an illusion much like the extra copies of himself he had shown to Kyra in the classroom. Cyrus had planted it behind the book case in order to break Bothias’ focus. Still, in the realm of dreams it was not an entirely impossible thing to turn an illusion into something almost real.
The pain Bothias felt was real to him, and therefore it was real.
A stronger mind might have dispelled the charade, but Bothias had not Cyrus’ experience.
The dreamwalker collapsed on the ground and stretched a hand for the portal he had opened. Cyrus knew that Bothias was trying to close it, but it was too late. The magical sphere Cyrus had cast not only protected the immediate area from Kyra’s subconscious, it also muted all of Bothias’ magical powers. Cyrus was able to freeze the portal open, which meant he was going to use it as his own exit. But first, he had to dispose of Bothias so as not to do any harm to Kyra.
Cyrus bent down to Bothias and smiled at him. He placed a hand on the dying dreamwalker’s head. “A dreamwalker is rare. It is a shame that I must remove one from the world of the living,” Cyrus said.
Bothias shook his head. “Mercy,” he squeaked. His body convulsed and his hands pulled at the dagger, trying to pull it from his body.
Cyrus shook his head. “Mercy is not one of my defining traits,” he said. Cyrus turned to the portal and spoke an incantation that would hold it open a few moments longer. Next, he focused on the sphere of magic, which was now glowing a soft red around them. He caused it to shrink, and then stepped out of it as the sphere continued to diminish until it was no larger than a marble. He picked up the sphere and whispered a final incantation, one that would keep it intact through the portal, and then he stepped through Bothias’ planned exit.
This portal was not like the one he had used to enter Kyra’s nightmare. It was short, and filled with gray light. The dreamwalkers were not all accustomed to traveling through utter darkness as Cyrus was. Most dreamwalkers required some sort of light to guide their way into a person’s mind. It was an easy thing to misdirect such a spell, and that would result in a lifetime of being stuck in limbo.
A dreamwalker could only cast one portal at a time. Either to or from a dream. One could never cast an exit portal until they had completed their travel into a dream, and likewise, one could never return to the dream if a dreamwalker was lost along the way once they initiated their exit.
This was the delicious irony Cyrus was about to employ.
As soon as he saw the end of the portal, Cyrus threw the sphere out to the side and gave it a magical nudge with a force like a gale that sent it hurtling across the great, gray nothing.
Cyrus then called upon the shadows he so loved, and covered all of the light. The sphere would likely hold for a century at least, ensuring Bothias’ entrapment in limbo even if the dreamwalker somehow managed to overcome the dagger illusion, which Cyrus doubted he could. In any case, Cyrus only needed a few more seconds, and then he would exit the portal, and it would close behind him.
There would never be an escape for Bothias.
Cyrus was almost sad he couldn’t hear Bothias scream as the realization dawned on him. It would have been all the sweeter to hear the man’s terror. A fitting punishment for one who used nightmares to overpower his enemies, Cyrus thought. The wizard stepped out through the opening and then looked around.
As he had suspected, Bothias had been lying. The dreamwalker did not have the approval of the other warlocks. If he had, then he would not have connected the portal to a small cabin at the top of some mountain. Had this been a sanctioned mission, the dreamwalker would have been planning to return to the coven.
Still, Cyrus was never one to leave loose ends. He turned about, orienting him to what he very soon realized was Mount Lark, a great mountain in the northern reaches of the Middle Kingdom overlooking the sea to the west.
This was far away from the coven.
Cyrus put on another illusion, disguising himself to appear as Bothias, and then he trudged through the ankle-deep snow toward the cabin. It was a small, shabbily constructed building. Perhaps it had once been a trapper’s cabin, but now the signs of disrepair were painfully obvious. Gaps appeared between some of the logs, and the door hung askew even when shut.
A form moved by the window and Cyrus smiled, wondering to himself who the partner may have been.
He stepped into the cabin and removed a cloak, folding it over his left arm.
“Did you find it?” a raspy voice asked.
It was not a voice that Cyrus recognized. That was good. It meant that there were no other warlocks involved. Bothias had betrayed them as well as him. That would make things simpler.
Cyrus turned and caused a great light to shine in the cabin.
A silver-haired man dressed in black robes stood in the far corner. He winced, shutting his purple eyes from the sudden light. That was when Cyrus realized it was not a man in the cabin, but a drow, a dark elf. Cyrus seized upon the moment of the elf’s blindness and reached out with a powerful spell that grabbed the drow and slammed him into the wall.
The drow grunted and struggled to fight back, but even for an elf this particular drow was old. His strength was long gone from his body and his meager fireballs that appeared in the air were easy enough for Cyrus to dodge.
“I think you and I need to have a chat,” Cyrus said as his lips curled up into a sinister sneer.
It was nearly midnight before Cyrus appeared back in the hallway. Janik, the ever watchful cripple, was still where he had left him. The wizard dismissed Janik with a wave of his ha
nd, and then he went into Kyra’s room. He didn’t bother knocking. He knew she would still be asleep.
Cyrus picked up the remainder of the root, which was now barely more than a finger’s length, and magically snuffed the fire. He then created a vortex that pulled the smoke out from the room and he banished it to another plane.
He bent low to the girl’s ear and whispered softly the words of an incantation that would remove the remainder of Bothias’ poisonous spells from her mind, and then he let her sleep.
They had a lot of work to do in the morning.
Chapter 4
Janik rolled onto his left side as sleep struggled to keep hold over him. A sudden pain ripped through his left wrist that shot up through his arm and caused his shoulder to ache. No matter how many times it happened, Janik had never gotten used to the random pains that coursed through his body. More than a few times, he cursed his weakness and wished he could recall the oath he had given to Cyrus.
There was no going back now, though. He could never go back.
The only way out for him was death, although it did occur to him that even then he might not find rest. Could it be possible that Cyrus was powerful enough to reanimate him from the plane of the dead? In any case, it wasn’t a solution he was willing to contemplate.
He sat up, wondering whether he might ever please Cyrus enough that the old codger might help relieve the pain in his mangled limbs.
The warrior-turned-janitor swung his legs over the side of the bed and down to the floor. His left foot tingled, asleep from being pinched in the night. He winced slightly as he put pressure upon his feet and the tingling turned to burning needles, but it was better this than the aches and pains he normally felt upon waking.
His body was stiff, tight, and unyielding in the morning’s cool air. Living in the basement didn’t help either. He needed one of the better rooms that could be had in the upper levels. The extra warmth would at least lessen his stiffness and help ease his twisted muscles.
Unfortunately, the good rooms were reserved for the masters who taught at Kuldiga Academy. Servants and other employees such as cooks, stable hands, and others, all lived downstairs in the basement.
Had Janik not been crippled, he could have easily taken up a teaching position at the academy. After all, he was the eldest son of a nobleman, and he had many conquests under his belt, not that any of them did him good now. These days no one remembered anything of his victories, only that he had been crippled fighting a vampire.
Kyra was the only one who seemed to ever look at him with the respect a warrior like him deserved. That was because she knew what he had done. She did not see a crippled has-been. No, Kyra saw the warrior within him.
Janik scratched his chest with his good hand and then gently shook out his left arm. The pain subsided enough that he was able to change into his daytime clothes without pausing to catch his breath, but it did not entirely subside.
After he pulled on his clothes, he glanced toward the broom he had brought back to his room last night. He shook his head, grimacing at the tool as if it was responsible for his lot in life.
“I used to wield axes,” Janik told the broom. “But now, here I am, swinging a broom from side to side like a dunderhead.” He clenched his right fist and closed his eyes. “Better to return home and live out my days in the family manor. At least there I could do as I choose.”
He had only barely said the words when a slight twinge of hot pain came into his chest. He sighed and rubbed until the sensation left. A subtle reminder of his oath. His life was no longer his own to do with as he saw fit. He was Cyrus’ slave.
Perhaps if he served well enough, then Cyrus would one day release him, or at the very least the wizard might elevate Janik’s brother Feberik to become the next Headmaster. At least then Janik would have a bit more freedom and status, even if only vicariously.
Then again, now that he thought of it, he wasn’t entirely sure what else Cyrus wanted from him. He had already addled his brother’s mind with charm potions and other magical devices to keep Feberik in line, not to mention the betrothal to Kyra, which Feberik never would have agreed to otherwise. Other than that, Cyrus had only asked Janik to help by gaining Kyra’s trust. Now with the wizard teaching at the school, it was a bit of an added burden.
Cyrus was constantly checking up on Janik’s efforts to keep Kyra close to him. The girl was not an easy one to sway. He had to draw upon his nicest, most charming behavior to keep her feeling like he was a friend. It was a shame she wasn’t susceptible to the same sort of magic that kept Feberik in line. Even a charmed amulet he had given her last year had had no effect. Perhaps her strength could be used to his advantage. If she truly saw him as a friend, someday she might be strong enough to help rid him of Cyrus, and then he would be free to do as he pleased. It was definitely a good move to have let a few key teachers know about her parentage. That had certainly done wonders to keep her isolated from the rest of the faculty and students. Yes, someday she might be the perfect ally…
But that was just a dream, and Janik knew it.
Janik had managed to earn a bit of the girl’s trust, but lately she was nearly entirely consumed with her training, as well as the recent fights with creatures that Janik himself would have hunted had he not been crippled those many years ago. He heard little from her anymore, and he saw even less. The priests from Valtuu Temple didn’t make it easy either. Their strange breed of magic helped them see through a person and discover their true intent. Janik could never approach Kyra whilst the priests were nearby.
Even Cyrus avoided the priests.
Janik shook his head and turned to the door as he heard the faint scrape of paper sliding across the stone floor.
A small envelope came to rest a couple of feet inside the chamber.
“You could knock!” Janik called out after the steward. There was no answer. There never was. The steward, unlike Janik, was not of noble birth. Therefore, he took every opportunity he had to rub Janik’s face in the fact that he now held a position higher than the noble-born janitor. Making Janik stoop over, a painful struggle in the mornings with his body still tight and achy, had become a common occurrence.
Janik bent low, his right leg wavering slightly as he let his crooked left leg hang out behind him as a kind of mangled counterweight. He snatched the envelope and moved to the small table he used as a desk.
As he looked over his list of tasks for the day, he frowned and his brow crinkled. “At least during the school year I can get help from students given demerits.” He shook his head. There were no demerits given during the summer holiday. This list of chores was his and his alone.
It was going to be a long day.
His eyes lifted from the paper to see the green bottle hidden behind one of his books. A sly smile curled the left corner of his mouth and he laughed to himself. Perhaps he would mention it to Feberik the next time he administered Cyrus’ drink, and see whether he could have some of the apprentices of the sword filtered over to him somehow. Surely someone must be in need of punishing for something done during the summer?
He folded the list and placed it into his pocket. Then, grabbing the green bottle and hiding it in a different pocket, he left his room and entered the well-lit, yet dank corridor. Before starting any of the tasks on the list from the steward, Janik had to check Feberik’s journal.
Feberik was a peculiar individual. A great, muscled oaf, deft with a sword and barely able to control his own temper. Yet, he was religious about writing in his journal every day. It was a habit that he had picked up from their father.
Janik shook his head as a memory shot through his mind of the time he had first read of his father’s infidelity. Fortunately, he had taken and burned any journal that spoke of the young daughter Janik’s father had sired. He had hoped that would be the end of it, but now the girl was here, masquerading as a noble’s child.
He would have to deal with that later.
For now, he was concerned with Fe
berik’s diary.
There was a mark made on each page in the journal since Janik had begun administering the powders Cyrus had given him. It was almost imperceptible to anyone but Janik, for Janik had chosen the symbol himself and told Feberik to write it every day in his journal. It was his way of ensuring the powder wasn’t wearing off.
Everything would be ruined if Feberik somehow became immune to the powder.
Soon he was climbing the stairs and found himself in the main audience hall. The empty pews stood quiet, though a few could use a good dusting to be sure. The podium upon the dais in the front of the hall was covered with a green and gold cloth. It was customary to keep it hidden until the beginning of each year when the new students had been welcomed.
Above the dais were the banners of each school found in Kuldiga Academy. Each of them were made with a forest green background encircled by a thin ridge of gold trim. In the centers of each banner he saw the symbols of each school. The first one on the right was a hand, palm facing outward with a spark representing healing. The second was an image of a path leading between two mountains and leading toward a sunrise; that was the symbol of the priests. The third flag had the symbol of an unblinking eye; the symbol of the scholars. The left side of the hall was adorned with a flag that had an arrow, for the rangers, another that displayed a sword, for the future knights, and a third that showed a snake coiled upon a set of scales for the alchemy school. Those six flags all narrowed in to point at the single flag at the back of the hall, which prominently displayed a staff, the symbol of the wizards in training at Kuldiga Academy.
Now that he knew Cyrus, the great hall had a quite different meaning for Janik. Most of the nobles knew that Kuldiga had once been a stronghold for shadowfiends, and that once they had been eradicated, Kuldiga Academy had been founded upon the same stones painted with their own blood. To most others it seemed a noble triumph, a symbol of the Middle Kingdom’s power and resolution to abolish necromancy and the shadowfiends, as well as any other demon that plagued the nation. Kuldiga Academy stood as a testament to the fact that nobles and their snot-nosed brats had brought down, and kept down, one of the strongest, most powerful orders that had ever lived upon the face of the Middle Kingdom.
